It might have been a mistake to purchase some key staples for my new autumn wardrobe the weekend before the London Restaurant Festival. But at least elastic waistbands and stretchy trousers are on trend for the season, because I can certainly fill my new clothes out.
It had also been a rather decadent and gluttonous month approaching October, plus my body has taken the change of season as a sign to welcome additional insulation, but I really don’t care. Michelin-star meals, losing my Gordon Ramsay virginity and dining in some of the world’s best restaurants are all worth putting on a few extra pounds.
I’ve been meaning to write a general foodie-in-London blog for a while now, sharing my love of the television program Masterchef, British celebrity chefs like Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, and the truly revolutionary world of British cooking that is swirling around me. But I’ll get on to that on another day. Instead, I want to keep it strictly about London restaurants.
My cousin Pearl says I have champagne taste on a beer budget, which pretty much sums me up perfectly. I can’t help that my tummy loves the finer things in life – the foie gras, truffle oil, cavier and basically anything tartare. Luckily for me, I am also a master at finding restaurant deals, so that my beer budget can actually afford to support my champagne tastes.
The first great deal that I found this autumn was a fixed-price five-course lunch deal at Gordon Ramsay’s two Michelin star Petrus. The second incarnation of Petrus (the first, in the Berkeley Hotel, was the victim of an acrimonious split in 2008 between Ramsay and his former friend and protégé Marcus Wareing, who now runs an acclaimed restaurant under his own name there) is in Knightsbridge, seats 40 around a semi-circled floor-to-ceiling glass tower that houses a wine cellar of 1,500 vintage bottles of Chateau Petrus.
My friend Donna and I dressed up for a Saturday afternoon lunch, pairing our five courses with some lovely wines. It was ridiculously delicious and decadent, and it was the beginning of a very foodie month. The meal started with an amuse bouche of watercress mousse, potato salad and salmon tartare, then onto a starter of ravioli of quail leg and wild mushrooms with cep sauce. My main was braised neck of Devon lamb with baby vegetables and a thyme jus, while Donna had a roasted breast of poussin and leg stuffed with wild mushroom and Madeira sauce. Next we had Gould’s cheddar with apricot chutney and toasted hazelnuts, and then British strawberries, fromage frais and rose water meringue. And it was finished with a final snack of vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate. Needless to say, we were pleasantly sated and drunk with pleasure (and maybe from the wine) when we wandered out into the early September sunshine.
I was lucky enough to have another Gordon Ramsay meal only four days later, meeting my friend Paul’s Mom Baiba and aunt Terrie at The Savoy Grill on the Strand. The meal was superb, and made even more special by the fact that Ramsay was there, dining three tables away, looking stereotypical in all black with a shock of blonde hair. We were also offered a tour of the kitchen, where we got to meet the adorable head chef Andy Cook (appropriate name for his choice of vocation). Andy returned from Los Angeles, where he got a Michelin star at Ramsay’s London Hotel in West Hollywood, to re-open the refurbished Savoy Grill in late December last year. The restaurant has been a London icon since 1889, but has been closed for three years as part of a £220-million renovation of the hotel.
So it was quite a treat to get to dine here, and a great way to meet Baiba and Terrie, who would be my constant companions for two more fun weeks.For my starter I had a heritage tomato salad with burrata mozzarella, wild rocket pesto and a shallot dressing. All three of us chose the same main – an amazing stuffed loin and confit partridge with liver paté. We all went traditional British with our desserts: I had a burnt English cream (obviously an anglo crème brulé) with rosemary shortbread.
Into October now and the London Restaurant Festival, which is basically like Summerlicious in Toronto. It gives poor plebes like myself the opportunity to dine in some truly posh and decadent restaurants. The menus range from £15, £20, £25 and £30 fixed-price arrangements, depending on the restaurant. I booked two spots at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Suka at the Sanderson, Roast and Roux at the Landau, and then opened up some invites to my London foodie friends.
First up was L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, a two Michelin star restaurant near Covent Garden. The French chef said: “For me, London is the gastronomic capital of Europe. It’s the most modern, most innovative, city where new things are happening.” Kind of a big deal from a world-renowned chef who was named Chef of the Century in 1989, and has 26 Michelin stars across his 12 international restaurants.
I met my friend Belle there on a Saturday evening. We were seated along the bar where we had a front-row view of all the action in the kitchen. After a smoked sardine amuse bouche, I started with cocotte à la crème legère de champignons des sous-bois and Belle started with pollack en brandade froide au jus de persil et ses croutons. We both had the same main and it was truly one of the most delicious dishes I have ever had: Caille (quail) avec une timbale de macaroni aux champignons et parmesan.
To cap off the lovely meal, we took our last glasses of wine up to the rooftop bar where we were equally adventurous with the cocktail menu. I had a green tea martini with herbs sorbet and Belle tried Fire + Ice, a ginger-infused Snowqueen vodka with fresh carrot juice, dash of lemon juice and perfumed with orange bitter topped with chocolate shavings. By the end of the night, we might have spent more on the cocktails than we did on the food.
Later that week, I had reservations at Suka at The Sanderson, the Malaysian restaurant that is part of the trendy Soho hotel. Donna met up with me after work and we made our way through a series of dishes, including nasi goreng, tuna tartare, a thick tofu soup, barbecue chicken, vegetable curry and braised beef. Such a yummy selection in a lovely candlelit al fresco setting.
That weekend I finally went to Roast, a restaurant perched above Borough Market that I have been meaning to come to for about two years now. The restaurant is known for its locally sourced ingredients and superb classical British cooking, with immaculate views over the market. Head chef Lawrence Keogh, formerly of The Ritz, The Avenue and The Goring, works his culinary magic on what is called the best breakfast in London but, on this occasion, Michelle and I were here for dinner.
I kept it as traditional as possible, starting with a Lorne sausage Scotch egg with piccalilli, and Mich had Laverstock park buffalo mozzarella with Lincolnshire beets and pea shoots. My main was the house recipe pork sausage with Roast’s homemade brown sauce and chips, while Mich had Goosnargh chicken legs with creamed baked potato and Scottish girolles. We were so happily full at the end of it, we had to walk all the way into Shoreditch for our night out.
The grand finale of my London Restaurant Festival experiences was Roux at the Landau, a new collaboration from father and son Albert and Michel Roux Jr at the Langham Hotel, where chef de cuisine is Roux protégé Chris King. I dined with Jenny and we were both totally blown away by the food, the immaculate dining room, and the wonderful service.
We both started with the Saucisson Lyonnais Maison with Dijon mustard and herb salad. My main was grilled flat iron steak with Vacherin glazed cauliflower gratin and sauce Bordelaise. Jenny had Cotswold white chicken with orzo pasta carbonara and Alsace bacon. The orzo carbonara was, in Jenny’s words, “sex on a plate”. It was truly sublime.
So now you probably understand why I am struggling to fit into my new fall wardrobe. This is not the way I normally eat, but every once and a while I love to retire my beer budget and entertain my champagne tastes. I really don’t think there is any better way to spend what little money I do have.
Sunday 23 October 2011
Sunday 16 October 2011
Journalism Porn
It wasn’t the first time I heard the News of the World phone hacking scandal compared to Watergate. But when Carl Bernstein draws the parallel the words ring very true.
I had the good luck to be among an audience on a panel, titled ‘After Hacking: How can the press restore trust?’, organized by The Guardian newspaper. It consisted of Carl Bernstein (Pulitzer-prize winner journalist who broke Watergate along with his colleague Bob Woodward), Sylvie Kaufmann (former editor of Le Monde in Paris), Alan Rusbridger (current editor-in-chief of The Guardian), George Eustice (MP and former press secretary for Prime Minister David Cameron), and chaired by Krishnan Guru-Murthy (anchor/presenter on Channel 4 News).
It was a night of serious journalism porn.
After a general review of how the phone hacking scandal leaked out into the world and culminated in the printing of the very final issue of News of the World this summer, Bernstein was the first to share his opinion on the matter. In making the Watergate comparison, he said the two events were “shattering cultural moments of huge consequence that are going to be with us for generations”, and that they were both “about corruption at the highest levels, about the corruption of the process of a free society”.
In the case of the phone hacking scandal, Berstein said the actions helped “drive the ever descending lowest common denominator of journalism that resulted in a diminution of reporting standards” across the British press. Like the British press really needed one more reason for people to hate it.
I was home in July, right after the scandal really broke across the world. When I met new people or was catching up with old friends, I was constantly reminded about that stereotypical negative that comes with being a journalist, especially in the UK. Even my Dad said that, as a journalist working in London, on that particular July day, I was automatically one of the most hated people anywhere. What’s really interesting to me is that Britian has the most trusted broadcasting media in the world (the BBC) and yet probably the least trusted print media.
Anyways, while the parallels to Watergate were interesting to hear about, it was not the central topic of the panel discussion. Turning to the restoration of trust between the British public and its press, Eustice, the Conservative MP, argued that the press needed tighter regulation. He said “journalists shouldn’t fear regulation” and that there was “not much wrong” with the existing Press Complaints Commission (PCC) code, apart from the fact that it is not really enforced. Bernstein responded that he was horrified at the idea of introducing more severe regulations on the press. He said: “We are headed towards a truth commission if we are going to go down this road.”
Channel 4’s Guru-Murthy polled the audience to find out who was in favour and against stricter legislation for journalists, and the majority of those in attendance, including myself, raised their hands for the latter. Predictably, he next asked any journalists in the audience to raise their hands and, amid an outbreak of laughter, nearly all of us did so. About two-thirds of us were also in our late-20s/early-30s (and Tweeting as the panel discussed), which made me feel a warm glow about my profession and this next generation of brilliant journalists, and the fascinating ways that the industry is growing.
I don’t think I’ve written about this before, but I am coordinating all the social media at my magazine. It is no secret that print, as a medium, is in drastic trouble with newspapers going the way of the dinosaurs, many publications moving online, and the blogosphere giving any random person with a computer the opportunity to become a citizen journalist. At Employee Benefits magazine, I coordinate our daily online news, our Facebook page and our Twitter account. And the leaps and bounds that this medium is growing make me feel very proud to be a part of it.
