Niagara

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Driving from Toronto, past Hamilton on the way to Niagara, a silhouette of iron mills rises on the right. It is an industrial complex that would make Stalin turn Trockist from envy. The smoke coming from its tall chimneys is a sign of progress and a brighter future. Combined with the logging and the oil extraction industry, there is no doubt that the economic forecast is green for Canada.

As any decent 5-year planner would know, there is no point to industry if there is no infrastructure to support it. There are 8 locks on the Welland Canal connecting Lake Erie with Lake Ontario, which is further on connected to the ocean via the St. Lawrence river. Enabling mighty steel ships full of iron to reach all corners of the world. The Canal is producing 35 million $ (Canadian — not freedom — dollars) in Economic activities. Big production numbers are good in socialism.

A few minutes drive past the Canal we finally arrived to the highpoint of our trip, the Niagara border. It is a sunny day and a cheerful crowd masks the fact that this is an unsettling frontier. Flags on both side of the border fligh high on their masts, as if anybody would forget where they are. Less than 100 meters (for some reason they are using both feet and meters in Canada. Sometimes in the same sentence. Example: This nice red banner that we will use to protest American Imperialism should be 1 meter tall and 10 feet long. ?!?) across the river there is the promised land of the rich and the land of working class unfulfilled dreams.

Canadians are not shy to show the freedom-loving, god- (in socialism god is lowercase) fearing Yankees that they can match them in anything and teach them about their mistakes. With the inspiration taken from their Korean comrades, a series of Potemkin’s casinos was constructed along the border, to give pesky Americans a gleaming reflection of capitalist decadence.

And lastly, let’s turn away from political discourse and gaze upon the river biding the two worlds. There is no beauty that can rival that of raw nature. The Niagara river does not simply trickle down but, with mighty force (like a 5-year plan) shapes the landscape. Its mesmerizing waterfalls let you forget, if only for a moment, your daily troubles, releasing your mind to wander off into the land of magic disbelief.

Why Canada?

IDK what the fuck I want from my life, with my life, or about the meaning of life. First I believed in God. I even worked for Him. Altarboying, collecting money for the church, you know the regular, born in Christian hinterland village gig. Wasn’t considered underaged working, it was redemption, because You Know Who ate the apple. But then highschool happened and God slowly faded away. The emptiness was slowly filled by God’s biggest enemy, Woman. I bit the apple and my salvation will now come from pure Love (in other words: I decided to put vagina on the pedestal). No surprise almost every woman I met quickly became The Woman which made approaching them impossible, too much at stake. Combine that with my overthinking nature and you have a result that is closer to zero than infinity. One rejection after another, the abysse slowly creeped back in. This unhealthy view of love was finally broken by meeting that crazy woman (she says I am the crazy one — not sure who is right). This encounter demystified love, however the big philosophical question still stands: What do I want with my life?

A few summers ago I was cleaning bungalows (you don’t wanna know how it is to clean the toilet after somebody had diarrhea and “forgot” to use the f-ing toilet brush) in Yellowstone national park. When you are situated in the seemingly endless stretches of pine trees sitting on the edge of a canyon and listening to the roaring waterfalls of Yellowstone river under the stars shining as bright as you ever saw them, you cannot be anything but awe struck. And all this nature is within your grasp to be explored (when you are not cleaning shit). It is nothing short of majestic to roam alone on barely recognisable trails where the sense of time dissipates. You could very well be a 18th century fur trapper. Nothing, but chemtrails on the sky, signal that you are in the information era. It is just you and the unforgiving wilderness. And if you get lost (which of course did happen to me and my friend on the trail with the highest bear presence) there is a good chance you will not return. Those moments of aloness were also moments of happiness and freedom. For me where there are no humans there is no anxiety, and that is relaxing. This summer I got a job in Banff and I am looking forward to what I perceive might be a similar experience. Maybe this is what I want. A simple, anxiety-free life, with a simple job in untarnished nature. In search of freedom.

