Among the long list of clichéd stereotypes that any traveler brings with them on their first visit to the UK, the expectations of horrendous teeth seems to be the most prevalent.
From a quick google search online, I found some protestation to the effect that British teeth are not bad, only irregular by American standards, where “American middle class children are normally tormented with gratuitous cosmetic dentistry to make them look like Stepford wives, so that any dental individuality is regarded as strange.” If, by individuality, you mean clear evidence that one has never actually seen a dentist, this Sheffield inhabitant may be on the right track. I have seen some appallingly bad teeth over here, but they are also certainly not the norm.
Ricky Gervais, who played a dentist in Ghost Town, was complimented by an American journalist for being prepared to wear unflattering false teeth for the role. Gervais responded: “These are my real teeth. Do you think I’d wear them all the time if they weren’t real?”
Another online comment blamed Canadians (or at least one Canadian, Mike Myers) by crediting the rumours of bad British teeth to Austin Powers. After shifting the blame to his northern neighbours, the Boston commentor wrote: “Americans are quiet on the subject of teeth since our first president didn’t have any, except made of ivory and held together by frightful metal springs.”
While I can unequivocally assert that this particular stereotype is untrue, it is probably reinforced by the fact that it is incredibly difficult to see a dentist in this country. Dental plans in the UK can be attained in a few different ways (I have recently become an expert on the subject after completing an article on the latest in dental plans for my magazine, Employee Benefits). The NHS, the National Health Service, is the UK’s version of OHIP. Despite accounting for 70% of treatment, NHS dental practices are inundated with queues and patients still have to pay most of the cost. Private dental fees, however, are unregulated, and so can run into the hundreds, or thousands, of pounds.
So, essentially, the options are: Wait in line for hours only to fork out at the very least £16.50 of your hard-earned cash for a basic check-up that barely involves opening your mouth, or see a private and probably very expensive dentist that basically bankrupts you. I went with the first option, unaware of the brevity and unthorough nature of the check-up, because I had no choice.
Since the end of 2009, I have been experiencing sporadic pain in the back left corner of my mouth, presumably the growing pains of one set of wisdom teeth, more than 10 years later than those of every single person I know and still the early birds compared to the other, inactive corners of my mouth. The pain comes and goes so that, armed with codeine-laced pain killers, I can pretend it isn’t happening until it subsides for weeks at a time. The past week has been so intensely painful that I had to cave in and have my teeth checked out.
I asked around about seeing a dentist and, despite my extensive research for my dental plan feature, this is how I learned about the real dodgy NHS-funded practices. I was warned that, if I was offered a next-day appointment, I should hang up the phone and avoid that dentist. I made a few calls and I found a walk-in clinic on Upper Street near my flat. I had walked past it on the weekend and was able to case the place before I made an appointment. It looked clean, modern and respectable, so I arranged to drop by before work yesterday morning.
I was very nervous before my appointment, unsure what to expect and wondering whether all the rumours of British dentists were true. I also, understandably, was dreading hearing the words “impacted” and “infected” to describe my wisdom teething and what that would mean for dental treatment down the road.
Because of my hesitation, I was surprised when I was in with a lovely young dentist after only waiting for 30 minutes. I was even more surprised when she barely looked inside my mouth. I told her about my little wisdom, half exposed outside the gum, and my big pain, then she poked each tooth while announcing its number, commented on my weak flossing, and quickly took an x-ray of each side of my mouth. That was the check-up.
The bad news? The damn tooth is coming in sideways. It should probably come out. And, it typically takes up to eight weeks to get a pre-surgery consultation and another three to four months to secure an actual appointment. The good news? The wires behind my teeth that have been in place since the last round of braces came off (yes, I had them twice) are preventing the tooth from moving too fast. The dentist prescribed some heavier drugs, in case the pain persists. Plus, the whole removal operation can take place in a hospital where it will be covered by government healthcare.
All in all, not too traumatizing. Since the weekend, the pain has subsisted somewhat, though it is still rather difficult to open my mouth wide enough to eat sandwiches, which makes me sad because I am in love with mature cheddar and pickle. And I made it through my first UK dental appointment with minimal emotional scarring. I am still very shocked that a basic dental check-up does not involve any cleaning as I’m used to at home. But that does seem to be par for the course here. (Without getting too graphic, even at my first GP’s appointment I learned that the basic female test we all have taken as a typical part of any annual medical check-up is only included here every five years.)
No wonder Britian, known for its revolutionary healthcare system, can afford to offer these annual medical and dental “check-ups” to everyone. No wonder the country is peppered with less than pearly whites. Simply skimping on the basic aspects of a check-up, like an easy teeth clean, can really cut down costs.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Extended Family Easter Weekend
I will wait until my trip to Scotland in August to fully break down my family tree and my Scottish connections – which account for my love for that country and the history of my ancestors there. Most of those Scottish ancestors have been gone for many generations and the Paterson footprint is fading from the hilly, sheep-strewn terrain. But I still love the country more than anywhere else I have ever traveled (and can hardly believe I will be nearly a year on this island before I venture up north).
In the meantime, though, my Easter weekend away from the big city included some of these Scottish connections, ancestors of ancestors who keep me grounded in the UK. I bussed down to Oxfordshire to spend the four-day holiday with my extended family there. I’ve mentioned Pearl, my cousin and London Mom who graciously put me up when I first arrived six months ago and who, thanks to a mere five-minute walk between flats, looks after me at least once a week still. Pearl and her sister Mary are like city mouse and country mouse. Mary has lived for 40 years in a town called Benson (population 4,464), which is about half an hour from Oxford. There she spent many blissful years with her wonderful husband Garrow, who sadly passed away three years ago. They raised three children – Clair, Colin and Catriona – who are all grown up now.
Everyone (well, almost everyone) reconvened at the Red House over Easter Weekend. The head count was 15 at its highest, but started with a lovely quiet night of just two: Mary and myself, curled up by the fire, watching telly and preparing for the crowds to descend.
Clair, Mary and Garrow’s eldest, traveled down from Yorkshire with her three kids ¬– Oliver (15), Molly (12) and Jesse (9) – on Friday, unpacking in the Red House for a long holiday from school. The youngest, Katie, and her husband Andy joined us intermittently from Oxford with their kids – Kojo (3) and Isla (9 months). And Pearl came down from London on Saturday with visiting Norwegian cousins Kirstie and Henning, along with their sons – Martin (8) and Jonathan (6). The only no-shows were Colin and his wife Naomi, who stayed up in Manchester for the weekend.