The issue that is growing, though, is that there is no regulation, and no way to regulate, bloggers and Tweeters. Bernstein pointed to these bloggers and Tweeters and other new forms of media as the clear way forward for journalism. He said: “You’re listening to a bunch of old dinosaurs. People aren’t getting their news from us anymore.” I feel kind of thrilled to be a part of the new generation, wherever it takes us.
And the entire evening made me really proud of my profession, after a long onslaught of negative slant on print media in Britain. Berstein said: “We are not saints in this business. Every day we are faced with the question of privacy and the dissemination of that information. How we answer that question shows what kind of journalists we are.”
The Guardian’s Rusbridger closed the discussion by asserting that we need to achieve the right balance in transparency, and that all journalists need to be in charge of their own transparency. He also referred to the idea of an impending extinction for our industry. “Reporters are like bees,” he said. “Once we lose them we are all fucked.”
I had the good luck to be among an audience on a panel, titled ‘After Hacking: How can the press restore trust?’, organized by The Guardian newspaper. It consisted of Carl Bernstein (Pulitzer-prize winner journalist who broke Watergate along with his colleague Bob Woodward), Sylvie Kaufmann (former editor of Le Monde in Paris), Alan Rusbridger (current editor-in-chief of The Guardian), George Eustice (MP and former press secretary for Prime Minister David Cameron), and chaired by Krishnan Guru-Murthy (anchor/presenter on Channel 4 News).
It was a night of serious journalism porn.
After a general review of how the phone hacking scandal leaked out into the world and culminated in the printing of the very final issue of News of the World this summer, Bernstein was the first to share his opinion on the matter. In making the Watergate comparison, he said the two events were “shattering cultural moments of huge consequence that are going to be with us for generations”, and that they were both “about corruption at the highest levels, about the corruption of the process of a free society”.
In the case of the phone hacking scandal, Berstein said the actions helped “drive the ever descending lowest common denominator of journalism that resulted in a diminution of reporting standards” across the British press. Like the British press really needed one more reason for people to hate it.
I was home in July, right after the scandal really broke across the world. When I met new people or was catching up with old friends, I was constantly reminded about that stereotypical negative that comes with being a journalist, especially in the UK. Even my Dad said that, as a journalist working in London, on that particular July day, I was automatically one of the most hated people anywhere. What’s really interesting to me is that Britian has the most trusted broadcasting media in the world (the BBC) and yet probably the least trusted print media.
Anyways, while the parallels to Watergate were interesting to hear about, it was not the central topic of the panel discussion. Turning to the restoration of trust between the British public and its press, Eustice, the Conservative MP, argued that the press needed tighter regulation. He said “journalists shouldn’t fear regulation” and that there was “not much wrong” with the existing Press Complaints Commission (PCC) code, apart from the fact that it is not really enforced. Bernstein responded that he was horrified at the idea of introducing more severe regulations on the press. He said: “We are headed towards a truth commission if we are going to go down this road.”
Channel 4’s Guru-Murthy polled the audience to find out who was in favour and against stricter legislation for journalists, and the majority of those in attendance, including myself, raised their hands for the latter. Predictably, he next asked any journalists in the audience to raise their hands and, amid an outbreak of laughter, nearly all of us did so. About two-thirds of us were also in our late-20s/early-30s (and Tweeting as the panel discussed), which made me feel a warm glow about my profession and this next generation of brilliant journalists, and the fascinating ways that the industry is growing.
I don’t think I’ve written about this before, but I am coordinating all the social media at my magazine. It is no secret that print, as a medium, is in drastic trouble with newspapers going the way of the dinosaurs, many publications moving online, and the blogosphere giving any random person with a computer the opportunity to become a citizen journalist. At Employee Benefits magazine, I coordinate our daily online news, our Facebook page and our Twitter account. And the leaps and bounds that this medium is growing make me feel very proud to be a part of it.
The issue that is growing, though, is that there is no regulation, and no way to regulate, bloggers and Tweeters. Bernstein pointed to these bloggers and Tweeters and other new forms of media as the clear way forward for journalism. He said: “You’re listening to a bunch of old dinosaurs. People aren’t getting their news from us anymore.” I feel kind of thrilled to be a part of the new generation, wherever it takes us.
And the entire evening made me really proud of my profession, after a long onslaught of negative slant on print media in Britain. Berstein said: “We are not saints in this business. Every day we are faced with the question of privacy and the dissemination of that information. How we answer that question shows what kind of journalists we are.”
The Guardian’s Rusbridger closed the discussion by asserting that we need to achieve the right balance in transparency, and that all journalists need to be in charge of their own transparency. He also referred to the idea of an impending extinction for our industry. “Reporters are like bees,” he said. “Once we lose them we are all fucked.”
Saturday 27 August 2011
Moving day and the quest to win back my deposit
Following up my last post about the challenges of flatshare hunting in London, I think it’s only fitting that I whinge on a bit about that other nightmare of the moving-house experience: Dealing with estate agents on move-out, or the pursuit of the deposit.
So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.
You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.
To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.
In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.
By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.
In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.
I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.
When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.
And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.
Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.
Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.
In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.
And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.
So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.
So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.
You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.
To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.
In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.
By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.
In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.
I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.
When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.
And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.
Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.
Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.
In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.
And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.
So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.
Saturday 20 August 2011
The ups and downs of flat-hunting in London
I had intended to wait for a happy ending before I launched into the tale of my latest flat-hunting adventures. But, yesterday marked exactly one week until I must vacate my lovely Florence Street flat, and I am no closer to finding a new home than when I first embarked on the search a few weeks ago.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
Sunday 7 August 2011
Extending my Life in London
Arriving at Heathrow on Sunday morning I had my very first intensive inspection at customs (verbal not physical, thankfully). In hand I had my brand new Tier 2 migrant visa, which allows me to stay in the UK until August 2014, and the customs lady had a lot of very specific questions about my job, my company, and my time in London.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
Monday 18 July 2011
La Belle Provence
I can’t remember exactly when we started talking about celebrating our 30th birthdays with a holiday abroad but, as I prepared earlier this month to meet nine of my best friends in the south of French, I felt like we had been planning it forever. And, frankly, I am super impressed with the fact that we pulled it off – though so sad it’s over.
In three different teams we descended on Provence to drink wine, eat baguettes and cheese, swim in the Med, visit adorable villages, and bone up on our French. Jill, Julia and Sophie arrived in France first, traveling from Toronto and visiting a few towns outside Marseille on their way to meet the rest of us. Lex, Lyl and Lindsay came through Marseille from Montreal, picking up Anne who had taken the TGV down from Paris. And I arrived with Jane and Kelly from London, where we had torn up Trafalgar Square the night before celebrating Canada Day.
Our meeting spot was the cutest little village on earth – Le Garde-Freinet – where Lexie has been coming to her family’s house for 25 years. Nestled in the Maures Mountains and 20 minutes north of St Tropez, the village is an ideal base camp for trips around Provence, and also to return to at the end of the day to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals, vase-sized pitchers of various cocktails, and catch up with amazing friends I don’t see enough of.
Out exploring the region we drove the perilous winding roads to a 12th century monastery, went into St Tropez to shop at the market and yacht-stalk, took a ferry to L’Iles Porquerolles to beach it up in paradise, shoe shopped in Aix in Provence, and had a lovely dressed-up dinner out to celebrate the start of our 30th decade.
Without getting too over-feely and cheesy, the week we spent in the south of France was truly one of the best of my life. I adore my girls, and I miss seeing them as often as I want, so those days together, cooking amazing food, drinking a lot of local rosé, exploring the gorgeous region, and laughing our faces off, will stay in my heart for a very long time.
One week after we all met, Anne and Lindsay were off to spend a few days in Paris on their way home, Lex was left behind in LGF to await the arrival of her family, and the rest of us drove back towards Marseille, with one night in the adorable beachside village of Cassis.
We lay on the beach for one last afternoon, strolled through the harbour in the evening, ate some adventurous French food (or at least I did, trying pieds et paquets marseillais which I can only describe as the French version of haggis), and were even greeted at the end of the night with a round of beautiful fireworks – the perfect end to a perfect holiday.
Though, for me, it wasn’t quite finished. Once I saw my Canadian besties off at the airport I had almost eight hours to kill before my flight. Left with my patchy French and without my helpful translators, I eventually found storage for my suitcase, and caught a bus into bustling, steaming, crime-infested downtown Marseille.
Clutching my bag to me, I managed not to get robbed, wandered through the harbour to see the views out to sea, the rising Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde on the hill, and the Byzantine-Roman Cathedrale de la Major. I even took a boat out to Chateau D’If to indulge my literary-tourist tendencies, visiting the real island prison that was used fictionally in Alexandre Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I was tired and so sweaty, not to mention missing my girls like crazy and not embracing the alone time, but it was a good last day in France.
And now, though some of us are still trying to get a handle on turning 30, we are casually making plans for our 35th or 40th birthdays. A villa in Tuscany in 2016, ladies?
In three different teams we descended on Provence to drink wine, eat baguettes and cheese, swim in the Med, visit adorable villages, and bone up on our French. Jill, Julia and Sophie arrived in France first, traveling from Toronto and visiting a few towns outside Marseille on their way to meet the rest of us. Lex, Lyl and Lindsay came through Marseille from Montreal, picking up Anne who had taken the TGV down from Paris. And I arrived with Jane and Kelly from London, where we had torn up Trafalgar Square the night before celebrating Canada Day.
Our meeting spot was the cutest little village on earth – Le Garde-Freinet – where Lexie has been coming to her family’s house for 25 years. Nestled in the Maures Mountains and 20 minutes north of St Tropez, the village is an ideal base camp for trips around Provence, and also to return to at the end of the day to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals, vase-sized pitchers of various cocktails, and catch up with amazing friends I don’t see enough of.
Out exploring the region we drove the perilous winding roads to a 12th century monastery, went into St Tropez to shop at the market and yacht-stalk, took a ferry to L’Iles Porquerolles to beach it up in paradise, shoe shopped in Aix in Provence, and had a lovely dressed-up dinner out to celebrate the start of our 30th decade.
Without getting too over-feely and cheesy, the week we spent in the south of France was truly one of the best of my life. I adore my girls, and I miss seeing them as often as I want, so those days together, cooking amazing food, drinking a lot of local rosé, exploring the gorgeous region, and laughing our faces off, will stay in my heart for a very long time.
