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I spent the better part of February traveling. Starting off in London, I attempted to find Hogwarts, but unfortunately the Victoria line was 1) out of my way and 2) under construction. I spent the majority of my time there commuting to and from two offices at opposite ends of the city. So if you were to ask me, Have you been to London? I can confidently say, I’ve been under London.

The accent was difficult to understand at times, but I found my generic response of saying Harry Potter! in a high-pitched voice and lilting accent, worked out quite well. I ended up spending my birthday on the plane while I returned home. Nothing like a catered meal by Cara; some beef stew TV dinner and a glass of soda (not a full can, mind you) to ring in the 29th year of your existence. Luckily, it happened twice thanks to the time zone difference. Once in London, and then again when I was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean.

Right away, I flew out to Vancouver for a week of work, and then a few days of vacation. The vacation involved a three day stay up at Whistler, where we snowboarded and snowmobiled up and down Blackcombe and Whistler mountains. The vacation time, though short, afforded me some space and time to evaluate where I am and where I’m going.

For certain, I will be looking more aggressively for my own place in Toronto; I won’t be moving back to Vancouver yet. I briefly flirted with the idea of living in a loft, but then realizing how completely unaffordable they are for me. I’ve taken a more realistic look at what I can afford and where. If only I had a spouse to share the burden of the mortgage.

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.

Living in a world surrounded by brick walls and moving boxes, I’ve found little time to affect my concerns for a fulfilling life. I left Toronto some time ago to find new direction, leading me some 3,000 kms away. I’ve met with varying degrees of success while keeping my sensibilities and values in check (though I have since parted with my earlier notions of rabid optimism).

Like a new car owner, I enjoyed the “new life” smell and wanted it to last forever. I followed the scent of promise and beat my path until I was at the end. To my own surprise, at the end of the journey, I discovered that what layed at my feet was nothing so very different then what I had left behind.

And now, having come full circle, it is likely that I will be facing a shadowy countenance of my former life back in Toronto; something barely recognizable and seemingly unreal to me.

Soon, I’ll sit again amongst fellow commuters, spending countless hours on the bullet train bound for downtown, all the while secretly conspiring of ways to avoid the cement garden. I remember it all now: the urban soldier’s march to the commuter train where the stomp and trample of heels are muted by the deafening volume of our own daydreams.

Strangely enough, I look forward to it.

There’s a breeze coming in from my window. It’s warmer then the usual biting rainchill. I’m lying in bed staring out through the slits of my window blinds fifteen seconds before my alarm clock goes off. I can’t seem to remember the last time I saw the sun. A winter of grey clouds, and no better day than today to finally see the sun. I turned twenty-seven today. Its hard to believe that the end of the world is no less then 3-years away.

Twenty-seven is the average age of the Russian mail-order bride. Twenty-seven is cusping on the edge of the “Young Americans” demographic (18 to 29). Am I really that different than an average 18-year-old American that I would need to be promoted to a whole new demographic? Twenty-seven is how many months the second Palestinian intifada lasted. Twenty-seven is also the age Kurt Cobain blew a crater in the side of his head. I’ve got big shoes to fill.

Dating is a skill I never learned. I spent most of my youth becoming an expert in all things dragons, magic and Lord of the Rings. My intimate knowledge of hobbits is frightening. Throughout my highschool year, I hacked the Commodore-64 mainframe, coding in BASIC and making poor imitations of life by utilizing an expansive set of ASCII characters. Though my works of digital art were mere imitations, my life back then was unquestionably, inimitable.

I lived in a fantasy world, where my social dispositions lent itself to a modern Walter Mitty complex. I lost my baby fat on my 17th birthday, when I seemingly stretched up overnight (2-feet in total), to my current height now. I spent most of my teenage years as a man trapped in an 8-year old body. Soon, I will be 30 and all that was, will more likely than not, repeat itself. Just as software has incremental versions, or as the decades repeat themselves (did you know the 80’s are making a comeback?), what my life will become, now a decade later, will be Tan 2.0. Hopefully, I will again, grow another 2-feet.

I have been single for quite some time, nearly six months, and dating is as foreign to me as manual labour. These hands have never seen a day’s hard labour. I’ve tried most things unconventional, with little success. Admittedly, attending a lesbian speed dating event, perhaps not the best idea.

I see commercials on television of attractive people trying out online dating services, and they introduce these fictional characters as “Tom the Firefighter”, or “Janice the Nurse”. What about “Sanpreet the Network Administrator” or “Meng-Yi the Software Engineer” or “Tan the Magician”? More than likely, Sanpreet and Meng-Yi are probably more in need of these dating services than a firefighter and a nurse (if anything, they could probably do with a new name). The irony is that Sanpreet and Meng-Yi are probably the dudes that wrote the software for the online dating service, and yet they probably aren’t allowed on the television commercial. At least give them a cameo!

People see these dating services like the Emerald City; a short trip down the yelllow-brick road and you’ll find a wizard that will make you a match. But in all reality, there is no wizard; it’s Sanpreet! And he’s making the matches using a mathematical model based on your interests and zipcode!

Meeting people in cyberspace or outside of cyberspace, I can generally hold my own. I generally prefer meeting people in person though. My problems are limited to calling girls on the phone, and cyber sex, neither of which, highschool had ever prepared me for. Sure, cybering was in its infancy when I was 17, but that’s no excuse for my lack of experience in the field! I know now that I should’ve watched more pòrn and played King’s Quest less. Rather than practice that tongue thing people do when they kiss, I was honing my elite Scrabble skills, ignoring all the girls in my class and leaving a trail of broken hearts.

With the advent of my birthday, I find myself continuing the search for meaning, and happiness. Perhaps it was the festive Swiss Chalet meal I had for Christmas dinner that got me thinking: How much longer will I keep myself here, in this self-imposed exile?

Yet, I continue to look forward to moving on to the next city and doing it all over again. Like San Diego, or New York City, places where I’ve always dreamt of living and working. The draw of living in a new city is compelling. I’ve always wanted to live in Pasadena or San Diego. I don’t know why. Perhaps in our generation, we’ve nearly reached the top of the heirarachy and want to risk comfort and security for the prospect of gaining something more; something unforeseen or unknown. That prospect of discovery is what our generation is all about. What else is left for us to discover?

Perhaps, I should get back to building my time machine.