To understand how I am related to all of these Brits and Scots (and Norwegians), we have to trace my family tree back three generations. My beloved grandfather Robert (Bob) Kerr Paterson is Pearl and Mary’s first cousin, though they fit better into the age bracket with my father’s generation. The age disparity comes from the fact that Bob’s mother Elizabeth (Bessie) Holmes Paterson and Pearl and Mary’s mother Connie are the oldest and near youngest, respectively, of 10 children born 14 years apart to Mary and James Holmes in Greenock, Scotland. Bessie was whisked off to the colonies, and the life of a doctor’s wife in Ottawa, by her second cousin, Robert Kerr Paterson, 19 years her senior, where she raised another Mary and twins Bob (my grandfather) and Libby. In the midst of WWII, Connie married a sea captain in the merchant navy named John Brown from Scotland’s Hebride islands and raised two daughters, Pearl and Mary. Jeana (another Holmes sister and Kirstie’s grandmother) married William, who was known as Bill. They had two children, fraternal twins John and Liz, who married a Norwegian she met while attending university in Glasgow, relocating to a town outside of Oslo in the mid-60s.
There you have it, a somewhat convoluted branch of my family tree. It would probably be a lot simpler to show you an actual visual tree, but I will save that for the summer and a mini-reunion that will see a collection of Scots on Tiree in early August.
So the various leafs of my family tree gathered in Oxfordshire for a relaxing Easter weekend, a variation of our number taking part in both spur-of-the-moment and planned activities. I visited a nearby farm with the kids to see enormous pigs, baby lambs and friendly alpacas; wandered around Oxford for an afternoon with Katie, who works for the university, as our trusty tour guide (My highlight: walking through the Christ Church dining hall which also acts as the Hogwarts’ dining hall in the Harry Potter films.); enjoyed a Sunday afternoon Easter egg hunt for the kids in the expansive orchard behind Mary’s friends’ cottage; and relished in a 15-head Easter dinner and then Easter breakfast with the entire gang.
As you can imagine, we ate well and we relaxed well. I’m so glad I took advantage of the long weekend and fled the city, and that I was so welcome at the family gathering. While I have seen Mary and her grown kids in individual spurts since I moved over here, it was my first time experiencing the whole family (minus Colin) together. While it did make me miss my own immediate family back in Ottawa (and our traditional Easter dinner at the Gibson’s), I am so grateful to have been included in the same traditions over here.
In the meantime, though, my Easter weekend away from the big city included some of these Scottish connections, ancestors of ancestors who keep me grounded in the UK. I bussed down to Oxfordshire to spend the four-day holiday with my extended family there. I’ve mentioned Pearl, my cousin and London Mom who graciously put me up when I first arrived six months ago and who, thanks to a mere five-minute walk between flats, looks after me at least once a week still. Pearl and her sister Mary are like city mouse and country mouse. Mary has lived for 40 years in a town called Benson (population 4,464), which is about half an hour from Oxford. There she spent many blissful years with her wonderful husband Garrow, who sadly passed away three years ago. They raised three children – Clair, Colin and Catriona – who are all grown up now.
Everyone (well, almost everyone) reconvened at the Red House over Easter Weekend. The head count was 15 at its highest, but started with a lovely quiet night of just two: Mary and myself, curled up by the fire, watching telly and preparing for the crowds to descend.
Clair, Mary and Garrow’s eldest, traveled down from Yorkshire with her three kids ¬– Oliver (15), Molly (12) and Jesse (9) – on Friday, unpacking in the Red House for a long holiday from school. The youngest, Katie, and her husband Andy joined us intermittently from Oxford with their kids – Kojo (3) and Isla (9 months). And Pearl came down from London on Saturday with visiting Norwegian cousins Kirstie and Henning, along with their sons – Martin (8) and Jonathan (6). The only no-shows were Colin and his wife Naomi, who stayed up in Manchester for the weekend.
To understand how I am related to all of these Brits and Scots (and Norwegians), we have to trace my family tree back three generations. My beloved grandfather Robert (Bob) Kerr Paterson is Pearl and Mary’s first cousin, though they fit better into the age bracket with my father’s generation. The age disparity comes from the fact that Bob’s mother Elizabeth (Bessie) Holmes Paterson and Pearl and Mary’s mother Connie are the oldest and near youngest, respectively, of 10 children born 14 years apart to Mary and James Holmes in Greenock, Scotland. Bessie was whisked off to the colonies, and the life of a doctor’s wife in Ottawa, by her second cousin, Robert Kerr Paterson, 19 years her senior, where she raised another Mary and twins Bob (my grandfather) and Libby. In the midst of WWII, Connie married a sea captain in the merchant navy named John Brown from Scotland’s Hebride islands and raised two daughters, Pearl and Mary. Jeana (another Holmes sister and Kirstie’s grandmother) married William, who was known as Bill. They had two children, fraternal twins John and Liz, who married a Norwegian she met while attending university in Glasgow, relocating to a town outside of Oslo in the mid-60s.
There you have it, a somewhat convoluted branch of my family tree. It would probably be a lot simpler to show you an actual visual tree, but I will save that for the summer and a mini-reunion that will see a collection of Scots on Tiree in early August.
So the various leafs of my family tree gathered in Oxfordshire for a relaxing Easter weekend, a variation of our number taking part in both spur-of-the-moment and planned activities. I visited a nearby farm with the kids to see enormous pigs, baby lambs and friendly alpacas; wandered around Oxford for an afternoon with Katie, who works for the university, as our trusty tour guide (My highlight: walking through the Christ Church dining hall which also acts as the Hogwarts’ dining hall in the Harry Potter films.); enjoyed a Sunday afternoon Easter egg hunt for the kids in the expansive orchard behind Mary’s friends’ cottage; and relished in a 15-head Easter dinner and then Easter breakfast with the entire gang.
As you can imagine, we ate well and we relaxed well. I’m so glad I took advantage of the long weekend and fled the city, and that I was so welcome at the family gathering. While I have seen Mary and her grown kids in individual spurts since I moved over here, it was my first time experiencing the whole family (minus Colin) together. While it did make me miss my own immediate family back in Ottawa (and our traditional Easter dinner at the Gibson’s), I am so grateful to have been included in the same traditions over here.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Jetting Around The Continent
No doubt one of the best perks of living in London is the easy access to the rest of the European continent and beyond. Thanks to cheap charter providers like Ryanair, Easyjet and Whizzair, a weekend in Paris, Berlin, Prague, Rome, Athens, Marrakech or Istanbul, are right at our fingertips.
To put this into comparable scope for those Brits that take this for granted, travel within Canada, or even North America, is never cheap. Maybe you will get the odd seat sale via Porter, Air Canada or Westjet, but I have never had much luck with those myself. Instead, to travel between Toronto and Ottawa – a journey I used to make a lot – it takes one hour by air (without factoring in the commute from downtown to the airport), five hours by train (which is never reliable), and anywhere between four and nine hours by car (depending on whether your driver is a speed demon or you are departing downtown on the Friday afternoon of a long weekend).
