Post-Whistler Blues

A few days ago I was looking at the Facebook page of a friend I had met while spending last winter in Whistler and I noticed he had changed his status, the crux of which was that his Canadian visa had expired, marking exactly one year since he left the country to start the ski season. The note of sadness, present even in such a short missive, was palpable. And with that, it was confirmed: someone else was suffering the Post-Whistler Blues.

I've found myself caught in a mood of longing and nostalgia over the last month or so, something which is not unknown to me by any means, but has been heightened recently due to a couple of factors. After leaving university last June I hardly had time to let my feet touch the ground, as I made a brief return to Sheffield for graduation week before embarking on what turned out to be a short-lived and utterly vain attempt to make some money developing property, back when there was a housing market to speak of (ah, those were the days...).

By this time our plans to spend the winter working in Canada were already in motion. Our interviews took place in July; by the middle of August we - to our utter delight - had been given the ok, had booked our flights, and had already begun getting to know some of our fellow seasonnaires in earnest. By the time September came around the paperwork was mostly in order and we had attended a fairly well-lubricated departure party. I remember looking around the office at everyone present, each looking slightly more giddy with excitement and anticipation than the last at what the next nine months would hold.

The season itself (and this may be just the misty haze of nostalgia obscuring my vision again) was a fantastic experience. Being freezing most of the time was only occasionally tolerable. Being broke was downright shit. But I would not have swapped it for anything in the world. Spending five weeks travelling down the American west coast was everything I had hoped for and much, much more. We returned at the start of June, beginning a relative flurry of events that kept the wolf from the door, disappointment-wise. I did a week's work experience at Empire (brilliant); then my birthday and the attendant festivities came around; then I secured a place on an NCTJ journalism course; then I got some temporary work to keep me in curry and beer at the weekend; then I went on holiday to Barcelona; then I started my new job, which is the first consistent bit of paid writing I've ever done.

And so, about four or five weeks ago, it hit me. I noticed the weather had begun to draw in and not only did I miss being in Whistler I also found a greater-than-expected longing for university because I hadn't really been able to feel that way when I left more than a year ago. It had all come at once. While my visa still has until the end of November to run the point it hardly seems the point, and the process of coming back down to earth after the experience has been tough, the transition difficult.

My girlfriend of three and a half years and I have gone, once again, from living in each others pockets to being more than a hundred miles, several hours and about thirty quid away from one another. My burgeoning career in journalism feels like it’s at a hiatus. The nationals are not exactly knocking down my door. I mean, where are you? Do you not read this thing? Clearly not.

Ok then, morose semi-rant over. I'm fine, honestly. Positivity only from now on.