One week after we all met, Anne and Lindsay were off to spend a few days in Paris on their way home, Lex was left behind in LGF to await the arrival of her family, and the rest of us drove back towards Marseille, with one night in the adorable beachside village of Cassis.
We lay on the beach for one last afternoon, strolled through the harbour in the evening, ate some adventurous French food (or at least I did, trying pieds et paquets marseillais which I can only describe as the French version of haggis), and were even greeted at the end of the night with a round of beautiful fireworks – the perfect end to a perfect holiday.
Though, for me, it wasn’t quite finished. Once I saw my Canadian besties off at the airport I had almost eight hours to kill before my flight. Left with my patchy French and without my helpful translators, I eventually found storage for my suitcase, and caught a bus into bustling, steaming, crime-infested downtown Marseille.
Clutching my bag to me, I managed not to get robbed, wandered through the harbour to see the views out to sea, the rising Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde on the hill, and the Byzantine-Roman Cathedrale de la Major. I even took a boat out to Chateau D’If to indulge my literary-tourist tendencies, visiting the real island prison that was used fictionally in Alexandre Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I was tired and so sweaty, not to mention missing my girls like crazy and not embracing the alone time, but it was a good last day in France.
And now, though some of us are still trying to get a handle on turning 30, we are casually making plans for our 35th or 40th birthdays. A villa in Tuscany in 2016, ladies?
Wednesday 29 June 2011
Business and Pleasure in Portugal
I’m not writing this to brag, but June and July are very busy traveling months for me. From the third week of June to the first week of August, I am only in London for about 10 days.
Besides heading home to Canada in mid-July to sort out my side of the sponsorship Visa, I am also meeting nine of my best friends in the south of France to celebrate the beginning of our third decades – or, less eloquently, our dirty thirties.
But before both of these big adventures (which I will write about in future blogs), I have just returned from a trip to Portugal, which was an exhausting, fun and perfect combination of work and pleasure.
Now, the first time I traveled to Portugal I mainly expected to find a country that resembled the larger landmass to its direct east. I’m not the biggest fan of Spain – mostly due to the fact that my sister and I were robbed there during the backpacking adventure of 2004 – so you can imagine how surprised I was to fall in love with Portugal. Turned out the country, famous for its mouth-watering pastries, passion for football and stoic symbolic roosters, is pretty damn unique.
So I was thrilled to find out that my magazine’s annual Employee Benefits Summit, which has been held in Monte Carlo the past two years and in Spain before that, was being held in Sintra, Portugal, and even more thrilled when I found out I got to go along. My publisher sourced a beautiful five-star Ritz-Carlton-owned hotel called the Penha Longa Hotel Spa and Golf Resort.
I arrived last Wednesday morning on a rather rough 7:30am flight out of Heathrow, with my colleagues Nicky, Tynan, Pete, Lucy and Lorraine, as well as 40 of the summit’s delegates. Before long we had de-boarded in humid Lisbon and were herding the weary, but excited, delegates to an air-conditioned bus. Shortly after that we were pulling up to utter paradise.
The resort grounds – which includes an internationally recognized golf course, outdoor pool, sprawling forest, restaurants, hotel and 15th century monastery – are all set about 20 minutes from the fairytale village of Sintra, where medieval Portuguese kings would summer and Lord Byron called an “Eden”.
Delegates were welcomed by the whole EB team, sipping drinks on a balcony overlooking the monastery where the conference sessions would be held. That gathering, followed by an al fresco lunch, kicked off two days of sessions on a variety of hot topics in the industry, including total reward, the 2012 pension reforms and sickness absence, and a very busy time for both EB staff and delegates.
By Thursday evening’s black-tie gala we were all fairly exhausted, and the champagne, wine, and exquisite food (coquille St. Jacques tartare – raw scallops – with crème fraiche and Tobiko sauce; a lovely tender steak with potato, mushrooms, bacon, chestnuts and red wine jus; a fine sampling of Portuguese cheeses, and a dessert which I seem to have forgotten – obviously too enamoured of my first three courses) went down fairly easily. From the gala in the monastery to the golf course for more drinks, it turned into a rather late one, as the stragglers finished off Super Bok beers in the hotel lobby around 4:30am.
The next day, rebelling against my all-consuming hangover, I recruited Nicky for a visit to Sintra. I had never visited the town, a UNESCO World Heritage site on account of its 19th century Romantic architecture, and the fresh air and stunning scenery sorted me out immediately. We wandered around the adorable village, saw the Palacio Nacional with its twin chimneys, and climbed up through a natural park to see the Pena Palace and the Castelos dos Mouros (Moorish Castle) from the 8th and 9th centuries.
Back at the hotel we had just enough time to rinse off the sweat and dirt gathered from the three-mile hike, then met the rest of the EB team (or those who had not yet returned to London) for a short drive to Bar Guincho on the coast. It was the perfect evening to end the summit, sipping mojitos and Sagres as the sun set over the sand, swapping stories about the event, and feasting on black pork, dried cod and burgers.
Nicky and I awoke the next morning the only two members of our team still at the hotel. We spent a couple of hours lying by the pool, taking a few dips, enjoying the scorching sunshine, and stuffing ourselves with melon pieces and frozen marshmallows passed around by the cute pool boys. Eventually, we had to get on with our day, so we ordered a taxi, waved goodbye to the Penha Longa, and were soon en route to Lisbon.
Though my memories of Lisbon were somewhat patchy – we’re going back 7 years and probably one of the wildest few days of the our Europe trip – I barely got lost taking us to our pensione. Okay, I did get properly lost, but that is one of the best ways to explore the city’s narrow, cobblestoned streets. And we were climbing up to one of Lisbon’s steepest districts, the Bairrio Alto, which is a challenge even without 35-degree weather and pull-y suitcases.
We dropped off our gear in our tiny double room (€20 each) and headed back out to explore the Bairrio Alto, Chiado and Rossio districts, first by cable car then by foot. After a few café stops for combinations of espresso, fresh lemonade and beers, we found the Cervejaria Trindade, the oldest brewery in Portugal, where monks were brewing beer and cooking authentic local food in the 13th century.
We sat in the cloisters, sampling the home brew, stuffing ourselves with homemade bread, quejo (cheese) and olive spread, then ordered some dinner. For Nicky, Lombo de Salmao a Monsignor – salmon fillet roasted on a bed of potatoes, cushioned with brown crab vinaigrette – and for me, Acorda de Gambas a Moda do Popa – bread soaked in olive oil and coriander, garnished with prawns and an egg yolk. We were so happy.
Though exhausted from a grueling summit schedule, the previous day’s hike through Sintra, and the energy-depleting humidity of the city, we made one last stop before retiring to our little pensione. At the Solar do Vinho do Porto we sampled a delicious 1988 Calem Colheita port in exquisite air conditioning.
The following day we had an early rise following a restless night that was tempered with stifling heat and every sound you could imagine coming through our open window (Festas do Lisboa is on, not that this city needs an excuse to party). Determined to get the most of our last day in Portugal, we took a cable car through the Alfama district to explore the castelo, with striking views of the terracotta-ed roofed city below and the Rio Teja that curves along its harbour.
Finally, fed up with the ridiculous heat and feeling fairly disgusting, we picked up our suitcases at the train station and caught a bus out to the airport. It was a very full five days in Portugal, from the five-star lushness of the Penha Longo and a fantastic EB summit, to the bustling, steaming passages of Lisbon.
That’s trip one of three down. Now the countdown begins to this Saturday when I meet up with my best ladies in the south of France for a lively week of beaches, wineries, bread and cheese. I am such a lucky girl!
Besides heading home to Canada in mid-July to sort out my side of the sponsorship Visa, I am also meeting nine of my best friends in the south of France to celebrate the beginning of our third decades – or, less eloquently, our dirty thirties.
But before both of these big adventures (which I will write about in future blogs), I have just returned from a trip to Portugal, which was an exhausting, fun and perfect combination of work and pleasure.
Now, the first time I traveled to Portugal I mainly expected to find a country that resembled the larger landmass to its direct east. I’m not the biggest fan of Spain – mostly due to the fact that my sister and I were robbed there during the backpacking adventure of 2004 – so you can imagine how surprised I was to fall in love with Portugal. Turned out the country, famous for its mouth-watering pastries, passion for football and stoic symbolic roosters, is pretty damn unique.
So I was thrilled to find out that my magazine’s annual Employee Benefits Summit, which has been held in Monte Carlo the past two years and in Spain before that, was being held in Sintra, Portugal, and even more thrilled when I found out I got to go along. My publisher sourced a beautiful five-star Ritz-Carlton-owned hotel called the Penha Longa Hotel Spa and Golf Resort.
I arrived last Wednesday morning on a rather rough 7:30am flight out of Heathrow, with my colleagues Nicky, Tynan, Pete, Lucy and Lorraine, as well as 40 of the summit’s delegates. Before long we had de-boarded in humid Lisbon and were herding the weary, but excited, delegates to an air-conditioned bus. Shortly after that we were pulling up to utter paradise.
The resort grounds – which includes an internationally recognized golf course, outdoor pool, sprawling forest, restaurants, hotel and 15th century monastery – are all set about 20 minutes from the fairytale village of Sintra, where medieval Portuguese kings would summer and Lord Byron called an “Eden”.
Delegates were welcomed by the whole EB team, sipping drinks on a balcony overlooking the monastery where the conference sessions would be held. That gathering, followed by an al fresco lunch, kicked off two days of sessions on a variety of hot topics in the industry, including total reward, the 2012 pension reforms and sickness absence, and a very busy time for both EB staff and delegates.
By Thursday evening’s black-tie gala we were all fairly exhausted, and the champagne, wine, and exquisite food (coquille St. Jacques tartare – raw scallops – with crème fraiche and Tobiko sauce; a lovely tender steak with potato, mushrooms, bacon, chestnuts and red wine jus; a fine sampling of Portuguese cheeses, and a dessert which I seem to have forgotten – obviously too enamoured of my first three courses) went down fairly easily. From the gala in the monastery to the golf course for more drinks, it turned into a rather late one, as the stragglers finished off Super Bok beers in the hotel lobby around 4:30am.
