Saturday 16 April 2011

Flagpoling, bacon, and finally landing

"You need to walk down the path, flagpole, come back and then we'll deal with you", the gun-toting, flak-jacketed Canadian Border Guard said to me; very matter-of-factly.

I came to Canada on a whim. It had been roughly nine months since I graduated university and the prospect of getting a "real" job was looming on the horizon. It was time for one last adventure, another twelve months of putting off the inevitable. I found a company online called BUNAC, who specialise in working holiday visas, applied for their 'Work Canada' scheme, and three months later I got on a plane to Vancouver.

Fast forward three years, and one huge life decision later, and I'm at Pacific Crossing, the US/Canada land border, about to give one of the scary looking immigration officials my landing documents.

It's a Friday evening, and it's raining. This is a slight issue, as the 40-year-old Chevy Nova that Tissa and I own is currently lacking working windscreen wipers. Whoever is in the passenger seat currently has to lean out of the window and manually move the wipers. I hope the rain doesn't intensify.


We walk down the path, past a stone marker signifying the end of Canada, and the start of 30 or so yards of No Mans Land, before the other marker, where you enter the United States. We're the only people on foot, and having got this extremely ceremonial, and perhaps slightly needless task out of the way, we continue back to the immigration office, where I get in line to be processed.

Fortunately we're the only ones there, so instantly the burly official beckons us to the desk. I tell him we flagpoled, and that I need to "land" in Canada, to finish off the past 26 months of paperwork, waiting, stressing out, and being tied to my job.

He ignores me and asks Tissa for her ID. She passes him her Drivers License. To which he asks her status in Canada. She's a permanent resident. But where is her Passport and Permanent Residence Card? "So you left Canada?" he asks. I guess we did, and technically that was illegal, as Tissa isn't in possession of her necessary documents. "Sorry," I reply, meekly. The border guard moves his attention back to me, and starts to study my documents. I'm told to sit down and wait to be called back.

A few minutes later and my name is called out. Mr Border Guard asks me the standard questions. Have I ever been convicted of a crime? Do I have any dependants? Have I ever been expelled from Canada? With those questions answered (no, to all - in case you are wondering!), I initial and sign a form - my landing document. A copy is put in my passport. "Congratulations", says the border guard. "Thank you," I reply. "This has been the most stressful process I've ever had to go through." The Border Guard breaks into a smile. "Can I shake your hand?", I ask. We shake hands, he grins, and we say our goodbyes. It's over, I'm a landed immigrant, a permanent resident, one of the locals.



We walk to the car and head back home. The rain isn't too bad, so we can see fine on the highway. Naturally, the first thing to do when one ends a process as immense as this is to find a place to eat. Bacon. Lots of bacon. We stop at Denny's. It's an American style diner. We both marvel at the ridiculous quantities of horribly unhealthy food on offer. Eggs Benedict. With Bacon. And a milkshake. Welcome to Canada.

Wednesday 6 April 2011

Dreams become reality

The Jewell of the Pacific. Hollywood North. Rain City. All are nicknames for the great city of Vancouver, which celebrates 125 years today. I am proud to say that I live here, in such a beautiful place, full potential, full of nature, full of life.

I am also proud to say that on the morning of 24 March 2011 I received an Email from Canadian Immigration officials informing me that they were ready to issue me with a permanent residency visa. Finally, almost a year to the day that I applied for residency, and 26 months since I began the process - when I started work at Mink Chocolates, I can breathe easy. I can be a long-standing part of Vancouver's young history.


It's not been an easy ride. In fact at times I felt on the edge of oblivion. From doing the paperwork - knowing one missed tickbox, or one photograph submitted with incorrect dimensions could spell disaster; to the waiting period of more than four months without a word of confirmation that my application was filled in correctly. It has been a stressful year.

At any time I could receive a letter stating that my application had been refused. I would have to pack up the life I'd built in Canada for almost three years and jet back to the UK to start again from scratch. But it didn't happen. It's been granted. It's as good as over.

The day after I received the Email that made all my dreams come true I sent the immigration officials my passport. Now they will be attaching my landed immigrant visa, and I will meet with an immigration officer to confirm that I am in fact me, and I will officially "land" in Canada. From that moment on I am just another local. No longer hanging by the thread of a work permit that might not be renewable, no longer worrying that I might have to pack up and leave. Finally I can plan for the future. The world is once again filled with opportunity.


One huge aspect of applying for permanent residency was my ability, of lack thereof, to leave the country. Thinking that I'd be long since sorted by Christmas 2010, the Allen family made grand arrangements for what would be our first Christmas as a full family for probably five years. Tom, my brother, and Tenny, his wife, would be in England from Armenia, and Tissa and I would fly back from Vancouver. We'd all be together finally, Tissa and Tenny could talk Farsi to each other, and my dearest mother would cry!

Unfortunately it didn't happen. It was literally a week until we were due to fly out and I had heard nothing from my visa office. I called the hotline and was informed that since my application was at such a late stage I was strongly recommended to remain in Canada, as if I left I may not be allowed back in. I'd be turned away at the border. Possibly. Also possibly everything would be fine, but it was a serious risk, and not one worth taking. Distraught, I called home and all of our finely honed Christmas arrangements went up in smoke. Hotel bookings cancelled, trips to London and Klagenfurt to visit Tissa's family were lost, connections missed. I managed to salvage my flights at great cost, and now we are booked on another trip to the UK in a few short weeks. Hopefully this time we will be together finally, in the place my adventure began three long years ago, in the green and pleasant land of England.