Afternoon tea is one of those truly English occasions, so uniquely British that it can’t possibly be experienced anywhere else. But to be fair, the first time I had afternoon tea I was a young girl in the exquisite tearoom of the Chateau Laurier hotel in Ottawa. But since it was in Canada, I don’t think it counts. No offense, Mom.
Since I moved over here at the end of 2009 I have had four afternoon tea experiences, each one quite different from the last. But before I get into that, I should probably explain what afternoon tea (or high tea) is all about.
Britain clearly has a long history of drinking tea. The custom did originate in England, but it is said to have been brought over from Portugal by Catherine of Bragança when she married Charles II in 1661.
Afternoon tea is served with a variety of sandwiches, customarily cucumber, egg and cress, fish paste, ham and smoked salmon, and scones, with clotted cream and jam, and usually cakes and pastries. When you have it at a teashop or a hotel, it is traditionally served on a tiered stand.
The credit for the transformation of afternoon tea into a late-afternoon meal is credited to Anna Maria Russell, the 7th Duchess of Bedford, while she was living in Woburn Abbey. In the early 19th century it was customary to only take two meals a day, the latter of which took place around 8pm. The Duchess is said to have complained of a “sinking feeling” in the late afternoon brought on by hunger. Her solution was to take a pot of tea and a light snack. She began to invite friends to join and other social hostesses caught on to the trend. It became a regular activity for the upper classes around 4pm before they took their promenade through Hyde Park.
The term "high tea" was used as a way to distinguish it from “low tea” or afternoon tea. The lower classes adapted the custom as a form of dinner, which is why many Brits today still call their dinner “tea’. The words "high" and "low", however, don’t refer to the social classes, but the tables from which either tea meal was eaten. Low tea was served in a sitting room where low tables, like a coffee table, were placed near sofas or chairs. The word high referred to a dinner table, and it would be loaded with substantial dishes like meats, cheeses and breads.
Today, the high tea and low tea versions have all merged into one. And for the tourists, it is a great afternoon activity.
My very first high tea was in July last year at Cannazaro House in Wimbledon with Lauren, Danni, Nat, Liz and Jenn F-H. It was truly decadent with treats like chocolate éclairs, macaroons and fruit tarts piled on tiered dishes. Of course, there was also the high tea staple of scones, clotted cream and jam. We drank tea – of course – and then washed it all down with some pitchers of Pimm’s.
My next one was at the end of August at a posh London hotel, the Langham in Soho. It was part of a bridal show (both Jenny and Sarah had recently gotten engaged) so it was absolutely gorgeous, decked out to resemble a wedding reception. The tables were draped in white clothes, sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the dishes were certified china, and then there was the eats. Vanilla custard came first, then the traditional finger sandwiches, followed by non-stop desserts like warm baby scones, shortbread lollies and pink-topped fairy cakes (cupcakes). We ate and ate and ate, and sipped more and more tea into the late afternoon.
For my third high tea I took Paul, who was en route back to Toronto from his year in Paris, to the Aubrey Restaurant at the Kensington Hotel. It was a Christmas-themed tea since it was December. So the sandwich options included a festive selection, like turkey and cranberry sauce, while the cakes and pastries included little mince pies. The standard scone spread was different too, with choices of strawberry jam, clotted cream and lime custard.
My next high tea was this past weekend at the Cadogan Hotel where Lauren had organized a surprise bridal shower for our friend Liz, who is getting married in Chicago in early June. We had our own little area of couches around low tables which Lauren decked out with some wedding-inspired bits. The bride-to-be was dropped off by the groom-to-be, and she was genuinely surprised. Then we ordered our pots of tea and toasted Liz with teaming glasses of champagne. It was a lovely afternoon, with the usual finger sandwiches, scones and cream, and then some fruit tarts, chocolate-dipped strawberries and raspberry mousse.
