A Boy and his BlackBerry

Reunited. And it feels so good.

There’s luck. And then there’s being really lucky. 

This is the story of how I got my phone back. It’s one that’s filled with despair, desperation and dedication.

It starts one fateful Sunday afternoon as I’m off to edit a three part series for school. There is no phone in my pocket – “one less distraction” I say to myself. At the time, it was the least of my concerns.

But it wasn’t.

Fast forward to 11pm. The scene: my living room, home to the frantic search for a cell phone that can’t be traced. Where is it?

Indeed where was it? Did I drop it?

Outside it was snowing merrily, with nonchalance as if to say, I’m here to trouble you more.

And off I go back to school. The great cell phone hunt has begun.

Plastic bags on my knees, double layers on, with my warmest hat, mitts and scarf I search amidst the snow – on all fours – for a tiny minuscule BlackBerry. A BlackBerry that is the very lifeblood of my fledging journalism career.

It was nowhere to be found.

Dejected I lay in bed, but not before sweeping my apartment’s parking lot one last time. The clock stuck 1 o’clock.

“I have a class in 7 hours,” I say to myself. “This is futile.”

And so Sunday turned Monday. And the search resumed. The snow was receding, the ground was slowly exposing itself. But still no BlackBerry.

“It’s going straight to voicemail. The phone is lost forever.”

But a part of me kept me from calling my service provider. No, I’d wait it out a bit more, unless there was drastic usage on my phone’s account. There wasn’t. 24 hours had passed.

For a guy who lived 17 years of his life without a cell phone, one day without one was tough.

It was rough.

But still, there was no cell phone.

And so Tuesday dawned bright and sunny. It was the perfect day. It was my day off, and all efforts were directed to locating this cell phone. I was due in Leamington on Wednesday. Would I be willing to make the trip with no proper means of communication?

Unlikely.

And then, almost as if something called out to me, I tried to track my phone online. It was just after noon.

There was a trace. Not two kilometres away. Suddenly there was hope. A hope that increased when the phone was accurately tracked to within 7 metres.

“But how did the phone reach there?” I hadn’t been in the area in almost three weeks. This was one of life’s great mysteries.

Four hours later, after some frantic dialing to see if someone will answer the phone, I set out to see who has my phone.

Now, there are plenty of stupid things that one can do. And this was right up there. Picture walking up a stranger’s driveway, and asking them if they had your missing (possibly stolen) phone? Crazy right?

But there was hope.

And so with an able sidekick in Greg, Starsky and Hutch, as he termed our duo, we approached our first potential location.

The door opens. And a man, morbidly obese with a vest and shorts, walks out.

“Can I help you?”

We didn’t know whether to talk or to run.

“I know this sounds weird sir. But would you have happened to have seen a cell phone?” I ask, nervously. “I lost mine and tracked it to one of these houses.”

“No, I haven’t sorry!”

And that was it. Was he lying? There was no way we could be sure.

The other house, his neighbour, was not home. And it was almost dark. The bubble of joy, burst.

Twenty minutes later, a little McDonalds cheered me up. I mean, is there anything that a McNugget can’t do? It was just past six o’clock now.

“Let’s give it one more shot before I drop you home Greg,” I say. “Maybe they’re home now.”

And so, back we go. This time there’s activity in the once empty house. Two cars are on the driveway. This is it.

I go up to the door, and ring the bell. Just like before.

“Can I help you?” asks a tall, greying man.

“Yes. Would you perhaps have seen a BlackBerry lying about? I lost mine, and tracked it to one of these houses. I know this sounds crazy.”

“No. No.” he said. “Is it a Z10?”

I was shocked and happy at the same time.

“Yes. A black one.”

“Come on in. My son found one yesterday in the Fanshawe parking lot.”

And once inside, his wife hands me a badly damaged cell phone. It’s still working, but the display would need some major repairs.

I didn’t quite catch their names. I’m now wishing I did as I recall my adventures.

“How did you know it was here?” asked the lady.

“Tracked it online. The phone was on and I got a signal.”

“That’s amazing!”

