She climbed out through the front room window

It’s a terrible feeling to be locked out of your house, but believe me, it’s equally as terrible to be locked in.

This morning I hit the snooze button one too many times and so by the time I put on my coat and gathered my bags to leave for work, I was already ten minutes later than I should have been. I wasn’t too concerned; as long as I made it there in time for my first interview at 9 a.m. it would be fine.

I reached for the bolt and attempted to unlock my front door unsuccessfully. Though the bolt turned, it did not turn all the way.

It tends to stick sometimes so I wasn’t worried at first. I leaned against the door and tried again, which usually works, but not this time. A few more attempts using all of my strength, and a few kicks for good measure and still nothing. That’s when I got that sinking feeling, as I realized I might not be able to get out.

I considered phoning someone, but was worried it might turn out to be something silly. Yesterday at work for instance, someone couldn’t understand why the door wouldn’t close and it was nearly driving her crazy. I opened it, kicked a few pebbles out of the way with my feet and closed it properly again. However, it soon became clear this was not a matter like the pebbles — my bolt was most definitely jammed.

I don’t have the number for the landlord or Tom, the maintenance man, in my apartment like I should, so I couldn’t call them. Instead, I phoned my friend Robin who lives down the corridor and asked him to go knock on Tom’s door for me, which he kindly did. In the meantime, I phoned the office and explained to them that I was locked in, but that I would try and be there shortly. (They laughed and told me that was an excuse they had never heard before.) I also began to look for a second way out.

Unlike the other apartments in my building, because I am on the corner my window doesn’t open on to the corridor. Rather, it opens on to the roof of a perpendicular building, and there is a metal fence blocking the roof from the walkway. I popped out my screen and stuck my head out to take a look. I am not afraid of heights and climbing on roofs is as natural to me as riding a bike. In fact, as a child I used to be able to climb up a tree and on to the roof of our garage where I spent many hours playing, so this task seemed quite manageable. However, though climbing out might get me to work, it would not solve the problem, so I waited.

Tom came and tried the door from the outside with no success, so I told him I would just climb out. He was worried and went to fetch a ladder for me to get down.

Since at this time I am a career woman and I have no prince charming I couldn’t be bothered waiting around in my tower for long (after all, my hair is much too short for me to play the part of Rapunzel) so I decided to rescue myself. I easily climbed out the window, walked over the roof and climbed over the metal fence.

When Tom returned he looked rather surprised to see me walking across the parking lot with my camera bag and purse on the way to work as if that was how I exited my apartment every morning.

Don’t worry, I did make it to work in time for my interview and Tom did eventually manage to fix my lock for me, so all is right in the world.

[I realize my poor blog has been rather neglected. I have had every intention of writing and lots of ideas, but not a lot of time. However, my adventure this morning inspired me and I am determined to be better.]

The far window is the one that I climbed through. It kind of looks like I live in jail ... or South Africa.

I climbed over the fence. Tom had to use a ladder to get up onto the roof.

Contemplating Mortality

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so,

For, those, whom though think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me …

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

~ John Donne

I’m not sure why I love cemeteries as much as I do. Though it might seem morbid to many, I am drawn to them wherever I go. They are peaceful places, and I admit I find them terribly romantic. The more old and spooky looking, the better. Perhaps it is the idea that each grave has a story that appeals to the story collector in me. Whatever it is, I always wind up exploring them (and I suppose I’ll eventually get a good long visit, but that’s about a hundred years away).

With this in mind, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I have already discovered several graveyards in Merritt or just beyond. The actual City Cemetery I found when I was running, and have since returned several times. It is a bit odd actually. On one side is the older section, which is rather gloomy looking — it is all gravel and the gravestones look a bit like they’re crumbling. This is juxtaposed with the new section, which is as perfectly manicured as a golf course. It’s nice that the City obviously takes good care of it and people evidently visit frequently (there are always flowers and other offerings), but I naturally spend more time in the older side, which has more character.

Just this Sunday I took a drive out of town and explored the old Murray churchyard. So far it’s my favourite cemetery nearby, though there are a few native cemeteries that I would like to visit. This one had a cute little old church (which unfortunately was locked or I would have explored further) and an assortment of old graves from the late 1800’s. One that caught my eye was the grave of Reverend W. B. Cuyler who died April 7, 1887. He was 28 years and 3 months. So young. I wonder how he died. The headstone also said he was a native of Bruce, Ontario. I’m sure it’s a sad story. I might just visit the museum and ask them if they know anything about him.