The next day, rebelling against my all-consuming hangover, I recruited Nicky for a visit to Sintra. I had never visited the town, a UNESCO World Heritage site on account of its 19th century Romantic architecture, and the fresh air and stunning scenery sorted me out immediately. We wandered around the adorable village, saw the Palacio Nacional with its twin chimneys, and climbed up through a natural park to see the Pena Palace and the Castelos dos Mouros (Moorish Castle) from the 8th and 9th centuries.
Back at the hotel we had just enough time to rinse off the sweat and dirt gathered from the three-mile hike, then met the rest of the EB team (or those who had not yet returned to London) for a short drive to Bar Guincho on the coast. It was the perfect evening to end the summit, sipping mojitos and Sagres as the sun set over the sand, swapping stories about the event, and feasting on black pork, dried cod and burgers.
Nicky and I awoke the next morning the only two members of our team still at the hotel. We spent a couple of hours lying by the pool, taking a few dips, enjoying the scorching sunshine, and stuffing ourselves with melon pieces and frozen marshmallows passed around by the cute pool boys. Eventually, we had to get on with our day, so we ordered a taxi, waved goodbye to the Penha Longa, and were soon en route to Lisbon.
Though my memories of Lisbon were somewhat patchy – we’re going back 7 years and probably one of the wildest few days of the our Europe trip – I barely got lost taking us to our pensione. Okay, I did get properly lost, but that is one of the best ways to explore the city’s narrow, cobblestoned streets. And we were climbing up to one of Lisbon’s steepest districts, the Bairrio Alto, which is a challenge even without 35-degree weather and pull-y suitcases.
We dropped off our gear in our tiny double room (€20 each) and headed back out to explore the Bairrio Alto, Chiado and Rossio districts, first by cable car then by foot. After a few café stops for combinations of espresso, fresh lemonade and beers, we found the Cervejaria Trindade, the oldest brewery in Portugal, where monks were brewing beer and cooking authentic local food in the 13th century.
We sat in the cloisters, sampling the home brew, stuffing ourselves with homemade bread, quejo (cheese) and olive spread, then ordered some dinner. For Nicky, Lombo de Salmao a Monsignor – salmon fillet roasted on a bed of potatoes, cushioned with brown crab vinaigrette – and for me, Acorda de Gambas a Moda do Popa – bread soaked in olive oil and coriander, garnished with prawns and an egg yolk. We were so happy.
Though exhausted from a grueling summit schedule, the previous day’s hike through Sintra, and the energy-depleting humidity of the city, we made one last stop before retiring to our little pensione. At the Solar do Vinho do Porto we sampled a delicious 1988 Calem Colheita port in exquisite air conditioning.
The following day we had an early rise following a restless night that was tempered with stifling heat and every sound you could imagine coming through our open window (Festas do Lisboa is on, not that this city needs an excuse to party). Determined to get the most of our last day in Portugal, we took a cable car through the Alfama district to explore the castelo, with striking views of the terracotta-ed roofed city below and the Rio Teja that curves along its harbour.
Finally, fed up with the ridiculous heat and feeling fairly disgusting, we picked up our suitcases at the train station and caught a bus out to the airport. It was a very full five days in Portugal, from the five-star lushness of the Penha Longo and a fantastic EB summit, to the bustling, steaming passages of Lisbon.
That’s trip one of three down. Now the countdown begins to this Saturday when I meet up with my best ladies in the south of France for a lively week of beaches, wineries, bread and cheese. I am such a lucky girl!
Monday 16 May 2011
Embracing my inner carnivore
Based on all the adventurous meat I have consumed over the past couple of months it is hard to believe that I spent a large portion of my teen years as a vegetarian. When I have some duck confit or a tender steak in my mouth I really wonder what the hell I was thinking.
I wouldn’t say I was a boring eater before I moved to London but I certainly was predictable. I never ordered fish or red meat off a menu, instead safely taking cues from my veggie days with risottos and pasta dishes, occasionally choosing a bird, and almost always picking the cheapest main I could find.
You see, I had serious issues spending money on eating out. I felt that dropping roundabouts $50 on a meal that, to be completely crude, would slowly pass out of my system within a few hours, was a colossal waste of money. But now it is one of my absolutely favourite ways to spend my hard-earned cash.
I have to give some credit to my friend Paul for converting me. When I visited him in Paris last October he introduced me to the most stimulating and satisfying gastronomies I had ever eaten. That trip truly made me fall in love with food all over again. And, since he is a chef, he even did some cooking for me when he was visiting London.
Paul also took me out to my first Michelin-starred restaurant, the Ledbury in Notting Hill. Another first was the amount of money spent on the meal, just over £250, but it was totally worth it. The Ledbury entered the S. Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants list at 34 this year. Compiled by more than 800 restaurateurs, chefs, food writers and gastronomes from around the world, the list is considered among the highest praise in the restaurant world.
The food was divine. There were amuse bouches of fois gras mousse in filo cups and soft-boiled quail’s eggs in mushroom puree. I ate more fois gras – my favourite thing, I don’t care about the poor goose – for my starter, in a terrine with cooked and raw apple sake. My main was loin of deer with chanterelles and pumpkin sauce. Next was a pre-dessert of malted chocolate on a bed of cookie crumbs, followed by a selection of mango, green apple and blueberry sorbet, and topped off with a lovely glass of Oban single malt scotch. I am getting ravenous just thinking about it.
For my 30th birthday I had reservations with some friends at St. John Bar and Restaurant in Smithfield, which is 41 on the S. Pellegrino list. English chef Fergus Henderson has been praised for his use of offal (entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal) and other neglected cuts, and for his philosophy of nose to tail eating. Needless to say, it is not the ideal spot for a vegetarian to dine, though there are a few lovely non-meat dishes on the menu.
Among the six of us, there were starters of lamb tongues, bread and green sauce; purple sprouting broccoli vinaigrette; smoked sprats, potato and dill; cold roast middlewhite and dandelion; and welsh rarebit. The mains were roast mutton, lentils and wild garlic; skate, bread and capers; crispy duck and dandelions; and calf’s liver and shallots.
Since March I have had the chance to try out a couple of exciting restaurants through work lunches. The first was Quo Vardis in Soho, which has been around since 1926 and was at its most trendy in the 90s when Marco Pierre White was chef. I opened the meal with steak tartare and then had my first-ever braised ox cheeks with mashed potato and kale. Surprisingly tender and melt-in-my-mouth delectable.
Lunch at Pearl by Jun Tanaka in Holborn came next. Executive chef Jun Tanaka is not yet 30 and has worked at seven Michelin-starred restaurants where he perfected the art of French cuisine. To start I had smoked Challans duck breast with puy lentil salad, plum puree and stuffed neck. Then I had roast saddle of lamb with spinach and pine nuts, herb couscous and wild garlic. Dessert was a peanut mousse with salted caramel, banana and passion fruit sorbet. Oh my god, it was unbelievable. I didn’t get a whole lot done that afternoon.
Besides the piles and piles of meat I have been sampling, including my first tastes of steak tartare, duck confit, venison, lamb tongues and ox cheeks, I have also taken my first run at cooking fish. Last week I baked haddock with a mint and walnut pesto crust and, if I’m allowed to say so, it was kind of delicious.
Next up, I am going to really take on a challenge and try to cook proper red meat for the first time, maybe a pork loin, a lamb shank or a slab of steak. I’ll let you know how it goes, or maybe I will invite you over to eat some.
I wouldn’t say I was a boring eater before I moved to London but I certainly was predictable. I never ordered fish or red meat off a menu, instead safely taking cues from my veggie days with risottos and pasta dishes, occasionally choosing a bird, and almost always picking the cheapest main I could find.
You see, I had serious issues spending money on eating out. I felt that dropping roundabouts $50 on a meal that, to be completely crude, would slowly pass out of my system within a few hours, was a colossal waste of money. But now it is one of my absolutely favourite ways to spend my hard-earned cash.
I have to give some credit to my friend Paul for converting me. When I visited him in Paris last October he introduced me to the most stimulating and satisfying gastronomies I had ever eaten. That trip truly made me fall in love with food all over again. And, since he is a chef, he even did some cooking for me when he was visiting London.
Paul also took me out to my first Michelin-starred restaurant, the Ledbury in Notting Hill. Another first was the amount of money spent on the meal, just over £250, but it was totally worth it. The Ledbury entered the S. Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants list at 34 this year. Compiled by more than 800 restaurateurs, chefs, food writers and gastronomes from around the world, the list is considered among the highest praise in the restaurant world.
The food was divine. There were amuse bouches of fois gras mousse in filo cups and soft-boiled quail’s eggs in mushroom puree. I ate more fois gras – my favourite thing, I don’t care about the poor goose – for my starter, in a terrine with cooked and raw apple sake. My main was loin of deer with chanterelles and pumpkin sauce. Next was a pre-dessert of malted chocolate on a bed of cookie crumbs, followed by a selection of mango, green apple and blueberry sorbet, and topped off with a lovely glass of Oban single malt scotch. I am getting ravenous just thinking about it.
For my 30th birthday I had reservations with some friends at St. John Bar and Restaurant in Smithfield, which is 41 on the S. Pellegrino list. English chef Fergus Henderson has been praised for his use of offal (entrails and internal organs of a butchered animal) and other neglected cuts, and for his philosophy of nose to tail eating. Needless to say, it is not the ideal spot for a vegetarian to dine, though there are a few lovely non-meat dishes on the menu.
Among the six of us, there were starters of lamb tongues, bread and green sauce; purple sprouting broccoli vinaigrette; smoked sprats, potato and dill; cold roast middlewhite and dandelion; and welsh rarebit. The mains were roast mutton, lentils and wild garlic; skate, bread and capers; crispy duck and dandelions; and calf’s liver and shallots.
Since March I have had the chance to try out a couple of exciting restaurants through work lunches. The first was Quo Vardis in Soho, which has been around since 1926 and was at its most trendy in the 90s when Marco Pierre White was chef. I opened the meal with steak tartare and then had my first-ever braised ox cheeks with mashed potato and kale. Surprisingly tender and melt-in-my-mouth delectable.
