Canadian Immigration: Part III

(This is a series of posts detailing my personal journey from work permit to Canadian citizenship. I've included as many details as I can remember. If you found this post using an internet search for Canadian immigration, or if you are a regular reader who is interested in moving to Canada, please bear in mind that things may have changed since I went through the system, and your situation may be completely different from my own. Please consult the Canadian government's website for more information.)

See also:
Part I: the wilderness work permit years
Part II: resident, permanently

Part III: Citizen Cath

Many of my family and friends were astonished to learn that marrying Mr E Man didn't get me automatic Canadian citizenship. In fact, as an existing permanent resident, obtaining a Canadian husband made absolutely no difference at all to my immigration status or timelines. As I mentioned in Part II, marriage (straight, gay, or common law) to a citizen does get non-permanent residents optional access to a faster and cheaper "sponsored" PR application process, but that's it; all PRs who wish to become a citizen apply through the same process, and are subject to the same rules.

As soon as I decided to stay in Canada permanently, I knew I wanted to eventually become a citizen. First and foremost because I love this country and want to be a fully contributing member of its society. That means that I want to vote out the right wing bastards who ru(i)n this country AND this province. People fought long and hard for my right to vote, a right which is sadly granted to so few of the people who live (and have ever lived) on this planet. Besides, if you don't vote, you don't (or at least shouldn't) get to complain about the government... I've voted in every British election for which I've been old enough and resident in the country* - general, local, Scottish, and European parliament elections - and have been incredibly frustrated at not having a say during my seven (and a half) years in Canada.

So that was my primary motivation, but there were others too. For example, I've always wanted a second passport; not only do I now get to avoid the old fingerprint/photograph/interrogation routine that I used to go through at the US border, it's also really fucking cool. A recent rule change was another factor; PR cards are now required in order to enter the country, and the card has to be renewed every five years**, via the same rather frustrating process by which I replaced my stolen card after my honeymoon. So you really may as well apply for citizenship, and just renew your passport instead.

I also get to legitimately support a second team during the Olympics and other sporting events (-> more medals! w00t!).

This is not a decision that everyone can make so easily; the Canadian government allows dual citizenship, but some countries do not. This means that some immigrants have to give up their original citizenship upon becoming Canadian. Luckily for me, the British government basically says "do what you want". If I'd had to choose, I probably wouldn't have given up my British nationality.

Enough of the rationale, what about the methods?

(Yes, it's grant time again).

Permanent residence is the hard part. Once that's in the bag, it's really quite easy to become a citizen. You have to be physically in Canada as a permanent resident for "at least three years (1,095 days) in the past four years before applying". Every day that you spend out of the country counts against you, and has to be accounted for (I used the stamps in my passport and emails I'd sent to my Mum*** to work this out - the single most important piece of advice I can give to an aspiring citizen is to keep excellent records of your travel during this period). You can count time spent in Canada as a non-permanent resident (i.e. on a work permit), but one day with this status only gets you half a day of residency credit, and you can only claim a maximum of one year.

I used the online calculator to pinpoint the exact day on which I would become eligible to apply for citizenship, and completed as much of the paperwork as I could ahead of time. Unlike the behemoth of the PR application package, which took several months to assemble, the citizenship application form is just five pages long. (It's also MUCH cheaper to apply for citizenship than for PR status). I also needed to send photos, and photocopies of my passport, PR documents, marriage certificate, and BC healthcare card. I completed the process, appropriately enough, on Canada Day 2008.

The next step in the process was, of course, the infamous citizenship test. In late 2008 I received the study guide and my test date (8:15am on the day after my birthday, boooooooo). I promptly launched into intensive study put the study guide on a shelf and forgot about it. Massimo and others who'd already taken the test had assured me that it was a piece of cake, no problem at all.

So, when I did crack open the study guide, a couple of weeks before my test, the level of detail took me by surprise. I read through the guide a few times, and then took an (unofficial) online practice test.****

And failed.

I just wasn't prepared for questions about the metals mined from the Canadian shield, or the major industries of Saskatchewan.

Luckily, an email (or two, or three) from Massimo helped to calm me down, as he assured me that the actual test questions would be much easier; more a test of language ability than of knowledge.

And so it proved to be! The test consists of 20 multiple choice questions. You have to get 12 right in total, and you also have to correctly answer two of the three most important questions (the ones about how to vote). There was only one question that I wouldn't have known the answer to without studying, and that one I could probably have guessed. I definitely don't want to put anyone off studying, because it's an interesting and worthwhile thing to do in its own right. And, of course, I benefited greatly from the extensive similarities between the British and Canadian political systems. But really, anyone who pays any attention at all to the news should do OK.

After the test, immigration officials checked the original copies of the documents we'd photocopied and sent in with our applications, and briefly chatted with each person to ensure that we all spoke sufficient English or French. Some people were handed special envelopes and walked out looking perturbed, but I wasn't one of those people, so I can't tell you what that was all about. A few of us speculated that some people were being referred for an additional language test, but I really don't know for sure.

About three months later, I got notification that I'd passed the test. Oh happy day! I was also given my ceremony date; as with the test itself, you're assigned a date and time, and have to apply for permission to change it. I think you can only miss one assigned test date before you get kicked out of the system and have to reapply; if you miss more than one assigned ceremony date, I think you have to appear in front of a citizenship judge in order to be granted citizenship. But luckily this wasn't an issue for me, as I was available on both dates.

