Canadian Thanksgiving, London-style

 Exactly one year ago this weekend, I decided to attempt to cook my very first Thanksgiving feast. Despite partaking in this annual tradition since I could eat solid food, I have always been on the eating side of the meal, rather than constructing it in the kitchen. That first attempt was a delicious success (if I do say so myself) and I’m getting myself organized today to try to replicate it.

All of my Thanksgivings growing up were a Canadian cliché (in the best possible meaning of the word), from the food to the family to the location. For the latter, we were either at my aunt and uncle’s house, surrounded by family, or at our friends’, the Gibson’s, picturesque cottage, perched on an Ontario lake, as the seasonal colours changed around us. Bottom line, it was pretty damn Canadian.

And the food was always traditional as well. The usual fixings included: a massive turkey, melting after hours in the oven; stuffing, which usual consisted of bread, herbs and mushrooms, and cooked inside the cavity of the bird; roast carrots, beets, parsnips and turnips; creamy mashed potatoes, whipped to perfection; thick gravy to garnish all of the above; and, finally, both pumpkin and apple pies, to suit any preference.

Yes, food is a big part of Thanksgiving. But, equally, as is evident in the name, it is about being with the people you love and sharing the things you are thankful for. Over here in the UK, there is no equivalent to the North American tradition. The nearest I can think of is the Sunday roast – a weekly staple for some and a special treat for others ­– but it is not grounded in the same customs as it is back home.

Brits often ask me what Thanksgiving is all about. I usually give them a glib response: eating turkey and pie, while getting your first three-day weekend after the return to school. I know that’s not entirely true, but the history of the harvest is honestly a bit of an afterthought for me.

So a quick Wiki search brought up the following: The origin of the first Thanksgiving in Canada goes back to the explorer Martin Frobisher, who had been trying to find a northern passage to the Pacific Ocean. It was not celebrated as a harvest, but in thanks for surviving the long journey from England. This was in 1578. The origins can also be traced back to the French settlers who came to New France with explorer Samuel de Champlain in the early 17th century. He also took to celebrating successful harvests. As more settlers arrived in Canada, more celebrations of a good harvest were common. In the US, Thanksgiving also traces back to early settlers. The first celebration is commonly recorded in 1621 at Plymouth in present-day Massachussets. It was also prompted by a good harvest, as a way to feed all the colonists in an annual festival.

The term harvest carries with it visions of crops, fruitful at the end of the summer season, and the stunning colours of autumn, the vermilions, garnets and golds that blanket the foliage as the seasons change. It is also defined by the sun spending less time in the sky, a crisp chill filling the air, and the glorious crunch of newly fallen leaves under your feet.

London, today, is demonstrating a few of these qualities; It is a blindingly sunny day, though the air is noticeably cool, and, where greenery can be found, the colours are turning to dark reds, oranges and yellows. This is one reason I’m inspired to cook up a Thanksgiving meal tomorrow, but it is also the pang of homesickness, the early October craving for turkey, and the desire to get my hands dirty in my new kitchen.

The Life of a Nomad

A nomad is defined, in its modern-day context, as an itinerant, a member of a community of people who moves from one place to another, rather than settling permanently in one location. At the very basic level of who I am, which traces back to before I was born, the label nomad is a bit of an anomaly. Anyone who knew me as a baby, as a teenager and even as a freshman at university, would find it hard to put me into this category. But, I have been living the life of a nomad for the past 13 months.

Before I recount the past year of homelessness, essentially, I want to instill, first of all, how truly lucky I feel to have the family and friends who have allowed me to live this nomadic life. I hope it doesn’t sound like I have taken them, or the opportunities I’ve had, for granted. But, at the risk of sounding insincere, I can’t wait to shake off the shackles of this nomadic life and have a flat of my own.

The notion that place defines your identity is not something to take lightly. I’ve had my share of adapting to a new place, struggling in that place to find the right fit for me, and making what I could of it; but, as life-affirming, character-building, adventurous and liberating as it is to float through life with one laptop and one suitcase, I feel, deep down, that I am a homebody of the most archetypal definition of that word. I need to have a home (whatever that really means), which is mine, to really feel at ease in my day-to-day life.

Allow me, for a frivolous moment, to go back more than 30 years, when my first home, for nearly eight months, was my mother’s womb, and my flatmate was the other half of a split egg, a zygote known as my twin sister. I don’t expect those of you who aren’t a twin to fully understand what this means but, those who know me very well, it is the foremost, most defining living arrangement I have ever had.

Being born a twin, whether you like it or not, means that your identity is defined as one half of a single being. You are born, and grow up, in a bubble that encompasses the two of you. We had our own joined-up life, our own language and our own relationship that, put quite simply, never fit into any other tangible category. For a large portion of our lives, we were two halves of one whole, and as much as I love her (and would never trade the experience), being a twin was quite detrimental when it came time for me to carve out my own place in the world.

