A love letter to Canada

Dear Canada,

Happy 143rd birthday! Although, let's be honest, we both know you're much older than the 143 years the European settlers pretend you are. You may not have been a country in the legal sense of the word but people have called your land home for more than 20,000 years. Dinosaurs roamed across your plains long before we ever did.

The 143-year-old ruse reminds me of the way my mom continues to celebrate her 29th birthday 30 years running. But whatever. Today is not a day to point out your flaws. Today is a day to celebrate all of the wonderful and wacky things that make you so special.

You are so much more than maple syrup, hockey and poutine. You are not just snowshoes, canoes and barbeques. You are the rock beneath our feet. O Canada, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . .

1. Freedom: We are free to be whoever we want to be, say whatever we want to say, and wear whatever we want to wear. Other countries have burqas, bombs, and bullets. We have gay marriage, universal health care, and beer.

2. Diversity: We are a country of immigrants. We have different cultures, different religions, and different ideas but we all somehow manage to get along. We don't throw rocks at each other. We don't plant bombs outside busy markets. We don't believe in blowing each other up. We believe in human rights. We believe in tolerance. We believe a new citizen is every bit as Canadian as someone whose family has been here for five generations. Jamaican, Chinese, African, Indian, Australian . . . we are all Canadian.

3. Tim Hortons: A double-double and a chocolate dip to go, please.


4. Food: We can eat a burrito for breakfast, sushi for lunch, and souvlaki for dinner. A walk around the block is like a gastronomic trip around the world. But food from our own backyard is the best food of all. Blueberries, apples, pears, blackberries, corn, rhubarb, strawberries, potatoes, carrots, cherries, fiddleheads, and tomatoes. Just to name a few.

5. Wilderness: We have real wilderness in Canada. These vast, uninhabited areas are among the last remaining tracts of wilderness in the world. This is our national treasure and we should guard it with our lives. Canada does not just belong to us. It belongs to bears, moose, and caribou too.


6. The CBC: George Stroumboulopoulos, Claire Marin, Rick Mercer, Peter Mansbridge, Jian Ghomeshi, Anna Maria Tremonti, and good old Stuart McLean. The Hour, As it Happens, Definitely not the Opera, Vinyl Tap, A Propos, and The Current. The CBC is intelligent, funny, thoughtful, provincial, original, folksy, and fun. Sophisticated but not sleek. Polished but still a little amateurish. Just like us.


7. Manners: We are polite. We are friendly. We are humble. We are modest. We are unobtrusive. We say "sorry" a lot. We say sorry when you tell us to stop saying sorry all the time. (Sorry! We can’t help it.)

8. The four seasons: Lake swimming in summer, cross-country skiing in winter, walking under a canopy of red maple leaves in fall, and watching cherry trees bloom in spring.





9. Film and TV: FUBAR and Exotica. Degrassi and the Trailer Park Boys. We turn low budgets into brilliant art. Just giv'r!

10. Space: We are a big country with a small population. We can drive for days and still be in the same province. We can walk into the woods and not see another person for months. We live in towns so remote you can only get there by boat or plane. Our biggest cities aren't big at all. Thirty-four million people live in Canada. Thirty-four million people live in the Greater Tokyo Area.

Happy Birthday, Canada! You ancient, rocky, sexy hunk of land you!

Homeless in Hokkaido: Part V

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Our last day in Hokkaido was a lot less interesting to us than it was to the people around us. Everywhere we went, Sergey and I were the main topic of conversation. I say this not out of paranoia or megalomania, but out of an ability to understand Japanese.

For example, our decision to eat a low-budget breakfast at the train station was a gossip-filled affair. We bought two bowls of instant ramen and sat on a bench in the waiting room. Three older Japanese women sitting on the bench directly behind us gave a running commentary on our every move.

"Look! Gaijin!"

"What are they doing?"

"They're eating ramen."

"It looks like they're enjoying it."

"It sure does."

"They're using chopsticks."

"They sure are."

Sergey and I pretended we couldn't understand them, bending our heads over our cups of ramen so they couldn't see us smiling. It was fun eavesdropping on the locals. They talked about us like we were monkeys in a zoo.

This was about as exciting as our last day in Hokkaido got. Not that I'm complaining. An uneventful day was exactly what we needed after the misadventure-plagued portion of the trip. We were determined not to repeat the same stupid mistakes that got us into trouble in the first place -- like not checking the ferry schedule and getting stuck in Hokkaido an extra day. We couldn't afford to miss the ferry again so instead of simply checking the schedule online, we walked three kilometres to the ferry terminal first thing in the morning to book our tickets for the sailing later that night.

It was our second trip to the ferry terminal but this time the lights were on and the doors were open. We had 12 hours to kill before the ferry left so we decided to head out for another hike in the hills. But we stopped so many times along the way that we didn't even make it to the base of the mountain.

Our first stop was to see if the snowman we built the day before was still standing. It wasn't. Someone had cruelly kicked the snowman in the stomach and its body laid in pieces on the ground. The one-yen coins that served as the snowman's eyes had been plucked out of his head and, presumably, tucked into the perpetrator's pocket. We were sad for a moment but realized there was no point mourning the loss of a few clumps of snow -- our cute little Mible was no more.

We continued on toward the mountain, and accidentally stumbled onto Otaru's main tourist strip. Despite covering most of the town on foot the day before, we had somehow missed Otaru's biggest attraction -- an intersection decorated with three different clock towers.


I don't know for a fact whether this is Otaru's biggest attraction or not, but there were at least 60 tourists taking pictures of the clock towers and we hadn't seen any tourists taking pictures of anything up until now so the odds were pretty good that this intersection was a big deal.

We joined the crowd and took our own pointless photos. We browsed through a massive store selling thousands of miniature clock towers and a few stuffed octopuses (whose relationship to the clock towers is still unclear).


We eventually left the clock towers behind and continued hiking toward the mountain but it wasn't long before we were sidetracked again. The glow of McDonald's golden arches caught Sergey's eye. But, sadly for Sergey, his beloved McPork wasn't on the menu.

It was starting to get dark and we were still nowhere near the mountain. We decided to give up on the hike and take the bus back into town. But we were too tired to figure out which bus to take or which bus stop to stand at so we simply walked back. Walking back required no brainpower. We didn't even need to look at the map. By this point, we had visited every tourist attraction and walked every square inch of every street -- twice. We could have written the Lonely Planet guide to Otaru.