You already know all about my ceremony, which was very pleasant and only slightly awkward (luckily no-one else sang the anthem in tune either). And that brings us to the end of my (mostly) smooth dealings with Citizenship and Immigration Canada!

So long, and thanks for all the fish memories!

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Wait, what's that?

You want examples of easy-peasy test questions?

*Sigh*. So demanding.

But, OK.

My favourite question was the first one (on my version - there were at least six different versions distributed around the room, probably to prevent copying). One of the immigration agents gave a short presentation at the beginning of the test, and started off by asking if anyone required the test booklet in French, or if English was OK. The slides he used were in English and French.

Question #1: "What are the two official languages of Canada?"

Apparently, another version asked for the name of the head of state... in a room with a portrait of the Queen proudly displayed on the wall.

Other answer options included "recycling newspapers" as the primary responsibility of Canadian citizens, and "call the police" as the appropriate response to not receiving your voter registration card within a week of an election.

But to see some other examples, you're just gonna have to take the test yourself!

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*I can still vote in the UK as an ex-pat, but I don't think that's right. Especially as I'm a lefty, and therefore likely to vote for tax increases that I wouldn't actually have to pay.

**PR status is still (as the name suggests) permanent, as it always was. But the new cards are not, so if you ever want to leave the country (and get back in), you really need to renew your card. This rule change has finally prompted my mother-in-law to apply for citizenship; I helped her with her application not long after I submitted mine, and discovered that she became a PR in 1960! As my Dad said to her, "well, you don't want to rush into anything". NB she doesn't have to take the test, as she's over the upper age limit, but this does delay her ceremony by a few months.

***She insists on knowing the dates, times, and flight numbers for all my trips, even if I'm not going to the UK. She's a very nervous flyer and has never quite got used to the fact that I fly a couple of times a year.

****There are a few of them out there, but I'm not going to link to them because the bastards freaked me out.

Holy pap!

WARNING: this post may contain Too Much Information for some readers. Especially the guys. You may want to skip it and wait for my next post, which will probably be about the Canadian citizenship test, with hilarious examples of really easy questions. Or maybe I'll remember to charge my camera batteries and get a couple of shots of amusing things I see on my ride to work every day. I think I've now typed enough waffle to fill the truncated post you see in Google Reader; keep reading at your own risk!

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One of my distinguishing characteristics is that I always go for the laugh. In awkward situations, that goes double. I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with that, but hey, it makes for good blog posts.

However, I really need to learn that there are times when I don't need to make someone giggle. Take my pap/smear test yesterday, for example.

While my doctor was in the middle of the exam, she asked whether I'm in a monogamous relationship. When I said yes, she said "oh, that's right, you got married, didn't you? I remember you changing your name. How long ago is that now?"

"Two years - today, actually!"

"Oh, congratulations! Are you doing anything fun?"

Now, this is where I really should have stifled that instinct. But the words were out of my mouth before I even consciously knew what I was going to say:

"What, you mean even more fun than this?"

This situation wouldn't be at the absolute top of my list of times you don't want to hear the words "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to wait to continue until my hands stop shaking". But it's pretty close.

At least this was with a doctor I actually like. Until a few years ago I was seeing a male doctor who, although a good physician, did not have the most warm and welcoming personality. While preparing for a similar exam, he squeezed the bottle of lube a bit too hard, and a great big glob shot across the room, hit the wall, and gradually slimed its way down to the floor. If he'd just laughed it off, I would have chuckled and moved on. But he was known for being formal and uptight, and actually got incredibly embarrassed. Like, completely mortified, and apologising profusely.

You know how the urge to laugh gets stronger in situations where laughter would be inappropriate? Yeah. I really felt like I couldn't laugh out loud. So when he tried to start the exam, my entire body was shaking with suppressed laughter, and he had to leave the room and come back five minutes later when I'd calmed down.

Cancer screening is no laughing matter, really*, but it's good to know it can occasionally involve a good chuckle.

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*the Test of the Flying Lube Glob actually came back abnormal, and I had to go for a colposcopy. Luckily the results came back normal, as did all subsequent pap tests. If yesterday's is clear, I'll be moved back from annual to biennial check-ups from now on (all free - yay, socialised healthcare). This is part of my reason for (over)sharing these stories - I'm quite evangelical about getting my friends and family to keep up their regular testing schedules. And it's amazing how many of my friends have also had an abnormal result and colposcopy - but never told me about it until I recounted my own experiences. We need to get the word out there!

Tuesday pet peeve: tired of weary

Yes, it's another pedantic pet peeve!

I hear more and more people saying they're "weary" of something when what they mean is that they're cautious, suspicious, or distrustful of it.

You're looking for "wary", or maybe "leery". "Weary" means tired. If you say you're "weary of" something, it means you're bored or dissatisfied with it.

Go on. Look it up. Any dictionary will do.

See?

A plague of insomnia upon people who misuse the word "weary"!

p.s. it's my second wedding anniversary today! I can hardly believe it. I am definitely not weary (or wary, or leery) of Mr E Man.