And all this without even traveling halfway across a single province.
In the EU, on the other hand, this approximate distance can take a traveler from Munich to Lucerne, from Budapest to Krakow, across the French Riviera or from London to the Scottish border. In most cases, you can drive through multiple European countries in less time than it takes you to get from one side of Ontario to the other.
I have already taken full advantage of this travel perk with a few visits out of the UK: to Berlin for a week in October and Malta for a long weekend in late November. Berlin was a packed city tour with friends from Canada in tow, well timed with the 20-year anniversary of the fall of the Wall. Malta was ladies only, at least until we hit the clubs, with days spent soaking in Mediterranean sun, centuries of history, and a truly fascinating blend of Italian and North African culture.
I have also traveled around England, visiting and getting to know family members on my paternal grandfather’s side. In Oxford, only about an hour by bus from London, I stayed with my cousin Katie and her family then popped into the countryside to relax in Benson with her mother Mary. Another weekend, I booked the 2.5-hour train from London to Manchester to visit another cousin, Colin, and his wife Naomi. Colin even humoured my touristy and Beatle-maniacal tendencies by accompanying me to Liverpool for the day.
I continue to dream daily of other destinations. Though, if I hadn’t backpacked around the continent for six months back in 2004, the number of places I want to see would multiply by 20 or 30. I luckily weeded through the mediocre European destinations and have specific spots I want to revisit while I’m living over here.
For instance, I have just returned from one of my favourite cities over here, Prague, where my friend Jane was attending, and presenting at, a conference on biochemistry. The journey by air between London and Prague took just 1 hour and 40 minutes. I had an amazing weekend, though I am hurting on this Monday morning - both physically and metaphorically - from trekking the awkward cobblestones for three straight days and leaving the lovely Prague behind.
It was my third visit to the city, though the first time I have been there in the spring (I visited in summer with my sister during the great backpacking trip of 2004 and briefly in the fall during a media trip for Ottawa Life Magazine that introduced me to the rest of the Czech Republic.). This time there was rain, but there was also glorious sunny afternoons spent without coats. Since it was Jane’s first visit to the Bohemian city, I acted as tour guide as we wandered through the various old and new towns – Stare Mesto, Josefov, Hradcany district, Mala Strana and Nove Mesto – each with their own distinct flavour and tucked in along the bends and curves of the great River Vlatva.
Traveling this time without the budget of a six-month student-backpacking trip or the restraining itinerary of a media trip, I was so glad to take full advantage of both restaurants and bars in all these quarters. Jane and I ate very Czech-ly (i.e. no vegetables) with heaps of beef goulash, bacon and bread dumplings, cheeses, breads, potato soup and very, very long sausages. And we sure took advantage of the variety of bars, microbreweries and jazzy lounges in every corner of the city. Beer (or pivo), at about £1 a pint, is cheaper to drink than water, so we sampled as many types as we could get our hands on: Pilsner Urquell, Budweiser Budvar, Krusowice, and my favourite Staropramen, right from the brewery.
It was a fantastic weekend but I have to complain about one small thing. While I do realize how lucky I am to be so close to all of these spectacular destinations that I can stop in for a short weekend trip, the very brevity of the visits can be quite painful. Sure, it seems daft to whine about a 1 hour and 40 minute flight and I do realize how great it is to depart Prague around dinnertime and be home in London for a respectable bedtime. But it makes me sad to pop into these cities for such short visits and then almost surreal to be sitting at my desk at work the next day. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the mini-holidays and I do miss London when I am away from it. I also have no wish to subject myself to the nomadic existence of a lengthy backpacking trip. That time in my life has passed. I just want to prolong these weekends away so that the memories and events don’t disappear too quickly.
To put this into comparable scope for those Brits that take this for granted, travel within Canada, or even North America, is never cheap. Maybe you will get the odd seat sale via Porter, Air Canada or Westjet, but I have never had much luck with those myself. Instead, to travel between Toronto and Ottawa – a journey I used to make a lot – it takes one hour by air (without factoring in the commute from downtown to the airport), five hours by train (which is never reliable), and anywhere between four and nine hours by car (depending on whether your driver is a speed demon or you are departing downtown on the Friday afternoon of a long weekend).
And all this without even traveling halfway across a single province.
In the EU, on the other hand, this approximate distance can take a traveler from Munich to Lucerne, from Budapest to Krakow, across the French Riviera or from London to the Scottish border. In most cases, you can drive through multiple European countries in less time than it takes you to get from one side of Ontario to the other.
I have already taken full advantage of this travel perk with a few visits out of the UK: to Berlin for a week in October and Malta for a long weekend in late November. Berlin was a packed city tour with friends from Canada in tow, well timed with the 20-year anniversary of the fall of the Wall. Malta was ladies only, at least until we hit the clubs, with days spent soaking in Mediterranean sun, centuries of history, and a truly fascinating blend of Italian and North African culture.
I have also traveled around England, visiting and getting to know family members on my paternal grandfather’s side. In Oxford, only about an hour by bus from London, I stayed with my cousin Katie and her family then popped into the countryside to relax in Benson with her mother Mary. Another weekend, I booked the 2.5-hour train from London to Manchester to visit another cousin, Colin, and his wife Naomi. Colin even humoured my touristy and Beatle-maniacal tendencies by accompanying me to Liverpool for the day.
I continue to dream daily of other destinations. Though, if I hadn’t backpacked around the continent for six months back in 2004, the number of places I want to see would multiply by 20 or 30. I luckily weeded through the mediocre European destinations and have specific spots I want to revisit while I’m living over here.
For instance, I have just returned from one of my favourite cities over here, Prague, where my friend Jane was attending, and presenting at, a conference on biochemistry. The journey by air between London and Prague took just 1 hour and 40 minutes. I had an amazing weekend, though I am hurting on this Monday morning - both physically and metaphorically - from trekking the awkward cobblestones for three straight days and leaving the lovely Prague behind.
It was my third visit to the city, though the first time I have been there in the spring (I visited in summer with my sister during the great backpacking trip of 2004 and briefly in the fall during a media trip for Ottawa Life Magazine that introduced me to the rest of the Czech Republic.). This time there was rain, but there was also glorious sunny afternoons spent without coats. Since it was Jane’s first visit to the Bohemian city, I acted as tour guide as we wandered through the various old and new towns – Stare Mesto, Josefov, Hradcany district, Mala Strana and Nove Mesto – each with their own distinct flavour and tucked in along the bends and curves of the great River Vlatva.