Back in town, we had time for dinner and coffee before making our way to the ferry terminal for the long trip home. The ferry heading back to Honshu was much busier than the one that took us to Hokkaido. There were about 50 people on board. Although, technically speaking, 50 people on board a boat built for 1,000 doesn't make it "busy." It just felt busy compared to the grand total of eight passengers on the ferry on the way over.

Luckily, the ferry plowed through nothing but calm seas during the 20-hour sailing. I didn't have to deal with the roiling waves and low-grade seasickness that kept me flat on my back on the way to Hokkaido. This time around, I only felt like throwing up after eating "kimichi and cheese" instant ramen.


Aside from a poor choice in soup, the ferry ride was thoroughly enjoyable. The on-board entertainment was top notch. We were treated to a live concert by two restaurant workers who play in a jazz band in their spare time. They played such hits as "Sometimes When we Touch."

They chatted up the audience in between songs. They told us they perform on the ferry every day but they were especially happy today because normally only three people turn up to hear them play. Today they were playing for a record-breaking crowd of 16 (almost half of all the passengers on board).


The rest of the ferry ride was uneventful. The trip was ending on a calm note -- completely opposite to its chaotic start. We went to Hokkaido for the majestic mountains, the outdoor onsens, and the fabulous food. Except we took a wrong turn somewhere along the way and ended up on a tour of northern Japan that was more farce than fantasy.

Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. But that was part of the trip's charm. It may have gone sideways but it was never boring. Especially when we got kicked out of McDonald's at 4 a.m. with no other accommodation lined up for the night. To steal a line from Hunter S. Thompson, it never got weird enough for us.

Homeless in Hokkaido: Part IV

Part I | Part II | Part III

After a solid sleep in a proper bed in Sapporo, I thought the misadventure-plagued portion of the trip was finally behind us. I thought wrong.

It turned out the ferry we were planning to catch wasn't running on the day we were planning to catch it, leaving us stranded in northern Japan an extra day. Once again, Sergey and I would find ourselves wandering the streets of Hokkaido in the middle of the night with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay.

Life lesson #476: Things don't always go the way you plan them to go. Life lesson #477: Things definitely won't go the way you plan them to go if your plans are based on idiotic assumptions. For example, you can "plan" to catch the ferry to Kyoto from Hokkaido but if you neglect to check that there is in fact a ferry heading to Kyoto on the day you are "planning" to leave, then things definitely won't go the way you plan them to go.

Oh, sure. Calling the ferry terminal a day or two in advance could have saved us a lot of time and money. But we wanted to be spontaneous. (Life lesson #478: There's a difference between spontaneity and stupidity.) But I'll get to all of that later. Because, for the most part, the day went exactly as planned.

We caught the train from Sapporo to Otaru early in the morning. We figured we'd spend the day sightseeing in Otaru before taking the ferry home later that night. There are only two places to catch a ferry back to Kyoto in Hokkaido and Otaru happens to be one of them.

Getting to Otaru from Sapporo was easy. It was just a short train ride along the Sea of Japan. I spent the trip staring out the window, enjoying the view of the cold, grey sea crashing into the snow-covered shore while Sergey buried his nose in a book. (He was reading Into Thin Air -- Jon Krakauer's account of the 1996 Mt. Everest tragedy. This may seem like an extraneous detail but it's not. Later that day, we'd find ourselves up on top of a mountain in sub-zero temperatures, with dwindling daylight, arguing about the safest and fastest way down. We threw examples from the Mt. Everest book at each other to bolster our arguments. It seemed we had two very different interpretations of the book's main message. For Sergey, it was about adventure. For me, it was about minimizing risk. Although, technically, we weren't 30,000 feet above sea level and we weren't running out of oxygen and our lives weren't in any imminent danger so maybe the book's lessons weren't exactly relevant here. But I digress.)

After arriving in Otaru, we threw our bags in a locker at the train station and set out to explore the surprisingly picturesque town. We had finally found the winter wonderland we were looking for. We walked along a canal adorned with Victorian-style streetlamps. We headed to the port and built a mini-snowman -- we named him Mible. And then we set out to hike the steep slopes of Mt. Tengu.




The snow was deep. The air was crisp and clean. There wasn't a single person in sight. A walk in the woods on a winter day is a magical experience. It's even more magical when someone pees your name in the snow.


I had been hiking ahead of Sergey when he called me back to admire his shaky masterpiece.

"I'll bet that's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you," he said.

I don't know what's worse: the fact that he peed my name in the snow, or the fact that I was touched by it. I mean it's not every day a guys pees your name in the snow. I think I was in elementary school the last time it happened. Unfortunately, Sergey ran out of urine before he could add the "h" to the end of my name. I told him to drink more water next time.

Two hours later, we finally reached the top. We stood on the summit and admired the view. We were about to turn around and head down the same way we came up when Sergey noticed a single set of footprints heading steeply down the mountain's north face. Let's go back that way instead, he said. I wasn't sure it was a good idea. It was getting late and it would be dark soon. It was cold and starting to snow. We had run out of water and eaten all of our snacks.

Heading down a steep, unmarked trail that may or may not take us into town before it got dark didn't seem like the smartest option. Sergey disagreed. He said heading straight down the mountain would save time and, as long as we kept going north, we'd end up right in the middle of town.

I wanted to head back the same way we came. It might take longer but at least we wouldn't get lost.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Sergey asked.

"There's a difference between adventure and stupidity," I said. "And to me, this is stupidity."

It wasn't exactly a fight but it was tense. The thing is, Sergey and I are very similar. And while this means we get along like gangbusters most of the time, being alike is also a double-edged sword -- especially when you are both stubborn, headstrong and set in your ways. We could have dug in our heels and refused to budge. But I figured it was better to relent. It wasn't like we were in any real danger. This wasn't some remote wilderness area. We were just a few kilometers outside of town. The city was clearly visible from where we were standing. If we headed directly down the north face and found ourselves stuck or off course, we could easily retrace our footprints to the summit and backtrack to the original trail. The risk of getting lost seemed ridiculously small. So I backed down. And, just as Sergey predicted, we shaved an hour off the hike and ended up exiting the trail almost directly behind the train station. He was right (although, being right doesn't make him a hero. It just makes him lucky).




After lingering over a hot curry dinner and loitering in a coffee shop for a few hours, it was time to head to the ferry terminal to catch the 11:30 p.m. sailing back to Kyoto. We had toyed with the idea of making a reservation earlier in the day but decided against it because there had only been eight people on the ferry to Hokkaido. We thought making a reservation would be a waste of time. We thought wrong.