It sure was. And then we spoke for fifteen minutes, mostly about how I was able to locate the phone.

You see it turns out that Brandon, who works at Fanshawe College found the phone on Monday evening and took it home. He meant to bring it to school the next day, but forgot. His dad, a BlackBerry user himself, turned it on to see if he could try and reach the owner.

“That was the smartest thing you did sir,” I say exuberantly.

“It kept going off and I couldn’t answer it,” said the lady. “Wou

I’d thought I lost the phone somewhere. And the chances of finding it were pretty slim. But no, there was hope.

Brandon had saved the day.

I’ve tried to reach out to Brandon at Fanshawe a number of times now. But our paths don’t seem to cross. Sure the phone was damaged; a vehicle had driven over it. But Brandon had saved me a lot of money.

So Brandon, if you ever read this, and we’re unable to meet: Thank You. This means a lot to me. 

If we do ever meet, and I hope we do, there's a beer or two in it for you.

It’s over. Or is it?

Frozen.

Ah, college. It’s been quite a ride; I’ll tell you that much right off the top. You know how Hollywood fills your head with notions of what college or university might be like.It's a little different than that I'm afraid.

Walking through the doors of Fanshawe College in the last week of August 2011 for orientation was surreal; walking out of the doors June 18, 2013 as a college graduate, I’ve got no words to describe that.

Except maybe we did it, to everyone who graduated alongside me.

Imagine walking into a room, a large room at that and sitting at the first available seat. Everyone's a stranger. Everyone in that room is keeping to themselves. And then a large group enters. But this group is not as stiff as those seated. No, this one’s loud and so full of life.

They’re second years, we’re told.

They were supposedly like us only a year ago – shy, quiet, nervous - and we’d be exactly like them in one year when we become quote 'second' years. Jump ahead one year, and yes, we were exactly like them – loud, jovial as if to say there’s no other place we’d rather be.

Now that convocation is done, my first one I might add, since high school back home don't have these elaborate ceremonies to celebrate moving on to the next stage of life, the only thing left of those two exhilarating years are memories.

I came to this country with three suitcases, and a dream. And while my possessions have most certainly increased over time, my dream’s only gotten bigger, and better too. Gone are the days where I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. Gone are the days where everyone, but me seemed to know what was taught in class. High school was fun, tons of fun. But in the sense, not being taught the arts, was well, a bummer, for lack of a better word.

Year one of college zipped by in the blink of an eye. Had I blinked, I’d have probably missed most of it. But over that, the seemingly momentary instances were filled with solid lessons for life. And of course, I’d be nowhere if it wasn’t for the people I went to school with. They people, who took time out of their schedule to help this alien, settle down.

And settle he did.

Year two came by and there were yet more people to meet, more relationships to perhaps carve and nurture as time wore on. And with that came the workload. You see what we did, and with no disrespect to anyone, is not for the weary. You’ve got so much to do and so little time, it seems impossible.

Almost impossible.

But it’s now done. And when I look back I see accomplishments that I never saw coming. I see challenges that seemed unfathomable that were tackled in some style.

I see success.

So what does life have in store for me? I do not know. Next year though, is already shaping to be bigger and even better than ever before. Gone are the days where I’d hear “It’s Victor Kaisar” loudly every time I entered a party, albeit let’s hope it’s only a momentary absence for that phrase.

As Fanshawe College president Dr. Howard Rundle put it in his final convocation speech, “No longer will everyone who works with you be solely focused on your success.” This is the ‘big boy life’ that I’d heard so much about while growing up. That stage in life where you leave the nest and try to spread your wings. The part of life where you begin to actually make decisions that will shape how your life turns out. The part of life where sometimes you wish you were the ten year old who couldn’t decide if he’d have one or two popsicle sticks after lunch. The world’s a scary place, don’t you worry about that.

But hey, you get used to it.

An open letter to the St. Patrick's Day 2012 rioters on Fleming Drive

A CTV News vehicle being damaged by angry rioters, Fleming Drive, London. March 17, 2012

There was probably a time when St. Patrick's Day was a joyous occasion. There were also times when people learnt to respect someone else's privacy. It pains me to think whether I made the right decision to come all the way from India, just to go to Fanshawe and witness such a debacle on St. Patrick's Day! Where has civilization gone?