While we’re on the subject, I might as well tell you that it is my dream to one day have a house next to a cemetery. All my superstitious Tongan friends are probably horrified ­– actually most of you are probably shaking your heads, but there you have it. Towards the end of summer driving through the city of Fort Langley I saw my house. It was a beautiful old heritage home and next to it was a beautiful old cemetery. And it was for sale. When I saw that sign I gasped. Unfortunately I drove by that house too early in life, as I am still poor as a church mouse. Maybe it will wait for me. But until then, as luck would have it, I have moved into a tiny, not so beautiful apartment directly across the street from a little old funeral chapel. So I suppose it’s a step in the right direction. Each day I can look out the window and contemplate mortality.

The view from my living room window.

Another grave in the Murray churchyard.

Country roads and Cattle guards

I’ve been in Merritt two weeks and four days now, and so far I’m enjoying life as a small-town reporter. Several people have asked me what I write about and the best answer to that is everything. With an editorial staff of two (my editor and I), I am getting all sorts of assignments from corn eating contests to city council meetings.

On Saturday I had my first visit from friends from the outside world. Marie and Cody braved the drive up here (which was an adventure in itself as they were beyond Hope and nearly ran out of gas). Luckily they arrived safely and Merritt rolled out the red carpet with 50’s Day Celebrations and Canadian National Retriever Championships, proving that there are things to do in Merritt. This also meant that they got to be my assistant reporters for the day.

First we went for a stroll along Quilchena Ave to have a look at the 50’s Day festivities. (The event was planned as a fun community event to promote the downtown businesses.) We bought some hotdogs and Marie and Cody kindly sat on the sidewalk and waited while I snapped some photos of a hula-hoop contest. After admiring the costumes and cupcakes it was time to move on.

The next item on the agenda was a visit to the Kane Valley to have a look at the Retriever Championships. A thirty-minute drive turned into an hour when we took the scenic route by accident. The directions we got were not incorrect; it’s just that they took us to the wrong side of the Kane Valley, which meant we had a lovely drive along country roads.

One of our greatest amusements along the journey was driving over the cattle guards. I have crossed several in my lifetime without it ever occurring to me that the car was not supposed to bump uncomfortably across the grate. Cody, who is apparently a country boy at heart, quickly figured out that if we lined the car up correctly we could drive smoothly across the tire tracks. It’s a good thing he did, because we must have crossed at least a dozen by the time we reached our destination.

We also discovered that where there are cattle guards there are also cattle. We passed several right at the side of the road and stopped to take some pictures of them. They actually looked pretty mean and glared at us, which made me nervous they might try and charge my car. Luckily they didn’t.

At one point, Marie remarked that our drive reminded her of the song Country Roads and I apologized for not having any John Denver songs at hand. However, Marie discovered that she had reception and so she found the song on YouTube and played it from her iPhone. It helped set the mood of our country drive, but I admit it was comical that we needed the iPhone to fully appreciate the country.

We finally found the championships and once again, Marie and Cody kindly let me spend some time chatting with the chairman and some participants. At one point I lost them though and wandered up and down the dirt road looking for them. I even stopped a lady to ask if she had seen any “city folk” around. I finally found them sleeping on a picnic table.

Finally we drove back to Merritt and ended our day with dinner at the Hitch’N Post, a western restaurant just outside of town. I’m glad my friends are such good sports!

Reporting Live From Merritt

On Wednesday I loaded everything I could fit into my little car (a task that could only be accomplished using my Tetris skills) and set off for Merritt, British Columbia.

Merritt, located about three hours northeast of my home in Coquitlam, is a small city with a population of approximately 7000 (twice the size of Forks, WA). Though small, even Merritt has its claim to fame. You see it claims the title of “The Country Music Capital of Canada.” I do like country music, but that wasn’t what induced me to move out here. Rather it was a job at the local paper, The Merritt Herald.

As I sit here on a storage container in my little apartment (I don’t have any furniture yet) I still can’t really believe that I’m here. It could be the shock of all of a sudden finding myself in a small town, but maybe it’s the reality that I finally get to be a real life journalist.

When I first got home from my mission in February I was daunted by the task of trying to find a job. I decided to hedge my bets and I enrolled in a TESOL Certificate course through Vancouver Community College. After a very intense month, I was qualified to teach English (to speakers of other languages) and quickly found a job at an English school. Though some of the kids managed to weasel their way into my heart, it wasn’t long before I discovered that teaching wasn’t my calling in life.