Traveling this time without the budget of a six-month student-backpacking trip or the restraining itinerary of a media trip, I was so glad to take full advantage of both restaurants and bars in all these quarters. Jane and I ate very Czech-ly (i.e. no vegetables) with heaps of beef goulash, bacon and bread dumplings, cheeses, breads, potato soup and very, very long sausages. And we sure took advantage of the variety of bars, microbreweries and jazzy lounges in every corner of the city. Beer (or pivo), at about £1 a pint, is cheaper to drink than water, so we sampled as many types as we could get our hands on: Pilsner Urquell, Budweiser Budvar, Krusowice, and my favourite Staropramen, right from the brewery.
It was a fantastic weekend but I have to complain about one small thing. While I do realize how lucky I am to be so close to all of these spectacular destinations that I can stop in for a short weekend trip, the very brevity of the visits can be quite painful. Sure, it seems daft to whine about a 1 hour and 40 minute flight and I do realize how great it is to depart Prague around dinnertime and be home in London for a respectable bedtime. But it makes me sad to pop into these cities for such short visits and then almost surreal to be sitting at my desk at work the next day. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for the mini-holidays and I do miss London when I am away from it. I also have no wish to subject myself to the nomadic existence of a lengthy backpacking trip. That time in my life has passed. I just want to prolong these weekends away so that the memories and events don’t disappear too quickly.
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Weathering Winter in London
Since I consider myself to be a hardcore Canadian, happiest during the chill of mid-February while tramping through piles of snow, I was quite surprised by my own unenthusiastic reaction to my first English winter. I was promised a mild and gentle one, but I didn’t get either. I’m not sure if I’ve become a weather wimp or if it really was just damn cold and near never-ending.
Newscasts have hyped the winter of 2010 as the coldest winter Britain has seen in 100 years, with conditions causing “widespread, persistent and severe” problems. Though I scoffed back in December, I have to admit it has been bad and I have had about enough.
A text from home earlier this week clinched it. The friend reported that it was 12 degrees in Toronto, while we were still bundled up in coats, toques and mittens. Now, as you read this, I must confess, we have been experiencing a taste of spring over the last few days (though tempered with those truly English showers). But it is completely deserved as it comes at the tail-end of an honestly brutal winter.
I have to preface this by explaining to you all that the cold in the UK is very different from the cold in Canada. I’ve tried to explain it to people and the best I can do is this: While the Canadian winter has a fresh and crisp cold that is completely tolerable – even at -10 degrees – the winter nippiness in Britain comes along with a dampness that seeps right into your bones and chills you to your core.
Back in late December, when the chill first arrived, I was the first to scoff at my new friends and neighbours. I was working at the café inside the Virgin Media offices where we were tuned into the BBC all day long. Running up to the holidays, the news was solely focused on the country being besieged by heavy snowfalls. On the national level, I will admit, there was a lot of snow. It came down in the northern part of England and in most of Scotland, resulting in the closure of schools, the destruction of small towns and even a few deaths. One lady left home to pick up her Christmas turkey and only returned home in 2010.
In London, small snowstorms were blown out of proportion. “Blizzards” dropped very temporary snow, but caused traffic jams and transport cancellations around the city. I teased people about their reactions, advising the Brits to visit Canada if they wanted to experience a real winter (Note: Don’t try to one-up the English, even if neither one of you wants to be in the lead on the matter. Apparently, the Americans do it a lot, jousting in a “mine’s bigger than yours" manner that the Brits find quite rude.)
The London snow barely left an imprint. A light dusting was the worse you would see and this happened only when the snow had the nerve to come down without its usual charming wetness. However, unlike Canada, the UK is not set up very well for the season: they have no snow tires and no infrastructure for clearing snow – none on the whole island. I let this fact convince me to lighten up on the frantic news reports and swollen reactions from the general public.
Then the Eurostar broke down due to cold weather en route from Paris and London. Experts found that the failure was due to leaving the cold air in northern France and entering the warm air inside the Chunnel. Headlines leading up to Christmas proclaimed: “Four Eurostar trains stuck in Channel tunnel” and “Thousands freed from Chunnel after trains fail.” Passengers heading home for the holidays were trapped in the Chunnel overnight with disturbing reports of pandemonium reaching London as the air conditioners broke down along with the bathrooms, leaving travelers to urinate on the floors.
While the Eurostar struggled to reassign passengers to new trains and clear up the disaster, I couldn’t believe that something as innocent – and quite common – as some cold air could bring a halt to the fastest train in the world (Central London to downtown Paris in just over two hours). How is it that a country (or two) considered to be on the cutting edge of technology, manufacturing and transport could screw up something like getting a simple train from A to B?
It’s just another example of a continent (perhaps a generalization here, but come on) that is so ill equipped for a little winter weather that the city literally grinds to a halt. When I was heading out to Gatwick on 23 December, the line-ups at St. Pancras spiraled out to Euston Road. I was happy, for once, that I was not on my way to Paris. Instead, I was heading home to Canada for the holidays, looking forward to a real winter, despite the sporadic and chaos-ensuing snow that had recently fallen in London.
And now it’s nearly April. March is meant to come in like a lion and out like a lamb. The first part certainly proved true. We haven’t seen any snow in many weeks now, but the cold chill has pervaded most of the month. In protest, I have started wearing my spring coat anyways along with flats and bare feet. Today, on the cusp of spring, I wandered around Chelsea with my coat unbuttoned and saw daffodils in Battersea Park – all signs of promising weather to come.
Hopefully, by this time next week, when March finally wraps up, spring will have come to the UK for good. And then it will only be a matter of weeks before that glorious London summer is upon us.
Newscasts have hyped the winter of 2010 as the coldest winter Britain has seen in 100 years, with conditions causing “widespread, persistent and severe” problems. Though I scoffed back in December, I have to admit it has been bad and I have had about enough.
A text from home earlier this week clinched it. The friend reported that it was 12 degrees in Toronto, while we were still bundled up in coats, toques and mittens. Now, as you read this, I must confess, we have been experiencing a taste of spring over the last few days (though tempered with those truly English showers). But it is completely deserved as it comes at the tail-end of an honestly brutal winter.
I have to preface this by explaining to you all that the cold in the UK is very different from the cold in Canada. I’ve tried to explain it to people and the best I can do is this: While the Canadian winter has a fresh and crisp cold that is completely tolerable – even at -10 degrees – the winter nippiness in Britain comes along with a dampness that seeps right into your bones and chills you to your core.
Back in late December, when the chill first arrived, I was the first to scoff at my new friends and neighbours. I was working at the café inside the Virgin Media offices where we were tuned into the BBC all day long. Running up to the holidays, the news was solely focused on the country being besieged by heavy snowfalls. On the national level, I will admit, there was a lot of snow. It came down in the northern part of England and in most of Scotland, resulting in the closure of schools, the destruction of small towns and even a few deaths. One lady left home to pick up her Christmas turkey and only returned home in 2010.