It's strange, I never hear stuff like this coming out of Platt’s Lane or other 'Western' neighbourhoods here in London but Fleming Drive never seems to disappoint me. And yes, I'm being sarcastic here. Riots, burning couches, overturned news vans? Come on people, there has got to be a limit. I hope the people responsible realize that innocent Londoners will be paying for all the damage they caused on their idea of a joyous occasion. 

I'm not going to be a hypocrite here, I love my beer. Then again, I believe in moderation. You know your limit; you know how much you can handle before you go overboard. It is 1:15 am now as I write this and I can still here sirens blaring, and I live five minutes from Fleming Drive and Fanshawe College. Students have got to remember that for most of them, it's not their town; they are merely living here for a couple of years. There are people who will live their entire life in London, and negative press coverage isn't something that anyone would want their hometown to be associated with. I know I wouldn’t want my hometown to ever face negative press.

Remember when Mayor Fontana released 'London is a city of Opportunity'? You do? But is this the ‘opportunity’ you want? To bring disregard to the Forest City? To show people how many cars you can destroy? How many kegs of beer you can chug? I hardly think so. If I was Irish or had Irish roots, I would probably be so mad right now! How dare you ruin a day that brings about the Irishman inside everyone? Sure everyone has the right to gather freely and say whatever they want, whenever they want. That is basic freedom. But freedom to wantonly destroy property? Blasphemy I tell you, blasphemy.

Being a student of journalism, a part of me wanted to step out with my equipment and cover the event, nay cover the debacle I should say. The other part of me feared for my own safety. I know this is nothing compared to being a journalist in the middle east where your life can be in danger every minute of  every day, but to risk my life at the hands of thousands of rioting teenagers and young adults? That would be something quite pointless, in my opinion.

So now when people ask what Fanshawe is famous for what do we tell them? Riots? Parties? Angry Teenagers? Or do we tell them that Fanshawe is a haven if learning? A place of wit and wisdom? A place of dignity and consideration? I always knew that I would face a culture shock when I moved across the world. India and Canada is completely different when it comes to customs and behaviours, but not once have I heard of a drunken college riot during eighteen years in India. I've already heard about two in London itself, and you got to remember that London is nothing compared to a vast majority of Indian cities when it comes to student populations.

So in conclusion, if you're one of the rioters who thought it was 'cool' and 'trendy' to fill yourself up with alcohol and then go berserk, you should probably look at yourself and feel sorry. Step forward and admit your wrongdoing, if you didn’t face the consequences for what you did that night. Do not let innocent people who had no part to play face trouble for what you did. Do your bit, to make this city a better place to live in. Do your bit for the community. Do your bit for the college; but more importantly, do your bit for yourself. 

Image Credit: https://yfrog.com/a/img644/193/43eofz.jpg (via twitter)

Video Credit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Vh7AwyfcHA 

Watch the London Free Press' Video here: http://www.lfpress.com/news/london/2012/03/18/19517661.html

Food à la Canada

Canadian Staple Anyone?

Keeping in mind that this is the heath issue of the Interrobang, I thought I'd write something in tune with the theme. I had initially thought about writing on the health care system in Canada, but given the fact that I've yet to fall sick in Canada (which is a good thing, I might add), I don't have much to say on the system. Therefore, I thought that I would write something on two Canadian 'delicacies' that I've come across a few times during my four months here: poutine and back bacon. I use the word 'delicacies' because I feel that too much of it could turn us all into Homer Simpson!

Poutine was something that I was introduced to by my classmates at Fanshawe College. One Tuesday afternoon during our break, we stopped for lunch. Since everyone went for poutine, so did I. In fact, it surprised all of my classmates who were present that it would be my first-ever plate of poutine. It turned out to be pretty good, to tell you the truth. I've had it on several occasions now. Fried potato with cheese curds and gravy? It certainly makes the Belgian invention that came to be called french fries more interesting. On the flip side, I've overheard people cursing poutine, though I've yet to come up with a suitable reason why they do that. Jarrett Bellini, Video Producer for CNN who covers comedy, has said that "Poutine is going to slowly (and deliciously) kill Canadians one at a time in a long nationwide drum circle of exploding aortas." I wouldn't differ too much from Jarrett's point of view. Death from an exploding aorta due to too much poutine consumption probably wouldn't be all that bad.