While I live over here I hope to add more afternoon teas to this already notable list of experiences. If I can afford it, I would love to try the Ritz, the Savoy or Claridge’s. I’ve got some Canadian visitors streaming through in April and May, so I’m sure I will get a chance to do it again soon.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Monday, 4 April 2011
Cotswold Cottage Weekend
Although I can’t complain about weekend trips around Europe, I am especially keen to stay close to home and get to know England while I am living here. Last spring, as I recounted in a past blog, I headed down to Cornwall for a cottage weekend with some girlfriends.
I have been to a few other counties over the last 20 months, mostly the ‘shires like Oxfordshire, Yorkshire and Hampshire. This past weekend I headed out to Gloucestershire, and the world famous Cotswold’s, for our second annual girls’ cottage weekend.
The Cotswold’s are a range of hills in west-central England also known as the Heart of England. The name apparently translates as “sheep enclosure in rolling hillsides”, incorporating “wold” which means hills. The area is characterized by adorable towns and villages built of the underlying Cotswold stone, a yellow limestone.
Our little cottage was in Stow-on-the-Wold, a market town on the top of an 800-foot hill. It was built of the typical stone and located around the corner from the oldest inn in England, dating back to 974 AD, but its inside was newly renovated and very modern.
It was the perfect base for eight expats (six Canadians, an American and an Aussie) to explore the rustic surroundings but also return to a home with cozy beds, a roaring fireplace and full kitchen. We ate well, we drank well, and we walked for miles and miles through rolling green countryside spotted sporadically with stone villages.
After a post-work train ride from London, equipped with snacks and bottles of vino, we arrived in the Cotswold’s for a relaxing evening in our weekend home. We woke the next morning to the sound of pounding rain on the stone roof and our hopes for a lovely hiking day were temporarily dashed. But after breakfast the rain stopped, the sky cleared and the wellies were no longer necessary.
We set out from Stow-on-the-Wold, following a public footpath through fields of undulating rain-kissed hills, pastures of horse, cow and chicken, and eventually followed the River Windrush into Bourton-on-the-Water. The picturesque town, often known as the Venice of England, was the perfect spot to end our hike and enjoy a pint of local bitter with some fish and chips.
We were shattered from the trek, filled up with beer and battered fish, so after exploring some shops we took a rest in the grass along the river. Too tired to duplicate our hike, we caught the local bus back to our little village.
After some hot showers and baths, couch lounging and food prep, we lit another roaring fire, opened a few more bottles of wine, and tackled a spread of cheese, crackers, meats and olives. Dinner was Mexican – fajitas, homemade guacamole, the works. The eating just went on and on.
The night spun into more bottles of wine and a spontaneous dance party that somehow ended up including costumes. It was a fun ladies’ night, the perfect one after our gorgeous day outside.
With Sunday we knew that only a few hours separated us from our train journey back to the chaos of London. So we went for a local hike and wandered around the village, then stopped at a tearoom for lunch (I had a Welsh rarebit, cheese and Worcestershire sauce on toast) and cream tea (accompanied by fresh scone, jam and clotted cream).
There was a lot of eating and drinking this weekend, but a lot of exercise as well. Not sure if we quite made that perfect balance, but I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything.
I have been to a few other counties over the last 20 months, mostly the ‘shires like Oxfordshire, Yorkshire and Hampshire. This past weekend I headed out to Gloucestershire, and the world famous Cotswold’s, for our second annual girls’ cottage weekend.
The Cotswold’s are a range of hills in west-central England also known as the Heart of England. The name apparently translates as “sheep enclosure in rolling hillsides”, incorporating “wold” which means hills. The area is characterized by adorable towns and villages built of the underlying Cotswold stone, a yellow limestone.
Our little cottage was in Stow-on-the-Wold, a market town on the top of an 800-foot hill. It was built of the typical stone and located around the corner from the oldest inn in England, dating back to 974 AD, but its inside was newly renovated and very modern.
