Gagarin in Canada and the Cocaine Romeo Next Door

She’s convinced she’s special – a student who came “temporarily” but secretly plans to stay. Yet there are thousands like her. And instead of triumph, she’s met with harsh reality: bureaucracy, job hunting, and a drug-addicted neighbor she has to share a bathroom with.

On April 12, 2021, I proudly landed on Canadian soil. Like Yuri Gagarin, I fancied myself a pioneer in uncharted territory—none of my friends had ever left like this, completely alone, without a single acquaintance on the other side. When Gagarin fell from the sky into a field, he startled an entire village. My arrival? Nobody even noticed.

It’s funny how you keep telling yourself: everything that came before—every experience, every pain, every joy, every unfinished or botched endeavor, every excess or half-baked decision—all of it leads to this single point where you now stand. Hello, Point. Here I am, feet stained with ink, looking around, savoring where I’ve brought myself.

There were many of us—foreign students who used study programs to bring their families to the Commonwealth. Indian, Iranian, Thai, Nigerian—we all enrolled at the University of Royal Railways not for an education, but to smuggle in our wives, husbands, kids, and parents. During COVID, from January to August 2021, Canada only let in those with solid reasons to travel. Business trips were canceled, even visiting relatives was tough. The only ones left were international students (the hope and economic strategy of Canada), dropping one by one from their cities into the airports of Vancouver or Victoria.

I felt like I was at the start of a game of Snakes and Ladders. Except I’d deliberately rolled the dice so that, right near the finish line, I’d leapfrog over the others only to land back at the beginning and play the whole damn game again.

I had to learn to live from scratch. Not unwillingly, no—more out of curiosity and stubbornness. After all, I’d never done anything for myself before. I’d never bought a car, never rented an apartment, didn’t even have a credit card. I had only a vague idea of how much it costs to live alone—rent, utilities, car insurance, groceries, gas. Turns out? So much that only 7-10% of your paycheck is left for fun. That was my first real adult shock. Thanks, Canada! I finally learned to cry quietly so I wouldn’t wake the neighbors. Why? Because I’d never had neighbors before! I had my own room in a huge house, my own toilet, my own balcony, my own office, my own yoga space. And now? On the other side of the wall—a 21-year-old cokehead sharing my bathroom. While I’m in online debates with my professors, he and his girlfriend slam their bed frame against my wall. Thanks, Cocaine Romeo, for making my path to Canadian citizenship so… atmospheric.