Padlock FAIL

Canadian Immigration: Part II

(This is a series of posts detailing my personal journey from work permit to Canadian citizenship. I've included as many details as I can remember. If you found this post using an internet search for Canadian immigration, or if you are a regular reader who is interested in moving to Canada, please bear in mind that things may have changed since I went through the system, and your situation may be completely different from my own. Please consult the Canadian government's website for more information.)

See also Part I: the wilderness work permit years

Part II: Resident, permanently

I'm not usually one for serious relationship talks, but I was forced into one when Mr E Man and I had been together for less than a year. I needed him to confirm what I really already knew: that we had something special enough that I should apply to stay in Canada permanently.

Believe me when I say I didn't take this decision lightly. I knew my parents would be very upset, and I spent a lot of time on the phone with my favourite Auntie, who married an American and went off to live in the States when she was just 18. She gave me lots of good advice, mostly about how to break the news...

Anyway, let's gloss over that conversation and discuss permanent residence. This is (I think) the equivalent of the American Green Card, i.e. you are no longer tied to a specific job. Citizenship gets you voting rights, a passport, a shot at some government jobs, state unemployment and other benefits, and a guarantee of no deportation, but permanent residence gets you pretty much everything else. You do have to renew your PR card every five years, which is a bit of a hassle and is basically intended to push people into citizenship.

So how do you become a permanent resident, aka landed immigrant?

There are several routes. The two options open to me were:

a) move in with Mr E Man, wait a year until we officially had common-law status, and get him to sponsor me.
Advantages: slightly faster process; cheaper.
Disadvantages: he would have had to guarantee that he would be responsible for me for the next ten years (i.e. if I lost my job, he'd have to support me, as PRs can't claim state benefits).

b) apply through the skilled worker class, which awards points based on education, work experience, and other factors.
Advantages: I could apply immediately, meaning that the sponsorship route wouldn't actually save me that much time; the satisfaction of qualifying in my own right.
Disadvantages: More expensive.

(The website now lists a separate Canadian Experience Class which wasn't available when I was applying, but looks like it would have been the best option for me!)

So, skilled worker class it was.

I'm a big fan of the points system. The federal government controls the amount of immigration by raising or lowering the points total you need to qualify, but the cut-off at the time you apply is the one they use to assess your application. This means that if you have enough points (take the test!), you know you're going to get in (assuming that you pass the medical and police checks - see below). I found the system to be very fair.

(Slooooooow, though. This may be because those of us applying from inside Canada had to send our initial application to the Buffalo office, with all the US applicants. My application went through at the same time as the mass exodus of 2004...)

The application

The PR application forms took me weeks and weeks to complete. You basically have to provide documentation of your employment and education for every single month since the age of 18. In my case this meant digging up university transcripts, degree certificates, and a letter from my postdoc employer (institution AND PI). I also had to try to remember the dates of all my student addresses (with help from my Mum) and summer jobs. The latter caused me some anxiety as I had no way of contacting several former bosses who had since moved on; I stated this in the cover letter (not required, but I put one in anyway) and they never asked me for any further information.

I also had to provide police certificates from England and Scotland, which have separate forces. This cost about GBP20 each, and consisted of them running my name through their computers and providing me with a letter saying "nope, never heard of this person". I didn't have to provide anything from the Canadian police at this stage, although I know they checked for a police record at some point.

The big sticking point, though, was the money. The application itself cost me about $1,500, which was bad enough for a postdoc on a $35,000 salary. But you also have to provide evidence that you can support yourself for your first six months in Canada; for a single person at that time, you had to have $9,500 in the bank at the time of your application, and it had to still be there when you were granted PR status. The only way around this requirement was to have a letter from my employer guaranteeing that I had a job for at least the next two years. My awesome PI tried everything in her power to get me this letter, but for a postdoc... no can-do.

Well, I saved like I've never saved before. I didn't buy a single new thing for two years. I made my own lunch every single day, and ate lots of my grad student era rice-carrots-onions-soy sauce special. Mr E Man offered to lend me the money, but theoretically the government could have demanded to see my bank statements to check for big lump sum deposits, and I didn't want to take a single chance with my application. He did pay for lots of dinners and other treats though! Thankfully, the small pay-out I'd received as compensation for breaking my arm very badly when I was seven, and which my parents had securely stowed away in a long-term savings account, happened to mature just as I was despairing of ever saving enough money, and made up the short-fall with about $10 to spare.

When I finally had everything together and sent off my big fat application envelope (registered mail, of course), I had such a huge sense of relief. What a process! Now, all I had to do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The medical

After about nine months, I got a letter asking me to send in my medical results. This was an excellent sign that everything else was proceeding according to plan. Only certain doctors are authorised to perform an immigration medical, and my regular doctor was not on the list. So I made an appointment with the doctor whose office was closest to our apartment.

The medical itself was pretty damn thorough. They took blood, did a complete physical and medical history interview, and a chest X-ray to test for TB. It took about two hours in total. The doctor told me that he'd wait for the blood test results, and then send the package in to Ottawa.

And again, I waited.

And waited.

It was taking much longer than the website said it should. I was moaning about this to a friend in the locker room at work one day, and a random person who was also getting changed piped up with "I have an email address you can use to contact them, shall I send it to you?"