Freedom is something you cannot quell and she loves her freedom. Me being around all the time visibly started impairing her in a way that began to make our relationship strenuous, and most pleasurable aspects of our life were fading away or were completely gone. I had a hunch that if I went it would free her and she would be able to enjoy life more. She also, as anybody would be, was displeased with me procrastinating day after day. And I didn’t like it either. Not having something to do sucks. Specially when you know that the main reason is your own lack of engagement. So the optimal solution to both problems was to leave.

Is Canada just escaping from my problems? Maybe. Partially. I like to compare my travels to respawning on a different map location after you have been killed in a video game. If you learn from your mistakes and do better second time around restarting your life is positive and even necessary. (until life headshots you again and you rage quit, and go play the Sims).

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Why poopy?

The question that is ricocheting in my brains causing me the sorrow I can only compare, being from a village in Slovenia, to the screaming plea of a homestead animal about to die and the inevitability of the animal’s destiny. I had, and I have no answer to this excruciating plea. I can only tell a story which starts with the reveal that I am the poopy.

How can a word for excrements be the most loving nickname of my life? As anybody in a relationship would know, love is not all roses it is also farts. Literally. My liking of beer and apparent intolerance of some of its ingredients makes for an unpleasant combination that produces the smells rarely described in Romantic era sonnets. Thus the nickname was born, however the story starts where all things begin in 21st century: on the Internet.

There was a woman on OkCupid that seemed to be into climbing, which for me was basically the only opener I had (now I have upgraded to also talk about socialism), so I commented on her picture. A month later I got an answer and after about 6 months of online chatter I was walking through the arrivals door in Lisbon airport deliberating what to do if she ghosts me (also I believed there is a 50% chance she is a bot). As a precaution I told my family and friends I am visiting a “friend”. A ruse I successfully employed many times before. Imaginary friends are quite useful when used properly. Well it turned out she is real. She was waiting with a tiny sign that said: 1st international Eastern European climbers’ summit. Next night she asked if we can be together forever. Since I am an atheist and don’t believe in an afterlife I could only promise until death do us part. Three months later I moved to Lisbon to be with her.

Years ago I had recurring dreams that I am in a bed with a woman (I was single – go figure), but just before I would hug her I woke up and realize that I am lying alone in the bed. Now I woke up because she was trying to snuggle with me (well sometimes she was rocking me in the middle of the night and asking: “Are you awake?”).

I never lived with anybody before and neither had she. The non-monogamous nature of our relationship meant there was a lot of adapting. I had to embrace a new paradigm of relationships and she had to renounce some of her absolute freedom. It was a lot of conversation about our feelings and expectations, some tears, and a pinch of despair. Our divergent views slowly, experience by experience, became more and more symbiotic. My calm nature grounded her explosiveness (An example: Once, we were climbing, I commented that she should try harder. She immediately started yelling at me and proceeded to throw both of her climbing shoes towards me. She was in the middle of a climb), which in turn filled me with excitement and desire for new things. We grew closer and closer together, while trying not to impair each other’s uniqueness and freedom. Life was beautiful and for the first time in my life I felt like I found a person that loves me as much as I loved her. The infinitive cuddles, sexual explorations (50 shades of gray style. I presume. Didn’t read the book), shibari, climbing, caring for a rescued cat.

But sadly living in Lisbon was slowly draining my savings, unable to find a job, not in small part due to not putting enough effort into finding one, I had to do something. Even before I visited her for the first time, more than a year ago, I planned to go to Canada. I had nothing to do in my life at that point and decided why not. Two months before I moved to Lisbon I had been given an IEC visa. The visa required me to enter Canada within a year of receiving it. That day came, and I went. For a year. The only image on my mind when I walked through departure gates in Lisbon airport was her sad face looking into my eyes wondering why I left her behind, asking me: Why poopy?