It was the perfect base for eight expats (six Canadians, an American and an Aussie) to explore the rustic surroundings but also return to a home with cozy beds, a roaring fireplace and full kitchen. We ate well, we drank well, and we walked for miles and miles through rolling green countryside spotted sporadically with stone villages.
After a post-work train ride from London, equipped with snacks and bottles of vino, we arrived in the Cotswold’s for a relaxing evening in our weekend home. We woke the next morning to the sound of pounding rain on the stone roof and our hopes for a lovely hiking day were temporarily dashed. But after breakfast the rain stopped, the sky cleared and the wellies were no longer necessary.
We set out from Stow-on-the-Wold, following a public footpath through fields of undulating rain-kissed hills, pastures of horse, cow and chicken, and eventually followed the River Windrush into Bourton-on-the-Water. The picturesque town, often known as the Venice of England, was the perfect spot to end our hike and enjoy a pint of local bitter with some fish and chips.
We were shattered from the trek, filled up with beer and battered fish, so after exploring some shops we took a rest in the grass along the river. Too tired to duplicate our hike, we caught the local bus back to our little village.
After some hot showers and baths, couch lounging and food prep, we lit another roaring fire, opened a few more bottles of wine, and tackled a spread of cheese, crackers, meats and olives. Dinner was Mexican – fajitas, homemade guacamole, the works. The eating just went on and on.
The night spun into more bottles of wine and a spontaneous dance party that somehow ended up including costumes. It was a fun ladies’ night, the perfect one after our gorgeous day outside.
With Sunday we knew that only a few hours separated us from our train journey back to the chaos of London. So we went for a local hike and wandered around the village, then stopped at a tearoom for lunch (I had a Welsh rarebit, cheese and Worcestershire sauce on toast) and cream tea (accompanied by fresh scone, jam and clotted cream).
There was a lot of eating and drinking this weekend, but a lot of exercise as well. Not sure if we quite made that perfect balance, but I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything.
Monday, 21 March 2011
Scandinavia’s Culinary Revolution
I loved my visit to Oslo so much that I just had to write another blog about it. Exploring my desire to be a food journalist (combining my two great loves – eating and writing), and inspired by a birthday present from my roomie (Will Write for Food: The Complete Guide to Writing Cookbooks, Restaurant Reviews, Articles, Memoir, Fiction and More), I want to expand on the distinctive food produced in Norway and the growing reputation of Scandinavia’s hot young chefs.
Beginning in the early ‘90s, Norwegians began to take their place among the most brilliant culinary talents in Europe. The first Norwegian to win the Bocuse d’Or (known as the Concours mondial de la cuisine and frequently referred to as the culinary equivalent of the Olympic Games), was Bent Stiansen in 1993. At the time his win came as a surprise, since the gastronomy tradition of the Scandinavian countries was not as reputed as that of France or Italy. In 2011, the gold, silver and bronze prizes went to Denmark, Sweden and Norway, respectively, cementing northern Europe’s reputation as a producer of outstanding culinary talent.
Restaurants like Feinschmecker, Haga, Oscargate, Statholdergaarden, Oro Bar & Grill, and Restaurant Elk all appear in the Michelin guide today. So a country known as the birthplace of cross-country skiing, Edvard Munch and the Nobel Peace prize, is now also where gastro-enthusiasts will find some of the northern hemisphere’s most adventurous meat and fish dishes. Dried, smoked, salted and fermented, the ways that Norwegians prepare their cod, elk, lamb, trout, reindeer, ham and salmon is plentiful and adventurous.
Like its much larger neighbour to the West, Norway offers snowy mountains, rustic wilderness and a rugged coastline. And also like Canada, the Scandinavian country has a strong focus on game and fish when it comes to local produce.