Lunch at Pearl by Jun Tanaka in Holborn came next. Executive chef Jun Tanaka is not yet 30 and has worked at seven Michelin-starred restaurants where he perfected the art of French cuisine. To start I had smoked Challans duck breast with puy lentil salad, plum puree and stuffed neck. Then I had roast saddle of lamb with spinach and pine nuts, herb couscous and wild garlic. Dessert was a peanut mousse with salted caramel, banana and passion fruit sorbet. Oh my god, it was unbelievable. I didn’t get a whole lot done that afternoon.
Besides the piles and piles of meat I have been sampling, including my first tastes of steak tartare, duck confit, venison, lamb tongues and ox cheeks, I have also taken my first run at cooking fish. Last week I baked haddock with a mint and walnut pesto crust and, if I’m allowed to say so, it was kind of delicious.
Next up, I am going to really take on a challenge and try to cook proper red meat for the first time, maybe a pork loin, a lamb shank or a slab of steak. I’ll let you know how it goes, or maybe I will invite you over to eat some.
Sunday 1 May 2011
The Royal Wedding
I have been in the midst of some serious crowds in my day. Numerous Canada Days in Ottawa, the Palio in Siena, the chaos of music festivals, not to mention working right around the corner from Oxford Street which is overflowing even during the tourist-light months. But none of that compares to being one of the million-strong mass under the balcony in front of Buckingham Palace on Friday, 29 April when the royal newlyweds kissed for the first time as man and wife.
My work colleagues were teasing me for getting so excited about the Royal Wedding. None of them were going to head down around Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace for the bank holiday, choosing instead to watch the wedding on TV, attend a street party, or ignore the day altogether. I think, whether you’re a royalist or a republican, the historic magnitude of watching the first day of the next generation of the royal family was an opportunity not to be missed. But maybe that’s just the Commonwealth-raised anglophile in me.
My friend Lexie is visiting from Canada, and I have to give her credit for being the force behind our plans that day. At 7am, I met up with Lex, her brother James and his girlfriend Hilary, sister Poppy, and mom Christiane, in front of Green Park station. We were well prepared for any weather (it is the UK after all), and equipped with a cooler of snacks and Pimm’s, and fold-out camping chairs. We were not as festively dressed as some – there were many brides out there, Union Jack-inspired costumes and even a few Kate and Wills – but we were ready for anything.
We went through the park towards Buckingham Palace where there were quite a lot of fences up blocking the way through to the gates. People were already kicking off and shouting at the security cards so we did eventually get access to what was previously going to just be the media bullpen. Once we had found a spot across from the balcony and set up our chairs, we got ready for a four-hour wait until the wedding and a six-hour wait until the couple was to appear on the balcony.
I have to say that the wait wasn’t all that bad. The weather was pleasant, we made some new friends in our area, we had snacks and drinks, and the media set-ups provided lots of entertainment. I stalked Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera where the Today Show coverage was being filmed, saw Fearn Cotton shooting spots for the BBC, and even got interviewed by Mary Hart for Entertainment Tonight – though our bit was apparently cut.
Just after half-ten we saw the Queen and Prince Philip depart for the wedding. She looked lovely in yellow but didn’t smile much while Philip had an absurd but endearing smile plastered on his face. Apparently, by this time, Prince William and brother Harry had already traveled from Clarence House to the Abbey, followed closely by the Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall (Chuck and CPB).
Soon the loudspeakers around the Palace began playing music as Kate, her father and her sister Pippa arrived at the Abbey, and the four-minute procession up the aisle began. We heard the whole ceremony echoing around us and, I swear, the clouds parted and the sun came out. We popped open the Pimm’s and toasted the royal couple as they became husband and wife, that moment when millions around London, and billions around the world, erupted into cheers and applause.
More waiting was then in store for us as Kate and Wills (now the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge) climbed into their ornate carriage and led a procession from the Abbey, up Whitehall, through the House Guards and along the Mall to Buckingham Palace. As the procession progressed the gates holding back the crowds were gradually removed, and throngs of people waving Union Jack flags came flooding towards the Palace. It seriously looked like the plebes storming the Bastille in 1789. I was terrified as they came closer and closer.
But we were still in good position and, when the royal couple came out on the famous balcony, we had a great view. I don’t need to tell you what happened after that, since I’m sure it was covered in the media around the world. There were a couple of kisses, a scowling little bridesmaid, the RAF jets overhead, and a grumpy Queen who eventually decided she had had enough and seemed to make everyone but Kate and Wills go inside.
And then the newlyweds clasped hands, turned away from us, and Kate looked back one more time to see the millions of people gazing up at her. Scoff if you must, but it was truly a significant moment in history and I felt very moved to be a part of it. The events of the whole day are something I will be able to tell my children and my grandchildren in years to come.
My work colleagues were teasing me for getting so excited about the Royal Wedding. None of them were going to head down around Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace for the bank holiday, choosing instead to watch the wedding on TV, attend a street party, or ignore the day altogether. I think, whether you’re a royalist or a republican, the historic magnitude of watching the first day of the next generation of the royal family was an opportunity not to be missed. But maybe that’s just the Commonwealth-raised anglophile in me.
My friend Lexie is visiting from Canada, and I have to give her credit for being the force behind our plans that day. At 7am, I met up with Lex, her brother James and his girlfriend Hilary, sister Poppy, and mom Christiane, in front of Green Park station. We were well prepared for any weather (it is the UK after all), and equipped with a cooler of snacks and Pimm’s, and fold-out camping chairs. We were not as festively dressed as some – there were many brides out there, Union Jack-inspired costumes and even a few Kate and Wills – but we were ready for anything.
We went through the park towards Buckingham Palace where there were quite a lot of fences up blocking the way through to the gates. People were already kicking off and shouting at the security cards so we did eventually get access to what was previously going to just be the media bullpen. Once we had found a spot across from the balcony and set up our chairs, we got ready for a four-hour wait until the wedding and a six-hour wait until the couple was to appear on the balcony.
I have to say that the wait wasn’t all that bad. The weather was pleasant, we made some new friends in our area, we had snacks and drinks, and the media set-ups provided lots of entertainment. I stalked Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera where the Today Show coverage was being filmed, saw Fearn Cotton shooting spots for the BBC, and even got interviewed by Mary Hart for Entertainment Tonight – though our bit was apparently cut.
Just after half-ten we saw the Queen and Prince Philip depart for the wedding. She looked lovely in yellow but didn’t smile much while Philip had an absurd but endearing smile plastered on his face. Apparently, by this time, Prince William and brother Harry had already traveled from Clarence House to the Abbey, followed closely by the Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall (Chuck and CPB).
Soon the loudspeakers around the Palace began playing music as Kate, her father and her sister Pippa arrived at the Abbey, and the four-minute procession up the aisle began. We heard the whole ceremony echoing around us and, I swear, the clouds parted and the sun came out. We popped open the Pimm’s and toasted the royal couple as they became husband and wife, that moment when millions around London, and billions around the world, erupted into cheers and applause.
More waiting was then in store for us as Kate and Wills (now the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge) climbed into their ornate carriage and led a procession from the Abbey, up Whitehall, through the House Guards and along the Mall to Buckingham Palace. As the procession progressed the gates holding back the crowds were gradually removed, and throngs of people waving Union Jack flags came flooding towards the Palace. It seriously looked like the plebes storming the Bastille in 1789. I was terrified as they came closer and closer.
But we were still in good position and, when the royal couple came out on the famous balcony, we had a great view. I don’t need to tell you what happened after that, since I’m sure it was covered in the media around the world. There were a couple of kisses, a scowling little bridesmaid, the RAF jets overhead, and a grumpy Queen who eventually decided she had had enough and seemed to make everyone but Kate and Wills go inside.
And then the newlyweds clasped hands, turned away from us, and Kate looked back one more time to see the millions of people gazing up at her. Scoff if you must, but it was truly a significant moment in history and I felt very moved to be a part of it. The events of the whole day are something I will be able to tell my children and my grandchildren in years to come.
Sunday 17 April 2011
Afternoon Tea
Afternoon tea is one of those truly English occasions, so uniquely British that it can’t possibly be experienced anywhere else. But to be fair, the first time I had afternoon tea I was a young girl in the exquisite tearoom of the Chateau Laurier hotel in Ottawa. But since it was in Canada, I don’t think it counts. No offense, Mom.
Since I moved over here at the end of 2009 I have had four afternoon tea experiences, each one quite different from the last. But before I get into that, I should probably explain what afternoon tea (or high tea) is all about.
Britain clearly has a long history of drinking tea. The custom did originate in England, but it is said to have been brought over from Portugal by Catherine of Bragança when she married Charles II in 1661.
Afternoon tea is served with a variety of sandwiches, customarily cucumber, egg and cress, fish paste, ham and smoked salmon, and scones, with clotted cream and jam, and usually cakes and pastries. When you have it at a teashop or a hotel, it is traditionally served on a tiered stand.
The credit for the transformation of afternoon tea into a late-afternoon meal is credited to Anna Maria Russell, the 7th Duchess of Bedford, while she was living in Woburn Abbey. In the early 19th century it was customary to only take two meals a day, the latter of which took place around 8pm. The Duchess is said to have complained of a “sinking feeling” in the late afternoon brought on by hunger. Her solution was to take a pot of tea and a light snack. She began to invite friends to join and other social hostesses caught on to the trend. It became a regular activity for the upper classes around 4pm before they took their promenade through Hyde Park.
The term "high tea" was used as a way to distinguish it from “low tea” or afternoon tea. The lower classes adapted the custom as a form of dinner, which is why many Brits today still call their dinner “tea’. The words "high" and "low", however, don’t refer to the social classes, but the tables from which either tea meal was eaten. Low tea was served in a sitting room where low tables, like a coffee table, were placed near sofas or chairs. The word high referred to a dinner table, and it would be loaded with substantial dishes like meats, cheeses and breads.
Today, the high tea and low tea versions have all merged into one. And for the tourists, it is a great afternoon activity.
My very first high tea was in July last year at Cannazaro House in Wimbledon with Lauren, Danni, Nat, Liz and Jenn F-H. It was truly decadent with treats like chocolate éclairs, macaroons and fruit tarts piled on tiered dishes. Of course, there was also the high tea staple of scones, clotted cream and jam. We drank tea – of course – and then washed it all down with some pitchers of Pimm’s.
