There are two different stories as to why I left.
The first, and shorter of the two (and albeit, that much more interesting), is that my favourite local brunch spot burned down.
I was nine months into living in Vancouver, British Columbia.
I had a sweet writing/ photography gig with a local music newspaper. Consequently, I rarely spent money on shows (my biggest cash suck at the time). Instead, I used those saved dollars on expensive micro-beers from Portland and White Rock.
To contribute more to society than live reviews and record rundowns, I was also a social worker.
As a girl without any experience as a parent, I spent my working hours trying to professionally teach actual real-life parents some basic child-rearing techniques. Again, I’ve never had children of my own. I barely even have weak aspirations of becoming a parent.
So it should come as no surprise that I’m a really awful social worker.
Having failed to realize this during an expensive program having something to do with
wizardry a Masters of Social Work, I coped by going to more shows and drinking more apricot-flavoured beer.
In the process, I became a typical brunch snob who would critique the shithole bar from the night prior by using words like “character” and asking if anyone has seen what they’ve done with the bathroom. TO DESCRIBE A BAR, PEOPLE. All the while, I’m shoveling forkfuls of tofu scramble in my mouth and comparing my hangover to that of our server’s.
In hindsight, it’s a good thing that arson ruins everything.
Because the next thing I knew, Slickety Jim’s was nothing more than police caution tape and the lingering scent of burnt canola oil. And now without a go-to tofu scrambles on weekends, I no longer had any attachments to Vancouver.
Alright, so maybe that wasn’t the briefest of explanations.
The other reason why I left?
I got laid off.
Turns out, I actually am an awful social worker.
So I spent a year working on a small rural island in South Korea (think LOST but without the capital letters) and travelling through Asia.
I then lugged around 10 kg of scarves in a backpack for eight months and called it “travelling.”
(I’m only a slightly better packer than I am a social worker.)
I’m back working in Asia, now.
I’m trying not to get too attached to brunch spots. I’m trying not to judge a bar based on the amount of Sharpie messages scrawled on the tables. I’m trying to eat my tofu scramble slower.
I’m trying to find my toothbrush.
My toothbrush is sluething around the interweb in the typical and predictable social-networky ways.
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