Even so, I almost went to Egypt. The subject is still a little sensitive for me, but I was offered a teaching job in Cairo and turned it down. The pay was pretty low, but the real reason I said no was that I didn’t want to put off getting into journalism any more. (That’s not to say I won’t run away to Egypt in the future.)

My teaching contract ended on a Friday. On Monday I prepared for the job hunt – a process I expected to be long and depressing, but I was determined. While I was at my computer I got a tip from a friend that a reporting position was opening up at the Herald. I called the editor and said I was interested in the job. Thursday I drove up to Merritt for the interview and a week later I showed up for my first day of work. And that, my friends, is how I ended up in Merritt. I’d say the timing for all this was pretty miraculous.

Though I’m happy to be back at a paper, I still have some fears about the future (for instance I was told on my first day here that if I stayed in Merritt I would die alone), but I’m sure things will work out.

In the meantime, stay tuned to read about my adventures in Merritt!

Entering the Twilight Zone

I didn’t want to read Twilight.

I didn’t want to read Twilight because I didn’t want to like it.

Years ago, I didn’t want to read Harry Potter for the same reason. When I finally gave in to the world of wizardry I found myself dressing up for the movies and lining up at midnight for books I had pre-ordered, as well as referencing spells in every day speech.

I finally gave in to Twilight as I guess deep down I always knew I would. Now, four books, a novella, and three movies later, my friend Marie and I found ourselves embarking on a road trip to Forks, Washington.

(Not wanting to be alone in my shame, I had introduced Marie to the literary crack. She ate it up like a newborn vampire thirsting for blood. I fed it to her one book at a time and felt like a dealer every time I gave her a new book.)

When Marie first jokingly suggested visiting Forks I laughed – then I thought, why not? Forks was as good a destination as any for the road trip we were planning and after some research we found that situated on the Olympic Peninsula there were some good camping and hiking spots nearby. To our credit, if we could have gone to England for an Austen tour or a Shakespeare tour, or even a Harry Potter tour we would have, but that was a bit out of our budget, so Twilight it was.

It’s a funny thing when you tell people you’re going to Forks, Washington. As obscure as it is, most people know what you’re talking about (even the ones who make fun of you) and ask, “isn’t that where Twilight takes place?”

Just getting there turned out to be an adventure – we accidentally left on Friday the 13^th (not the safest choice when visiting the home turf of vampires and werewolves). Suffice it to say we missed our intended ferry, had to cancel our hostel reservation and almost slept on a tarp in the forest. Instead we found one of the last remaining motel rooms in Port Angeles and I managed to haggle with the Korean manager and get a $10 discount.

The next morning we had a quick look around Port Angeles and then drove one more hour out to Forks, a town so small if you blink you might miss it. Our first stop was the Chamber of Commerce where we picked up directions for a self-guided Twilight Tour. (Others apparently opted for a more professional tour – the Twilight Tour Bus was close on our heels all morning). We got to the chamber too early and while we waited for it to open, we took pictures by Bella’s red Chevrolet truck parked in the lot. We weren’t the only ones. I was really amused as people of all colours, shapes and sizes began filling that parking lot – some of them (usually males) obviously there by force. We frequently ran into these people at the various tour stops and would occasionally take pictures for each other or ask directions. I guess you could say we were one big happy Twilight family.

The tour took us past the Swan home (some random house on “K Street”), Dr. Cullen’s parking spot at the hospital, Forks High School, Forks City Hall (a building which included the police station, courthouse and probably jail as well), and a bed and breakfast designated as the Cullen Home. The whole thing probably took less than an hour.

More than half the businesses in Forks, La Push and even Port Angeles seem to be capitalizing on the Twilight craze. We saw places like Bella Italia, Dazzled by Twilight, Jacob’s Java and even Twilight Firewood. I suppose you can’t blame them. I’m not sure how they survived economically before Twilight. No wonder they have a day designated as Stephanie Meyer Day (which happens to be on September 13^th, Bella’s birthday, in case you’re curious).

By lunchtime we had completed our Twilight tour and decided to leave the vampire world behind. We drove to La Push, crossed the clearly marked treaty line and were greeted by a sign that read, “The Quileute Tribe welcomes Twilight fans.” We appreciated the warm welcome. We intended to enjoy our stay. We paid fifteen dollars to camp on the beach, set up our tent and enjoyed a baking hot afternoon in the sun (and the water).

The weather was gorgeous all weekend. The only glimpse we got of the usually cloudy, Vampire-friendly landscape was Sunday morning when we woke up to gray skies and thick mist covering the beach. That was our cue to leave. My only regret was not meeting any handsome werewolf boys at La Push.

