Maple fillip

Heavily jetlagged, we queued for our visas, half expecting to be packed on to the next flight home.

What we didn’t expect was for half of John’s luggage to still be en-route from Frankfurt, and for our work permits to stipulate that we couldn’t work in healthcare – a bit of a problem since that is how my other half makes his living.

So tired, dirty and more than a little confused, that is how our Canadian adventure began.

A few hours later, despite waking up in a small, hot room in Cabbagetown district with no natural light and nowhere to unpack our clothes, our excitement was gathering pace.

Itching to explore the city that had become home, we called in to an orientation talk with SWAP Working Holiday Programme – an organisation that looks after people like us.

A good 30 or so teenagers and twenty-somethings from all over the world sat listening, eyes bright with anticipation and blurry with hangovers, each waiting to start their new life by Lake Ontario.

The visa issue was quickly fixed, after a few irate phone calls and a visit to immigration and the missing bag arrived the next day. Ironically, since we had hardly a dollar to our name, the first stop on our list was the bank. Now, there are many bargains to be found in Toronto.

You can cross the whole city on a bus, streetcar or subway for only $2.75 (about £1.50) and in some shops, small, medium and large coffees all cost the same. In England, money couldn’t buy you the gigantic free drinks and popcorn we got at the cinema and in restaurants, while a side salad could feed five for a week.

But in other ways, we have felt robbed blind.

Banking – something that is supposed to make us money in England – is a privilege you actually pay for over here.

Not only do you pay a set fee each month, but they limit your transactions and charge you a fortune after that. You also get hammered for withdrawing cash at any bank other than your own.

If you are flush enough to have a mobile phone, for heaven’s sake screen your calls – it costs each time you answer.

But Toronto is great. It’s big, but not too big, full of soaring, shiny skyscrapers and has a huge lake, the impressive CN Tower and funky hot dog trucks with neon lights parked by the kerbs.

At the moment, it’s full of the rich, famous and autograph hunters, with free film promotions on every corner.

Pounding the pavements also led us to Hooters – aptly positioned on John Street, much to the other half’s delight – and we stumbled across a York Street, a Scarborough – which, we have been told, is a Canadian ghetto – and discovered that cheesy chips and gravy is a national dish with a posh name – poutine.

In some ways, we can’t believe we have only been here a week, as it seems like months ago that we gave up our jobs, not able to decide if we were being brave or stupid, and even longer since wrestling with the guilt of seeing so many friends and family upset last Tuesday night, knowing we would be thousands of miles away by the morning.

But in just a week, our new lives are starting to unfold.

Today, I start a work trial with an agency which sells features to British newspapers and magazines, with instructions to find stories that “would never have happened in England”.

John has sat the necessary exam to allow him to work as a physiotherapist here, and has also been offered a job.

Sure, there are plenty more challenges ahead – finding somewhere to live, working out Canadian tax and how we can afford extortionate car insurance – and sometimes, perhaps they will trip us up. But right now, I am glad we took a chance.

* Charlotte is a former features writer at The Press, who has moved to Canada. She will be writing an occasional column about her experiences in Toronto.