I've been here a month. Shit!

This is the third blog in my #EdGoesToRonto series, making an early attempt to succinctly explore the vast differences between the Canadian and the English university experience. The first blog, explaining the trials and tribulations of my first week in Toronto, can be found here. 

1) University Workloads
Warwick is a great school. Of that, there can be no doubt. A small victory, but, for my course, Warwick sits atop the university rankings. To celebrate being top of the rankings for American Studies is a bit like celebrating being top of the 'Pass Completion' charts whilst you sit bottom of the Football League, but nonetheless, no-one can doubt the pedigree of my home institution.

Having said that, I have literally never had as much work as I do now. The University of Toronto has recently been ranked as the top university in Canada, and, Christ, does it feel like it. Having visited
my sister down in Cambridge on many occasions, the atmosphere is definitely more akin to Oxbridge than I expected, and, frankly, there's nowhere to hide. In Warwick, if I was behind on work (rare, but it happened), I would perhaps 'forget' to read an article here, neglect to complete a Spanish exercise there. With grades given out for participation in North American universities, and a hefty percentage at that, not reading an article and being caught out could be fatal. It does, seemingly, punish shy people, but as someone whose contributions veered from hefty to absolutely minimal back home, I can categorically state that this manner of work has forced me into contributing in seminars, and as such, work, and, ostensibly time, has flown by.

2) Frosh vs Fresh
Every year, articles are written in both university and national newspapers condemning and celebrating British Freshers' week. I was a Fresher in October 2011, away from home for a concerted period of time for the first time, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I relished the opportunity of speaking to everybody, jumping up excitedly when anyone new came into the kitchen, like my pet Cairn Terrier. Only I didn't wee over people's shoes. Much. All this, despite not being a massive drinker (by British standards anyway)- alcohol being a huge part of British Freshers' week.

So, imagine a Freshers' week where you can meet people, join societies, explore your new surroundings- but, and it's a big but, you can't drink alcohol. That, essentially, is 'Frosh' week, Canada's bastardisation or enhancement of our experience, depending on your viewpoint.

Neither is without controversy. The University of British Columbia has been embroiled in controversy  following a disgusting chant advocating under-age sex. And, of course, we will soon be treated to pictures of British Freshers falling out of nightclubs, whilst journalists forget they were ever young once.

The comparative innocence of Frosh week may well be dictated by the law- the drinking age here is 19- but nevertheless, it makes waking up in the morning that little bit less dicey.

3) Parties and the Famous Red Cups
Whenever myself and the rest of my Warwick mates spoke about our upcoming Years Abroad, house parties and Red Cups always cropped up. Bizarre, really, when you consider what else we could have mentioned, but for some reason, they seem to have become the Official Drinking Vessel of the CAS Year Abroad for 2013-14 (TM).

I went to my first 'proper' house party on Friday, on the outskirts of Toronto (bit of an understatement- it took me about an hour to get home), and, lo and behold, there stood the Red Cups, laid out in beer pong formation, like the Red Arrows, signalling something special. There have been several 'Wow!' moments on this Year Abroad, when I've had to step back and register that I, Ed Higgs of Droitwich Spa, Worcestershire, one-time fruit picker, am studying for a whole year at a North American university.

One of those moments was standing for the national anthem at a football game, which I wrote about last time. One was getting soaked at Niagara Falls. And now, I have had the Red Cup moment, brought to you by tequila.

This definitely felt like a North American party. There were Italian-Canadians asking me 'how YOU doin', Red Cups, and the cops got called. All in a night's work.

4) Coping Away From Home
As alluded to in an earlier paragraph, the amount of work I've had has made it difficult to stop and think, let alone miss home. I'm bloody lucky with the Internet, admittedly. The novel I'm studying at the moment is, weirdly, about an Englishman travelling to Canada and having to write letters to his family back home, with frantic correspondence coming back fearing for his safety amongst the bears. I don't have this problem. Firstly, I'm more likely to get ravaged by homeless people up the road at the shelter than bears, and secondly, with Skype and email, it hasn't really felt like I'm any further from my family than Warwick.