In London, small snowstorms were blown out of proportion. “Blizzards” dropped very temporary snow, but caused traffic jams and transport cancellations around the city. I teased people about their reactions, advising the Brits to visit Canada if they wanted to experience a real winter (Note: Don’t try to one-up the English, even if neither one of you wants to be in the lead on the matter. Apparently, the Americans do it a lot, jousting in a “mine’s bigger than yours" manner that the Brits find quite rude.)
The London snow barely left an imprint. A light dusting was the worse you would see and this happened only when the snow had the nerve to come down without its usual charming wetness. However, unlike Canada, the UK is not set up very well for the season: they have no snow tires and no infrastructure for clearing snow – none on the whole island. I let this fact convince me to lighten up on the frantic news reports and swollen reactions from the general public.
Then the Eurostar broke down due to cold weather en route from Paris and London. Experts found that the failure was due to leaving the cold air in northern France and entering the warm air inside the Chunnel. Headlines leading up to Christmas proclaimed: “Four Eurostar trains stuck in Channel tunnel” and “Thousands freed from Chunnel after trains fail.” Passengers heading home for the holidays were trapped in the Chunnel overnight with disturbing reports of pandemonium reaching London as the air conditioners broke down along with the bathrooms, leaving travelers to urinate on the floors.
While the Eurostar struggled to reassign passengers to new trains and clear up the disaster, I couldn’t believe that something as innocent – and quite common – as some cold air could bring a halt to the fastest train in the world (Central London to downtown Paris in just over two hours). How is it that a country (or two) considered to be on the cutting edge of technology, manufacturing and transport could screw up something like getting a simple train from A to B?
It’s just another example of a continent (perhaps a generalization here, but come on) that is so ill equipped for a little winter weather that the city literally grinds to a halt. When I was heading out to Gatwick on 23 December, the line-ups at St. Pancras spiraled out to Euston Road. I was happy, for once, that I was not on my way to Paris. Instead, I was heading home to Canada for the holidays, looking forward to a real winter, despite the sporadic and chaos-ensuing snow that had recently fallen in London.
And now it’s nearly April. March is meant to come in like a lion and out like a lamb. The first part certainly proved true. We haven’t seen any snow in many weeks now, but the cold chill has pervaded most of the month. In protest, I have started wearing my spring coat anyways along with flats and bare feet. Today, on the cusp of spring, I wandered around Chelsea with my coat unbuttoned and saw daffodils in Battersea Park – all signs of promising weather to come.
Hopefully, by this time next week, when March finally wraps up, spring will have come to the UK for good. And then it will only be a matter of weeks before that glorious London summer is upon us.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Whose To Blame For The World’s Worst Hangover?
When we both moved to London within a few days of each other back in September, my friend Marge and I both experienced completely opposite reactions to the London air.
It is well-known that London has the absolute worse air quality in the UK – and probably ranks up there as one of the most polluted cities in the world too. Newcomers complain of headaches, dizziness and nausea – Marge exhibited all three.
But I had none of these symptoms. (Probably because Toronto air quality is worse than Montreal’s, so I had become acclimatized to a certain level of pollution.) Instead, I got a nice blend of the big three when I woke up with my first British hangover.
Now, I am no stranger to the hangover. We are very well acquainted, he and I; maybe even a little too close, in fact. And, of course, the older I get (29 yesterday), the worse the hangovers are. So perhaps my brutal mornings-after over here are just an indication that I am too old to be drinking to excess – or binge-drinking, as the experts prefer to call it.
Though people do drink a great amount in North America, this type of behaviour is very, very prevalent over here. A poll in 2009 of the entire continent found that the UK has the third-highest number of teenagers with an alcohol problem in 35 countries. And a study conducted the same year found that it’s not just the young’uns with the difficulty: more than a third of British adults drink over the safe daily alcohol limit.
There are many reasons for this, of course, but I think the most likely cause of a typical Friday night turning into a drunken disaster is the early pub-culture that characterizes the country. In Toronto, when I go out to a bar on the weekend, I usually venture out well after 11PM, often even later. But you will be hard-pressed to find a pub even open at that time in London. Revelers hit the pub as soon as they leave the office and throw back beer and mixed drinks and shots until the place closes down. Usually, this binge-drinking takes place on an empty stomach, which exaggerates the consequences. An early drinker may get home before midnight (that is, if they manage to catch the right train or avoid passing out in the street), but they will certainly still feel the effects in the morning (I can attest to this).
But let’s return to my investigation into the culprit(s) of the worst hangovers of my life. The aging theory has been likely disproved by the fact that mere days had passed between my last typical hangover in Toronto and the hell I encountered one morning in my first week in London.
I started doing some research. I usually stick to gin and tonics or red wine, not to mention the occasional beer. I thought that, by comparing the proofs of these liquors as they are available in Canada and in the UK, I would find a startling disparity.
But Gordon’s London Dry Gin, which was mixed with tonic water for the first time in 1858, seems to be available at roughly the same proof in Canada as it is in the UK. A 750ml bottle of gin in Canada has a proof of 40%. A 700ml bottle in London has a 37.5% proof. A 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon that I’ve become quite fond of – because it costs £5.99 at most off-licenses – contains 13.5% alcohol in a 750ml bottle, but a similarly-sized cab sauv in Canada is also 13.5% proof. The proof was proving my theory wrong.
Next I looked at my beer consumption, convinced I would prove my theory there. Now, once you’ve spent time with a flavourful golden ale, a sweet and malty strong ale or a well-hopped English bitter, there is no returning to Canada’s well-intentioned Keiths, Molsons and Sleemans – no matter how proud you are of your homegrown lagers.
But besides the delicious taste of home-brewed British beers, the alcohol proof is not any higher. Across the world, a typical bottle or pint of beer ranks between 3% and 12%. In Canada, that lovely green long-necked Keiths offers a proof of 5%, the average for Canadian-brewed lagers and pilsners. My favourite bitters and ales in the UK come in about the same, often even below 5%.
So I guess I can’t place the blame for my cruel hangovers on the alcohol proofs in my beverages of choice. I suspect some of the responsibility falls on my habit of rounding off the night with a glass or two of neat whiskey. But my love for the Scottish liquid gold is a topic for another day.
And this brings me around full circle. I’ve asked around, trying to identify the guilty party, and many have mentioned that perhaps it is my reaction to the pollution in London. Instead of noticing the poor air quality on an average Tuesday afternoon, I feel the pain – in combination with my alcohol-induced headaches – on a Saturday or Sunday morning (okay, afternoon).