My next one was at the end of August at a posh London hotel, the Langham in Soho. It was part of a bridal show (both Jenny and Sarah had recently gotten engaged) so it was absolutely gorgeous, decked out to resemble a wedding reception. The tables were draped in white clothes, sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the dishes were certified china, and then there was the eats. Vanilla custard came first, then the traditional finger sandwiches, followed by non-stop desserts like warm baby scones, shortbread lollies and pink-topped fairy cakes (cupcakes). We ate and ate and ate, and sipped more and more tea into the late afternoon.
For my third high tea I took Paul, who was en route back to Toronto from his year in Paris, to the Aubrey Restaurant at the Kensington Hotel. It was a Christmas-themed tea since it was December. So the sandwich options included a festive selection, like turkey and cranberry sauce, while the cakes and pastries included little mince pies. The standard scone spread was different too, with choices of strawberry jam, clotted cream and lime custard.
My next high tea was this past weekend at the Cadogan Hotel where Lauren had organized a surprise bridal shower for our friend Liz, who is getting married in Chicago in early June. We had our own little area of couches around low tables which Lauren decked out with some wedding-inspired bits. The bride-to-be was dropped off by the groom-to-be, and she was genuinely surprised. Then we ordered our pots of tea and toasted Liz with teaming glasses of champagne. It was a lovely afternoon, with the usual finger sandwiches, scones and cream, and then some fruit tarts, chocolate-dipped strawberries and raspberry mousse.
While I live over here I hope to add more afternoon teas to this already notable list of experiences. If I can afford it, I would love to try the Ritz, the Savoy or Claridge’s. I’ve got some Canadian visitors streaming through in April and May, so I’m sure I will get a chance to do it again soon.
Since I moved over here at the end of 2009 I have had four afternoon tea experiences, each one quite different from the last. But before I get into that, I should probably explain what afternoon tea (or high tea) is all about.
Britain clearly has a long history of drinking tea. The custom did originate in England, but it is said to have been brought over from Portugal by Catherine of Bragança when she married Charles II in 1661.
Afternoon tea is served with a variety of sandwiches, customarily cucumber, egg and cress, fish paste, ham and smoked salmon, and scones, with clotted cream and jam, and usually cakes and pastries. When you have it at a teashop or a hotel, it is traditionally served on a tiered stand.
The credit for the transformation of afternoon tea into a late-afternoon meal is credited to Anna Maria Russell, the 7th Duchess of Bedford, while she was living in Woburn Abbey. In the early 19th century it was customary to only take two meals a day, the latter of which took place around 8pm. The Duchess is said to have complained of a “sinking feeling” in the late afternoon brought on by hunger. Her solution was to take a pot of tea and a light snack. She began to invite friends to join and other social hostesses caught on to the trend. It became a regular activity for the upper classes around 4pm before they took their promenade through Hyde Park.
The term "high tea" was used as a way to distinguish it from “low tea” or afternoon tea. The lower classes adapted the custom as a form of dinner, which is why many Brits today still call their dinner “tea’. The words "high" and "low", however, don’t refer to the social classes, but the tables from which either tea meal was eaten. Low tea was served in a sitting room where low tables, like a coffee table, were placed near sofas or chairs. The word high referred to a dinner table, and it would be loaded with substantial dishes like meats, cheeses and breads.
Today, the high tea and low tea versions have all merged into one. And for the tourists, it is a great afternoon activity.
My very first high tea was in July last year at Cannazaro House in Wimbledon with Lauren, Danni, Nat, Liz and Jenn F-H. It was truly decadent with treats like chocolate éclairs, macaroons and fruit tarts piled on tiered dishes. Of course, there was also the high tea staple of scones, clotted cream and jam. We drank tea – of course – and then washed it all down with some pitchers of Pimm’s.
My next one was at the end of August at a posh London hotel, the Langham in Soho. It was part of a bridal show (both Jenny and Sarah had recently gotten engaged) so it was absolutely gorgeous, decked out to resemble a wedding reception. The tables were draped in white clothes, sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the dishes were certified china, and then there was the eats. Vanilla custard came first, then the traditional finger sandwiches, followed by non-stop desserts like warm baby scones, shortbread lollies and pink-topped fairy cakes (cupcakes). We ate and ate and ate, and sipped more and more tea into the late afternoon.
For my third high tea I took Paul, who was en route back to Toronto from his year in Paris, to the Aubrey Restaurant at the Kensington Hotel. It was a Christmas-themed tea since it was December. So the sandwich options included a festive selection, like turkey and cranberry sauce, while the cakes and pastries included little mince pies. The standard scone spread was different too, with choices of strawberry jam, clotted cream and lime custard.
My next high tea was this past weekend at the Cadogan Hotel where Lauren had organized a surprise bridal shower for our friend Liz, who is getting married in Chicago in early June. We had our own little area of couches around low tables which Lauren decked out with some wedding-inspired bits. The bride-to-be was dropped off by the groom-to-be, and she was genuinely surprised. Then we ordered our pots of tea and toasted Liz with teaming glasses of champagne. It was a lovely afternoon, with the usual finger sandwiches, scones and cream, and then some fruit tarts, chocolate-dipped strawberries and raspberry mousse.
While I live over here I hope to add more afternoon teas to this already notable list of experiences. If I can afford it, I would love to try the Ritz, the Savoy or Claridge’s. I’ve got some Canadian visitors streaming through in April and May, so I’m sure I will get a chance to do it again soon.
Monday 4 April 2011
Cotswold Cottage Weekend
Although I can’t complain about weekend trips around Europe, I am especially keen to stay close to home and get to know England while I am living here. Last spring, as I recounted in a past blog, I headed down to Cornwall for a cottage weekend with some girlfriends.
I have been to a few other counties over the last 20 months, mostly the ‘shires like Oxfordshire, Yorkshire and Hampshire. This past weekend I headed out to Gloucestershire, and the world famous Cotswold’s, for our second annual girls’ cottage weekend.
The Cotswold’s are a range of hills in west-central England also known as the Heart of England. The name apparently translates as “sheep enclosure in rolling hillsides”, incorporating “wold” which means hills. The area is characterized by adorable towns and villages built of the underlying Cotswold stone, a yellow limestone.
Our little cottage was in Stow-on-the-Wold, a market town on the top of an 800-foot hill. It was built of the typical stone and located around the corner from the oldest inn in England, dating back to 974 AD, but its inside was newly renovated and very modern.
It was the perfect base for eight expats (six Canadians, an American and an Aussie) to explore the rustic surroundings but also return to a home with cozy beds, a roaring fireplace and full kitchen. We ate well, we drank well, and we walked for miles and miles through rolling green countryside spotted sporadically with stone villages.
After a post-work train ride from London, equipped with snacks and bottles of vino, we arrived in the Cotswold’s for a relaxing evening in our weekend home. We woke the next morning to the sound of pounding rain on the stone roof and our hopes for a lovely hiking day were temporarily dashed. But after breakfast the rain stopped, the sky cleared and the wellies were no longer necessary.
We set out from Stow-on-the-Wold, following a public footpath through fields of undulating rain-kissed hills, pastures of horse, cow and chicken, and eventually followed the River Windrush into Bourton-on-the-Water. The picturesque town, often known as the Venice of England, was the perfect spot to end our hike and enjoy a pint of local bitter with some fish and chips.
We were shattered from the trek, filled up with beer and battered fish, so after exploring some shops we took a rest in the grass along the river. Too tired to duplicate our hike, we caught the local bus back to our little village.
After some hot showers and baths, couch lounging and food prep, we lit another roaring fire, opened a few more bottles of wine, and tackled a spread of cheese, crackers, meats and olives. Dinner was Mexican – fajitas, homemade guacamole, the works. The eating just went on and on.
The night spun into more bottles of wine and a spontaneous dance party that somehow ended up including costumes. It was a fun ladies’ night, the perfect one after our gorgeous day outside.
With Sunday we knew that only a few hours separated us from our train journey back to the chaos of London. So we went for a local hike and wandered around the village, then stopped at a tearoom for lunch (I had a Welsh rarebit, cheese and Worcestershire sauce on toast) and cream tea (accompanied by fresh scone, jam and clotted cream).
There was a lot of eating and drinking this weekend, but a lot of exercise as well. Not sure if we quite made that perfect balance, but I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything.
I have been to a few other counties over the last 20 months, mostly the ‘shires like Oxfordshire, Yorkshire and Hampshire. This past weekend I headed out to Gloucestershire, and the world famous Cotswold’s, for our second annual girls’ cottage weekend.
The Cotswold’s are a range of hills in west-central England also known as the Heart of England. The name apparently translates as “sheep enclosure in rolling hillsides”, incorporating “wold” which means hills. The area is characterized by adorable towns and villages built of the underlying Cotswold stone, a yellow limestone.
Our little cottage was in Stow-on-the-Wold, a market town on the top of an 800-foot hill. It was built of the typical stone and located around the corner from the oldest inn in England, dating back to 974 AD, but its inside was newly renovated and very modern.
It was the perfect base for eight expats (six Canadians, an American and an Aussie) to explore the rustic surroundings but also return to a home with cozy beds, a roaring fireplace and full kitchen. We ate well, we drank well, and we walked for miles and miles through rolling green countryside spotted sporadically with stone villages.
After a post-work train ride from London, equipped with snacks and bottles of vino, we arrived in the Cotswold’s for a relaxing evening in our weekend home. We woke the next morning to the sound of pounding rain on the stone roof and our hopes for a lovely hiking day were temporarily dashed. But after breakfast the rain stopped, the sky cleared and the wellies were no longer necessary.
We set out from Stow-on-the-Wold, following a public footpath through fields of undulating rain-kissed hills, pastures of horse, cow and chicken, and eventually followed the River Windrush into Bourton-on-the-Water. The picturesque town, often known as the Venice of England, was the perfect spot to end our hike and enjoy a pint of local bitter with some fish and chips.
We were shattered from the trek, filled up with beer and battered fish, so after exploring some shops we took a rest in the grass along the river. Too tired to duplicate our hike, we caught the local bus back to our little village.