We headed to the train station and hopped on the last bus to the ferry terminal. It was late at night and most of the streets were quiet, dark and empty. But the ferry terminal was even quieter, darker and emptier than the streets. There wasn't a single car in the parking lot and all of the lights were turned off. Something wasn't right.

The bus came to a stop in front of the main entrance. Before getting off the bus, I asked the driver if he thought the ferry terminal was open. He jumped out of his seat, ran to the terminal and pulled on each of the doors. They were all locked.

The driver returned to the bus, told us the terminal was closed and asked us what we wanted to do. We didn't know what to do. The confused expression on Sergey's face mirrored my own. The handful of passengers on the bus stayed silent and simply waited to see what we would do next. The driver needed an answer so I told him we would just stay on the bus and go back to the station. We were the last people to get off the bus and the driver stopped us on our way out the door. He took off his hat and his microphone, and looked at us with genuine concern.

"What will you do?" he asked.

We told him we weren't sure. He told us where we could find a cheap hotel and offered to drive us there. We told him not to go out of his way. But he kept insisting. He had finished his shift and had time to drive us over. We kept refusing. We wanted to find out what was going on and figure out what our options were before checking into a hotel.

The bus driver was looking at us the same way you might look at a lost child in a supermarket. His forehead was creased with worry and he wouldn't let us get off the bus until we had convinced him that we would be all right. I don't know if his concern was born of genuine kindness or extreme customer service. I suppose it doesn't matter. Whether he was simply being kind or whether he felt like taking care of two clueless foreigners was part of his job, his excessive helpfulness didn't come as a surprise. This behaviour is the norm, not the exception, in Japan. If a bus driver went out of his way to help me back home, I wouldn't be surprised but I certainly wouldn't expect it. In Japan, I expect to be helped. And I expect to be helped with a smile and a deep bow. I've become so used to being coddled and doted on that even the slightest display of rudeness comes as a shock.

The extreme customer service continued at the train station when we asked the guy behind the ticket window for help. He told us the ferry was running and we could catch it tonight at 11:30, no problem. We told him we already went to the ferry terminal but the lights were off and the doors were locked. We asked if he would mind phoning the terminal just to double check.

Despite contradicting everything he had just told us, he picked up the phone and called the terminal without argument or complaint. After he hung up the phone, he said there was a recorded message explaining that the ferry wasn't running because of scheduled maintenance. There was no choice but to wait 24 hours for the next sailing.

We were spending the night in Otaru whether we wanted to or not. The town was too small to have a 24-hour McDonald's where we could sleep for free so we took the bus driver's recommendation and checked into a cheap hotel for the night. There was nothing to do but buy some booze and some snacks and turn it into a party.

This time, the misadventure-plagued portion of the trip was truly and finally behind us. There was nothing left to go wrong that hadn't already gone wrong.

Continue reading: Part V

Homeless in Hokkaido: Part III

Part I | Part II

So there we were, stranded on the snowy, sub-zero streets of Sapporo at four in the morning with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. Sergey and I had just gotten kicked out of our accommodation for the night -- a "24-hour" McDonald's that turned out to be open a few less hours than advertised.

Checking into a love hotel was tempting, but too expensive. Bunking down on a park bench was out of the question. Sitting in hard seats at another all-night restaurant was unappealing. There was only one place where we could catch a few hours sleep without blowing our budget or freezing our asses. So we checked into the first internet cafe we found.

Sleeping in an internet cafe was, surprisingly, a lot more comfortable than it sounds. For $10, we each got a private cubicle with four walls and a door that closed. The cubicles came complete with a desk, a computer, and a soft, padded floor with lots of room to stretch out on. (Although, Sergey claims the floor in his cubicle was neither soft nor padded.)

The price, which was cheaper than the cheapest hostel in Japan, also included unlimited coffee, clean showers, and all of the comic books you could read. It was private, quiet and comfortable. I had a complimentary cup of tea and a hot shower before changing into my pajamas and falling asleep on the padded floor that served as my bed for the night. I didn't turn on the computer the whole time I was there. Sergey, on the other hand, spent the night fooling around on Facebook and feeding his internet addiction.

Internet cafes are just one more reason to love the internet. I mean, the internet basically saved us from freezing on the streets of Sapporo. Without the internet, there would be no internet cafes. Without internet cafes, there would be no cheap places to sleep. So, thank you, internet. Thank you for giving us Wikipedia to find facts, Facebook to connect with friends, Google to research our essays, blogs to tell our stories, YouTube to waste time, and cafes to sleep in.


After a three-hour nap at the internet cafe, we woke up at 7:00 a.m. and headed out to see the sights. The night before, we had made a list of all the things we wanted to see in Sapporo. We settled on three "must-see" attractions -- the fish market, the TV tower, and the clock tower -- all clustered within a few hundred metres of each other. By 8:00 a.m. we had crossed everything off the list. Sapporo may be a great place to live, but a tourist draw it's not.

There's not much to distinguish Sapporo from any other Japanese city its size. It has the same buildings, the same subway system, the same identically named streets, the same shopping arcades, the same hidden alleys, and the same neon signs. It did, however, have a series of unique subway ads featuring a misbehaving cat. (The tag line? "Cats don't understand public manners, but people do.")


There was nothing left to do but eat a long, leisurely breakfast and figure out how to kill the seven remaining hours before we could check into the Sapporo youth hostel. (We may have been cheap but we weren't stupid. We knew we wouldn't be able to function much longer without a proper sleep in a proper bed. We called the hostel early in the morning and made a reservation for that night.)

We decided to spend the rest of the morning (and a good part of the afternoon) at the Sapporo Beer Museum. Although, technically, we spent most of that time trying to find the museum. The Lonely Planet guidebook told us to look for a large brick chimney with the Sapporo trademark star painted on it. We were in the right area but we couldn't see the chimney anywhere. So we backtracked and went west instead of east. We asked two different people for directions and they both pointed us back to where we came from, but we still couldn't find it. We wandered aimlessly for at least an hour. It wasn't until we spotted a group of Korean tourists with expensive cameras slung around their necks that we knew we were heading in the right direction. They led us straight to the museum's front door.

Interesting fact: Sapporo's famous gold star logo was originally a red star. The red star represented the North Star, which was the symbol of the early pioneers of the 19th century. The red star logo was later changed to a gold star, to avoid any confusion that Sapporo beer might be a communist beer.


Twenty years after the fall of communism, seeing the familiar red star brought a tear to Sergey's eye. Born in Russia and raised in Bulgaria, the red star brought back a flood of memories from Sergey's childhood -- like wearing a blue kerchief around his neck, calling his teachers "comrade," and marching through the streets in pro-communist demonstrations. ("Everyone seemed really cheerful during those parades," he said. "I don't know what everyone was so happy about but I was just happy to miss a day of school.")