Whether one perpetrator is to blame or whether it’s simply a blending of all the details mentioned above, I’m not convinced that the mystery has been solved. But I must leave off for the day and take my focus away from alcohol and hangovers. I only just recovered from yesterday’s masterpiece and I don’t think I could survive a relapse.
It is well-known that London has the absolute worse air quality in the UK – and probably ranks up there as one of the most polluted cities in the world too. Newcomers complain of headaches, dizziness and nausea – Marge exhibited all three.
But I had none of these symptoms. (Probably because Toronto air quality is worse than Montreal’s, so I had become acclimatized to a certain level of pollution.) Instead, I got a nice blend of the big three when I woke up with my first British hangover.
Now, I am no stranger to the hangover. We are very well acquainted, he and I; maybe even a little too close, in fact. And, of course, the older I get (29 yesterday), the worse the hangovers are. So perhaps my brutal mornings-after over here are just an indication that I am too old to be drinking to excess – or binge-drinking, as the experts prefer to call it.
Though people do drink a great amount in North America, this type of behaviour is very, very prevalent over here. A poll in 2009 of the entire continent found that the UK has the third-highest number of teenagers with an alcohol problem in 35 countries. And a study conducted the same year found that it’s not just the young’uns with the difficulty: more than a third of British adults drink over the safe daily alcohol limit.
There are many reasons for this, of course, but I think the most likely cause of a typical Friday night turning into a drunken disaster is the early pub-culture that characterizes the country. In Toronto, when I go out to a bar on the weekend, I usually venture out well after 11PM, often even later. But you will be hard-pressed to find a pub even open at that time in London. Revelers hit the pub as soon as they leave the office and throw back beer and mixed drinks and shots until the place closes down. Usually, this binge-drinking takes place on an empty stomach, which exaggerates the consequences. An early drinker may get home before midnight (that is, if they manage to catch the right train or avoid passing out in the street), but they will certainly still feel the effects in the morning (I can attest to this).
But let’s return to my investigation into the culprit(s) of the worst hangovers of my life. The aging theory has been likely disproved by the fact that mere days had passed between my last typical hangover in Toronto and the hell I encountered one morning in my first week in London.
I started doing some research. I usually stick to gin and tonics or red wine, not to mention the occasional beer. I thought that, by comparing the proofs of these liquors as they are available in Canada and in the UK, I would find a startling disparity.
But Gordon’s London Dry Gin, which was mixed with tonic water for the first time in 1858, seems to be available at roughly the same proof in Canada as it is in the UK. A 750ml bottle of gin in Canada has a proof of 40%. A 700ml bottle in London has a 37.5% proof. A 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon that I’ve become quite fond of – because it costs £5.99 at most off-licenses – contains 13.5% alcohol in a 750ml bottle, but a similarly-sized cab sauv in Canada is also 13.5% proof. The proof was proving my theory wrong.
Next I looked at my beer consumption, convinced I would prove my theory there. Now, once you’ve spent time with a flavourful golden ale, a sweet and malty strong ale or a well-hopped English bitter, there is no returning to Canada’s well-intentioned Keiths, Molsons and Sleemans – no matter how proud you are of your homegrown lagers.
But besides the delicious taste of home-brewed British beers, the alcohol proof is not any higher. Across the world, a typical bottle or pint of beer ranks between 3% and 12%. In Canada, that lovely green long-necked Keiths offers a proof of 5%, the average for Canadian-brewed lagers and pilsners. My favourite bitters and ales in the UK come in about the same, often even below 5%.
So I guess I can’t place the blame for my cruel hangovers on the alcohol proofs in my beverages of choice. I suspect some of the responsibility falls on my habit of rounding off the night with a glass or two of neat whiskey. But my love for the Scottish liquid gold is a topic for another day.
And this brings me around full circle. I’ve asked around, trying to identify the guilty party, and many have mentioned that perhaps it is my reaction to the pollution in London. Instead of noticing the poor air quality on an average Tuesday afternoon, I feel the pain – in combination with my alcohol-induced headaches – on a Saturday or Sunday morning (okay, afternoon).
Whether one perpetrator is to blame or whether it’s simply a blending of all the details mentioned above, I’m not convinced that the mystery has been solved. But I must leave off for the day and take my focus away from alcohol and hangovers. I only just recovered from yesterday’s masterpiece and I don’t think I could survive a relapse.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
Lost In Translation
There is more than just a physical ocean between Canada and the UK. The transatlantic flight will deposit any North American on the shores of a land with deep traditions, bizarre terminology, fervent nationalism and glaring stereotypes. But the differences are more than just a collection of British slang: like loo or WC rather than bathroom or snog and shag rather than fooling around. There is a cultural difference, a subtlety in the mannerisms as well as the terminology, a strict social behaviour, an unofficial code of conduct that is indicative of a very real “Englishness.”
As I was considering this, I happened to pick up a book called “Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour.” Written by a social anthropologist, and a Brit at that, the book sets out to discover the unspoken rules of English behaviour and determine what these rules say about a national identity. The author, Kate Fox, has been researching various aspects of English culture – in pubs, at racecourses, in shops, in nightclubs, on trains and on street corners – for the past 12 years.
The chapters cover off the blatant stereotypes: the weather, humour rules, pub-talk and linguistic class codes. Some would suggest that a book like this would “get beyond the usual stereotypes” of a culture, but Fox points out that this seems to “reflect an assumption that a stereotype is almost by definition ‘not true’” and that “stereotypes about English national character probably contain at least a grain or two of truth.” After nearly six months of living among them, I can tell you that these British stereotypes are almost all true.
I’m not about to start listing the vast scope of English stereotypes. Chances are, most of you are already aware of them. And I won’t be going as deep as Kate Fox in unearthing an English cultural identity. Truth is, I have only just started her book. I might have more to add – and perhaps a second installment on this topic ¬– once I have finished it (or once I’ve moved on to Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island”).
In the meantime, I wanted to share a few of my own observations about Britain’s unofficial codes of language and show you how easily a Canadian can get lost in translation.
First of all, let’s start with the basics: the vocabulary of the greeting. British people rarely say: How are you? Instead, they ask: Are You Alright? This one really threw me when I first got here. The tone in which the question comes at you implies that you are unwell or that you look poorly. Whenever I heard it in my first few weeks here, my first impulse was to check a mirror to see if there was some sign of damage or sickliness on my face.
In my experience, people do not say Cheerio though they do say Cheers. I have often heard ta to mean thank you. Luckily, no one has been angry enough to tell me to sod off or to call me any of the rather colourful lists of insults listed here: bugger, dodgy, wanker, grotty, plonker, nutter, daft, prat, slag, arsehole, cock-up, manky, pikey. Also, to have red hair and be a ginger is particularly frowned upon here though I haven’t quite figured out the reasoning for this one.