My Nan's emails are a particular staple of the old 'missing home' diet. Remember those books you used to read when you were younger? It's like that.

'Me and your Grandad went to the beach. We love the beach. We took the dog. He loves the beach too. He didn't go in the water. Maybe he's scared of water. Then we went home'.

Or...

'Went to a garden fete today. You're probably wondering what that's all about'.

Dunno, Nan. Gardening, maybe? Take these emails away, and I'd probably be lost.

Missing family is one thing. Missing England is quite another matter. Sky Sports, for one, is now just a distant memory, like nursery, or Blues being in the Premier League, and I miss the old conversations I used to have with people about football.

The longing that I have for certain foods is quite gut-wrenching, at times. A Pukka Pie, some toad-in-the-hole, a bit of proper gravy, would all come in handy. Heck, I even miss Carling.

MUST ASSIMILATE, MUST ASSIMILATE!

So do I miss home? Of course I do. But then I missed home when I went to London for three days when I was 9. I missed home when I travelled round Italy for three weeks last summer. There's a point where homesickness doesn't really get any more painful. It's not like I wake up and think 'SHIT! BEEN HERE 30 DAYS INSTEAD OF 29 AND OWWWW!' It cometh, and it indeed go-eth.
***
A month has gone by. Do I feel assimilated? I'm drinking coffee out of a Toronto Maple Leafs mug, wearing a University of Toronto sweatshirt, whilst listening to Celine Dion*. I think it's safe to say I do!

*possibly not true

PS: Good luck to all my friends starting back at Warwick this week. 

#EdGoesToRonto- We're not at St Andrew's anymore, Toto...

This is the second blog in the #EdGoesToRonto series, detailing the trials and tribulations of my Year Abroad at the University of Toronto. The first blog, recording the first week, can be found here.

It is ten minutes from the end of the game. Toronto Argonauts, my adopted 'football' team for the night, have meekly surrendered a healthy lead and now trail by a considerable margin to Montreal Alouettes, some cocky upstarts from out of town. Instead of yelling 'fucking rubbish lads', slamming seats up and marching out with a quick 'wanker' sign to the opposition supporters, I pick up my free t-shirt, thunder-sticks and miniature football and amble towards the exit, without a minute's thought to the result of the game.

It's live sport Jim, but not as we know it.

***

So I'd given in. Less than five days since I'd arrived in Toronto, I was sat watching sport in an actual stadium. Far from simply being a drastic solution to numbing the boredom of the international break, this was a complimentary ticket with my 'Frosh' pack. The game in question, taking place at the multi-purpose Rogers' Centre near the harbour, was Toronto Argonauts vs Montreal Alouettes, in the Canadian Football League.

I know very little about American football, and try as I might, I don't really think it's a particularly entertaining sport. Multiple stoppages, thousands of rules and a necessity for padded equipment make it about as far away from soccer as possible, which perhaps explains my reluctance to embrace it.

The spectacle itself was, however, immensely enjoyable. Fan interaction, blaring music and barely a moment's peace were enough to keep me entertained for a good majority of the duration, despite hardly paying any attention to the action on the field.

Birmingham City, my team going through severely testing times, have experimented greatly with this Americanised idea of the 'match-day experience' in recent times, and it has, truth be told, been met with a considerable amount of opposition. There are those rugged supporters of days gone by who highly resent the idea of a 'welcoming' stadium, and I completely agree with them. I can't entirely put my finger on why, but I don't particularly like the idea of a family of four wandering up to the ground in full away replica kits and being welcomed with a foam finger and a picture with a bloke in a mascot suit.

No danger of that here, in this futuristic, mega-stadium. When Montreal scored, I looked around, expecting to see away fans jumping up and down and giving it what we call in England 'The Big-Un' to the home fans.