To find all this produce under one roof I decided to check out Fenaknoken, a traditional food shop recently featured in Conde Nast Traveller. Walking past Oslo’s city hall, the Nobel Peace Centre and the Oslofjord, I found myself at the door of a rustic mountain cabin (or hut as the Norwegians call it) with a stuffed elk nearly licking the side of my face and wooden cross-country skis leaning against the wall. Unbeknown to me, my cousin Kirsti told owner Eirick Braek that I was a Canadian journalist, and he immediately began to pass out pieces of dried mutton, elk, reindeer, goat sausage and ham. (Unfortunately for me, Eirick was all out of bear meat.) Besides its specialties such as fenalår – a salted and cured leg of lamb that Braek held up and announced is shaped like the map of Norway – the shop sells locally produced cheeses, homemade jams (rowan berry jelly), flat bread, dried fruits, and fish of all variety. It is an absolute must-visit if you ever get to Norway.
Other fish dishes that are popular in the country are smoked salmon, dried codfish, salted stockfish, rakfish (disturbingly foul fermented trout that locals see as a delicacy), crabs, lobster and mussels. Traditional fish dishes are torsk, a poached cod served very simply with boiled potatoes and melted butter, and torsketunger, cod’s tongue. Lutefisk is another popular preparation made of stockfish (dried cod or ling) or klippfisk (dried and salted cod) that has been steeped in lye. Fiskesuppe, or fish soup, is a white, milk-based soup with vegetables like carrots, onions, potato and various kinds of fish. The Norwegians also enjoy pickled herring, or sursild, which is often served as an appetizer or on rye bread as a lunch staple.
In terms of game, Norway produces a lot of lamb, moose, reindeer, duck and fowl. Preserved meat and sausages come in a staggering variety of regional varieties, and are accompanied by sour cream dishes or crushed juniper berries on the side.
Traditional meatballs, or kjottkaker, are simpler than the Swedish variety and served in a brown sauce rather than a cream sauce. Farikal, a mutton stew, is mutton and cabbage layered in a deep pot along with black pepper, salt and some wheat flour to thicken the sauce.
Since I was only in Norway for three days I didn’t get to try even a small percentage of the exploratory cuisine that the country has to offer or eat in more than one of the dozens of restaurants that are now regularly rated among the best across Europe. Lucky for me, I have lovely and accommodating family in Norway, and loved it so much I will certainly go back, so there is plenty of time for more adventurous eating ahead.
Beginning in the early ‘90s, Norwegians began to take their place among the most brilliant culinary talents in Europe. The first Norwegian to win the Bocuse d’Or (known as the Concours mondial de la cuisine and frequently referred to as the culinary equivalent of the Olympic Games), was Bent Stiansen in 1993. At the time his win came as a surprise, since the gastronomy tradition of the Scandinavian countries was not as reputed as that of France or Italy. In 2011, the gold, silver and bronze prizes went to Denmark, Sweden and Norway, respectively, cementing northern Europe’s reputation as a producer of outstanding culinary talent.
Restaurants like Feinschmecker, Haga, Oscargate, Statholdergaarden, Oro Bar & Grill, and Restaurant Elk all appear in the Michelin guide today. So a country known as the birthplace of cross-country skiing, Edvard Munch and the Nobel Peace prize, is now also where gastro-enthusiasts will find some of the northern hemisphere’s most adventurous meat and fish dishes. Dried, smoked, salted and fermented, the ways that Norwegians prepare their cod, elk, lamb, trout, reindeer, ham and salmon is plentiful and adventurous.
Like its much larger neighbour to the West, Norway offers snowy mountains, rustic wilderness and a rugged coastline. And also like Canada, the Scandinavian country has a strong focus on game and fish when it comes to local produce.