After some hot showers and baths, couch lounging and food prep, we lit another roaring fire, opened a few more bottles of wine, and tackled a spread of cheese, crackers, meats and olives. Dinner was Mexican – fajitas, homemade guacamole, the works. The eating just went on and on.
The night spun into more bottles of wine and a spontaneous dance party that somehow ended up including costumes. It was a fun ladies’ night, the perfect one after our gorgeous day outside.
With Sunday we knew that only a few hours separated us from our train journey back to the chaos of London. So we went for a local hike and wandered around the village, then stopped at a tearoom for lunch (I had a Welsh rarebit, cheese and Worcestershire sauce on toast) and cream tea (accompanied by fresh scone, jam and clotted cream).
There was a lot of eating and drinking this weekend, but a lot of exercise as well. Not sure if we quite made that perfect balance, but I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything.
Monday 21 March 2011
Scandinavia’s Culinary Revolution
I loved my visit to Oslo so much that I just had to write another blog about it. Exploring my desire to be a food journalist (combining my two great loves – eating and writing), and inspired by a birthday present from my roomie (Will Write for Food: The Complete Guide to Writing Cookbooks, Restaurant Reviews, Articles, Memoir, Fiction and More), I want to expand on the distinctive food produced in Norway and the growing reputation of Scandinavia’s hot young chefs.
Beginning in the early ‘90s, Norwegians began to take their place among the most brilliant culinary talents in Europe. The first Norwegian to win the Bocuse d’Or (known as the Concours mondial de la cuisine and frequently referred to as the culinary equivalent of the Olympic Games), was Bent Stiansen in 1993. At the time his win came as a surprise, since the gastronomy tradition of the Scandinavian countries was not as reputed as that of France or Italy. In 2011, the gold, silver and bronze prizes went to Denmark, Sweden and Norway, respectively, cementing northern Europe’s reputation as a producer of outstanding culinary talent.
Restaurants like Feinschmecker, Haga, Oscargate, Statholdergaarden, Oro Bar & Grill, and Restaurant Elk all appear in the Michelin guide today. So a country known as the birthplace of cross-country skiing, Edvard Munch and the Nobel Peace prize, is now also where gastro-enthusiasts will find some of the northern hemisphere’s most adventurous meat and fish dishes. Dried, smoked, salted and fermented, the ways that Norwegians prepare their cod, elk, lamb, trout, reindeer, ham and salmon is plentiful and adventurous.
Like its much larger neighbour to the West, Norway offers snowy mountains, rustic wilderness and a rugged coastline. And also like Canada, the Scandinavian country has a strong focus on game and fish when it comes to local produce.
To find all this produce under one roof I decided to check out Fenaknoken, a traditional food shop recently featured in Conde Nast Traveller. Walking past Oslo’s city hall, the Nobel Peace Centre and the Oslofjord, I found myself at the door of a rustic mountain cabin (or hut as the Norwegians call it) with a stuffed elk nearly licking the side of my face and wooden cross-country skis leaning against the wall. Unbeknown to me, my cousin Kirsti told owner Eirick Braek that I was a Canadian journalist, and he immediately began to pass out pieces of dried mutton, elk, reindeer, goat sausage and ham. (Unfortunately for me, Eirick was all out of bear meat.) Besides its specialties such as fenalår – a salted and cured leg of lamb that Braek held up and announced is shaped like the map of Norway – the shop sells locally produced cheeses, homemade jams (rowan berry jelly), flat bread, dried fruits, and fish of all variety. It is an absolute must-visit if you ever get to Norway.
Other fish dishes that are popular in the country are smoked salmon, dried codfish, salted stockfish, rakfish (disturbingly foul fermented trout that locals see as a delicacy), crabs, lobster and mussels. Traditional fish dishes are torsk, a poached cod served very simply with boiled potatoes and melted butter, and torsketunger, cod’s tongue. Lutefisk is another popular preparation made of stockfish (dried cod or ling) or klippfisk (dried and salted cod) that has been steeped in lye. Fiskesuppe, or fish soup, is a white, milk-based soup with vegetables like carrots, onions, potato and various kinds of fish. The Norwegians also enjoy pickled herring, or sursild, which is often served as an appetizer or on rye bread as a lunch staple.
In terms of game, Norway produces a lot of lamb, moose, reindeer, duck and fowl. Preserved meat and sausages come in a staggering variety of regional varieties, and are accompanied by sour cream dishes or crushed juniper berries on the side.
Traditional meatballs, or kjottkaker, are simpler than the Swedish variety and served in a brown sauce rather than a cream sauce. Farikal, a mutton stew, is mutton and cabbage layered in a deep pot along with black pepper, salt and some wheat flour to thicken the sauce.
Since I was only in Norway for three days I didn’t get to try even a small percentage of the exploratory cuisine that the country has to offer or eat in more than one of the dozens of restaurants that are now regularly rated among the best across Europe. Lucky for me, I have lovely and accommodating family in Norway, and loved it so much I will certainly go back, so there is plenty of time for more adventurous eating ahead.
Beginning in the early ‘90s, Norwegians began to take their place among the most brilliant culinary talents in Europe. The first Norwegian to win the Bocuse d’Or (known as the Concours mondial de la cuisine and frequently referred to as the culinary equivalent of the Olympic Games), was Bent Stiansen in 1993. At the time his win came as a surprise, since the gastronomy tradition of the Scandinavian countries was not as reputed as that of France or Italy. In 2011, the gold, silver and bronze prizes went to Denmark, Sweden and Norway, respectively, cementing northern Europe’s reputation as a producer of outstanding culinary talent.
Restaurants like Feinschmecker, Haga, Oscargate, Statholdergaarden, Oro Bar & Grill, and Restaurant Elk all appear in the Michelin guide today. So a country known as the birthplace of cross-country skiing, Edvard Munch and the Nobel Peace prize, is now also where gastro-enthusiasts will find some of the northern hemisphere’s most adventurous meat and fish dishes. Dried, smoked, salted and fermented, the ways that Norwegians prepare their cod, elk, lamb, trout, reindeer, ham and salmon is plentiful and adventurous.
Like its much larger neighbour to the West, Norway offers snowy mountains, rustic wilderness and a rugged coastline. And also like Canada, the Scandinavian country has a strong focus on game and fish when it comes to local produce.
To find all this produce under one roof I decided to check out Fenaknoken, a traditional food shop recently featured in Conde Nast Traveller. Walking past Oslo’s city hall, the Nobel Peace Centre and the Oslofjord, I found myself at the door of a rustic mountain cabin (or hut as the Norwegians call it) with a stuffed elk nearly licking the side of my face and wooden cross-country skis leaning against the wall. Unbeknown to me, my cousin Kirsti told owner Eirick Braek that I was a Canadian journalist, and he immediately began to pass out pieces of dried mutton, elk, reindeer, goat sausage and ham. (Unfortunately for me, Eirick was all out of bear meat.) Besides its specialties such as fenalår – a salted and cured leg of lamb that Braek held up and announced is shaped like the map of Norway – the shop sells locally produced cheeses, homemade jams (rowan berry jelly), flat bread, dried fruits, and fish of all variety. It is an absolute must-visit if you ever get to Norway.
Other fish dishes that are popular in the country are smoked salmon, dried codfish, salted stockfish, rakfish (disturbingly foul fermented trout that locals see as a delicacy), crabs, lobster and mussels. Traditional fish dishes are torsk, a poached cod served very simply with boiled potatoes and melted butter, and torsketunger, cod’s tongue. Lutefisk is another popular preparation made of stockfish (dried cod or ling) or klippfisk (dried and salted cod) that has been steeped in lye. Fiskesuppe, or fish soup, is a white, milk-based soup with vegetables like carrots, onions, potato and various kinds of fish. The Norwegians also enjoy pickled herring, or sursild, which is often served as an appetizer or on rye bread as a lunch staple.
In terms of game, Norway produces a lot of lamb, moose, reindeer, duck and fowl. Preserved meat and sausages come in a staggering variety of regional varieties, and are accompanied by sour cream dishes or crushed juniper berries on the side.
Traditional meatballs, or kjottkaker, are simpler than the Swedish variety and served in a brown sauce rather than a cream sauce. Farikal, a mutton stew, is mutton and cabbage layered in a deep pot along with black pepper, salt and some wheat flour to thicken the sauce.
Since I was only in Norway for three days I didn’t get to try even a small percentage of the exploratory cuisine that the country has to offer or eat in more than one of the dozens of restaurants that are now regularly rated among the best across Europe. Lucky for me, I have lovely and accommodating family in Norway, and loved it so much I will certainly go back, so there is plenty of time for more adventurous eating ahead.
Sunday 6 March 2011
Winter Wonderland in Norway
I have been physically aching for the snow. This might be hard to believe if you are in Canada, buried under it and longing for the Spring thaw, or in London, where a couple of snowfalls have crippled the city, but I am a winter lover through and through and what is referred to as winter over here is just not cutting it.
So I landed in Norway last Thursday for a long weekend of winter. I didn’t know quite what to expect of my first visit to the Scandinavian countries but, on my express bus ride from Rygge airport – diverted from Torp due to weather conditions and poor visibility – to Oslo, I gazed out at snow-capped mountains and white landscapes dotted with colourful cabins, and I fantasized that I was in Canada.
Though I didn’t plan it, my visit coincided with the 2011 World Nordic Ski Championships at the famous Holmenkommen. The city was filled with cross-country ski enthusiasts from all over Europe – and even Canada. Flags were waved in the streets, tourists and locals packed onto the subway with their skis, and there was a general patriotic atmosphere everywhere we went.
I was finally paying a visit to my Norwegian cousins who I met for the first time in the UK at Easter last year and then again in Tiree in August. I was staying with Kirsti and Henning and their sons Martin (9) and Jonathan (7). Kirsti is the daughter of my grandfather’s first cousin Liz, who is also from the same brood of cousins as Pearl and Mary. Liz met Norwegian Paul at university in Glasgow and has been living in the country since she was 22 (she was 70 last year).