All of this sappy observation on what it truly feels like to be born a twin, I imagine, makes it hard for anyone, let alone a single-birth child, to fully understand how I picked up my life in Toronto three years ago and moved across the pond, alone, to live in London. But, for the task at hand, which is my explanation of my nomadic life over the past 13 months, it is necessary background information.

I have become, over the past three years, a proud Londoner, but I have also come to the realization that home is truly where the heart is. Let me convey, at the risk of contradicting myself, how much I love living in London, have grown and been nurtured in my life here, adore the relationships I have built, the experiences – both professionally and personally – that I’ve had, and know that all of this has been integral to my growth into the person I am today.

But, deep down, I just can’t shake it. The French translation for the term ‘homesickness’ is the truest definition of the word I have ever heard: ‘mal a pays’. I miss my home, I miss Canada; I miss who I am in that place, in those relationships, in that true definition of my identity.

I won’t go back to my university years, where I had that first call to create my own identity, and where I was as miserable (and, ultimately, happy) as I have ever been. But it puts into context the way I feel today. That broad, and indefinable, sense of floating through life; feeling so content, but also so unsettled; it is really difficult to fully put into words. In uni, I had the worst homesickness I have ever had (for the other half of my identity, my twin, and for the home that formed me), but today I have a real heartache for my home, that place that is my own, that space that defines who I am.

Anyways, enough of the background context; I don’t imagine I have truly managed to put the way I feel into words. But, regardless of the history, for the past 13 months, I have been living the life of a nomad.

Last August, I was moving out of my flat on Florence Street, the first place in London where I truly felt at home. It was a necessary move; my flatmate of a year, and best friend in the city, Lauren, had made the brave move back to the homeland in May, and had left, in her place, a Canadian friend, Donna, who was a great replacement. Regardless of the new arrangement, we were finishing our lease at the end of August, and it was time for a change. We couldn’t settle on (agree on/afford) a two-bedroom flat in Angel, a neighbourhood I stubbornly refused to leave, so Donna was setting up her new home in Pimlico, while I was hoping to find a flatshare in my favourite London borough.

Without going into too much detail, it didn’t quite work out, so I floated around the area for a little while. My cousin Pearl, my London Mom, kindly took me in for a few weeks, and then I had two wonderful months house sitting for my friends Jenny and John, while they were honeymooning in South America. That took me to Christmas, and a fateful and fortuitous arrangement, which found me in a beautiful five-story house in Angel for six whole months, once again house sitting (for Pearl’s best friends) and living a life that would have never been possible without the connections and relationships I have here.

Fast forward to this summer, to early July, when I was once again tossed out into the nomadic life. I had made plans to share a flat with my friend Nelly, and a friend of hers who was moving back to Europe after nearly 20 years in New York. The search for a flat in London is a soul-destroying and wrenching experience, but I’ve chronicled it before in this blog and won’t dwell too much on that. Needless to say, after seeing our fair share of the Islington borough, a flat was found that would be our home. It ticked all the boxes we had laid out – except that it only became available in early October.

At the time, I was spending a lovely couple of weeks in Canada, so it made sense to prolong my nomadic life until the flat was vacated. Again, I was blessed by the amazing kindness and hospitality of my friends and family in London, and have been able to spend the last two months floating around the city. I spent some time in the spare room at my friend Christine’s in Finchley Road; on a Murphy bed at Liz and Iain’s flat in Myddleton Square; back in the West Wing at Pearl’s, the closest place I have in London to a real home; house sitting at my friend Ellen’s beautiful Georgian flat in Barnsbury and again at Jenny and John’s off Upper Street while they traveled the world.

The end of September finds me now excitedly anticipating the move into my new flat. I am longing for a place to call my home, to free my humble belongings from their storage locker in Camden, and to turn my single suitcase and nomadic lifestyle into a proper home. I haven’t even seen the flat yet (how crazy is that?), but love the neighbourhood, the price, the descriptions I’ve been given, and am counting down the hours until I am settled once again.

I will miss, in many ways, the freedom of the past 13 months. Only someone who has experienced the real estate market in London, the price of renting, the extra costs from bills and council tax, can appreciate how truly lucky I have been these past few months. But, I think, most of all, I will miss the blissfulness of living alone. I am moving in with two girls – which I really am thrilled about – but haven’t been in such a living arrangement since I was 21 (10 years!) and making my first home, post-residence in Kingston. It will be an adjustment – for me, and for my new roomies – to share my space again.

But I am more than ready for this next chapter, hopefully my last big move until I’m packing up my life in London to return to Toronto in a couple of years. And, though the nomadic life has been a real experience, I can’t wait to trade in my single suitcase for a real home, a real place that I can call mine – at least for the foreseeable future.

London 2012 – The Paralympics

I mentioned in a previous blog that I’m not really that bothered about the actual sport of the Summer Olympics. Over the past seven weeks, I’ve come to realize that this event is not really about the sport, it’s about the athletes and the parathletes, the heroes and the characters who have instilled in all of us a brimming nationalistic pride, inspiration and absolute awe.