Anyone who's ever gone through this system will understand how rabidly I leaped upon this offer. The only other way I could get in touch with immigration was through the ridiculous phone system that made you enter all kinds of identification numbers and go through multiple options before it would try to connect you, and then if all agents were busy (as they always were), it would disconnect, making you redial and go through the entire process again. Coupled with the fact that the call centre wasn't in my time-zone, you'll understand why we immigrants hate the phone system so much.

Anyway.

I emailed the address I'd been given, asking for an update on my application status. Someone replied a few days later, saying the delay was due to them not receiving my medical results.

MAJOR. PANIC.

I called the doctor's office, and his snotty receptionist said "of course we sent it". "Registered mail? I need to know when you sent it, and who signed for it in Ottawa". "No, regular mail". "Well, do you keep records of which files you sent on which dates?" "NO" (hangs up).

I tried again, with identical results.

So I got Mr E Man (who had a different surname from mine at the time) to make an appointment with that same doctor a week later, and I tagged along...

The doctor was niceness itself. He realised I was horribly worked up, apologised for the conduct of his receptionist, and said he'd have words with her. He also explained that she wasn't even responsible for sending out the results; his other office in Richmond handled all of that. He called his other receptionist, who took about five minutes to come up with the date my results had been sent, the tracking number for the registered mail package, and the name of the immigration official who'd signed for it.

Another email to Ottawa, and my medical results magically showed up.

This part of the story still makes me mad; if I hadn't happened to meet that random person while I was getting changed for work one day, I never would have known what the hold-up was and would have had no chance of fixing the problem.

The flagpole

Anyway, once my medical results were in, it only took a few more months to get a letter saying that I'd been awarded PR status. That made it more or less exactly 18 months from first sending in my application. The final step was go down to the border so I could re-enter Canada and activate my PR status (what are you supposed to do if you live in Northern Manitoba or wherever??!! Not everyone lives half an hour from the border). Somewhat predictably, it took twice as long to clear US immigration as it did to process my paperwork (including a bank statement check) on the Canadian side. The Americans were politer than I'd ever seen them though; they get this a lot, and call it "the flagpole", as they direct your car into a separate lane that forces you around the flag pole and back into Canada.

So. A celebratory dinner, and a bit more paperwork to switch my SIN and healthcare card to the permanent, no-expiry-date version, and that was that.

Not quite so permanent

Oh, except for the pickpocket incident on our honeymoon. It is no fun at all to try and get a temporary document to let you back into Canada when your PR card gets stolen. I made a special trip down to London to go to the High Commission, where I was treated like a criminal (they seemed to think I was guilty of something, but didn't know exactly what). The problem was that I hadn't obtained a police report, which was basically impossible as our train was leaving Madrid 30 minutes after the theft occurred. "Well, you should have got a police report at your destination." "But I called the embassies in Madrid, Lisbon, Faro, Paris, and London, and no-one told me to do that!!!!!" "Shrug". After a good few hours of interrogation and fretting, they gave me a sound telling-off and a document saying that my re-entry into Canada would be at the sole discretion of the immigration agent at Vancouver airport. Cue me freaking out for the entire long flight home, and Mr E Man trying to reassure me that they wouldn't deport me once I was on Canadian soil...

The immigration agent read the document and asked what the deal was. I launched into a lengthy explanation, but only got as far as "WELL. My wallet got stolen in Madrid with my PR card in it" before she said "That SUCKS. Welcome home, eh?" and stamped my passport. Yay, Canada!

As I commented on the honeymoon post, "I really could have done without losing all my ID. Especially as I started a new job a month after we got back and needed all my stuff together! I also wanted the replacement cards in my new name... this started a vicious cycle in which I had to get my social insurance number (SIN) card replaced before I could get my provincial health care card replaced. I needed the new care card before I could replace my permanent resident card. And I needed my permanent resident card in order to get my new SIN card.

The healthcare people eventually took pity on me and broke the cycle, but only after I had to go to hospital a couple of months later to get rehydrated by IV drip after 10 days of food poisoning. It then took a few more months and $$$ to get my PR card back, during which time I couldn't leave the country and made my parents promise not to get sick!"

Stay tuned for Part III: Citizen Cath!

Strawberry Fields Forever

(Or: "All I really need to know, I learned in a strawberry field in Yorkshire")

I spent most of the day on Saturday handling food while dressed in an attractive yellow t-shirt. I cut hundreds of oranges into eighths, I got covered in juice, I fought the good fight against wasps, I handed out chips and pretzels and nuts and fruit and bagels.

The experience inevitably reminded me of some of the crappy vacation jobs I had as a student. Man, do I hate working with food. My summer jobs also taught me to hate serving the public, but luckily Saturday's "customers" were, without exception, awesome and inspiring individuals who were walking 60 km over two days to raise money for cancer research. Meeting them definitely made up for the less appealing aspects of the day, but I still went home thankful for the professional career that keeps me away from the kitchens and stock rooms of the service industry.

Later the same evening, I was chatting to a couple I'd just met at a friend's birthday party. They were in their late 50s, but explained that they usually spend their time with either the over 70s or "you young 'uns", because "people our age are so boring". The woman also told me that while she's benefited throughout her life from a series of wonderful mentors, she's finding it harder and harder to find people to fill that role. An 80 year old friend apparently told her "that means it's your turn to be a mentor", but she wasn't convinced. This led to a discussion about whether a mentor has to be older than you; I say definitely not. I subscribe to the idea that "all people are my teacher" - that is, I can learn something from everyone. Sometimes, all I learn from a person is that patience is a virtue - but that's a valuable lesson in itself.