Not an away fan in sight. My first instinct was to stand up and belt out 'shit province, no fans', but when you consider it's roughly 600km from Toronto to Montreal, and I can't be bothered to travel any further than Leicester for an away game these days, it's probably understandable. As a most partisan sports fan, it made for a truly bizarre atmosphere. I needed somewhere to direct my ire, someone to yell 'F*CK OFF BACK TO QUEBEC' at, and yet I found nothing. I shouted into the air, but nothing came back.

As a rule, English football doesn't do external entertainment. You get your ninety minutes, and if you're lucky, that'll be half-decent. If you want something else, son, go to the theatre. Or, alternatively, support a 'family club', like Charlton, or Norwich. Opening ceremonies and flag waving by attractive models in body-suits is derided and cast aside as 'naff' or 'artificial', and the most entertaining thing that's ever happened at half time was when thirty thousand Brummies booed an on-pitch marriage proposal. We once had a competition where you had to fire a football at a shed, but that was quickly ditched when the club realised the name- On me Shed son!- was the best part of the game. By far.

Not so, in this cavalcade of North American wonder. A bizarre game of musical chairs took place at half time which quickly descended into an on-pitch scrum. Someone chased a bloke dressed as a coffee cup round the pitch midway through the half, whilst blindfolded. A family of squirrels was released into the stand, and the first person to catch one won a lifetime's supply of nuts.

Okay, I made the last one up, but you get the impression. It's a Knockout looked like a serious documentary about the dangers of inflatables compared to this. At one point, the big screen showed a picture-perfect family of four happily smiling and waving, the newly crowned 'Argonauts Family of the Game'. I'm sure a camera or big screen probably caught me, my Dad and my Great-Uncle at the Blues together once, but it probably screamed 'years of disappointment and a Vitamin D deficiency' rather than 'Family of the Game'.

All in, you could have a half-time show featuring Michael Jackson, Elvis and The Beatles, and if we lost 1-0 to Barnsley, I'd still come away feeling miserable. Conversely, when I was 6, and went to my first game, I didn't care what the result was as long as I got a hot dog and a lollipop. Luckily for the 'match-day experience', as far as American/Canadian Football goes, I'm closer to bright-eyed infancy than grizzled pessimism.

So...

Let's go Argo's, let's go *clap clap*
Let's go Argo's, let's go *clap clap*

#EdGoesToRonto- The First Few Days

This will most likely be a monthly or perhaps even more sporadic blog, detailing various trials and tribulations of my Year Abroad at the University of Toronto. WARNING: Some parts have been written whilst jetlagged, at 6am. 

Wednesday 28th August
As ever, the first insight into Canada that I am afforded is their customs system. I'm quite nervous about this- partly because I'm not even sure I have the right documentation, and partly because I've been stood in the queue for ninety minutes, whilst officials pore over the papers of everybody else in front of me. I get called to the front by the lady at one of the booths...

'Edward.... Beautiful British name'.
 Al Murray, is that you?
'They should have called the Royal Baby Prince Edward'.
Am I being let in? Nervous laughter should endear myself.
'Ha. Ha. It gets shortened a lot though, my name'.
'Are you an Ed, or an Eddy, or a Ted?'
Can't I just have my papers back? I don't feel I need to reach nickname levels of chat with a customs officer.
'There you go... 'Edward'. Enjoy your time in Canada'.

This is a bizarre theme. There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason to what people say when they discover where you're from. So far I've had two discussions on the Royal Baby, one on cricket, one on the break-up of Oasis, and several on the 'EPL'.

When I finally get to the baggage carousel, my suitcase has been dumped in a pile with arrivals from Hong Kong, which is definitely not where I came from.

My hotel appears to be in the middle of a Chinese shopping centre, which may or may not be a euphemism for 'brothel'. I have to walk from the lobby through the 'Relaxation Zone' to my room every night, so I'll leave you to decide that one. There also seems to be a bizarre number of people with orthopaedic shoes wandering about the hotel, but I'm not sure if there's a connection there.

