My brother sent me an email with a PDF scan of a letter I received from Scotiabank, the bank I had been using in Canada, for quite a while. I had no problems with Scotiabank and moving cross-province was a pleasure.
The letter tells me that my account is now inactive, since I haven't used it in 2 years (which, yes. I still do have my Scotiabank card though!), and that accounts inactive for ten years revert all its funds to the Bank of Canada, which I did not know. I should make a small deposit once in a while. Perhaps I will forward my next few checks towards it.
I filled out the appropriate blanks, ticked the appropriate ticky-boxes (how satisfying ticky-boxes are) and wrote my address at the back of the envelope. On the front I wrote the address of my Scotiabank branch, all the way in Hamilton, which must be snowy at this time of year. I can still remember its edifice and the last time I walked into it to explain that I would be gone, a long time (hoping not forever).
It still feels strange, to this day, two years and a bit after moving here, to finish my address with "U. S. A." It is still a foreign place, an exotic location that I never expected to find myself in. I never expected to write that as part of my address. Perhaps on a postcard, perhaps to a penpal, but never as a resident. I wonder if this feeling will ever go away.