Months ago, when I didn’t manage to secure any tickets to the London 2012 Olympics, I immediately applied for the next best thing – tickets to the London 2012 Paralympics. At the time, I wasn’t really thinking about the sport and the athletes, but about getting my chance to stand in the Olympic Park and be a part of the amazing experience of living in a city that is host to the Games.

Those tickets, purchased at random many months ago, gave me a phenomenal introduction to disabled sport. I had chosen a Friday night in the Athletics Stadium and a full Saturday day-pass, both over the first weekend of the Paralympic Games.

Just climbing up through the stands of the stadium, where so many Olympic dreams had already come true, was reward enough. But then, as the sky above the stadium turned to a vibrant pink and the air cooled way down, we watched Hannah Cockroft win Britain’s first track and field gold medal of the 2012 Paralympics, finishing the women’s T34 100-metre race in a world-record breaking 18.05 seconds (she would win gold in the T34 200-metre the next week); we saw Dave Weir qualify for the men’s T54 800-metre, the final of which would garner him one of his four gold medals later in the week; and we even saw Canadian Virginia McLachlan win a bronze medal in the women’s T35 200-metre final.

The next day I headed back to the Olympic Park with some friends. We had £10 day passes, which – depending on availability – would allow us access to a variety of sites. I came home nine hours later, thoroughly exhausted but still buzzing with excitement, after watching goalball, seven-a-side football, and both men’s and women’s wheelchair basketball.

The goalball was the most unique to watch, as it is a sport played only by parathletes, so I had never seen anything remotely like it before. There are three blind players on each team, lined up on either side of a court, guarding a shoulder-height net the width of the court. The audience is kept strictly quiet (a real struggle for me), as the players listen for a bell in the ball and the vibration as its moves across the floor, trying to stop it from entering their net.

Next, we headed out to the Riverbank Arena for a stunning view of the Park and a truly humbling match between the Ukraine and the US in seven-a-side (cerebral palsy) footie. And then, we set up at the Basketball Arena, where I was thrilled to get to first watch a men’s wheelchair basketball game (Germany vs Japan) and then the Canadian women’s team take on Australia. I was draped in my Canada flag and seated next to the Cape Breton parents of one of the players, and I cheered the ladies to a 55-50 victory. What an unforgettable day!

Now, I consider myself very lucky to have got those tickets, to have seen the Paralympic sport and to experience a side of the Games, which unfortunately, I don’t think a great deal of other people around the globe got to experience.

The final medal tally for Team GB yesterday was 34 golds, 43 silvers and 43 bronzes. The US came away with 31 golds, 29 silvers and 38 bronzes, while Canada finished with seven golds, 15 silvers and nine bronzes. While I am very proud of the Canadian team, the fact that I live in the UK right now is the only way I got to see full coverage of the Games.

In the US, for instance, the events are deemed not worth televising, with only a few hours of round-up broadcast on US channels throughout the event, and a lot of the sports not scheduled to be shown until the whole thing ended last night.

Very little coverage was shown in Canada either. The Opening Ceremony, which took place on 29 August, was broadcast on CTV on 1 September. A daily highlights show, which rounded up the day’s performances, medal winners and athlete interviews, was broadcast each night on TSN2 and Sportsnet. The Closing Ceremony is scheduled to be shown in Canada today (though it was live in London last night).

As to newspaper coverage of the events, only 200 articles were published in Canada between 28 August and 7 September covering the Paralympics, while the Olympics’ coverage, between 26 July and 12 August, in the same newspapers, counted up to 5,488.

In the run-up, the London organising committee made deals with about 90 global broadcasters worth £10 million in revenue, a record for the Paralympics. However, compare the figure with the scale of broadcasting rights for the Olympics – NBC alone paid $4.38 billion last year for its rights to show the Summer and Winter Games through to 2020. I think those figures are shameful.

It was an entirely different story over here in the UK. Granted, we are hosting this thing. And there is an adrenalin rush that lit us all on 26 July and just never left. But that’s just one reason for the UK to show full coverage of the events, not an excuse for other countries not to do so.

In the UK, this year’s Paralympics drew its biggest-ever television audience, and the attendance at the live events didn’t disappoint either. The night I was lucky enough to have tickets to the Olympic Stadium, I was one of 80,000 in a full house. Most other venues were sold out too.

Later in the week, it suddenly occurred to me that I had never watched the Paralympics before. The reason for this? In Canada, it was never broadcast. Or, at least, it was done so in a condensed, easy-to-digest synopsis at the end of each day.

But for London 2012, four weeks after the Olympics’ Closing Ceremony, I can barely remember the able-bodied athletes and their wins, which I followed almost compulsively from early morning to bedtime. My mind is now so full of the faces, the names and the stunning accomplishments of the parathletes that have mesmerized me for the past 11 days.

During the Paralympics, 40 world records were set, and names like Dave Reid, Ellie Simmonds, Jonnie Peacock, Sarah Storey and Richard Whitehead became household names and heroes. And those are just the British athletes.