My weekend in Oslo included more than just the snow appreciation that I want to write about here. I visited the Munch Museum, the Vegland sculpture park, the Nobel Prize Centre, and wandered along the Oslofjord. Besides the most incredible Nordic ski of my life, which I will get to in a minute, my favourite stop of the weekend was to Fenaknoken, a traditional Norwegian food shop that I had read about in Conde Nast Traveller, and where I sampled some truly unbelievable dried, smoked and salted meats. (I want to write a separate blog about the food in Norway as a hone my skills as a food journalist, so stay tuned.)
But best of all was the skiing. Oh the skiing. I have been in love with cross-country skiing since I was about five. Since then I have been skiing annually with my father in the Gatineau Hills. This past Christmas I was able to squeeze in one of our traditional skis but the days were warming up and the snow was melting. I loved spending that one morning in the woods over the holidays with the echoes off the snow but the conditions were not perfect. Up at Ullevalseter in Oslo, despite the crowds that had descended for the championships, I had the most perfect ski of my life.
Well, if I’m being completely honest, one thing was missing. My Dad. With my borrowed Fischers on, gliding out across the immaculately manicured snow with evergreens towering and shaking their snowflakes down on me, I got choked up. Okay, I cried. I wished my Dad were skiing right beside me. He would have adored that day. I’ll admit, I don’t get homesick very often, but this weekend, I really missed Canada.
We did 11km, the first half almost completely uphill, then we sunned ourselves (yes, I have a lovely winter face burn) outside a chalet with coffees and sweet buns, before precariously making our way downhill. I am pleased to say I only wiped out twice (I have the world’s worst snowplow) but it would have been much more if I hadn’t stuck to the lakes on the return journey.
As I don’t get to keep my cross-country ski muscles in shape, I am feeling all sorts of random aches today. There is a sharp pain on the top of my forearms, shooting along my inner thighs, my butt, my lower back, my hips, my shoulder blades, all around my ribs from sustaining balance, basically everywhere. But I have to say, to subdue that ache I’ve been feeling lately for the snow, all those other aches are well worth it.
So I landed in Norway last Thursday for a long weekend of winter. I didn’t know quite what to expect of my first visit to the Scandinavian countries but, on my express bus ride from Rygge airport – diverted from Torp due to weather conditions and poor visibility – to Oslo, I gazed out at snow-capped mountains and white landscapes dotted with colourful cabins, and I fantasized that I was in Canada.
Though I didn’t plan it, my visit coincided with the 2011 World Nordic Ski Championships at the famous Holmenkommen. The city was filled with cross-country ski enthusiasts from all over Europe – and even Canada. Flags were waved in the streets, tourists and locals packed onto the subway with their skis, and there was a general patriotic atmosphere everywhere we went.
I was finally paying a visit to my Norwegian cousins who I met for the first time in the UK at Easter last year and then again in Tiree in August. I was staying with Kirsti and Henning and their sons Martin (9) and Jonathan (7). Kirsti is the daughter of my grandfather’s first cousin Liz, who is also from the same brood of cousins as Pearl and Mary. Liz met Norwegian Paul at university in Glasgow and has been living in the country since she was 22 (she was 70 last year).
My weekend in Oslo included more than just the snow appreciation that I want to write about here. I visited the Munch Museum, the Vegland sculpture park, the Nobel Prize Centre, and wandered along the Oslofjord. Besides the most incredible Nordic ski of my life, which I will get to in a minute, my favourite stop of the weekend was to Fenaknoken, a traditional Norwegian food shop that I had read about in Conde Nast Traveller, and where I sampled some truly unbelievable dried, smoked and salted meats. (I want to write a separate blog about the food in Norway as a hone my skills as a food journalist, so stay tuned.)
But best of all was the skiing. Oh the skiing. I have been in love with cross-country skiing since I was about five. Since then I have been skiing annually with my father in the Gatineau Hills. This past Christmas I was able to squeeze in one of our traditional skis but the days were warming up and the snow was melting. I loved spending that one morning in the woods over the holidays with the echoes off the snow but the conditions were not perfect. Up at Ullevalseter in Oslo, despite the crowds that had descended for the championships, I had the most perfect ski of my life.
Well, if I’m being completely honest, one thing was missing. My Dad. With my borrowed Fischers on, gliding out across the immaculately manicured snow with evergreens towering and shaking their snowflakes down on me, I got choked up. Okay, I cried. I wished my Dad were skiing right beside me. He would have adored that day. I’ll admit, I don’t get homesick very often, but this weekend, I really missed Canada.
We did 11km, the first half almost completely uphill, then we sunned ourselves (yes, I have a lovely winter face burn) outside a chalet with coffees and sweet buns, before precariously making our way downhill. I am pleased to say I only wiped out twice (I have the world’s worst snowplow) but it would have been much more if I hadn’t stuck to the lakes on the return journey.
As I don’t get to keep my cross-country ski muscles in shape, I am feeling all sorts of random aches today. There is a sharp pain on the top of my forearms, shooting along my inner thighs, my butt, my lower back, my hips, my shoulder blades, all around my ribs from sustaining balance, basically everywhere. But I have to say, to subdue that ache I’ve been feeling lately for the snow, all those other aches are well worth it.
Saturday 5 February 2011
The Transient London Lifestyle
I love living in London, don’t get me wrong, but I can certainly come up with a list of negatives if pushed to it. At the top of this list is definitely its transient nature. Expats – and even some locals – are drifting through the city for indeterminable lapses of time, posted overseas by their firms, taking Masters’ programs, settling down with British partners, or taking advantage of the amazing travel opportunities that this continent provides. And then, as quickly as they came into this London life, they are gone again.
My reason to be in London doesn’t really fit into any of these categories. I’m just here, living life as it comes. But because of that, I also don’t quite know how transient my time here will be. The timing for this blog relates to the fact that today I am losing one of my best London friends, as well as being a couple of months away from losing another.
Natalie, a London gal born and bred, and one of my best friends since the first day I met her at the end of 2009, is flying to Bangkok tonight, on the first leg of a multi-continent seven months of traveling. Now, I can accept the fact that most Canadians who move to London only last a year or two, but I didn’t expect to lose one of my British ladies. I can’t really blame her though. Nat is essentially taking the same step I did when I dropped my entire life in Toronto a year and a half ago. She’s got that itchiness to explore, the one we all get around age 30. Unfortunately for me, her sense of adventure is taking her away from me.
I do wish her the best and truly believe in the importance of taking this kind of step, as can be seen in the quote I wrote into her birthday/leaving do card: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
My roommate Lauren’s London life is also coming to an end soon. She has been here for over two years and will be back in Toronto in April with her man Scott and a new Ernst & Young job. Since she is Canadian and always intended to return at some point, this one was not unexpected. Still, it is rough to have such important parts of your daily life begin to disappear across the ocean.
I should be more emotionally prepared for these big changes. I mean, my first year in London and the people who were part of my life has already changed dramatically a few times. Canadian friends like Marge, Lisa, Carly, Sandra and Di have all returned to their various cities back home. I always convince myself to stop befriending Canadians but it is really hard to do, they just keep popping back into my life. Canadians in London gravitate towards each other like magnets.
But the thing about London, perhaps another negative, is that it is nearly impossible to get your life in order. At least in my industry – journalism – it is very difficult to earn enough quid to be able to both enjoy London life and save for the future. Some friends who have gone back to Canada mainly did so because they were ready to buy a house, start a family, or smoothly transition their careers. I don’t know what that means for me, and for my future, but I think about it every day.
And I truly don’t know how long my London life will be. I have been here for nearly 17 months and have another seven on my visa. A tarot card reader at a PR party this week told me that I will live in the UK for five or six more years, but I find that hard to believe when my visa expires in September. The reader didn’t provide any specific details to help me avoid that inevitable expulsion from London. And, today, I don’t even know if I want to avoid it. But I am keeping my options open and still enjoying every second that I spend here, especially every second I can with my Canadian and British friends because I never know when they are going to pack up and leave me.
My reason to be in London doesn’t really fit into any of these categories. I’m just here, living life as it comes. But because of that, I also don’t quite know how transient my time here will be. The timing for this blog relates to the fact that today I am losing one of my best London friends, as well as being a couple of months away from losing another.
Natalie, a London gal born and bred, and one of my best friends since the first day I met her at the end of 2009, is flying to Bangkok tonight, on the first leg of a multi-continent seven months of traveling. Now, I can accept the fact that most Canadians who move to London only last a year or two, but I didn’t expect to lose one of my British ladies. I can’t really blame her though. Nat is essentially taking the same step I did when I dropped my entire life in Toronto a year and a half ago. She’s got that itchiness to explore, the one we all get around age 30. Unfortunately for me, her sense of adventure is taking her away from me.
I do wish her the best and truly believe in the importance of taking this kind of step, as can be seen in the quote I wrote into her birthday/leaving do card: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
My roommate Lauren’s London life is also coming to an end soon. She has been here for over two years and will be back in Toronto in April with her man Scott and a new Ernst & Young job. Since she is Canadian and always intended to return at some point, this one was not unexpected. Still, it is rough to have such important parts of your daily life begin to disappear across the ocean.
I should be more emotionally prepared for these big changes. I mean, my first year in London and the people who were part of my life has already changed dramatically a few times. Canadian friends like Marge, Lisa, Carly, Sandra and Di have all returned to their various cities back home. I always convince myself to stop befriending Canadians but it is really hard to do, they just keep popping back into my life. Canadians in London gravitate towards each other like magnets.
But the thing about London, perhaps another negative, is that it is nearly impossible to get your life in order. At least in my industry – journalism – it is very difficult to earn enough quid to be able to both enjoy London life and save for the future. Some friends who have gone back to Canada mainly did so because they were ready to buy a house, start a family, or smoothly transition their careers. I don’t know what that means for me, and for my future, but I think about it every day.
And I truly don’t know how long my London life will be. I have been here for nearly 17 months and have another seven on my visa. A tarot card reader at a PR party this week told me that I will live in the UK for five or six more years, but I find that hard to believe when my visa expires in September. The reader didn’t provide any specific details to help me avoid that inevitable expulsion from London. And, today, I don’t even know if I want to avoid it. But I am keeping my options open and still enjoying every second that I spend here, especially every second I can with my Canadian and British friends because I never know when they are going to pack up and leave me.
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