repatriate (v.)

I’ve just passed the two-year anniversary of my repatriation to Canada. Of getting kicked out of Australia and sent back to Canada — not quite kicking and screaming, but nearly. I had spent about two years Down Under, studying, working a little, but mostly enjoying the mecca of food and festivals that is Melbourne. And the coffee! Oh, how I miss the coffee.

But I didn’t have the right passport, and ultimately I had to leave. I didn’t want to do it, but it was the right thing to do. Having spent my twenties flitting about, it was time to put down roots somewhere, and ideally that somewhere wouldn’t be 14,000 kilometres from the most important people in my life. I waited until the last moment — twenty-six days after my visa expired, and two days before I could get in real trouble for violating its terms — and flew back to Canada.

It was hard. I still miss Melbourne all the time. But after weekends like the one just past — spent climbing mountains overlooking the incredible Howe Sound — Vancouver seems a pretty decent place to put down those roots.

It’s got pretty good coffee too.