I always suffer from reverse culture shock. Sometimes quite badly. When I came back from three months from Burkina Faso in 2006, and back from Guatemala in 2008, I had a really hard time adjusting. Canada seemed cold (both literally and figuratively) and I had a hard time relating to my own country anymore. Each time, I became depressed for a couple months.

I was just back in Canada for a couple weeks. Not enough time to get really down, but certainly enough time to get weirded out by my own culture. The trip was sort of strange to begin with: I hadn’t been planning on going home until about 16 hours before my flight out of Guatemala City (see earlier posts about being sick.) So unlike earlier homecomings, I didn’t have much time to mentally prepare myself.

One moment I was in this crazy, chaotic and beautiful country, and the next I was in a neat, orderly winter wasteland.

Over the next few days. I noted how ill at ease I was sometimes at home.

Going to buy a tea at a cafe, I realize all I have is a $20. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Can you make change for this?”

“Uh, of course,” the person at the counter says. Duh. I’m not it a country where giving a largish bill for a smallish purchase is practically a crime against humanity.

In Guatemala, you are supposed to put your toilet paper in the wastebasket, not the toilet. As a result, I often did the same thing in Canada, and then had to – ew – pick the piece out of the wastebasket in order to flush it.

At the grocery store, which was already a head trip with its bright lights, overpriced produce and bucketloads of identical suburbanites, I couldn’t fulfill a simple task.

“Go get some crackers,” my mother asked.

But the cracker aisle was too much to handle. 40, maybe 50 varieties of crackers. How could I possibly choose something out of such an excessive selection? I panicked, walked back in shame, and admitted to my mom she’d have to go get crackers herself.

(Considering I had two colds, two flues and even a kidney infection that sent me to the hospital, I guess you could also argue that Guatemala doesn’t agree with me… but let’s just overlook that right now.)

Edmonton wasn’t even “that cold” while I was home, meaning it hovered between -10 and -25. (Celsius. For you Americans, that’s between “well below freezing” and “really fucking cold.”) I have certainly been there when it’s been worse. Still, I could feel my throat freeze when I breathed in fresh air, and I couldn’t stand to walk the dog more than 5 minutes.

Winter takes a toll on us Canadians and other northern dwellers.

My hands, soft and smooth in Guatemala, is cracked and dry along the knuckles. My face is similarly scaly, and turns bright red when I try to apply any lotion to make it soft again.

It’s too cold to contemplate a nice long walk, let alone a jog, so my body has barely been used. As a result of lack of exercise, I have had a hard time sleeping the last two weeks.

It must be no coincidence that Canadians are prone to bouts of depression in the winter, myself included. Right now it only gets light after 8am, and the sun sets around three.

That feeling I get every year at the end of winter when the snow melts for the first time and it smells like spring – that feeling that everything is going to be alright and in fact might be wonderful – cannot be a coincidence.

In Guatemala in the middle of December I can sit on a bench in central park, basking in the sun’s rays. (With plenty of sunscreen, mind you. I am after all a pasty gringa.) Even if it’s not that warm in Quetzaltenango I can still feel the sun seeping through my pores, bringing happiness and contentment.

No, I am certainly not a winter person.

But does this mean that I am not, well, a Canadian person? Of course I’m Canadian… it’s where I was born, raised and nurtured. I do have that sweet little passport that gets me into any country with hardly a question asked. It’s not that I don’t belong in Canada. Of course I belong – I am Canadian.

It’s more of a question of whether I am suited to it. Suited to everyday life in Canada, a life that (let’s be honest) is pretty darn nice.

This is a question that I ask myself all the time. I am happy – maybe happier – living in Guatemala (or Burkina Faso, or probably a great number of tropical countries.) I’m out of my element there, which somehow makes me feel more comfortable in my own skin.

I was explaining this to a friend the other day. I’ve always been a bit of a black sheep, an odd one. Being somewhere where I really don’t fit in, then, is a relief.

Besides, many of the peers I surround myself with in the traveling or expat life (since I’m hovering somewhere between the two right now) are always more like-minded, especially other foreigners. They are all really interesting and diverse, but like-minded at the same time. Often the majority of my peers in Canada don’t really get me or my life choices. And while I certainly don’t click with every wanderer/expat/traveler type, I certainly do with a lot. Basically, the way I want to live my life, the things that make me happy are understood and encouraged.

Some of my family members feel that I should try to get my life more on the “career” track. Doing something like teaching English, even if turns out I’m great at it, make good money and love it, does not count as a “career,” apparently. I guess a “career” is something that sounds impressive.

But I guess if I’m happy, challenged and engaged with what I’m doing, I should stick to my guns… at least until I find out for myself that I should alter course.

I have always thought I hated Edmonton, because that’s how I felt in high school when I moved there. I was an unhappy, awkward teenager, so I probably would have hated anywhere.

But actually, Edmonton is alright. It has more interesting restaurants and bars that Ottawa (not saying much, mind you.) It has a vibrant theater and music scene, great festivals in the summer, and lovely paths by the river where you can wander around and take photographs. There are safe neighborhoods for kids, up-and-coming neighborhoods, and places to walk your dog. I guess this is what “quality of life” is supposed to measure in the traditional sense of the term.

If I wanted to “settle down” I’m sure I could live here near my family, make nice friends and find interesting things to engage with.

But I guess you can’t fight who you are. So I suppose I will continue to come here on occasion to visit my parents. I’ll continue to feel like a stranger in the city that is so loaded with angsty high school memories.

I will, however, stop talking shit about the place. This isn’t a bad town, and it doesn’t deserve my retribution for not liking high school.

I do love Toronto. A lot. It’s a patchwork of unique neighborhoods. Once you start living there, each neighborhood feels like its own small community. If you get bored, you can walk ten blocks over and suddenly you have a whole different feel. This is something that Ottawa really lacks (with the possible exception of Centertown, the Glebe and Westboro.)

Too bad most Canadians have a disdain for Toronto. I think this is because they only see the concrete jungle area around the CN tower.

If I had to choose a Canadian city to settle down in, I’d choose Toronto, hands down.

Candlelight in the Green Room in the Annex

A lawn near Queen street.

Restaurant in Little India.

I’m heading to Edmonton tomorrow to visit my family for two weeks. Will probably write some musings on the cultural differences between Ontario and Alberta. I’ll have to also write 5 pages a day during those two weeks if I want to get my thesis finished before I leave for Central America in June.