We dragged ourselves around the museum. I was crashing hard and constantly checking my watch to see how much time we had left before check-in. I was too tired to even sample the beer. But the Japanese people featured in the museum's collection of old-timey posters were radiating happiness and joy while drinking Sapporo beer so I'm sure it was good.


The hostel's check-in time was 3 p.m. and we arrived at exactly 2:58 p.m. We didn't shower. We didn't change our clothes. We didn't unpack. We just collapsed into bed and immediately fell asleep. Three hours later, we woke up and headed out for dinner and a taste of Sapporo's nightlife.

On our way out of the hostel, we passed a small display of flags at the check-in desk. Sergey asked me if I knew what the flag was beside the Canadian flag.

"Italy?" I said.

Sergey rolled his eyes.

"Bulgaria!" he said.

He paused and then furrowed his brows in confusion, "Why do they have a Bulgarian flag here?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Read the sign!"


Our night on the town consisted of a delicious ramen dinner, a ride on a Ferris wheel, and coffee in a maid cafe. The ramen and the Ferris wheel were planned in advance (the two teenage boys we met on the train highly recommended the Ferris wheel -- it did not disappoint) but the trip to the maid cafe was spontaneous. We were on our way back to the hostel when we passed a sandwich board advertising a maid cafe. It was one of those "only in Japan" experiences we just couldn't pass up. The price of admission was only 300 yen so we decided to give it a try.

The cafe was on the third floor of a non-descript office building. We opened the door and were welcomed by four 20-something girls wearing black and white French maid uniforms. Although, it wasn't exactly a warm welcome. Our entrance was greeted with shock and dread ("Oh no! Gaijin!"). It wasn't until they realized we could speak Japanese that their frozen faces thawed into smiles.

With one rectangular table that wrapped around the room, the cafe looked more like a small bar than a coffee shop. The girls stood behind the table, taking orders and making small talk with the customers as we drank over-priced coffee. (Sergey would later complain that the girls weren't very good at conversation. They mostly laughed and giggled and talked to us about snow and ice. I don't know why Sergey was expecting stimulating conversation. It was a maid cafe, not a philosophy cafe.)

Unfortunately, we had to cut the night short. The hostel had a strict 12 a.m. curfew, and if we weren't back before midnight, we would be locked out until 6 a.m. The thought of spending another night suffering on the streets of Sapporo made both of us shudder. We were out of there faster than a greased seal on a waterslide.

Back at the hostel, I fell asleep right away. But I was woken up by a loud crinkling sound a few hours later. I opened my eyes to see Sergey squatting on the floor, scavenging through my snack bag like a wild animal.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

He mumbled something and several chocolate mushrooms fell out of his mouth. Busted! The mystery of the disappearing snacks was finally solved. I had been wondering why my snack bag had been getting so light so quickly. It turned out Sergey would wait for me to fall asleep and then he would devour the snacks. The night I caught him in the act, he had eaten the last of the snacks -- snacks that were supposed to last the entire trip.

The next morning, we left Sapporo and took a snack-free and guilt-ridden (for Sergey anyway) train ride to Otaru. The plan was to spend the day in Otaru and then catch the ferry back to Kyoto later that night. We decided against making a ferry reservation -- a decision that would come back to haunt us. Once again we'd find ourselves wandering the streets of Hokkaido in the middle of the night with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay.

Continue reading: Part IV

Homeless in Hokkaido: Part II

Part I

It was Saturday night, and we were sitting on an almost empty train, killing the two hours between when we left the ferry that brought us to Hokkaido and when the train would arrive in Sapporo.

Sergey and I were both deep into our books and didn't notice the two teenage boys sitting across from us. It wasn't until they got up out of their seats, stood in front of us and said "America?" that we looked up.

"America?" they repeated.

I told them I was from Canada.

"Oooh! Canada! Vancouver! Olympics!" they cried, clapping their hands.

Sergey told them he was from Bulgaria. This was met with silence and blank stares. (Poor Sergey. Every time a Japanese person asks him where he's from, his answer gets one of two reactions. They either give him a look that says, "Bulgaria? Where the fuck is Bulgaria?" or they cry out "Yogurt!" Which might seem strange but actually isn't when you consider that one of Japan's most popular brands of yogurt is, bizarrely, named Bulgaria.)

We asked them where they were from and learned they were 17-year-old high school students from just outside Sapporo. With the introductions out of the way, the boys started firing all kinds of personal questions at us.

"Are you a couple?"

"How old are you?"

"Are you getting married?"

We didn't know how to answer these questions. Mostly because we had never really defined the answers ourselves. So we just looked at each other and laughed. Their brazen questions were both awkward and adorable. Teenagers in Kyoto would never ask us questions like that. In fact, teenagers in Kyoto would never talk to us at all. Foreigners are a dime a dozen in Kyoto and our presence on a train there wouldn't be all that surprising or unusual. In Hokkaido, we felt more conspicuous. Every time we entered a restaurant or cafe, we would be greeted with panic-stricken stares by the non-English speaking staff. Of course, the panic would turn to relief as soon as they found out we could speak Japanese. But it was like that everywhere we went.


The train pulled into Sapporo around 11 p.m. After 25 long hours of traveling we had finally reached our destination for the night. But that didn't mean we could relax. In less than an hour it would be midnight. And at midnight, February 27 would become February 28. And February 28 was our birthday -- the reason we had come to Hokkaido in the first place. There were two things we had to take care of before the clock struck 12:

1. Find a birthday cake and candles.

2. Find a 24-hour McDonald's to sleep in for the night.

We left the train station and walked south on the main street. It wasn't long before we found a convenience store where we bought some booze and a small cake. Sergey asked the guy working behind the counter if they sold candles. In response, the employee's face contorted into one big question mark.

Sergey tried to explain in Japanese. "The thing you put on the cake when you have a birthday," he said.

The employee still couldn't figure it out and called over a co-worker, who was equally confused. They discussed what it was they thought Sergey was looking for before giving up and asking him again.

"It's the thing you put on a birthday cake," Sergey said. "You put a light on it and you blow it."

"A lighter?" the employee asked.

"No."

The employees consulted each other again. After about five minutes of this, a light suddenly went on above their heads.

"Candles!" they said.

"Yes!"

"Sorry. We don't sell candles."