My thoughts continued on this path on Sunday morning, when I started to think about what I've learned from all the crappy vacation jobs I had as a student. Surely I must have learned something from every job. Something valuable, and maybe even relevant to my professional career.

After careful consideration, I think I was right...

Job 1: Strawberry picker
My friend and I spent several weeks each summer picking strawberries and other fruit for a local farmer, when we were too young for any other job.

- Your rewards are proportional to the effort you expend.
- Having said that, some people will try to screw you. Watch the scales like a hawk, and stand up for yourself.
- DO NOT try to compensate for the above by hiding rocks in the bottom of your punnets. Cheaters never prosper.
- It is definitely possible to have too much of a good thing¹.

Job 2: Kitchen prep / cafeteria server
This was my 11th choice placement for the two-week work experience organised by my school when we were 15. The cafe was a vegetarian cooperative, and about half of the staff were recruited from a local sheltered accommodation complex for adults with developmental disabilities (mostly Down's Syndrome).

- Everyone has something to offer; everyone is my teacher.
- Most members of the public are nice. The few bad apples ruin it for everyone.
- If you make a mistake: apologise, clean up the mess yourself, and move on.
- Everyone should experience serving people for a while; it will help you appreciate those who serve you.

Job 3: EFL teacher
Between high school and university, I spent six weeks teaching English to kids in two Arab villages in the Galilee region of Israel. What I learned in this job could fill an entire blog; I'll try to keep this section brief.

- NOTHING is ever a black and white issue.
- Choose your words carefully. You will probably still manage to offend someone though.
- Some people you have to work with will have worldviews so completely different to your own that it is hard to find common ground. However, it is usually there if you look hard enough.
- There is nothing harder, or more rewarding, than teaching someone something.
- The vast majority of people ANYWHERE are just people, trying to live their lives.
- The kindness of strangers can be overwhelming.

Job 4: Sales assistant in a sports clothing store
My friend got me this job in my Christmas vacation after my first term of university. She was (and is) extremely outgoing and bubbly. I was still in my shy and quiet phase.

- Cliques are not just for high school.
- Showing initiative can single you out for praise from your superiors, but also jealousy from your less motivated colleagues.
- Some people will try to screw you. Write your hours down and get someone to sign off on them.
- It is a really, really, spectacularly bad idea to sleep with your boss. Drunkenness is no excuse².

Job 5: Bartender
This was my favourite vacation job ever! NB British bar tenders do not get tips, but regulars will often shout you a drink.

- Bullies are not just for high school. In a vacation job, you can just ignore them. In a longer term job, you will need to find a better solution.
- Most members of the public are nice. The few bad apples ruin it for everyone. Alcohol accentuates the distinction between the two.
- Don't drink on the job; save it for after hours.
- Always look busy.

Job 6: Cinema usher / ticket seller / concession stand staff
I took this job in Columbus, Ohio one summer so I could get to know my American cousin better. It was totally worth it; she's now more like a second sister.

- Your unique skills can win you some perks, but make sure your colleagues don't start to resent you³.
- If someone else is the boss's favourite, it's usually for a good reason. Don't resent them; figure out what you can learn from them.
- Only low-quality products can be enjoyed in short bursts while doing other things. The best things in life require commitment and concentration⁴.
- Some national stereotypes have a firmer factual basis than others.

Job 7: Employer liaison in a job centre
I walked into my local job centre to look for a job between my undergrad and postgrad. They said "do you want to work here?", and I said "sure". I answered the phone to prospective employers, and posted their vacancies in our office.

- Most people really do want to work. Having said that, some overestimate their worth, others need significant help honing their skills, and 3-5% of the population is completely unemployable.
- Being a smart arse will amuse your peers, but annoy your superiors⁵.
- Anger is rarely personal. If someone yells at you, it's probably because you're the sixth person that day to tell them that they need to fill in another form before they can get their money or post their job, and their frustration has been building and building. (Think Basil Fawlty taking his frustrations out on his car after a series of unfortunate events). Keep your cool, let them vent, and try to work out what they're really angry about.

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1. I couldn't eat strawberries for a couple of years.
2. Lesson learned through observation, not personal experience!
3. My "cool accent" meant that I spent more time in the air conditioned ticket booth, and less time shovelling popcorn, than my colleagues. After hearing some muttering about this, I would often offer to switch about two-thirds of the way through my shift.
4. This is a fancy way of saying that I could quite happily watch crappy movies in 10 minute bursts while sweeping up popcorn or generally keeping an eye on the audience, but that this is a most unsatisfactory way of watching a good movie.
5. The resident Humourless Git kept leaving notes on the jobs in our computer system saying that he'd corrected the public ad for "spelling and grammer". I left a second note on one such entry saying "thank you, but maybe you should learn how to spell grammAr". I got a sound telling off for this, but everyone else thought it was hilarious.

He's a plum-berjack and he's OK

Mr E Man harvests some slightly over-ripe plums.


We can't remember who borrowed our big ladder...

