22 years an Immigrant

It’s actually, 19 years a Canuck.

But then, 22 rolls off the tongue smoothly and has so many possibilities. You can say

  • two two
  • twennytoo
  • one score and two ( or 2)
  • 2 times 10 plus 2 ( if mathematically inclined)

Now then, what the hell am I talking about?

I answer that question by asking you a question.

“Have you read the following articles?”

“Which ones”, you ask, warily.

“Oh just these. Here you are.”

  1. The first one.
  2. The second one
  3. And this bonus round
  4. There’s this bonus, bonus which is really a riveting tale of woe which teaches, informs, entertains and feeds.

“Oh god! NO!!”

“Oh come, come! It’s not that bad. Just a few thousand words of shamelessly flamboyant prose.”

For those unwilling to read the articles, here is the reason behind the title of this post.

2nd June, 1997, aged 36 years and 9 months and 7 days, I landed at YYZ, Pearson International Airport, my Permanent Resident form folded and stapled inside my passport. A fresh minted immigrant, destined for many things, such as adventures that only an immigrant can understand, or experience.

This would kickstart an immediate search for livelihood, fresh rotis ( round, of course ) and bhindi ( okra, if not Indian ).

Not necessarily in any particular order.

So, thus, therefore, hence, ergo.

In summary, I have been a non-Indian for 22 years today. I didn’t become an official Canuck until 3 years later. Thus the 19 and 22 thing. 19+3 = 22. See? Try it with matchsticks, or grains of rice…..

To commemorate this occasion:

Would you care to read my book, available for a small fee and delivered directly to your computer?

Or maybe read some stuff here and leave a few effusive comments?

Either will do.

Happy anniversary to me.

Here we all are, all of us bloggers in one picture. ( and one body, but you knew that )
We’re standing overlooking the Niagara River as it runs down into Lake Ontario ( just visible behind my head ) in the spring of 1998.

 

 

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