We didn't have time to go hunting for candles in a city neither of us had been to before so we decided to just find a McDonald's to sleep in for the night. We asked the guys at the convenience store if they knew of one nearby. They said there was one down the street but they wouldn't reveal its exact location. They just kept saying it was "far, far, away." We must have asked at least seven times and the only answer we got was "far."

We left the store determined to find it ourselves. "Far" is a relative term in Japan. I live about four kilometres north of Kyoto University and everyone I meet tells me how "far" my commute is. To me, it's a short walk. To them, it's a marathon. So neither of us was surprised when we stumbled across the "far, far away" McDonald's 10 minutes later.



We had arrived in the heart of downtown Sapporo. The sidewalks were crowded. The bars were noisy. The buildings were fortified with neon. It was like Tokyo, but with snow. And there was a 24-hour McDonald's right on the corner.

But this McDonald's was nothing like the on we stayed at on Christmas Eve. This one was packed with trendy 20-somethings slinking out of the nightclubs for a late-night snack. It was noisy, busy and crowded. There were no soft booths; only hard seats with no room to stretch out and sleep. Even worse, the smoking section threatened to overtake the entire restaurant. Both of us nearly fainted when we saw it -- Sergey out of happiness and me out of horror. It must have been at least three times the size of the non-smoking section. And there were no doors to block the smoke. So the whole place was pretty much one big smoking section.


We realized we were in for a long, sleepless night. But we were determined to make the best of it. We broke out the cake at midnight, and took turns blowing out the "candle." We shared my headphones and listened to music while playing cards. We poured our contraband booze into McDonald's cups and made a birthday toast. (Sneaking alcohol into dry establishments has become something of a tradition between the two of us. It's pure economics. Why spend $30 at a bar when you can buy the equivalent amount of alcohol at one-third the price from a convenience store, pour it into plastic bottles, and sit and drink at McDonald's or Mr. Donut for hours on end? A flip of the coin determines who ends up trudging back to the convenience store to fill the empty bottles for the next round.)



We knew we weren't going to be able to sleep but at least we were having fun. At one point, I left the table to go to the bathroom. I was standing in line when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a guy holding his finger up to his lips and his cell phone up to my face. The only thing on the screen was his email address. I had no idea what this was supposed to mean. Was he asking for my phone number? And why wasn't he saying anything?

I asked him if that was his email address. He said it was. And what did he want me to do with this information? He asked me what I was doing later tonight. I told him I was just hanging out with my friend.

"What are you doing now?" he asked.

"I'm waiting to go to the bathroom," I said.

He held his cell phone up to my face again. I suddenly got it. He wanted me to memorize his address and then text him if I wanted to hook up. I laughed and said no.

"No?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

He shook my hand and then closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and went in for a kiss. I leaned backwards, extracted my hand from his, and said "no" more firmly this time. I didn't feel threatened -- he was at least 10 years younger and two inches shorter than me. I was actually kind of flattered. I may be another year older but I've still got it!

After I came out of the bathroom, he was no longer in line. I wasn't sure if he disappeared out of embarrassment or because he found another girl he wanted to take home for the night. Sergey took it as proof that I have more secret admirers than he does -- the debate over which one of us has more secret admirers is our longest running, and stupidest, argument.

At 3:45 a.m., McDonald's started pumping Auld Lang Syne through its speaker system. In Japan, most stores and restaurants play this song at the end of the business day to let customers know the place is closing. We were confused. The sign clearly said this McDonald's was open 24 hours. So why were they playing the song that meant they were closing down? We decided that maybe they were just trying to annoy people into leaving. Maybe it was a way to deter cheapskates like us from camping out for the night. So we sat there and watched as everyone dutifully filed out of the restaurant. We were the only people -- along with two other freeloading foreigners -- still sitting there at 4 a.m. when an employee came over, told us the store was closing and asked us to leave.

"What do you mean you're closing?" Sergey asked her. "The sign says 24 hours."

She mumbled something about how they still keep serving food but the seating area closes down for "cleaning" for a few hours. And that's how we found ourselves out on the cold, snowy streets of Sapporo at four in the morning with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay.

We turned to each other at the same time with a look that said, "Now what do we do?"

Continue reading: Part III

Homeless in Hokkaido: Part I

Most people go to Hokkaido for the majestic mountains, the outdoor onsens, and the fabulous food. Sergey and I went to Hokkaido to experience all of those things too. Except we took a wrong turn somewhere along the way and ended up on a tour of northern Japan that was more farce than fantasy.

Instead of staying at a mountain resort, we slept at a 24-hour McDonald's. Instead of soaking in an outdoor onsen, we showered at an internet cafe. Instead of feasting on fresh seafood, we ate instant ramen. Instead of gliding through soft powder on skis, we trudged through knee-deep snow in sneakers.

Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. But that was part of the trip's charm. It may have gone sideways but it was never boring. Especially when we got kicked out of McDonald's at 4 a.m. with no other accommodation lined up for the night.

Moments like this are little gifts -- a chance to find out what you and your traveling companion are really made of. What do you do when you suddenly find yourselves out on the snowy, sub-zero streets of Sapporo at four in the morning with nowhere to go? Do you fight, blame, sulk or cry? Or do you do what we did and laugh so hard your stomach hurts? I think this is one of the things I like best about Sergey. Not the way he laughs at absurdity, but the way he revels in it. To steal a line from Hunter S. Thompson, it never got weird enough for us.


The decision to go to Hokkaido was made at the last minute. Sergey and I share the same birthday -- February 28 -- and we wanted to celebrate it in a part of Japan neither of us had been to before. Because we both love the snow and the cold, the decision to head north was an easy one. We had no plans, no reservations, and no idea what we'd do once we got there. We figured we'd just be open to any adventure that came our way.

The cheapest way to get to Hokkaido from Kyoto is by ferry. The plan was to hop on the ferry, tour around Hokkaido for a few days and then take the ferry home again. Sergey had never been on a boat before so the 20-hour ferry ride itself was as much a part of the trip as the destination.

Although, the term "ferry" is a bit of a misnomer. It was more cruise ship than ferry. There was a restaurant, a movie theatre, a hot tub, a game room, a pachinko parlor, a DVD rental shop, a ping-pong table, and a vending machine that sold both cold sushi and hot French fries on board.






The ship was a 17,000-tonne monster that stretched on for 225 metres -- longer than the length of two football fields. These numbers may be peanuts for a real cruise ship but they're pretty impressive for a ferry. The fact that there were only eight of us (yes, eight of us!) on board a boat built for 1,000 made it feel even bigger. We had the whole place to ourselves. It was like sailing on a ghost ship. A really fancy ghost ship.

