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My sister’s wedding took place over the past weekend. The weather was barely accommodating; eager to move onto Autumn it blanketed the scenery with a thick fog and mist. We seated the guests outside the country club in neatly aligned rows of white plastic chairs. The gazebo was ornately decorated and a white fabric laid upon the aisle of grass between the bride’s side and the groom’s side. She looked beautiful in a white gown, coming down the aisle with my father accompanying her on the left. His lips were pursed and his eyes stayed focused. Certainly he was feeling unfamiliar with this customarily western tradition. Thick bifocals sat crookedly on his face. Their pace was deliberate and came at measured beats while a trumpeter played the processional music.

The ceremony was delivered in English, though they exchanged vows in Vietnamese. I couldn’t catch much of it, as I was sure they were speaking formally to each other. I could only make out the last sentence where he said to her, “Anh yêu em” which according to Babelfish means, “Big brother loves little sister.” Seemed a bit odd, but I’m sure a lot got lost in translation.

The wedding proceeded with cocktails where I was MC for the evening. I was originally supposed to translate for my Vietnamese counterpart and we both had our scripts. While I continued to read from my copy, my Vietnamese counterpart decided to deviate a bit from the script so then suddenly, I was no longer translating, I was just reading what was written, which may have confused anyone in the audience that could understand both English and Vietnamese. I’m sure it was fine but I really had no idea what he was going on about. Thus, I realized a couple things about being an MC: 1) Things never go as planned, and 2) always have a couple of shots before going up to the podium.

The highlight of the entire night was when my sister’s new husband decided to dedicate a song to my sister, and then proceeded to rock out with his band. It was pretty much awesome. He performed two songs with the band and it inspired me to learn to play guitar and sing in Vietnamese to my bride, whoever she ends up being — even if she turns out to be a Polish mail-order bride no doubt, she will love it!

Apparently, Vancouver has decided to name one of their 3 mascots after me. Flattering, however it turned out to the be hairest one of all, Quatchi! Big, furry and adorable, Quatchi embodies the fun-loving nature in us all. I took their “Which mascot are you most like?” quiz, and sure enough, I am Quatchi.

While in Montréal last weekend, I was able to find a local barbershop and pay a measly $7 for a haircut. Glad of the trim, I felt refreshed against the humid summer heat even though, I continued to be curious of how it may have turned out had I left it to grow out like an afro. My musings ended quickly when I passed a dark-skinned man with an afro, silhouetted against the rising backdrop of the Montréal Biosphere. I then realized I could never duplicate a mane like that one.

More recently, while out for a few after-work drinks on Friday, I found myself losing track of time and missing the last GO bus home. As people parted ways, I remained in the company of my friend Dinesh. He kindly offered his couch and we ended up taking a cab back to Rogers and Oakwood, better known to locals as Little Jamaica.

As most inner-city neighbourhoods, the streets appeared deserted and slightly eerie after midnight. With distant sirens reaching our ears, and occasional cabs zipping by as to quickly come in and out of the area, Dinesh assured me that I’d be fine if I stuck with him. Then he proceeded to recount the times when he’d been thrown through store windows during a street fight. Suddenly, the shadows in the alleys that appeared playful at first, now seemed to loom over us with hatchets and knives.

With only a few remaining bars still open, we went to his local pub to close out the night. At the bar, we were greeted with a broad spectrum of characters. The place was empty, save a few patrons. As you walked through the door, the dark green marble-topped bar ran alongside the left-hand side. The place itself was cozy and ran long and narrow. Halfway down as you walked through the pub, a more spacious area opened up with some nondescript plastic tables and chairs. At the back, two large black speakers sang out a melody of island tracks.

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I’ve survived my first week in Toronto and it has been met with veritable stress and calamity. I’ve reconnected with my parents and my room is as it was, as are the dust mites. They had a little party for me last night, all bunched up in their little dust bunny clouds. So far, I haven’t seen any of my friends yet, and I’m certain half of them don’t even know I’m still alive, let alone back in town.

There seems to be a lack of office supplies here, and I’ve resorted to using my neighbour’s gym bag as a garbage can, and his face as my notepad. He doesn’t seem to mind as much as I thought he would. Across the room from me sit the other developers — mostly php developers. They’re all quite similar to the interface designers and I’ve socialized briefly with them, if only to show them my stupidly awesome wolf shirt.

I realized last night how many people I don’t know anymore. After two years, seldom do people remember what fun it was to take your shirt off at a bar for their birthday. Rarely does that novelty ever give a lasting impression. At least, not a positive one.

Last night, I ended up having dinner by myself at Kim Jung Il’s Kitchen of Pho, nestled amidst the cookie-cutter houses of suburban Mississauga. The dimly lit neon signs decorating the restaurant entrance gave me the uneasy feeling that I was somehow stuck in a B-movie. I stared out the window, half-expecting to see a giant angry red tomato with sharp fangs, come rolling down the empty, wide 10-lane residential streets. The other patrons of the establishment seemed too calm at the prospect of this inevitablity. I quietly ate my dinner and left.

I’ll probably last 6-months living with my parents again, then I’ll have to move somewhere on my own. Being close to my parents is important to them, but being in the next room with only a thin slab of drywall between, might present awkward situations.

Photo courtesy of Wayne Mah @ staticpixel.com.