To find all this produce under one roof I decided to check out Fenaknoken, a traditional food shop recently featured in Conde Nast Traveller. Walking past Oslo’s city hall, the Nobel Peace Centre and the Oslofjord, I found myself at the door of a rustic mountain cabin (or hut as the Norwegians call it) with a stuffed elk nearly licking the side of my face and wooden cross-country skis leaning against the wall. Unbeknown to me, my cousin Kirsti told owner Eirick Braek that I was a Canadian journalist, and he immediately began to pass out pieces of dried mutton, elk, reindeer, goat sausage and ham. (Unfortunately for me, Eirick was all out of bear meat.) Besides its specialties such as fenalår – a salted and cured leg of lamb that Braek held up and announced is shaped like the map of Norway – the shop sells locally produced cheeses, homemade jams (rowan berry jelly), flat bread, dried fruits, and fish of all variety. It is an absolute must-visit if you ever get to Norway.
Other fish dishes that are popular in the country are smoked salmon, dried codfish, salted stockfish, rakfish (disturbingly foul fermented trout that locals see as a delicacy), crabs, lobster and mussels. Traditional fish dishes are torsk, a poached cod served very simply with boiled potatoes and melted butter, and torsketunger, cod’s tongue. Lutefisk is another popular preparation made of stockfish (dried cod or ling) or klippfisk (dried and salted cod) that has been steeped in lye. Fiskesuppe, or fish soup, is a white, milk-based soup with vegetables like carrots, onions, potato and various kinds of fish. The Norwegians also enjoy pickled herring, or sursild, which is often served as an appetizer or on rye bread as a lunch staple.
In terms of game, Norway produces a lot of lamb, moose, reindeer, duck and fowl. Preserved meat and sausages come in a staggering variety of regional varieties, and are accompanied by sour cream dishes or crushed juniper berries on the side.
Traditional meatballs, or kjottkaker, are simpler than the Swedish variety and served in a brown sauce rather than a cream sauce. Farikal, a mutton stew, is mutton and cabbage layered in a deep pot along with black pepper, salt and some wheat flour to thicken the sauce.
Since I was only in Norway for three days I didn’t get to try even a small percentage of the exploratory cuisine that the country has to offer or eat in more than one of the dozens of restaurants that are now regularly rated among the best across Europe. Lucky for me, I have lovely and accommodating family in Norway, and loved it so much I will certainly go back, so there is plenty of time for more adventurous eating ahead.
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Winter Wonderland in Norway
I have been physically aching for the snow. This might be hard to believe if you are in Canada, buried under it and longing for the Spring thaw, or in London, where a couple of snowfalls have crippled the city, but I am a winter lover through and through and what is referred to as winter over here is just not cutting it.
So I landed in Norway last Thursday for a long weekend of winter. I didn’t know quite what to expect of my first visit to the Scandinavian countries but, on my express bus ride from Rygge airport – diverted from Torp due to weather conditions and poor visibility – to Oslo, I gazed out at snow-capped mountains and white landscapes dotted with colourful cabins, and I fantasized that I was in Canada.
Though I didn’t plan it, my visit coincided with the 2011 World Nordic Ski Championships at the famous Holmenkommen. The city was filled with cross-country ski enthusiasts from all over Europe – and even Canada. Flags were waved in the streets, tourists and locals packed onto the subway with their skis, and there was a general patriotic atmosphere everywhere we went.
I was finally paying a visit to my Norwegian cousins who I met for the first time in the UK at Easter last year and then again in Tiree in August. I was staying with Kirsti and Henning and their sons Martin (9) and Jonathan (7). Kirsti is the daughter of my grandfather’s first cousin Liz, who is also from the same brood of cousins as Pearl and Mary. Liz met Norwegian Paul at university in Glasgow and has been living in the country since she was 22 (she was 70 last year).
My weekend in Oslo included more than just the snow appreciation that I want to write about here. I visited the Munch Museum, the Vegland sculpture park, the Nobel Prize Centre, and wandered along the Oslofjord. Besides the most incredible Nordic ski of my life, which I will get to in a minute, my favourite stop of the weekend was to Fenaknoken, a traditional Norwegian food shop that I had read about in Conde Nast Traveller, and where I sampled some truly unbelievable dried, smoked and salted meats. (I want to write a separate blog about the food in Norway as a hone my skills as a food journalist, so stay tuned.)