I found the university, despite my terrible affliction whereby I can barely read a map, and do my best to stay awake until it's an acceptable hour to go to bed.

I manage until 8:30.

Thursday 29th August
After waking up in the middle of the night for the fourth time, I take the advice of Twitter and go and explore the city at the crack of dawn. It's not quite 'the city that never sleeps', but it's thriving nonetheless. From certain angles, the city looks like it belongs in the future, but then there's also a fair amount of inequality, particularly in the Chinatown district, which is where my hotel resides.

Things don't really get going, both in terms of this blog, and the university experience, until Monday. Friday, Saturday and Sunday are tough, in all honesty. Deep down, we all knew there would be parts of the Year Abroad that would test us to our limits, encompassing anything from homesickness to navigating the token dispenser on the subway. And as a sensitive soul, I'm no different. I've always craved routine, things to do, people to see, and once I've sorted the mundane stuff such as insurance, I'm left twiddling my thumbs a little bit.

Sunday 1st September
Moved into my house today. I don't think there'll be a tougher moment on this Year Abroad than when I first saw my room. A dirty (but admittedly huge), graffiti-d, smelly basement with a bin bag instead of a curtain and pipes sticking out of the wall like a Soviet Union interrogation chamber wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I applied to the accommodation, and it took a while to compose myself.

Like the Brit I am, I soldiered on, plastering the walls with photos of the nearest and dearest, covering the graffiti, and making plans for some nice net curtains like Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen.

Monday is Labour Day, a Bank Holiday, and as such, there's not much to speak of. The room appears a million times better, and my housemates, so far exclusively Canadian, are lovely. Still no sign of a cleaner for my room, mind.

Tuesday 2nd September
Probably the first day where jet-lag wasn't an issue. I'm taking part in St Michael's College 'frosh' week, similar to British Freshers' in that everyone is getting to know each other, but different in almost every other respect.

For a start, it kicks off at 8am. It's very 'North American', with chants, happy clapping, and oh my word, the attention I get over my accent.

'BRITISH DUDE!'
'OH MY GOD, SAY THAT WORD AGAIN!'
'TALK MORE, WE WANT TO HEAR YOU TALK MORE!'

It's incredible. For someone who has very much a Droitwich accent with a Brummie lilt, brought upon by cumulative hours moaning at St Andrews, it's so, so welcome to realise my accent is loved. Feel free to bring this up in a year's time, but I don't think I'll ever get bored with people giving me attention over my accent.

I've also been told I look like Steven Gerrard, and, surprisingly, people seem mad-keen on football (soccer). When I tell them I'm a Birmingham City fan, the most common reaction is:

'Yeah, but who's your EPL team?'

When I read the outline of the 'Frosh' schedule, I was highly dubious. Chanting 'hoikity-choik' and 'everywhere we go' sounds like a nightmare to a lot of people, but by midday, having forgotten all inhibitions (and sat through a Mass sermon- imagine that in the UK?!), I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Dare I say it, but as someone who isn't a massive drinker (or at least wasn't when I was a fresher in 2011), I think I prefer the Canadian Frosh to the British Fresh.

There's also old-style games. Not even ones that involve alcohol (most at Frosh are under the age of 19, Canada's drinking age), although I've definitely played versions of some of them whilst inebriated in the past. In that respect, it's good to get back to the roots.

Later on, we headed down to the multi-purpose Rogers' Centre to see the Toronto Argonauts take on the Montreal Alouettes in the CFL (Canada's version of the NFL). The differences between my experiences at the Blues and my experience watching the Argonauts could fill a book, but for now, you'll have to wait until a forthcoming blog. All I'll say is this: it sounds incredibly naff, but when I was standing for the Canadian national anthem at the start of the game, in a relatively full tier, surrounded by friends I'd made that very day, I definitely had to hold back some tears. Working towards a Year Abroad is a tricky experience to say the least, and for it to finally come together is a genuinely emotional feeling.

So, for now, #EdGoesToRonto is LIVE!