"It looks like the Titanic," I told one of the employees working at the information desk. He laughed and thanked me but not before making a sinking motion with his hand to imply he hoped the similarities were in appearance only.

We made our way down the long hallway to our second-class berth, where 18 sets of blankets and pillows were neatly laid out on the floor. Sergey and I picked a spot closest to the door, while the three Japanese guys sharing our room picked a spot as far away from us as possible.



After dumping our bags and claiming our beds, we set off to explore the ferry before it set sail at 1:15 a.m. We ran up and down the grand staircase, poked around the souvenir shop, checked out the bathhouse, looked at the movie listings, snooped in the private rooms, lounged in the lounge, and snapped dozens of photos along the way. We were like a pair of giddy six year olds. The trip was already exceeding our expectations and we hadn't even left the harbour yet. We bought some booze from the souvenir shop to toast the start of our Excellent Hokkaido Adventure.

"So how is it, being on a boat for the first time?" I asked Sergey.

"Exciting!" he said.

About an hour after setting sail, the shine quickly wore off and was replaced by a low-grade nausea that wouldn't go away for the next 19 hours. Sergey was fine. Only I was sick. The swells were large enough that walking on the ferry felt like walking on a wonky treadmill. You'd be walking uphill and then suddenly the boat would crest a wave and your legs would be cut out from under you and you'd lurch downhill, zigging to the left and then zigging to the right, before suddenly climbing back uphill again. Up and down, side to side. I never got used to navigating the rolling hallways as the boat plowed through rough water. As a result, I spent most of the trip stretched out on the floor -- green, clammy and desperately trying not to vomit.

Sergey spent most of the trip with his nose stuck inside a book, miraculously immune to the effects of seasickness. I kept waiting to see if he would get sick, but no luck. As the boat pitched and rolled through the heaving seas, I would poke him in the ribs and ask how he was feeling.

"Don't you feel a little bit sick?"

"No. I don't feel anything."

Not fair.


Twenty hours after setting sail, we finally arrived in Hokkaido. It was dark outside so it was impossible to see anything other than the port's twinkling lights against the inky sky. The doors opened and a blast of cold air hit me in the face. Walking down the ramp, I was disappointed to see the only snow was lying in dirty piles on the side of the road. Instead of arriving in some magical winter wonderland, it was as if we were right back where we started. The port in Hokkaido was indistinguishable from the one we had left near Kyoto.

The "plan" (and I use that term lightly) was to take the train into Sapporo and find a 24-hour McDonald's to sleep in for the night (and by "sleep" I really mean "sit in an uncomfortably hard booth between the hours of 12 a.m. and 7 a.m."). We celebrated Christmas by waking up inside a McDonald's. Why not do it for our birthdays too? It may not be the most traditional way to mark a birthday but it's certainly one of the most memorable.

Being able to loiter in McDonald's all night for the price of a cup of coffee is an arrangement unique to Japan. When you buy a cup of coffee in Japan, you are not just buying a cup of coffee; you are buying a piece of real estate. That one coffee gives you the right to monopolize a table for as long as you like. You don't have to buy anything else and no one will ask you to leave. Accommodations don't come any cheaper than that.

So that was the plan. Celebrate our birthday by waking up inside a 24-hour McDonald's in Sapporo. Little did we know we'd get kicked out at 4 a.m. and end up stranded on the snowy, sub-zero streets of Sapporo with nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. Our tour of Hokkaido was about to begin its slide from fantasy into farce . . .

Continue reading: Part II

Heading to Hokkaido

This time tomorrow, we'll be plowing through the sea somewhere between Japan and North Korea. Sergey and I are taking the slow boat to Hokkaido to celebrate our birthdays in a part of the country neither of us has been to before.

Although we celebrate our birthdays on the same day (February 28), Sergey was actually born on February 29. He's a leap-year baby, which makes him seven and a half and makes me a pedophile.

We'll arrive in Hokkaido on Saturday night, after 20 hours at sea. We have no reservations, no plans and generally no clue what we'll do once we get there. It's all part of the fun. We want to be open to any adventure that comes our way, even if it means sleeping in a 24-hour McDonald's. We both just want to go for long walks, see what we see, and find what we find.

We'll be back next week.

Freaks on Ice

It was a balmy 20 degrees and sunny in Kyoto yesterday. We took advantage of the warm weather by heading indoors, bundling up and going skating.

Sergey and I spent the day at the Kyoto Aquarena, which (like the name suggests) is home to both a swimming pool and a skating rink. Just not at the same time. The Olympic-size pool is turned into a skating rink for six months of the year. This only makes sense in Japan, where there are strict rules governing seasonal appropriateness. Summer is for swimming; winter is for skating -- whether you like it or not.

Skating on a frozen swimming pool was a lot of fun. Except for the part when Sergey fell head-first into the ice, smashed his knee and broke his camera. The skating came to an abrupt end after that. I bought Sergey a hot chocolate to make him feel better (but also to assuage my guilt since the accident happened immediately after I tightened his laces).

I captured some of the pre-accident action on camera and edited it into a short film I'm calling "Freaks on Ice." Why watch the Olympics when you can watch quality skating right here? I think we might have a shot at ice-dancing gold in 2014. Russia, here we come!

I passed!

The results are in. And they are good.

I passed the master's entrance exam. This means I will enter Kyoto University's Graduate School of Global Environmental Studies in April. This also means I will be staying in Japan for two more years.

I'm really excited about the master's program. The school has a great reputation and most of the classes are in English. I'll get to do interesting research in a field I'm passionate about. I'll learn a whole bunch of new things. And, best of all, I'll get paid to do it. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I can't turn down.

The only thing I have mixed feelings about is staying in Japan for another two years. It's not that I'm unhappy here. I have good friends, a nice apartment, and a comfortable life in Kyoto. But it's a lonely kind of life sometimes.

I don't feel connected to the community (I blame the language barrier), and I generally have no idea what's going on (I can't read Japanese newspapers or websites). I picked most of my friends from a transient pool of people -- and almost all of them will be going home in April.

I find myself spending large chunks of time alone. Back in Canada, I used to like being by myself. I used to actively seek out solitude. I never found it difficult to be alone. I found it easy to go for days without talking to another human being. But I don't enjoy being by myself as much here. Being alone in Japan just makes me feel lonely.

It's a low-grade loneliness that never goes away. And it's a corrosive kind of loneliness. Sometimes I feel like this sense of isolation is slowly cutting away at me from the inside. I think a lot of foreigners in Japan feel the same way. You either get over it or you go home.