I have, however, had a few odd experiences with the exact opposite. In Britain, complete strangers will address you with rather intimate jargon. While I was working at one of the cafés, the cooks called me baby and babe. I was also addressed as sweetie, sweetheart, love and darling. At first I was kind of pissed off about this misplaced familiarity, until babe came from a very attractive young stockbroker. I also learned for the first time that a man will call a woman a mate, a term I always associated with man-to-man interaction.
When I told the same cute stockbroker about my contract at the magazine, he asked me if I was chuffed about it and I stared blankly back at him. Apparently, the term is a Liverpudlian one that means proud or pleased. The list goes on and on: a cookie is a biscuit, a shirt is a jersey, soccer is football, a stroller is a pushchair, fries are chips and chips are crisps, garbage is rubbish, a hot guy is fit, an apartment is a flat, underwear are knickers, a vacuum is a hoover, a dollar is a quid, a television is a telly, university is uni, a cell phone is a mobile, the subway is the tube, voicemail is an answerphone, the main street is the high street, and drunk driving is drink driving.
There are other words that people back in Canada will be aware of: brolly for umbrella, wellie for rainboots and Mac for a raincoat. No surprise here that these all tie in with that stereotypical English weather. Food also has its own slang vocabulary: bangers and mash are sausages and mashed potatoes, a bap is a soft bread roll, a butty is a sandwich, a sandwich is a sarnie, nosh is food in general, and aubergines and courgettes are eggplants and zucchinis.
I have been on the piss, or drunk, which is also called rat-arsed and squiffy. When you sleep in after one of these nights, you are having a lie in. You can proclaim bloody hell, blimey, bollocks or be buggered. If you are trying to figure out a problem, you are sussing it out. If you are teasing someone, you are taking the piss. Instead of telling someone to take their chances, you tell them to suck it and see. (Not too sure about this one.) People dress up for Halloween, a new holiday (or hols) over here, in fancy dress. To hit the beach, they change into their swimming costumes (or cozies). Though belonging to a distinct generation, some people will tell you they are off to spend a penny when they go to the toilet.
I could go on and on, but the bottom line is: a Canadian could get quite confused over here. And this one certainly has. However, as the months pass by, I am starting to figure it all out and even to adapt the stereotypical slang into my own vocabulary. You will never hear me say ta, I guarantee that, but I can’t promise that I won’t come home calling my iPhone my mobile, some guy a bloke or my favourite vegetable an aubergine. The thing is: If you can’t beat them you just have to join them.
As I was considering this, I happened to pick up a book called “Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behaviour.” Written by a social anthropologist, and a Brit at that, the book sets out to discover the unspoken rules of English behaviour and determine what these rules say about a national identity. The author, Kate Fox, has been researching various aspects of English culture – in pubs, at racecourses, in shops, in nightclubs, on trains and on street corners – for the past 12 years.
The chapters cover off the blatant stereotypes: the weather, humour rules, pub-talk and linguistic class codes. Some would suggest that a book like this would “get beyond the usual stereotypes” of a culture, but Fox points out that this seems to “reflect an assumption that a stereotype is almost by definition ‘not true’” and that “stereotypes about English national character probably contain at least a grain or two of truth.” After nearly six months of living among them, I can tell you that these British stereotypes are almost all true.
I’m not about to start listing the vast scope of English stereotypes. Chances are, most of you are already aware of them. And I won’t be going as deep as Kate Fox in unearthing an English cultural identity. Truth is, I have only just started her book. I might have more to add – and perhaps a second installment on this topic ¬– once I have finished it (or once I’ve moved on to Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island”).
In the meantime, I wanted to share a few of my own observations about Britain’s unofficial codes of language and show you how easily a Canadian can get lost in translation.
First of all, let’s start with the basics: the vocabulary of the greeting. British people rarely say: How are you? Instead, they ask: Are You Alright? This one really threw me when I first got here. The tone in which the question comes at you implies that you are unwell or that you look poorly. Whenever I heard it in my first few weeks here, my first impulse was to check a mirror to see if there was some sign of damage or sickliness on my face.
In my experience, people do not say Cheerio though they do say Cheers. I have often heard ta to mean thank you. Luckily, no one has been angry enough to tell me to sod off or to call me any of the rather colourful lists of insults listed here: bugger, dodgy, wanker, grotty, plonker, nutter, daft, prat, slag, arsehole, cock-up, manky, pikey. Also, to have red hair and be a ginger is particularly frowned upon here though I haven’t quite figured out the reasoning for this one.
I have, however, had a few odd experiences with the exact opposite. In Britain, complete strangers will address you with rather intimate jargon. While I was working at one of the cafés, the cooks called me baby and babe. I was also addressed as sweetie, sweetheart, love and darling. At first I was kind of pissed off about this misplaced familiarity, until babe came from a very attractive young stockbroker. I also learned for the first time that a man will call a woman a mate, a term I always associated with man-to-man interaction.
When I told the same cute stockbroker about my contract at the magazine, he asked me if I was chuffed about it and I stared blankly back at him. Apparently, the term is a Liverpudlian one that means proud or pleased. The list goes on and on: a cookie is a biscuit, a shirt is a jersey, soccer is football, a stroller is a pushchair, fries are chips and chips are crisps, garbage is rubbish, a hot guy is fit, an apartment is a flat, underwear are knickers, a vacuum is a hoover, a dollar is a quid, a television is a telly, university is uni, a cell phone is a mobile, the subway is the tube, voicemail is an answerphone, the main street is the high street, and drunk driving is drink driving.
There are other words that people back in Canada will be aware of: brolly for umbrella, wellie for rainboots and Mac for a raincoat. No surprise here that these all tie in with that stereotypical English weather. Food also has its own slang vocabulary: bangers and mash are sausages and mashed potatoes, a bap is a soft bread roll, a butty is a sandwich, a sandwich is a sarnie, nosh is food in general, and aubergines and courgettes are eggplants and zucchinis.
I have been on the piss, or drunk, which is also called rat-arsed and squiffy. When you sleep in after one of these nights, you are having a lie in. You can proclaim bloody hell, blimey, bollocks or be buggered. If you are trying to figure out a problem, you are sussing it out. If you are teasing someone, you are taking the piss. Instead of telling someone to take their chances, you tell them to suck it and see. (Not too sure about this one.) People dress up for Halloween, a new holiday (or hols) over here, in fancy dress. To hit the beach, they change into their swimming costumes (or cozies). Though belonging to a distinct generation, some people will tell you they are off to spend a penny when they go to the toilet.
I could go on and on, but the bottom line is: a Canadian could get quite confused over here. And this one certainly has. However, as the months pass by, I am starting to figure it all out and even to adapt the stereotypical slang into my own vocabulary. You will never hear me say ta, I guarantee that, but I can’t promise that I won’t come home calling my iPhone my mobile, some guy a bloke or my favourite vegetable an aubergine. The thing is: If you can’t beat them you just have to join them.