The motto for the London 2012 Olympic and Paralymic Games was ‘Inspire a Generation’, and I truly believe that – even if you don’t really care about the sport and you do find the money spent for this extravaganza rather over the top – watching the competitors, following their moving stories (a young boy born without his left hand or a young girl born with cerebral palsy, the solider who was blinded by an attack in Afghanistan, the young woman who lost both her legs in the 7/7 attacks on London), and cheering them on to victory is something that will stay with many young Brits for years to come.

Today, both Olympic and Paralympic athletes paraded through the streets of London (the Brits love a good parade), and we have all painfully settled into our London 2012 hangovers. Rio and 2016 can’t come soon enough.

London, plan your journey

  Here we are, front and centre in the second week of the London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games. For seven years, since chosen to host this thing, the city has been working tirelessly to ensure it all runs smoothly. And over the past few months, there have been numerous warnings about how congested the city will be. We’ve been advised to plan our journeys, work from home and even vacate London – but it seems as though none of this turned out to be remotely necessary.

Now, I don’t really think it’s possible to be over prepared for an event that is so universally watched and meticulously scrutinized, but I do think that it’s quite possible London overreacted just a little bit. Some would say that all this preparedness is the reason that we, as Londoners, are not feeling at all overwhelmed at the moment, but is it possible that the city has actually blown it all out of proportion?

I’m sure I’ve complained about London transportation before. You see, London is a big city but, for some reason, can’t seem to be very efficient when it comes to transport. For instance, in the summer (during our mere day or two of warmth), the tube trains are constantly breaking down; in the winter (tiny amounts of snow), the whole city grinds to a halt; and, in the interim, leafs or rain on the track cause massive delays. So, you can imagine how surprised I’ve been over the past week to see London running like a dream.

We’ve all been joking that we wish the city would be this efficient all the time. I work just off Oxford Street, so I’m used to massive crowds and a clogged-up daily commute, particularly during the summer months. But the past week has been suspiciously quiet. It’s been reported all over the world: London is a ghost town. (Let me qualify this: London could never be a ghost town. There is always people everywhere but, compared to the usual crowds, and the inflated expectations, it is rather quiet.)

Apparently, the Games have pulled in 100,000 foreign tourists, much less than the 300,000 that were expected, and less than what is typical at this time of year. Businesses are suffering, tourist destinations are feeling abandoned and hotels are slashing their prices to try to entice visitors.

And all this is just what it looks like from the streets – in Soho, the City, the West End and beyond. These areas are usually streaming with tourists in August. Yes, there are lost of international Olympics’ visitors milling around, easy to spot with their giant flags and country-supporting apparel, but the flow of people is surprisingly orderly and underwhelming.

When it comes to the venues (as I’m sure has been reported wherever you are), the lack of visitors is also being felt. The number of empty seats is embarrassing, particularly because of all the difficulty there was to purchase tickets. To be told an event you really wanted to see is all sold out, and to then see all kinds of empty seats is really disappointing. I hear it’s to do with the corporate sponsors not filling up their allotted spots, but come on, there are thousands of Brits, and international visitors, who could be filling them up.

Getting to the venues has also been rather painless. Besides the issues with the Central Line (one of the veins into the Olympic Park at Stratford) this week, traveling on the tube hasn’t been too bad. I’m currently staying at a flat on the Jubilee line, which hosts a variety of venues, such as the Olympic Park, ExCel, North Greenwich Arena, Horseguards Parade, Hyde Park, Lord’s Cricket Grounds and Wembley, and it has been a breeze. Ticket-holders also received a transport card in the post, which is good for a six-minute return train from St Pancras to Stratford International. Makes traveling to and from the main venue ridiculously simple.

Anyways, I’m not complaining. I’m glad that commuting to and from work has been so painless, that Oxford Street isn’t rammed with irritating tourists, and that my journeys to the Olympic venues have been so smooth. And I’m rather impressed that London, a city so typically inefficient and chaotic, has managed to run the event so easily. As far as I’m concerned, even with 30 medals for Team GB (as of writing this), London’s efficiency during these Games will be one of its most talked-about legacies.

Welcome to London 2012

Unless you’ve been living under a rock somewhere, you’re likely aware by now that London is currently hosting the 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games. I mean, even the last country on earth to get television (Bhutan in 1999) brought a team for the archery, so this thing kind of has a global reach. And, during last night’s spectacular Opening Ceremonies, there were nations I had never even heard of (Comoros, Kiribati, Palau), so you can bet that televisions were on in even the most remote islands dotted around the Pacific. 

The five Olympic rings represent the five continents – Africa, Asia, the Americas, Europe and Oceania – and 204 nations are expected to be represented. And that, to me, is what makes the Olympics so awe-inspiring; the sense of nationalistic pride and, if only temporarily, a little global unity. Countries like Afghanistan and Libya have brought teams, which gives me a bit of hope around peaceful coexistence and, at least for a few weeks, a shared common goal.

I know not everyone gives a shit. I mean, I’m not really that bothered about the actual sport (if it was the Winter Olympics, I’d be a bit more into the actual events). And I’m aware of the contradictions evident in the fact that war-torn countries are attending this billion-pound extravaganza, while civilians back home are struggling for food, water and a day without guaranteed safety. There is also the exorbitant costs (which I do prefer not to think about), but you would do well to keep in mind that Beijing spent $300 million on its Opening Ceremonies in 2008, so London’s £27 million for last night’s impressive display barely registers.