The stereotypes are true, all BC boys are good in trees!

Canadian Immigration: Part I

(This is a series of posts detailing my personal journey from work permit to Canadian citizenship. I've included as many details as I can remember. If you found this post using an internet search for Canadian immigration, or if you are a regular reader who is interested in moving to Canada, please bear in mind that things may have changed since I went through the system, and your situation may be completely different from my own. Please consult the Canadian government's website for more information.)

Part I: the wilderness work permit years

I first decided to move to Canada (and specifically Vancouver) in the summer of 1997. However, having taken advice from a couple of professors at my undergrad institution, I decided to wait until I'd completed my PhD in the UK. That was how I found myself trawling PubMed for recent publications from Vancouver-based labs in the summer of 2001. I wasn't prepared to take just any old post-doc; I had fairly specific ideas about what I'd like to work on, and I also applied to labs in France and the Netherlands. But in my heart of hearts I knew I'd be heading to Vancouver. I ended up with two phone interviews with two different PIs, and one in-person interview with a colleague of my eventual boss, who was on holiday in Scotland and who I met in a cafe in Edinburgh, armed with print-outs of my most recent PowerPoint presentation. Both labs were doing very cool virus-related research, using a mix of familiar and new techniques, and both PIs offered me a job.

I talked to former postdocs from both labs, did some other digging, and chose the group with the best recent and predicted future publication record. I never once regretted this decision, although at the time my PhD supervisor was less than impressed with the geographical restrictions I set on my job search!

Once I'd accepted an offer, it was time for my first encounter with Citizenship and Immigration Canada (CIC). I needed a work permit, and duly applied through the Canadian High Commission in London. Everything was done through the mail; I didn't require any interviews, and I remember the whole process being reasonably straightforward and painless. The best part was that, unlike most temporary workers, I didn't need my employer to obtain a labour market opinion to prove that it was necessary to hire a foreigner rather than a Canadian citizen or permanent resident; yes, postdocs and some other academics are exempt from this arduous process! Yay, research! The only stressful part was that they could only process my application so far before I officially passed my PhD viva (defense), and my flight to Vancouver was booked for ten days after that date. But they were obviously accustomed to this situation, and when I faxed them a letter from my institution about ten minutes after my viva ended, they sprang into action and faxed the official letter back to me with a couple of days to spare. (Worried, me? Of course not, it never even crossed my mind to FREAK. OUT.)

Upon arrival at Vancouver airport I presented this letter to immigration and was directed into a special room, where I waited for about 45 minutes (if you're immigrating, don't arrive at 11 pm on a Sunday) before being processed. Again, this was relatively straightforward and painless; I filled in some forms, showed my passport and my immigration paperwork, and was given further forms to apply for a Social Insurance Number (SIN). And that was it - my PI was waiting patiently for me in arrivals, and I started work in her lab the very next morning.

A work permit ties you to a specific job with a specific employer; lose the job, leave the country. My initial contract was for two years with an optional one year extension, and at that point (and again when my PI decided to keep me on for a further six months) I had to apply by mail to an office within Canada to renew my work permit. Again, straightforward, but stressful the first time: the processing times were double what the guidelines on the CIC website said, and my new permit arrived literally on the day the old one expired. The other issue was that temporary workers get temporary SINs and BC healthcare cards, which expire on the same day as the associated permit. It's easy to renew the SIN*, just a short in-person visit and a two week wait. The care card was a different matter entirely; on both occasions I ended up without coverage for a couple of months, and both times I got sick and ended up paying out of pocket ($60, nonrefundable) for a doctor's appointment. I don't know how other provinces handle this aspect of the process.

The real sticking point came when I wanted to change jobs. I'd already applied for permanent residence (see next post in this series) by that time, which worked in my favour, but it was a much longer and more stressful process. I ended up doing the infamous 4am run down to Seattle (the Canadian consulate there is open 8am - 10am) to fast-track my paperwork. This entailed much running-around-downtown-Seattle-like-a-headless-chicken when it transpired that the HR department had given me the wrong forms and I needed additional information, and some non-standard sized photos. But I got it done and returned to Canada in triumph, with the security of permanent residence only a few months away...

...stay tuned!

Part II: resident, permanently is now up

and so is Part III: Citizen Cath

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*Best bureaucracy moment EVAH:

Receptionist: "Hello bonjour"
Me: "Hello"
Receptionist: "How can I help you?"
Me: "My SIN has expired"
Receptionist: "Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!"

Take me out to the ball game

When I travel, I like to immerse myself in the culture of the country I'm in. Especially if it involves yummy food and drink*, or sport. So, when I found myself in the States with my family in 1994, I was extremely enthusiastic when my Uncle suggested that we go to a baseball game. The home-town team was the Columbus Clippers and, it being the summer of the major league strike, we even got to see (gasp!) the famous chicken, who was touring the minor league ball parks. It goes without saying that the famous chicken is not exactly famous in the UK, and most other aspects of the experience were equally foreign to us pasty Brits. It's just a little bit different to the atmosphere of a premiership football game, let me tell ya! We payed very little attention to the actual game, but enjoyed the spectacle immensely.