In the end, despite our efforts to convince ourselves that we were not really Twilighters, when the Canadian border guard asked Marie what the purpose of our visit had been she said, “to visit the Twilight sites.” And I suppose that’s the truth. Just don’t tell anyone.

On the beach at La Push.

A morning walk in Port Angeles.

Finding joy in my journeys

Confession: I haven’t updated my blog very regularly as of late because I’m afraid of boring my readers (assuming I have any).

I first staked out this little spot of cyberspace as a way to share my Jerusalem experiences and named it fittingly “Journey’s With Jade.” This was all very well when was exploring the Holy Land or revisiting my native country of South Africa but these days I sometimes feel my life doesn’t quite live up to the title.

Luckily President Monson has reminded me to find joy in my every day journeys, and so I will continue to post my experiences on the World Wide Web for those who care to read about them.

For example, here are some things that brought me joy in Utah and Idaho:

Exploring the Salt Lake Cemetery, and visiting the resting places of modern-day prophets.

Attending a Michael Jackson party in Provo where we danced to his music and ate popcorn and popsicles to commemorate the King of Pop. (Note: I did not know it was an MJ party when I showed up.)

Watching South Africa play Mexico in the first game of the World Cup with one of my favourite SA expatriates and her Mexican friends.

Singing songs at midnight to the accompaniment of an old antique piano that had been carried to a third story apartment by thirteen men.

Heading for the beach and ending up at the sand dunes (the beach minus water) where we jumped and rolled in the sand and took lots of pictures.

Walking along some railway tracks and discussing how they metaphorically represented our lives and the choices we make.

* * *

I’m sure I’ll inevitably head off on another grand adventure before too long, but in the meantime I’ll fall back on the old metaphor that life is a journey and try to make the most of it.

Crossing the Line

Funny how one invisible line on a map can make so much difference. I am thinking in particular of the 49^th Parallel, which unforgivingly divides the US and Canada.

I frequently cross this line (in fact in the last six years I’ve spent more time on the wrong side of the line what with school, mission and play – just don’t mention that to the border guards) but it never gets any easier.

I’m not sure why but border guards and immigration officers all seem to have an uncanny ability to make even the most innocent of people feel guilty. I’m always terribly nervous as I wait for my turn to cross the border – never sure what they might decide to ask or accuse me of. I’m not the only one who experiences this anxiety. My dad has a habit of practicing out loud what he is going to say.

But really, this invisible line is no laughing matter. Last week while my mom and I were waiting to cross the border to go shopping I asked, “Do you think that if I were to get out of the car and start running they would shoot me?” We decided it was better not to find out.

Occasionally I will get by with the simple inquiry – “what is your purpose?” Other times it is not quite so pleasant.

Take today for instance. Here is the just of the interrogation:

Border Guard: What is the purpose of your visit?

Me: I’m visiting some friends in Utah.

BG: How long will you be gone for?

Me: Two weeks. (I then produced my flight information, which he inspected.)

BG: What will you be doing in the US?

Me: Um … visiting friends …. in Utah.

BG: What do you do for a living? (Surprise attack! Oh no, he found my weakness.)

Me: I’m currently unemployed. (Later I realize that I should have said I was a freelance writer and private English tutor, which is true.)

BG: (raises his eyebrow)

Me: I just finished a course and now I am looking for a job. (Trying to justify the burden that I am to society.)

BG: When was the last time you were in school?

Me: May.

BG: How do you support yourself?

Me: With savings and I live with my family.

BG: Your family?

Me: My parents. (Yes ok, I am 25 and I live with my parents.)

BG: What kind of funds are you bringing with you?

Me: Some cash and my credit card.

BG: You will have enough funds to survive two weeks here?

Me: Yes. (Do I look like a homeless person? Brief unemployment doesn’t equal absolute poverty.)

BG: Have you ever had trouble crossing the border?

Me: No. (Not until today.)

BG: All right. You can go.

Last time this happened, the border guard wanted to know how I knew people in Utah. I wanted to tell him it was because I was Mormon. Instead I told him I went to BYU. Seriously, I’m sure they must have bigger problems to worry about than innocent single unemployed young women going for a two week visit to Utah.

Worst-case scenario: I meet a nice young man in Utah. It’s love at first sight. We have a brief two-week courtship and get married.

Trust me Mr. Border Guard. Your country is safe. I will happily return home at the end of two weeks and breath in the fresh Canadian air on my side of the line.