From my, admittedly, very cushy vantage point, it sure is interesting to watch my city turn into host, something that’s been coming for seven years. Long before I even dreamed of moving here, a bid headed by former Olympic champion Sebastian Coe and then mayor Ken Livingstone in July 2005 was selected. It makes London the first city to officially host the modern Olympic Games three times, having previously done so in 1908 and 1948. And it has been truly amazing to watch the preparations unfold over the past three years, all culminating in the next few weeks of sport and cultural events around London.

So, let’s get into the Opening Ceremonies. While I was watching, I did wonder whether much of what was happening at the Olympic Stadium last night made any sense to the rest of the world. Honestly, if I hadn’t been living here for the past three years, soaking up British idiosyncrasies on a daily basis, a lot of it would have gone right over my head. But I think that’s kind of the point of the Opening Ceremonies; to showcase the host nation in all its historical and cultural contexts, demonstrating to the rest of the world what makes the UK unique.

The presence of the Chelsea pensioners, Pearly kings and queens, subtle soundbites from East Enders and The Archers, a performance by local rap star Dizzie Rascal, and the entire segment celebrating the National Health Service (NHS) would have meant nothing to be three years ago. But I think the bits with Queen E and James Bond, Mr Bean’s accompaniment of the London Symphony Orchestra, the children’s choirs in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, and the shout-out to British film, music and literature, are generally known around the world.

While I thought the whole ceremony was phenomenal, there were three parts that I truly loved. The entire first segment, which traced British history from a tableau of rural English life in the 18th century, through to the vast chimneys and steelworkers of the Industrial Revolution, then to a moment of silence for the World Wars, onwards to the transformative, Beatles-driven 1960s (complete with a queue of Sgt Peppers), and closing with the five iconic rings rising into the pitch-black, cloudy London sky, was an inventive timeline that displayed why its creator Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, 28 Days Later, Slumdog Millionaire) is one of the greatest directors around.

I also loved the incandescent insects that circled the track on bicycles later in the show, glowing against the darkness of the stadium. And, at the end, when five past Olympic heroes literally passed the flame to five of the next generation of British athletes, I couldn’t help but feel a little emotional. The cauldron, a complex structure of 204 moving steel rods and copper petal-like elements representing the nations taking part in the Games, was probably the absolute highlight for me. It was stunning to see the fiery rods slowly rise into the sky to unite in one flame. A fitting analogy for the whole concept of the Olympics. Then the fireworks, exploding in the sky in East London, which we could hear from home in Islington.

It has all made me feel a bit sad that I didn’t get involved much in the last Winter Olympics, when Vancouver hosted the world (I was already living here, after all). But I am thrilled to be an adopted Briton this time around. The world is watching, and I will be able to one day tell my grandchildren that I had a front-row seat.

Switzerland’s identity crisis (and a bit of cheese fondue)

Switzerland is known worldwide for its chocolate, cheese fondue, mountains and neutrality. 

But what I notice most, each time I visit, is the way that it encroaches into the culture of its bordering countries, whether Austria, Germany, France, Italy or Liechtenstein. I’m not saying the country doesn’t have an identity of its own. Well, maybe I am. There are definitely truly Swiss markers that the traveler crosses off the list, but most of these are heavily influenced by another European nation.

Even Wiki basically says the same thing: “Switzerland comprises three main linguistic and cultural regions: German, French and Italian. The Swiss, therefore, do not form a nation in the sense of a common ethnic or linguistic identity. The strong sense of belonging to the country is founded on the common historical background, shared values and Alpine symbolism.”

I’ve managed to travel to Switzerland three times, to each of the three main linguistic and cultural regions. Firstly, the southern part that borders Italy, followed by the north-eastern German part and lastly, the Western French-speaking part.

The first time I saw Switzerland I was 20 (God, I’m old). I landed in Zurich and was soon on the southeastern road to Italy, watching the Alps rise and fall around me. I can’t say that I remember much of the Swiss part of this experience, as I was en route to a villa in Tuscany, the beautiful memories of which have managed to overwhelm any part of the journey there. What I do remember is the striking landscape, traveling through tunnels in the midst of the Alps, coming out into Italy and, shortly after, the terracotta-roofed, sunflower-laden hills of the Tuscan countryside. So, fair enough, I can’t be a good judge of the Italian border of Switzerland.

My second visit was during the Lyl-and-Jenn-backpacking-adventure-of-2004, and this time I was in the northeastern part of the country, close to the German border. This time I properly saw Zurich, then traveled centrally to Lucerne and Interlaken. I do remember, distinctly, that the language spoken was mostly Swiss-German, but I also remember that I got to use my French a bit, particularly as we traveled southwest towards the mountainous town of Interlaken.