The sense of isolation ebbs and flows. But for the most part, I like living in Japan and I'm generally pretty happy here. My excitement over entering the master's program overshadows any hesitation I might have about spending another two years here. The positives outweigh the negatives. I passed the exam and I'm glad.

The aftermath

My master's entrance exam has come and gone and a lot of people have been asking how it went. The short answer is it went okay. But I don't really know. I won't get the results for another week.

"Do you think you passed?" they ask.

This is a tough question. The short answer is, yes, I think I passed. But I'm not really sure. What worries me is that the written exam and oral interview are given equal weight. Fail one and you fail the whole thing. I think I aced the written exam. The interview, not so much.

The exam left me feeling confident. The interview left me feeling shattered.

Pass or fail. It's out of my hands now. But no matter what happens, the experience drove home a few important lessons.

Lesson one: I work best under pressure

A few days before the exam, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I was terrified that I was in over my head. That I wouldn't be able to answer a single question on the exam. I was plagued with anxiety and self-doubt.

This is nothing new. I am always a nervous wreck before a big event. But if experience has taught me anything, it's that worrying about something you can't control does you no good. I wasted a lot of time and energy worrying that the exam would be filled with questions I wouldn't know the answers to. And, as usual, my worries turned out to be groundless.

I do this a lot. I worry about things I can't control. I worry the plane I'm about to board will crash. I worry I will be hit by a car when I cross the street. I worry about the past. I worry about the future. All of this worrying is pointless. It's a complete waste of time. It's like an acid that eats you up from the inside. If I could stop worrying, I would. I just don't know how.

But unlike unnecessary worrying, I don't think being nervous before a big event is a bad thing. I think it means you're invested in the outcome and you care about what happens. The trick is to channel those nerves to your advantage.

My friend Gilles taught me how to view nervous energy as a positive thing when I used to swim competitively. I used to have a lot of trouble quieting my mind before a race. I was consumed with dread and self-doubt. I used to get so nervous that my stomach would shut down. I would almost fall off the blocks because I was shaking so badly.

Gilles helped me realize being nervous was a good thing. Your body is vibrating with energy, he said. This nervous energy is your body's way of preparing itself for battle. Your muscles are humming with anticipation, like coiled springs about to explode. Just turn your brain off and let your body rev itself up until the gun goes off and then release that tension by exploding off the blocks and swimming as hard as you can. You'll do great. You always do.

And it's true. I always do great under pressure. Pressure pushes me to do my best and try my hardest. I never crack under pressure. The pressure-filled moment itself is not a source of anxiety. It's the worrying about the pressure beforehand that causes me to unravel. Which makes no sense because if I know I thrive under pressure, then why would I ever worry about it?

But there I was, nervous and stressed on Friday morning waiting for the clock to strike 10 and the exam to begin. I mentally checked out of the classroom and imagined I was at the start of a triathlon instead. I pictured myself standing waist-deep in water with hundreds of other competitors waiting for the gun to go off.

The start of a triathlon is a nasty affair. After the gun goes off, you will get punched and kicked by thrashing arms and legs as swimmers battle for a clean line of open water. (Someone once used my head as leverage during the swim portion of a triathlon. They pushed my head down with their hand and swam on top of me to get ahead.) You have to keep your wits about you and not panic. Just absorb those kicks and punches, try not to swallow any water, stay calm and swim. Eventually the crowd will thin out and you'll settle into a groove.

Don't panic. Don't give up. Fight and everything will be all right. This was the mantra I repeated in my head before every triathlon I raced in. It seemed like an appropriate chant before the start of the entrance exam too. After all, I was mentally preparing myself to get kicked in the head by a few questions.

The clock struck 10 and the examiners ordered us to start. I took a deep breath ("This is it!") and pulled the exam out of its envelope. There were four essay questions. But we only had to answer two.

Bam! The first question kicked me in the head. "Describe one engineering technique used to reduce industrial air pollution, giving examples of blah, blah, blah . . ." Engineering! I knew right away I'd have to skip this one. There was no way I'd be able to fake it. All I know about engineering is that it involves wearing a ring on your pinky finger and building bridges.

Pow! The second question punched me in the stomach. It was about fishing and maximum sustainable yields and went something like this: "If x means this and y means that and a whole bunch of numbers mean something else, please calculate blah, blah, blah . . ." Math! I immediately crossed this one off the list too. I wouldn't even begin to know how to fake something like this. All I know about math is that I failed it twice in high school and, as a result, developed a lifelong aversion to numbers.

Since I had already crossed two questions off the list, this meant I would have to do the remaining two questions no matter what. I crossed my fingers and hoped that I'd be able to answer them. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw one of the questions was about biodiversity. I can do this, I thought to myself. Which is ironic because, up until about a week ago, I knew almost nothing about biodiversity.

I spent the past month studying in the library and one of my favourite procrastination techniques (aside from stepping outside to eat carrots) was to walk around and browse through the books in the English section. So last week I was wasting time in the library, browsing through books in the English section when I stumbled upon a collection of essays about biodiversity written by E.O. Wilson.

The essays were well-written and utterly absorbing and I ended up reading the book cover-to-cover instead of studying that day. Well, that book ended up saving my ass in the exam. I was able to write a pretty decent (in my opinion, anyway) essay on biodiversity and was able to give specific examples of how different ecosystems work. Who says procrastination doesn't pay!

The second question asked us to write about the principle of "common but differentiated responsibilities" as defined in the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. It wasn't something I specifically studied but I felt like I knew this stuff inside and out having worked at two UN climate change conferences and having actually seen the principle of "common but differentiated responsibilities" in action (or, more specifically, in inaction).

After one hour, the general knowledge exam was over and I was left feeling like I rocked it. My essays may not have been perfect but I thought they were solid and compelling and coherent.

After a short break, it was time for the second exam -- the specific knowledge exam. Like the general knowledge exam, this exam was also an essay-style exam but unlike the general knowledge exam, it had only one question. You would either know how to answer it or you wouldn't.

I pulled the exam out of the envelope. The question was simple, yet complex. It was based on a quote from Raymond Williams, "To be truly radical is to make hope possible rather than despair convincing." The task was to discuss this concept in terms of environmental communication.

Now we're talking! None of this math and engineering bullshit. I spent 15 minutes drafting an outline on a scrap piece of paper and spent the next 45 minutes completely absorbed in the act of writing. I filled four single-spaced pages before the end of the hour. Again, I didn't think my essay was perfect but I thought I had done a pretty good job answering the question in a clear and compelling way.