I went back to Columbus in 1997, and my cousin again took me to see the Clippers. This time I had a better grasp of the rules, and even knew the words to the Clippers' song. On the same trip we made my Auntie take us to see the Blue Jays play the Yankees, in Toronto on the 4th of July. It was the most boring few hours I've ever spent in a sporting arena; it ended 1-0, and we missed the one run of the game when we went to get beer. But hey, I was 20 at the time, had been legally drinking in the UK for two years but subjected to the draconian US licensing laws for three months, and getting beer was an end in itself.

In 2003 I joined my department's slow-pitch softball team. My PI was in charge of the rag-tag bunch of Brits, Aussies, and the occasional Canadian who actually knew the rules and how to hold the bat (hint: not with one hand, like in rounders, and not like a cricket bat), and could actually catch in the glove (the rest of us reverted back to bare hands, the way we'd been taught). She'd grown up in Nebraska, where "there's nothing to do except play baseball", and was far too good for most of the rest of us. This bred some frustration for her, but the rest of us enjoyed ourselves immensely. I got a few RBIs for the team, and to everyone's surprise made a crucial catch at home plate (it was either catch the ball or lose my teeth, and my self-preservation instincts kicked in).

So, my experience with baseball has been a mixed bag. Kinda fun to play, or to watch live with a beer in your hand on a sunny day, but I would never choose to sit down and watch it on TV.

For the last three years, though, I've cycled to and from work past the Nat Bailey stadium, a cute little arena that is home to the Vancouver Canadians. The summer crowds always looked like they were enjoying themselves, but that wasn't quite enough of a draw to overcome my ambivalence and tempt me in.

Until last week...

The Foundation that supports the research done at my institute had been given a bunch of tickets by the Canadians, and were selling them at $11 a pop with all proceeds going to the charity. I'm proud to tell you that of the ~40 tickets sold, I was responsible for six, with members of my PI's lab accounting for at least another eight. Jolly good show, chaps!

It was a beautiful night at the tail-end of the heat wave. The stadium was small, but adorable:


The view from our fourth row seats was great:


The between-innings entertainment was surprisingly amusing:

And we all had a good time, despite the beer costing the same as at a Canucks game! Oh well, at least they bring it to your seat. And my hot dog and pretzel were surprisingly tasty.

The game had its moments too. At one point in the seventh inning we were batting with the bases loaded, two outs, two strikes, and three balls, and it got genuinely exciting. But it really started to drag towards the end of the ninth; I understand the basics of the game, but don't know anything like enough about it to appreciate the subtleties of the stalling tactics the two teams were using. Regulation time ended at 2-2, and we groaned a little bit as the tenth inning began. As that inning finally ended with no score, everyone around us got up and started heading to the exits, so we assumed the game had ended with a tie (hey, for hockey, rugby and football (i.e. soccer) fans, this makes perfect sense!). We only found out two days later that the Canadians lost in the twelth (twelth!!!) inning. Oh well, we weren't really there for the game after all.

We've now added baseball to the list of things that are fun to do every year or two, but no more frequently than that. (Bowling and horse racing are on the same list). Our tenant's seven-year old son disagreed, and wants season tickets. But the youngest Canadians fan definitely seemed unimpressed:

Morgan says "Baseball? Meh. When does the hockey season start?"

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*Italy was heaven. Pizza + wine + gelato= "I'm having a cultural experience."

No out-laws here!

(With apologies to Mermaid...)

Have I mentioned that my in-laws are awesome?

Mr E Man's cousin and his family are visiting from England; they've stayed with us, with my mother-in-law (MIL), and with both of my sisters-in-law (SILs). They're flying home today, so last night we had a huge family BBQ at SIL1's place. Much hilarity ensued...

(Background: BIL1 just got engaged! Hilarious "New" Girlfriend is now Hilarious New Fiancee! (Sadly not present last night). We're all very excited. BIL1 is also lead guitar in an awesome band, who played at our wedding*).

Me: BIL1! CONGRATULATIONS! (Big hug). We're gonna put a band together and play at your wedding!"
MIL: "Oh, can you play?"
Me: "No. We'll be awful. But it'll be hilarious".
BIL1: "Yeah... I'm gonna have to check with HNF"

(Background: BIL2 (not present last night) is a lawyer who works with the UN and affiliates. He's worked on drafting the new constitution in Kosovo, overseeing the elections in Afghanistan, and reforming the court system in Vietnam. Last year he worked on the expat Iraqi vote in Toronto before moving again to work for the Alberta government in Edmonton. He was recently recruited for a six week posting by a former employer).

BIL1's ex: "How's BIL2?"
MIL: "Well, he's OK. But I do worry about him. Did you know that he has to put on a helmet and body armour every morning to go to work?"
BIL1's ex: "..."
BIL1's ex: "In Edmonton?"
MIL: "No, Baghdad."
BIL1's ex: "Ohhhhhh. I didn't think Alberta had gotten that bad."

(Background: SIL1 and SIL2 are the best of friends, but have never quite put their sibling rivalry behind them).

SIL2: "I am the best Mum ever! The best wife, the best daughter, the best sister, best sister-in-law... right, Cath?"
SIL1: "HEY! I'm a better sister-in-law! Cath??!!"
Me: "You're both equal. But HNF is the best."

(Background: we have six nephews aged 7-14 (four were present last night), and one grown-up niece who lives in Toronto. The English cousin has an 8-year old boy and - gasp! - a 6-year old girl).

