“Why do you want to do that ? Don’t you like every people, every stone of every building that was erected centuries and centuries ago, the perfum of unforgettable History and old creepy rumours spreading out in the sur-rounding polluted air (oh come on, let’s call a spade a spade) ; didn’t you, foolish girl, like every deeply signifiance of every souvenirs engraved in this sparkling city you’ve always admired, in those pictures childishly

pasted on your bedroom’s walls to decide, all of a sudden, that you needed to leave, to fly away from your beloved ones ? I hope you’re not trying to look like someone else, or even worst : trying to look like your elder brother in a way that doesn’t suit you at all.” I said this to myself repeat-edly, my pale and sweaty hands so nervously clenched on the armchairs.

Now, I would say, as a cool, old-fashionned literary apetizer or some-thing like that, that everyone can actually find truly interesting definitions of the word « travel », in any dictionnary, in any famous or less famous quotations, in any unphilosophical or ostensible philosophical conversa-tion ; it is pretty much the same, for most of them ; but for now, let’s stick to the knowledge of our dear friend Internet: « Travel is the movement of people or objects (such as airplanes, boats, trains and other conveyances) between relatively distant geographical locations.” Okay, that’s pretty fair and clear and it goes straight to the point. But here is one quotation I’d really like to share, something more poetical, I guess, that Saint Augustine once said over his long, pious ex-istence : “the World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” I swear, I’ll avidly read this book if I got the chance. So let’s bring the chance straight to me ! Beat off the fear of the unknown ! Every single trip should be thoughtfully prepared. Step by step, little by little. Okay, so where ? Somewhere far away from all the things I already know (or maybe not that far away, maybe not that different, not at random, somewhere civilized, please!). Perhaps, then, somewhere I could talk to people easily. That means no French. Let’s put aside the attractiveness of Quebec as well : too easy. Some places I could study, and learn, and im-prove, and excel, and share, but also be trhilled by breathtaking landscapes and odd traditions (like bathtub races in the summer, for instance!). After lots and lots of thinking, I chose Canada, but not the East Coast, I severly swore to myself : this time, it will be the West Coast, and nothing else. Indeed, what could me more enjoyable than travelling all around oddball British Columbia, getting the one-life opportunity of swinging up and down, right to the left, into the air at Capilano suspension bridge, tak-ing a seaplane tour above the wild island and the large city of Vancouver, enclaved between sailors and highlanders; signing up for wild seawhite rafting, observing whales for the first time in your whole life, skiing in the snow, white as chalk, of the Rocky Mountains, the perfect union between

Booking your flighs. Passeport : done. Suitcase : ready. Farewell and goodbyes. It kind of tears me apart. But the farest you go, the most you’ll enjoy to get back to those you left behind. Because now, I’ve got the book in my hands and I can’t wait to read it, page by page, word by word ; to madly absorb the ink and smell the sweet perfum of discovery with lunacy. But now, I don’t even want to look at her, this tall, thiny, but most of all annoying young lady all dressed up in creamy-red. As an evidence of my rude disinterest, my eyes fell mechanically on the wide-open book I was holding without notice. On the cover stands a foggy beach and a lost lighthouse. My mind is somewhere else. I carried on. Reading the first paragraph of the first chapter of the first page again and again.

Max would never forget that faraway summer when, almost by chance, he discovered magic. It was 1943, and the winds of war were dragging the world relentlessly toward the abyss. In the middle of June, on Max’s thirteenth birthday, his father, an eccentric watchmaker and inventor of dazzling if completely impractical devices, gathered the family in the liv-ing room to announce that this would be their last day in the lofty apart-ment perched high above the oldest part of the city, a place that had been their home ever since Max could remember. A deathly silence fell upon the members of the Carver family. They looked at each other, and then at the watchmaker. He had that smile on his face they all knew so well, the one that always meant he had bad news or another of his crazy ideas.“We are moving,” he announced, “to a beach house in a small town on the coast. We’re getting out of this city and away from the war.”Max gulped, then timidly raised his hand in protest. The other members of the family joined in, but the watchmaker waved away their concerns. He was on a roll now, and he laid out his plan with military precision. There would be no going back on the decision: They were leaving the next morn-ing at dawn. Now they had to pack up their most prized possessions and prepare for the long journey to their new home.

Even though I love Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s novels and style, the words, hiswords, savagely poured into my brain such as burning coal thrown into the bowels of a train at full steam, were not rather analyzed or even tasted, just, eagerly, eaten. I feel some sympathy for that little Max. He is going away too. The main difference between him and me is that the child didn’t mean to be leaving, at least not that soon. Emergency exits are this way, and this way ; please fasten your belt ; all electronic devices are prohibited during takeoff. Off my beloved land, away from my relatives, my friends, so well-known, trustworthy faces. Travelling, it’s likewise prooving to yourself you’re own freedom, your liberty of mind and motion. And, I have to say this is utterly delightful. I watch the clouds, the sea, the land is coming. Such a big country that you have to travel through the air to get from one side to another in only one day. The amazing size of this land looks amazing to me. Toronto is on view, I can see that on my little screen, there is snow everywhere, on the tiny little houses roofs, on the tiny roads, on the tiny cars, everywhere. Landing straight on a shinning whitish carpet like a soft caress made to the earth. December 27, 2012. Economic class. Cabin Y. Seat 22K Window. Flight Air Canada 161 from Toronto Pearson Airport to Vancouver Inter-national Airport. Boarding time 3 :25 pm. Departure time 4 pm. Here I am, waiting for the next landscapes to be seen from above, preying the night to be a bit late for once, so I can dreamily stare at my window a bit more than expected. So, it sounds like you have a little accent, eh ? Am I right ? Touché ! Where are you from ?It was one day before New Year Eve. New Year Eve on a island. At 8 000 kilometers from Paris. Putting it into words sounded pretty excited and frightenning at the same time. I’m French. Quebec French ? No, I’m from Paris.

Well, that’s cool ! I wish I could go to Europe one day. Is that true that you can hit people with a baguette over there ? I beg your pardon ?To stress his point, the odd canadian boy I was talking to straightly imi-tates the gesture of punching someone, that someone appearing to be my quiet, soft-spoken roomate. I was afraid I understood him, which I did. You will be disappointed but we actually eat baguettes, they are not used as weapons.He played fake sadness. And why did you come to Nanaimo ? How do you like it so far ?It may have had something to do with my semi-conscious state (I wasn’t quite use to the jetlag yet) that the following couplet appeared fully formed in my head : It’s different, and I don’t know yet if I’m gonna like it or not, but I’ll work for it, that’s for sure… Is it your first time in British Columbia ? It is, indeed. But I’m planning on travelling around after my four month semester. What will you study ? Creative Writing. That’s awesome. Do you have family in Vancouver ? Not at all. I came by my own.

Snow and drizzle and fog this morning.

Hey ! So how did you like your first day of class ?The only thing that surprised me is that people are so relax. Teachers teach in snickers, students suddendly get out of the class to go peeing or what-ever. There is no way that can happen in our universities back in France. Being properly dressed for a lecture, when you’re an instructor, and keep-ing quiet, when you’re a student, is a matter of respect. If not, this is a tre-mendous lack of good manners.

January 23, 2013. Nanaimo Clippers vs Alberni Bulldogs at Frank Crane Arena. 7:14 pm. You’ve received a text message from J***.Hey ! So how are you enjoying your first hockey game ?It just started ! Talk to you later.

8:35 pm. You received another text message from J***.And now ?You guys play so dirty ! ;)Well, I see you’ve been properly introduced to the magic world of cana-dian hockey !