Union Jane minds the gap year

[Listen up newcomers. This is a classic NOR feature; the lovely, talented, witty and thought-provoking Union Jane. She is the female, modelesque version of myself. We know each other in the real world and have lived parallel lives although her's has been infinitely more interesting and impressive than my own. When she sends me her thoughts, I post them, you enjoy them. That's about it. Read on.]

The A-Z is like my bible. It seriously gets me out of trouble all the time. I use that thing to navigate the beast of a city that is London, and often it keeps me out of trouble. Try figuring out how to get to Portobello Road from Notting Hill Gate tube station without one and you’ll understand what I mean. Sometimes, I read it just for fun, looking up Abbey Road, Downing Street, Fleet Street and Cheapside because I’m a sucker for famous streets. And even though I know the city pretty well by now, I always carry it with me because I think it’s a bit of security blanket for me. A homing beacon, if you will – it’s become the compass for my life abroad.

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When I left Canada, it wasn’t as if I decided the week before to take off. Despite stories to the contrary, have it be known that the UJ doesn’t really do spontaneous. In fact, I had planned my departure for over a year, working two jobs to save money and carefully ticking boxes off my ‘London List’ to ensure I landed on my feet when I go here:

Passport renewal? Check.

Portfolio updated? Check.

Credit card pre-clearance for international shoe purchases? Check.

You know – all the important things taken care of.

But despite every possible attempt to secure a job and living arrangements before I left, I found myself hopelessly without real prospects. As someone who has always relied on careful planning, I was stressed to the max and crying hysterically at the thought of walking off a one-way plane in a foreign country with nowhere to go. It suffices to say that I was an absolute train wreck. And to make matters worse, the day of my scheduled flight, a hurricane hit Halifax. Yes, a hurricane. Yes, Halifax. I actually can’t make this stuff up.

Naturally, my flight was canceled and bumped a day, meaning I was arriving on a Monday morning instead of a Sunday. This of course threw yet another monkey wrench into my plans, as the only friend I had in London who was going to pick me up at the airport wouldn’t be able to now as he would be working.

After procuring an obscenely expensive taxi driver at the airport to take me to my friend’s girlfriend’s (whom I had never met before) workplace to retrieve a key, I finally arrived at their flat jet-lagged, disoriented and 70 pounds poorer. All I could do was curl up on the Ikea futon in their empty little flat and try and make up for the sleep I didn’t get on the red eye. And then, the fireworks began. Literally.

Remember, remember the 5th of November. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.

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There have certainly been a lot of ups and downs to living in London – from my job which has killed my soul a little, to tube mishaps (for the record, it is no more OK to grab my ass on the subway than it is in any other public situation), to being constantly perplexed by the English love for Guy Fawkes Day (seriously – there is a limit to how fun fireworks are), to having one of the best days of my life at Wimbledon (OMG Andy Roddick point-blank is so much hotter than he is on TV). It’s been an absolute trip.

And I won’t bore you with all of the details of the last 14 months, but I think the important thing is that – even though I’m a little weathered from my experience – I’m really glad I did it. And – like Ben – I’m also not one of those people who doesn’t have regrets (freaking liars, the lot of them). So that’s saying something, at least.

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My younger brother called me from Canada the other day, absolutely heartbroken over an ex-girlfriend. There’s something kind of sweet about how first love can reduce a normally conservative, proud young man to tears. He was so distraught over the dramas of his university romance that he could no longer see the situation objectively and asked for my advice. Now, to explain the hilarity of how ridiculous it is that I became the benchmark of romantic advice to him is another paradox entirely. But what struck me most about it is just how upset he was, how he thought his life was crumbling apart around him.

I didn’t give him advice on what to do about the girl, because frankly I’m biased – for the record she’s a skanky little moron with four brain cells total – and ultimately he needs to make that decision himself. But what I did tell him was that no matter how awful and desolate he feels at the moment, he will somehow get through it, get passed it, and be better for it. And even though I didn’t solve his problem, I did give him some clarity and context and he seemed to appreciate it.

It’s true that ‘no experience is a bad experience’, but what people never tell you is that sometimes when you’re deep in the throes of ‘experience’ it’s really, really hard. But I guess at the end of the day sometimes it takes a lot of hard stuff to grow the qualities that make you a wise and capable person.

I gave away my A-Z the other day. I’m leaving London for good soon, and I met another young lady who is new to the city and just as green as I was. Although I’ll miss the worn out West London section, I think she’ll make good use of it now. Call it ‘paying it forward’, except for city maps.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t – once again – terrified about not having my plans for post-London sorted out yet. But as I assured my brother, I know I’ll get through it, even if it’s difficult. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. Why is it that we’re so bad at taking our own advice?

I’m not sure what I’m going to replace my A-Z with. I guess that depends on where my next adventure takes me to. In the meantime, I did buy this really wicked pair of shoes to help me get there:I am confident these will fair better on my next city streets than on London’s cobblestone death-traps.