Wee girl: "Mummy Mummy Mummy! Stand up! I brought you a cushion!" (inserts something that looks like a kid's life jacket under her Mum's bum.)

Assorted adults: "Awwwwww!"

SIL1: "It's so nice to have a little girl around for a change."

SIL2: "I know. I want to keep her."

(Four young boys come tearing around the corner, armed to the teeth with toy guns)

Wee boy: "SHE'S SITTING ON THE TARGET VEST! LET'S GET HER!"

(Wee girl's Mum gets pelted with four foam darts.)

Wee girl: "Giggle"

(Background: the English cousins and both SILs took their kids up Grouse Mountain yesterday to see the grizzly bears and the lumberjack displays. The two bears - both males - humped each other for the entire time the group was up there).

SIL1: "I guess it's like when two guys are in prison for long enough."
SIL2: "Yeah, the tourists were all like 'lets git back to Amurrrca, where we got guns and the bears aint no homos'"
SIL1: "I forget the bears' names, what were they called again?"

SIL2: "Well, one of them's Grinder,"

(name of second bear lost amid much laughter)

(Background: Oldest Nephew just turned 14, and was eating with the adults for the first time).

SIL2: "The kids are being so quiet!"

SIL1: "That's because I bribed them with Smarties ice cream."

ON: "There's Smarties ice cream???!!!"

SIL1: "You can't eat steak with the adults and still have Smarties ice cream with the kids. You have to make a choice, you can't have the best of both worlds you know."

Mr E Man: "But I want Smarties ice cream! MUM!!!!"

MIL: "Everyone should have Smarties ice cream."

Mr E Man eats Smarties ice cream from a mug. The baby of the family always gets his way!

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*They're playing the Fairview on West Broadway tonight, after a long long absence from live gigs! Very exciting! You should come.

I can has kitteh stalker?

Mermaid emailed me yesterday to point out the similarity between this


see more Lolcats and funny pictures

and this.

And I'd already spotted the similarity between this cat


see more Lolcats and funny pictures

and Saba the Hutt.

Yeah, one cheezburger please, with tomatoes, relish, and extra spooky.

Tuesday pet peeve: noisy neighbours

We're avoiding the worst effects of the (now thankfully waning) heatwave by sleeping in the spare bedroom, which is much cooler than our own. However, last night's attempt at a good night's sleep was a massive FAIL.

It is NOT COOL to use power tools in a residential neighbourhood at 11 pm on a weeknight.

Mr E Man had to go out into the back alley in just his shorts last night to find the perpetrators and ask them to STFU. (Response: "but we've almost finished!" Tough shit, buddy, some people get up at 5.30 am for work).

It is NOT COOL to repeatedly attempt to park a huge truck equipped with one of those beeping reversing / backing up alarms, in the same back alley, at 1 am on a weeknight.

Especially when you clearly suck at parking. Perpetrators currently unknown as I couldn't actually see the truck from the window.

The subsequent Crazy Kitteh attacks on our feet were no-one's fault but our own; we've been keeping the bedroom door open to get the benefit of the ceiling fan in the next room, giving the cats access to our sleeping selves for the first time. But the damage was already done by the time the latest manifestation of a recent jump in feline craziness started to hit, just as it got light.

A plague of tinnitus upon noisy neighbours!

We see BC

What better way to celebrate BC Day than to show you some lovely views of Vancouver from this weekend?

On Saturday night we had a very disappointing dinner at a pub that obviously coasts by on its fantastic location on the waterfront without paying much attention to the quality of its food, beverages, or service. The best part was watching the parade of boats heading out into the harbour to watch the fireworks, and trying to decide which one we'd buy if we had the money.

There are some very bizarre boat names out there, which led to some speculation on their origins:

Mary's Promise III (she broke the first two)

Amesia IV (they forgot where they'd moored the first three, so they had to keep buying new ones)

Scot Free (bought using the proceeds of a bank robbery; police clueless).

We then headed to a friend's fantastic penthouse apartment to watch the fireworks and admire the view:

Burrard Bridge (you'd think that the owner of a penthouse suite would be able to afford to clean his windows, eh?)

Granville Island

The crowd gathers...

To watch the show

The fireworks were part of an annual international competition; Saturday was China's turn, and they put on a hell of a show. I hadn't seen any of the other entries though. I know it makes me sound boring, but after watching from a boat, or someone's aunt's beach-front apartment, or a wealthy friend's penthouse, watching from 5 rows back on the beach or bridge and fighting either the crazy traffic or the mental transit crowds just doesn't seem worth it. So now we only bother if we're guaranteed a spectacular view! This makes us pariahs in some Vancouver circles.

------------

Yesterday was our friends' 4th Annual BC Day Weekend BBQ on Spanish Banks beach. We had a huge crowd of friends, complete with loads of kids and several dogs, one sporting a jaunty red feather boa in honour of Pride Week; we played bocce ball, we swam, we ate chicken wings and salmon and potatoes and salads and cookies, and drank lots of beer. We then headed back downtown (I spent more time downtown this weekend than in an average month) to an out-of-town friend's hotel suite, for yet more spectacular balcony views:

Another sunset

Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, and the North Shore mountains

I swear that the tourist board is not paying me!

Happy BC Day everyone!