I recall that Zurich was small and charming, with Gothic architecture clustered on cobblestones along the Limmat River; that Lucernce was a picturesque town, where we spent a couple of rainy days below the towering peaks of Mount Pilatus and Mount Rigi; and that Interlaken, after a stunning train ride through some adorable alpine villages, green lakes and snowcapped mountains, was a bit of a kitschy, tourist-filled town within yodeling distance of the Jungrau peaks. I do know we ate a lot of chocolate, found the Swiss Franc far too much for our modest backpacking budget, and did some beautiful hiking around the lakes.

This past weekend I was in the Western part of Switzerland, which is basically France. Did you know that 95% of Geneva is bordered by France? Every once and awhile, you accidentally cross the border, just walking from the arrivals lounge to the car rental area at the airport. It’s kind of amazing – for a girl who loves France (except when you’re only currency is Swiss Francs, or bits of British sterling.)

I was in Geneva to visit one of my oldest and best friends, Jill, who is doing an internship at the World Health Organization (WHO) as part of her Masters in global health. The city – though the second most populous in Switzerland, a world-leading financial centre, a worldwide base for diplomacy (headquarters of the United Nations and the Red Cross) – is also the fifth most expensive city in the world and just doesn’t really appeal to the traveler in me. So, we rented an adorable Fiat Panda, and embarked on a nearly 15-hour adventure around the circumference of Lake Geneva. It was one of my Top 10 days of all time!

I won’t get into too much detail, but we headed east, trying to follow country roads in view of the gorgeous lake, through Coppet, Nyon, Rolle and Morges, before we stopped mid-morning in Lausanne. We visited the Parc Olympique, which is under construction and housed in a boat. Then onward, through the more bustling lakeside towns of Vevey and Montreux, before we headed north and into the mountains. With Gruyères our end goal (cheese!), we drove through some adorable Swiss villages, imagining their beauty in the snowy winter months.

Later, we left Switzerland quite effortlessly for France, which basically touches the entire south border of the lake. We found ourselves in Yvoire, a medieval town about 45 minutes from Geneva, where a local Bastille Day celebration was kicking off. Drank some lovely cold bière, ate frites and sausage de veau, and watched the sun set over the lake, as it dyed the white caps of the Swiss Alps a pastel pink. We got back on the road as the fireworks started (the French love their fireworks) and, barring a bit of a detour due to a Roots concert on the lake, we eventually made it back to the Geneva airport to return our rental.

Clearly, my latest visit to Switzerland is foremost in my memory (since it was last weekend and I feel I’ve got a bit more life perception than I did when I was 20 or 23), but I have to say that the Swiss-French linguistics and culture is definitely my favourite. To be completely fair, I could have easily been in France last weekend, which is probably the main reason I loved the western part of the country.

All that to say, after three trips to Switzerland, I still don’t really feel that it has its own identity, or maybe I just haven’t experienced that identity yet. Our hours driving into the mountains were my favourite, the most typically Swiss, I guess. But all the pieces of Italy in the southeast, the German/Austrian influences of the north, and the amazing Frenchness of the west, still feel much more like those other countries than they do Switzerland. I guess I’ll just have to visit again and do some more research.

Ode to a Dram of Whisky

I love whisky. Love, love, love. And I love Scotland. So, it’s no surprise that my visit this past weekend to Glasgow ended up pretty much fueled by the liquid gold. My first dram of the weekend was at a local distillery within a few hours of my 8am arrival in the homeland, while my last was at the airport in the final hour before my flight back to London. There were many others in between.

No one knows exactly when Scotch whisky (very different – and superior, in my opinion – to Irish or American whiskey) was first distilled. It is said that the Ancient Celts practised distilling and that the liquid produced was known in Gaelic as uisge beatha (water of life), which later evolved into Scotch whisky.

Its production was first taxed in 1644, causing a rise in illicit whisky distilling. In 1780, there were 400 distilleries in Scotland, only eight of which were actually legal. In 1823, Parliament eased restrictions on licensed distilleries, while at the same time making it harder for the illegal stills to operate, ushering in the modern era of Scotch production.

To be classified as a real single malt Scotch whisky the liquid must be aged in an oak barrel for three years and one day. It also must be made from only three core ingredients: barley, water and yeast.

It comes from five different regions, each of which has its own distinct taste. Covering the largest area of Scotland are two regions: Highland and Speyside. The prior region, which includes Dalmore, Glenmorangie and Oban, has the most variance in character, from dry to florally. The latter region, which includes Glenfiddich, Glenlivet and Macallan, is home to approximately half of the country’s malt whisky distilleries. It is often described as mellow, sweet and fruity.

Lowland whiskies are regarded as the most light-bodied of the single malts. Situated south of an imaginary line drawn from the Clyde estuary to the Tay estuary, the region can only claim three working distilleries, including Auchentoshan, which I tasted for only the second time on this past trip. These whiskies are malty and grassy, with subtle aromas.

Islay whiskies – my favourite region – are heavily peated, oily and smoky. Islay is one of the Inner Hebride islands, on the west coast of Scotland, and also the name of my future daughter. The rest of the island whiskies are often classed in with the Islays, but some argue that the taste of Arran, Jura and Talisker really do deserve consideration for their own region.

