Ten Ways to Pretend to be Victorian

1. Drink coffee. Constantly. How strung out you are is of no consequence, nor is the fact that you need haven’t slept in two and half days; you will easily be recognized as an outsider if you are not currently drinking coffee, just had a coffee, or intend to go for a coffee within the next half hour. Keep in mind that once you do have a cup in hand, complain to anyone within earshot that your tiny, local coffee shop makes much better coffee.

2. Pretend you recycle whether you do or not. Otherwise, 97% of Victoria’s population will instantaneously look down on you and likely shun you; and should you dare to throw away a pop can when the next recycling bin is a mere three blocks away, expect to find yourself facing the glares of many a dreadlock-framed face.

3. When visiting the UVic campus do not fuss over the bunnies. Every native Victorian has tripped over so many bloody bunnies that they generally fantasize about integrating them into kicking practice. Keep in mind, however, that baby bunnies are the exception to the rule as even the most hardened local will succumb to their charm to coo and pat them.

4. While there are many components to truly blending in with local Victorians, it is commonly accepted that no one will ever know the street names of most of the island city’s roadways. It is more than enough to know the two street names outside of your hotel; should you manage to learn a third you will be able to fool anyone into believing how local you are.

5. Smoke pot.

6. Should you enter into conversation with a local, be sure to refer to the rest of Canada as “the Mainland,” while referring to their own island as “the Island.” Due to the elevated cost of living, Victorians have come to believe there exists a critical divide between their lifestyle and those who don’t live on the Island, and reserve the right to mention it when presented with the opportunity.

7. No matter how cool, how fascinating, or how frightening you may find the monster ferries that transport most of the Island’s population, be sure to act calm and/or bored when faced with a trip on board. Many Victorians ferry to the Mainland once or twice a week, and therefore have long since gotten over any sense of wonderment they may have felt. Becoming seasick in storms is almost unforgivable and will instantly mark you as a tourist.

8. The downtown area is a haven for the homeless and the housed have long since accepted not only their presence, but the likelyhood that they will run into the same homeless man or woman on a regular basis. If you intend to be in the city for longer than two weeks, it’s pertinent that you befriend at least one hobo to greet on a regular basis, or the homeless themselves will know you are not local.

9. To truly pretend to be Victorian, be sure to have something you bought from a second-hand store. If you cannot appreciate the benefits for the environment, child workers in Malaysia, and the Island’s very own homeless, at least wear a ratty old article and pretend you bought it for five dollars or so at a thrift store.

10. Complaining about the cold is not only common practice but a favourite activity of the local population, despite the temperate climate and near-permanence of above-zero weather. Should you ever be forced to wear a jacket with your sandals, be sure to mention the “relative cold” of living so near to the ocean and speak wistfully about the arctic conditions of your hometown; there, at least it’s a “dry cold.”

Nerds and Niches

I’ve had a lot of different stints as a nerd; at least I’ve tried. It may not be obvious, seeing as I lack the standard awkwardness or that I still don’t know how to function a DVD (never mind a VCR), but I can’t deny the internet evidence of old nerdy endeavours. Before discovering the delight of sexual conquests or the joy of bruising bitches, I paraded my way through minor obsessions spending countless hours “hexing” (or, for those who had real pets, squinting at lists of numbers) and breeding my digital Dogz, only to later evolve into a self-proclaimed HTML whiz to share their extensive family trees and the intricate lives of Sims (a natural evolution from my childhood love of Barbies). I even fancied myself an academic for some time, taking Advanced Placement courses and planning my studying time ahead of time, with designs on excellence awards and scholarships throughout grade school. Somehow, I got distracted and went drinking instead.

For years, I wandered from one obsession to the next, unable to find the right fit; it wasn’t until recently that I discovered the niche I’ve been thriving in all along. Waiting on a reflexive pronoun lecture, a classmate and I began discussing the ancient Greek word agape only to end with his story of summer camp and how “there I was, reading a Latin textbook for fun!” I smiled and nodded, indulging a fervent geek with eyebrows raised; what nerdier thing to do than to try to teach yourself a dead language over summer vacation? I, on the other hand, was taking a Latin course for much, much cooler reasons. And of course I would never consider buying a textbook for personal use, after all, it’s tremendously less geeky to get drunk and spend hours asking bemused Kenyans to explain Swahili word order. But then, whilst I revelled in my unquestionable advantage of awesomeness, he started to actively investigate why I was taking university Spanish and I found myself listing languages and countries like that was all I did.

“Oh, you know, my parents sorta speak five or six languages between the two of ‘em and I’m studying, oh, give or take four different languages so that I can travel while writing. I find the connections interesting and-” Suddenly it hit me, cliché of all clichés, I was a linguistically infatuated writer with an intent to travel. Good God; this was my obsession, my awkwardness, the topic with which I can bore a crowd in two minutes flat.

Hadn’t I post scripted my last email with a note on the origins of i.e.? Did I not just spend two hours of my time searching for the proper adjectival form of insulation? Never mind if I thought of myself as better than those who actually attend German Club’s Stammtisch nights; I still sat in classes next to them, did the research with them and dreamt of linguistically conquering all four corners of the globe like them. Needing reassurance, I turned to my closest friends, my family, my coworkers, my acquaintances and the people who happened to sit next to me in coffee shops, bars and on the bus. Here, I would discover that the night they met me, I was convinced I could speak fluent Spanish; there, I was told that they couldn’t care less about the unknown English declensions I had raved about just minutes prior. Apparently, my status as a language nerd had long since been established and might as well have been stamped on my forehead.

“T, you get hammered and speak in anything but English, you’re taking three language courses and already speak two,” said one roommate, pouring me another glass as I lamented the feedback I’d been getting. “What did you expect?”

I certainly hadn’t been expecting to find myself fitting into such a geeky niche so comfortably and so perfectly. I suppose I had come to believe that because I had grown through so many youthful phases that I had become immune to becoming awkwardly obsessed; obviously, I’ve managed regardless. Next time I run into that self-motivated, language learning classmate we will doubtlessly end up discussing how many fascinating connections there are between ancient languages and those alive today, but this time, I will engage in conversation fully aware that I have finally found my kind.