I left the classroom feeling like I had rocked both exams. I felt stupid for having wasted so much time and energy worrying about how it would go beforehand. I'm sure other people answered the questions better than I did, but it doesn't matter. I proved to myself that I knew more than I thought I did. And that I thrive under pressure.

Lesson two: My Japanese is shit

I was given the option of taking the exam in Japanese or English. (I may be a masochist but I'm not a moron -- I took it in English.) I was lucky. Most of my friends didn't have a choice. They had to take their entrance exams in Japanese.

It's one thing to take a master's entrance exam on a very specialized academic topic in your native language, it's quite another thing to do it in Japanese. My friend Sergey, for example, had to take his master's entrance exam in Japanese. Sergey is a film studies major. The fact that he can write, read and talk about obscure concepts like direction and lighting and angles in 1950s Japanese cinema in Japanese is mind-blowingly impressive. Sergey is a language genius. In addition to his native Bulgarian, he is also fluent in Russian, English, Japanese and his own made-up language, Sergey-go.

I am about one-fifth as smart as Sergey. I thought about what would have happened if I had to take my exam in Japanese. I thought about the question on biodiversity and I thought about how I would answer it in Japanese and the only thing I could come up with went something like this: "I like nature. It is very important. I especially like big cats -- lions, tigers, cheetahs, leopards and the black ones." Epic fail.

Lesson three: I suck at academic interviews

I have always done well in job interviews. I think this is because I know that the people interviewing you are judging you not just on your skills and experience but also on how well you'll fit in with the team.

No one wants to hire someone with a flat personality or a bad attitude. You can look great on paper but if you don't have energy, enthusiasm and a sparkling personality, you're probably not going to get the job.

Turn on the charm and make them laugh has always been the way I've approached job interviews. It's not scientific but it works. I haven't gotten every job I've applied for but if I make it to the interview stage, I know the job is mine. I have gotten every job I have ever interviewed for.

Well, guess what I just learned? Being likeable and charming doesn't work in an academic interview. Professors are not looking for someone who can tell good jokes around the water cooler. They are serious people who want to know if you're going to be a good researcher and be able to come up with an interesting and original thesis. Do you have the intellectual chops to make it in the world of academia or not?

I'm afraid I fell short on the qualities they were looking for. It didn't help that the interview room was (intentionally, I think) set up to be like an interrogation room. The room itself was very large. There was one long table in the front of the room. Four professors sat side by side at that table. Facing the table, at least 15 feet away, was a small chair and desk where I was asked to sit.

It was intimidating. And I think that was the point. This was not a friendly chat. This was a serious panel interview. The professors got right down to business. No time for small talk to put me at ease.

They asked hard questions. They pointed out the holes in my research proposal and asked me to fill them. I had to answer "I don't know" more times than I wanted to. The longer this went on, the more flustered I got.

I should have been better prepared. You cannot coast your way through an academic interview on charm alone. Lesson learned.

Lesson four: I am not afraid to put myself out there

There are a lot of things about myself I don't like. I'm docile. I'm insecure. I'm lazy. I make stupid mistakes. I repeat the same stupid mistakes. I ruin a lot of things just by opening my mouth. The list goes on.

But there are also a few things about myself I do like. And one of the things I like most is that I'm not afraid to put myself out there. I will do and try pretty much anything. I love a good challenge and I am not afraid of falling flat on my face.

If I want something, I go for it. I let nothing hold me back. And I won't give up. I'm a persistent little fucker.

Maybe I'm not smart enough to be a master's student. But that won't stop me from trying. Life is short and you've got to put yourself out there and just give'r.

(For the non-Canadians reading this, "just give'r" is a popular, low-brow expression, which loosely means going all out and taking care of business as awesomely as possible. It also means getting wasted and rocking out as hard as possible, but I am not using it in that context here.)

Maybe my exam wasn't perfect and maybe the interview wasn't great. I don't know if I passed or failed. But I do know that I did the best I could. And I can't do any better than that.

I just have to wait and see if my best is good enough for Kyoto University.

Up to my neck in owls

For the next three weeks, my life will no longer be my own. My life will belong to Kyoto University.

I am attempting to enter the Graduate School of Global Environmental Studies as a master's student on a full scholarship. The entrance exam is on February 12. That gives me exactly three weeks to learn as much as I possibly can about global environmental issues.

My days will be spent in the library, studying, reading and making notes. My nights will be spent in my apartment, drinking wine and wasting time on the internet. (What? You thought I was going to devote all of my free time to academia? A girl's got to give her brain a break some time!)

The exam itself is broken down into two parts. The first part tests your general knowledge about environmental issues. The second part tests your specific knowledge about your chosen field (my chosen field is environmental communication studies). Both exams are comprised of essay questions. Both exams are in English. I think I'll be okay on the specific knowledge exam. It's the general exam that scares me.

There’s just no way I'll ever be prepared enough to answer general questions about the environment. Not in three weeks. Not in three months. Maybe not even in three years. There's just too much to know.

Climate change, acid rain, hazardous waste, endangered species, biological diversity, sustainable development, protection of transboundary watercourses, desertification, the Kyoto Protocol, whaling, pesticides, renewable energy, ionizing radiation, persistent organic pollutants, habitat destruction, ozone depletion, urban sprawl, smog, deforestation, disaster mitigation, genetic pollution, overpopulation, collapsing fish stocks, chemical contamination, ocean acidification, invasive species.

The list goes on and on and on.

I may have worked at the David Suzuki Foundation for seven years but I'm no lab-coat-wearing scientist. I'm a writer, which means I know a little bit about a lot of things. My knowledge of environmental issues is a mile wide and an inch deep.

My job was not about delving into the technical details of an issue (that was for the guys with the letters "P, h and D" behind their names). My job was about communicating those issues in a way that was clear, concise and compelling. That meant stripping out the scientific jargon and simplifying the technical details to make it palatable to the widest possible audience.

I may know how to write about environmental issues but I don't know all that much about them. This is something I have to rectify during the next three weeks.

An impossible task maybe but I can't let this opportunity pass me by. At stake is a full scholarship, a master's degree from one of the top universities in Japan and the chance to do exciting and interesting research in a field that I am passionate about.

If I fail the exam, I will be returning to Canada at the end of March. (Homeless, jobless and broke. Sexy!)

If I pass the exam, I will be returning to Canada in 2012. (Homeless, jobless, broke and two years older. Even sexier!)

Anyway, I'd better get back to the books. Blogging will be light to non-existent during the next three weeks. Wish me luck!