Bacon: the name itself makes my mouth water. I've been eating a lot of bacon from my time in India. It seems a little strange, doesn't it? A few of my friends and I used to feel glad that we were Roman Catholic, the reason being that the religion didn't classify any meat as forbidden. This was unlike India's two major religions: Hinduism (which prohibited the consumption of beef as the cow is considered sacred) and Islam (which forbids consumption of pork). It is pretty sad that McDonald's in India does not serve the Big Mac burger. The reason they do so is the alleged ban on beef, but that is diverting from my topic a little too much.

I've always loved bacon. From a young age, bacon and eggs was a staple breakfast of mine. However, my decision to move to Canada introduced me to a different kind of bacon: back bacon. For some reason, it tastes so much better than streaky bacon, which is the prime cut of bacon available in India. I haven't really been able to come to a suitable explanation why back bacon tastes better, but I hope to have an explanation soon.

Food is something I've always loved. Even while on holiday in other countries, my mother and I were always game to sample local delicacies. That is something I'm thankful that my parents instilled in me. To quote newspaper publisher James Stuart Keate, "In any world menu, Canada must be considered the vichyssoise of nations – it's cold, half-French and difficult to stir." Food is something that brings people together, however fattening it may be. I'm glad I can cross poutine and back bacon off my list of foods to try: it does make me a little more Canadian.


Originally written for the Interrobang: http://www.fsu.ca/interrobang_article.asp?storyID=7877&sectionID=2&issueID=192
Image Credit: http://foodbeast.com/content/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/bacon_box.jpg

It All Begins...

Fanshawe College Logo

CFRL Radio Logo

It was always going to be a nervous day. Strangely though, I felt sleepy all morning. It was quite unnatural I felt, ten hours of sleep seemed less. I guess it was nervousness talking loud. The minutes ticked on slowly. Time almost froze. Outside the weather was lousy and wet. Oh, what I’d do to get a nice bright sunny day. The clouds outside echoed my nervousness as I lay in bed trying to focus on something.

Time ticked on; yes she did not wait for anyone. Second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour. And then it was time. It was time for a newscast: my first ever. A live newscast, this is what I signed on for. Yet, there were butterflies in my stomach and they wouldn’t go away! However much I tried, the butterflies would just not go away! Flabbergasted, I gave up and headed to Fanshawe College.

I tried to be my cool, calm self. That sure helped a lot.  It always does, and there was no bigger proof that this feeling that ran through me, an unexplainable feeling. I felt joy, nervousness, anxiety and impatience all at once. And yes, my legs were soft like jelly. The newscast was prepared slowly and surely. It had to be good. Thousands of people would be listening to it in the halls of the college and online. Oh, those majestic hallways where I’ve walked everyday for the last two months. I could mess up, I’d be embarrassed.

And then the assurance arrived. Nervousness was common I was told. I won’t mention the saviour here, he knows who he is and if he’s reading this he’ll have a smile on his face for sure. “Even we make mistakes, even we stumble on air. It’s natural. Don’t let it bother you.” And with these words, the butterflies vanished, the nervousness and anxiety took off and a smile was restored to my erstwhile fallen face.

Five minutes to four, it was almost time to go on. I wondered how many of my friends would be listening to me. Not many, I secretly hoped. A chuckle sprung on my face as I entered the news booth. Coolly and calmly up went the thumbs up to the radio announcer.  Ten seconds said he. And as he counted me down, I cleared my throat and turned on the microphone.  “CFRL News........”

Photo Credits: http://www.seeklogo.com/images/F/Fanshawe_College-logo-C41B52273B-seeklogo.com.gif (Fanshawe Logo)
https://twimg0-a.akamaihd.net/profile_images/631355537/CFRL.JPG(CFRL Logo)