Campbeltown is home to my absolutely favourite single whisky, Springbank, which is usually found at 10 years of age. The town, which lies by Campbeltown Loch on the Kintyre peninsula, was once home to more than 30 distilleries, but now there are just three: Springbank, Glen Gyle and Glen Scotia. These have a peaty and salty taste to them, and are more full-bodied then the other regions.

Though I can’t state this unequivocally (due to experimentation in my teens with whatever I could steal from my parents’ liquor cabinet), my first taste of Scotch whisky was Campbeltown’s Springbank. It is my parents’ favourite and is always in the house. While it may have not been the very first taste I had, it is certainly the one I remember and the one that made me actually begin to fall in love with whisky.

I’ve been on the Scotch Whisky Experience in Edinburgh twice, once in my teens on a family holiday, and two years ago while visiting Scotland with my sister Lyl and friend Jill. It is a fun way to learn about the history of the drink and, since it is not affiliated with any one brand or distillery, a great way to learn about the subtle differences of the various regions.

This past weekend, I trekked to the Auchentoshan Distillery, on the outskirts of Glasgow, to learn a bit more about the Lowland region. Favouring the Campbeltown, Islay and Speyside whiskies, I had never tried a Lowland (except a small sip on my Scotch Whisky Experience), but I had been to a whisky tasting event for work a few months back, run by Milroy’s in Soho, and I found myself immediately fond of the unpronounceable (Ock-in-tosh-in) brand. Planning my trip up north, I Googled ‘whisky distillery’ and ‘Glasgow’, and organized a trip to Auchentoshan, the only distillery in Scotland that triple distils its whiskies.

Founded in 1823 and literally translating to “the corner of the field”, Auchentoshan starts with malted optic barley, which is ground up for the tun. The milled barley is fed, along with pure Scottish lake water, into the lauter tun. It is fed through three times then fermented in pine washbacks. The three distillations take the fermented liquid from around 8% alcohol by volume (ABV) up to 81% (double distillation usually reaches 70% ABV). Next comes maturation, and Auchentoshan uses three different types of oak casks for this – bourbon, sherry or wine – each lending its own unique flavour. During maturation, a tiny percentage of alcohol evaporates from the casks – this is known mythically as the “angels’ share”.

It was a very informative tour and I found the whole process fascinating. Best of all, it ended in the bar, where we got to taste the Auchentoshan 12, an easy-to-drink, malty Scotch, perfect for a noon drink on a sunny day.

A couple of days later, I was in for a different type of whisky tour. I had come up to Scotland for work, interviewing the reward team at the whisky distillery William Grant and Sons for our monthly employer profile. The distillery was founded in 1887, when William Grant first distilled the world-famous Glenfiddich. It now has six core brands – Glenfiddich, Balvenie, Grant’s (a blend of the first two), Tullamore Dew (an Irish whiskey), as well as Sailor Jerry’s rum and Hendrick’s gin.

The whiskies here are actually Speyside, and so are distilled up north in Dufftown, where Grant was born in 1839. He worked as a shoemaker, a lime works clerk and then a bookkeeper before he was the manager at Mortlach distillery, but was keen to start his own distillery. Grant and five of his sons virtually built the distillery from start to finish. By the time of his death in 1923, his own blended whiskies were selling in more than 30 countries. Today, the company exports its products to 200 countries and produces 14 million cases of alcohol at its bottling plant in Bellshill, Scotland, which is where I spent the day.

My photographer and I got to tour the bottling plant, learn all about the history of William Grant and Sons, and about the production of some of the most famous alcohol brands in the world. Later, we did a photo shoot with the head of reward and then I interviewed him for the profile. I spent the afternoon working on the feature in the company’s boardroom, complemented with a fully stocked liquor cabinet, but I didn’t get to taste a single drop.

I remedied this later on, when I arrived at the airport. Ordered one of my favourites – Talisker – at the airport bar, along with one last traditional dinner of haggis, tatties, neeps and whisky sauce. Overall, it was a really wonderful weekend. I get so nostalgic in Scotland, owing to my heritage in the country, and that is probably one of the reasons I love whisky. It reminds me of this heritage, of my feisty great-grandmother Bessie (who I like to think I’m very much like) who always carried a flask of whisky wherever she went, and it makes me feel at home.

London vs. Manhattan: A Food-Off

Let me first preface the following culinary diatribe with a qualification. For nearly three years now, I have been eating my way around London, so admittedly I have a slight bias to the British restaurant scene. But, despite this, and despite my innate competitive spirit, I went to New York City last week with an open mind (and an open mouth).

However, compared to the myriad of restaurants I’ve been to in London, you might think that five days and 11 restaurants in NYC is not a fair match-up. But I think I was as diverse as possible in my picks: from urban Asian fusion to European fine dining to American comfort food. And – I can admit it – I did some damn good eating.