Monday, 1 March 2010
Hockey Night in London
When Sid the Kid scored a tie-breaking goal seven minutes and 40 seconds into the overtime period of the men’s hockey finals last night, and put a subsequent end to the most stressful three hours of my life, I was overwhelmed with an odd combination of pride, happiness and melancholy. At that historic moment (which I will use to regale generations to come in the same way my Dad still talks about Paul Henderson’s goal in the 1972 Summit Series against the Soviets) I was certainly never more proud to be Canadian. But I was also so sad that I hadn’t been on Canadian soil to witness it.
Sure, I was in a tension-filled and suddenly joyous room of Canadians wearing Team Canada toques, Vancouver 2010 red mitts and a maple leaf-spotted tie, but when I walked into the street after the game to make my way back to my flat, the sidewalks were eerily silent. Anywhere in Canada, the sounds of celebration, drunken rioting and general merriment would have drifted through the air. In London, not a single person on the walk home seemed aware of the absolute significance that this night held for me.
And why should they? Britons don’t care about hockey. They care about football, rugby and cricket – in that order. A few hours before the men’s hockey final, Wayne Rooney led Manchester United to the Carling Cup finals. (That’s something to do with football, I’m told.) And even I, a serious hockey fan since birth, had spent the better part of my Sunday afternoon at my very first live rugby game, drinking Guinness and irritating my friends with innane questions about what exactly was happening on the field.
This initiation into one of the UK’s favourite sports capped off with the greatest hockey moment of my lifetime really did make for a wonderful Sunday in London. The sheer contrast between these two events was the most interesting part of the day.
Warned about outdoor conditions and the threat of rain, I bundled up and trekked out to Watford with my flatmates, their friends and my Canadian friend Lauren. It was cloudy but the rain had stopped by the time we got there on the overground. Even though I had piles of questions about the rules, the scoring and the lack of protective gear, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It was one of those UK experiences I am thrilled to add to my life list.
But who cares about rugby? Let’s get back to the Olympics.
I might have mentioned before that I have not been too impressed with Britain’s coverage of the Olympics. Articles have been snide, ungenerous and downright mean. But, this morning, when I was reading through a few newspapers at my desk, I got teary-eyed at the Vancouver 2010 headlines. Granted, the Daily Telegraph had buried their coverage on page 21 of the Sports section while the Times had included it after pages of football and rugby news, but what little they did have to say was particularly glowing towards my home country (if not implanted with the odd spiteful remark).
“… The win means Canada has 14 gold medals, more than any nation has managed at a Winter Games. The Canadian public has not so much embraced the Olympic circus as ravaged it behind the podium, and yes, the inflated medal target notwithstanding, Canada has owned the bloody thing …
“… In the hysteria it felt like official confirmation that the Olympics have been a huge success. The problems, and they have existed, despite certain claims, were forgotten. All that was left was sport. In years to come people will remember Alex Bilodeau winning Canada’s first Olympic gold at home rather than the ripping up of 28,000 tickets because of safety fears on Cypress Mountain. They will recall the bravery of Joannie Rochette’s bronze medal days after her mother’s death and not the Olympic flame being locked away behind gates. Most of all, they will talk about the hockey.”
Probably the most depressing part of being in London during these Winter Games is the fact that no one wants to talk about the hockey. Or the bobsled, the snowboarding, the speed-skating and the moguls. That around-the-water-cooler post-game analysis has been sorely lacking these past two weeks. However, I have forced last night’s spectacular game into as many conversations as I could since waking up this morning. I am a proud Canadian and I will not be silenced by football, rugby and, least of all, cricket fans.
Sure, I was in a tension-filled and suddenly joyous room of Canadians wearing Team Canada toques, Vancouver 2010 red mitts and a maple leaf-spotted tie, but when I walked into the street after the game to make my way back to my flat, the sidewalks were eerily silent. Anywhere in Canada, the sounds of celebration, drunken rioting and general merriment would have drifted through the air. In London, not a single person on the walk home seemed aware of the absolute significance that this night held for me.
And why should they? Britons don’t care about hockey. They care about football, rugby and cricket – in that order. A few hours before the men’s hockey final, Wayne Rooney led Manchester United to the Carling Cup finals. (That’s something to do with football, I’m told.) And even I, a serious hockey fan since birth, had spent the better part of my Sunday afternoon at my very first live rugby game, drinking Guinness and irritating my friends with innane questions about what exactly was happening on the field.
This initiation into one of the UK’s favourite sports capped off with the greatest hockey moment of my lifetime really did make for a wonderful Sunday in London. The sheer contrast between these two events was the most interesting part of the day.
Warned about outdoor conditions and the threat of rain, I bundled up and trekked out to Watford with my flatmates, their friends and my Canadian friend Lauren. It was cloudy but the rain had stopped by the time we got there on the overground. Even though I had piles of questions about the rules, the scoring and the lack of protective gear, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It was one of those UK experiences I am thrilled to add to my life list.
But who cares about rugby? Let’s get back to the Olympics.
I might have mentioned before that I have not been too impressed with Britain’s coverage of the Olympics. Articles have been snide, ungenerous and downright mean. But, this morning, when I was reading through a few newspapers at my desk, I got teary-eyed at the Vancouver 2010 headlines. Granted, the Daily Telegraph had buried their coverage on page 21 of the Sports section while the Times had included it after pages of football and rugby news, but what little they did have to say was particularly glowing towards my home country (if not implanted with the odd spiteful remark).
“… The win means Canada has 14 gold medals, more than any nation has managed at a Winter Games. The Canadian public has not so much embraced the Olympic circus as ravaged it behind the podium, and yes, the inflated medal target notwithstanding, Canada has owned the bloody thing …
“… In the hysteria it felt like official confirmation that the Olympics have been a huge success. The problems, and they have existed, despite certain claims, were forgotten. All that was left was sport. In years to come people will remember Alex Bilodeau winning Canada’s first Olympic gold at home rather than the ripping up of 28,000 tickets because of safety fears on Cypress Mountain. They will recall the bravery of Joannie Rochette’s bronze medal days after her mother’s death and not the Olympic flame being locked away behind gates. Most of all, they will talk about the hockey.”
Probably the most depressing part of being in London during these Winter Games is the fact that no one wants to talk about the hockey. Or the bobsled, the snowboarding, the speed-skating and the moguls. That around-the-water-cooler post-game analysis has been sorely lacking these past two weeks. However, I have forced last night’s spectacular game into as many conversations as I could since waking up this morning. I am a proud Canadian and I will not be silenced by football, rugby and, least of all, cricket fans.
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