Now I’ve been to New York a few times before, but not since my taste buds began to control my life. I put out a call for recommendations of things to do in NYC and, not surprisingly, the lists that came back were dominated by places to appease and delight said taste buds. I barely broke the back of the recommendations list, but I planned my days in the city quite carefully around my various dining choices.

I want to start off with my favourite of those 11 meals, probably not surprisingly, at a British-inspired gastropub: The Spotted Pig in the West Village. I’d been reading about April Bloomfield, the girl from the Midlands who has been taking the Manhattan restaurant scene by storm, and I had to check it out for myself. Forget that I’ve been to my share of superb gastropubs in the UK, from trendy The Garrison in Bermondsey to Gordon Ramsay’s The Narrow in the depths of East London; it was a pleasure to see such an authentic one in the middle of Manhattan.

Obviously, the chef is a Brit, so she knows what she’s doing. She’s also got two Michelin stars and has been written up in Vanity Fair, so I’m not the only one who thinks so. I started my meal with a lovely pint of bitter, The Spotted Pig’s own brew, while my Mom was quite pleased with her pinot grigio (placated after a 45-minute wait to sit down to eat at 11pm). And those were just the beverages.

Both of our mains were heavenly – and at $32 a plate, very well priced for a Michelin-starred dining experience. I freely admit that my pork belly with salsa rossa and polenta was the best I’ve ever had (and I’ve had a lot!) while Mom could not stop talking about her pan-seared sea bass with cauliflower and hazelnuts.

If I had to pick a favourite country for food, I would not hesitate to choose France. And when I ate at Pastis last week, I nearly forgot that I was in New York and not in Paris. While the food was really lovely, I was more enamoured with the atmosphere and décor, a little French café in the midst of the Meatpacking District.

I also dined at August, a small pan-European restaurant on the edge of Greenwhich Village, which my friend Danni chose for her birthday dinner. The restaurant’s version of foie gras – with a roasted quince puree and toasted challah – was definitely in my top five. If you know me, you know foie gras (that endlessly controversial delicacy) is my absolute favourite, so being in my top five is not a small feat.

While in New York, I was also keen to eat at one of the Top 50 Best Restaurants in the World, as ranked annually by 800 international food experts. Unfortunately, the 2012 list wasn’t published until 30 April, which didn’t leave me a lot of time to make reservations. I was especially dedicated to dining at one of American-Korean chef David Chang’s Momofuko restaurants (this was before I learned he is planning to open one in Toronto later this year!). Chang’s Ssam Bar made 37 and his Ko made 79 on the list this year, but I couldn’t get a table at either. So I opted for his Noodle Bar, one of which is in New York’s East Village.

Hyped as Asian comfort food, the restaurant lived up to the build-up. Mom and I shared a pair of sensational pork buns, with hoisin, scallion and cucumber. I also had a noodle bowl (as you do at the Noodle Bar) of chilled spicy noodles with Sichuan spiced sausage, spinach and cashews, while Mom had the chilled crab noodles with lemon, scallion and asparagus. It was the perfect lunch after a day of trekking from the West to East Village.

Still in mind of comfort food, I decided to next try the American version, at hip restaurant Cafeteria in Chelsea. Mindful of the adage ‘When in Rome’, we took a break from European and Asian dining to eat some proper American cuisine. Still rather full from the day’s dining thus far, I tried to keep it light (as light as you can at a restaurant known for its comfort food) with two starters: mac & cheese spring rolls with smoked gouda dipping sauce and truffle parmesan fries. My god! There aren’t even any words. You might say calorific or gluttonous, but I would opt for blissful instead.

Stereotypical American dining was my theme for my last full day in New York too. I had started off the week with an enormous pastrami on rye that nearly killed me, and finished it off with a sublime burger and pizza. The last two bites were courtesy of Danni, my Brit friend recently moved to New York. Growing up in London, she is fully aware of the truly tragic fact that you just can’t get a proper burger or pizza in the UK, so her two choices were testament to her newly found appreciation of these American delicacies.

The former was from the Burger Joint, a tiny but bustling spot hidden behind a curtain in the atrium lobby of the Parker Meridien Hotel on 57th Street. You join a queue that snakes across the lobby, prepared with your order (because they don’t take kindly to indecision), then dig into a greasy brown bag of the most amazing burgers and fries I have tasted in a long time.

The latter was from a New York institution, Lombardi’s Pizza in Little Italy, which was the first pizzeria opened in the city in 1905. We were already deep into a sunny afternoon of lager, so our pizza with homemade meatballs, sautéed garlic spinach and ricotta was the ideal antidote for soaking up the beer. Probably the biggest pie I have ever had the pleasure to meet and served, as is New York tradition, on a raised, silver dish. It was the perfect ending to a week of truly phenomenal cuisine.

So, who’s the winner: Manhattan or London? I’m aware of the fact that I barely scratched the surface of New York City’s culinary masterpieces, so I don’t think it was a very fair fight. But I also don’t think I did badly in achieving a representative New York dining experience. I’m still going to pick London nine times out of ten, though I will admit I fell a little bit in love with the idea of living, and eating, in NYC one day.