But best of all was the skiing. Oh the skiing. I have been in love with cross-country skiing since I was about five. Since then I have been skiing annually with my father in the Gatineau Hills. This past Christmas I was able to squeeze in one of our traditional skis but the days were warming up and the snow was melting. I loved spending that one morning in the woods over the holidays with the echoes off the snow but the conditions were not perfect. Up at Ullevalseter in Oslo, despite the crowds that had descended for the championships, I had the most perfect ski of my life.
Well, if I’m being completely honest, one thing was missing. My Dad. With my borrowed Fischers on, gliding out across the immaculately manicured snow with evergreens towering and shaking their snowflakes down on me, I got choked up. Okay, I cried. I wished my Dad were skiing right beside me. He would have adored that day. I’ll admit, I don’t get homesick very often, but this weekend, I really missed Canada.
We did 11km, the first half almost completely uphill, then we sunned ourselves (yes, I have a lovely winter face burn) outside a chalet with coffees and sweet buns, before precariously making our way downhill. I am pleased to say I only wiped out twice (I have the world’s worst snowplow) but it would have been much more if I hadn’t stuck to the lakes on the return journey.
As I don’t get to keep my cross-country ski muscles in shape, I am feeling all sorts of random aches today. There is a sharp pain on the top of my forearms, shooting along my inner thighs, my butt, my lower back, my hips, my shoulder blades, all around my ribs from sustaining balance, basically everywhere. But I have to say, to subdue that ache I’ve been feeling lately for the snow, all those other aches are well worth it.
So I landed in Norway last Thursday for a long weekend of winter. I didn’t know quite what to expect of my first visit to the Scandinavian countries but, on my express bus ride from Rygge airport – diverted from Torp due to weather conditions and poor visibility – to Oslo, I gazed out at snow-capped mountains and white landscapes dotted with colourful cabins, and I fantasized that I was in Canada.
Though I didn’t plan it, my visit coincided with the 2011 World Nordic Ski Championships at the famous Holmenkommen. The city was filled with cross-country ski enthusiasts from all over Europe – and even Canada. Flags were waved in the streets, tourists and locals packed onto the subway with their skis, and there was a general patriotic atmosphere everywhere we went.
I was finally paying a visit to my Norwegian cousins who I met for the first time in the UK at Easter last year and then again in Tiree in August. I was staying with Kirsti and Henning and their sons Martin (9) and Jonathan (7). Kirsti is the daughter of my grandfather’s first cousin Liz, who is also from the same brood of cousins as Pearl and Mary. Liz met Norwegian Paul at university in Glasgow and has been living in the country since she was 22 (she was 70 last year).
My weekend in Oslo included more than just the snow appreciation that I want to write about here. I visited the Munch Museum, the Vegland sculpture park, the Nobel Prize Centre, and wandered along the Oslofjord. Besides the most incredible Nordic ski of my life, which I will get to in a minute, my favourite stop of the weekend was to Fenaknoken, a traditional Norwegian food shop that I had read about in Conde Nast Traveller, and where I sampled some truly unbelievable dried, smoked and salted meats. (I want to write a separate blog about the food in Norway as a hone my skills as a food journalist, so stay tuned.)
But best of all was the skiing. Oh the skiing. I have been in love with cross-country skiing since I was about five. Since then I have been skiing annually with my father in the Gatineau Hills. This past Christmas I was able to squeeze in one of our traditional skis but the days were warming up and the snow was melting. I loved spending that one morning in the woods over the holidays with the echoes off the snow but the conditions were not perfect. Up at Ullevalseter in Oslo, despite the crowds that had descended for the championships, I had the most perfect ski of my life.
Well, if I’m being completely honest, one thing was missing. My Dad. With my borrowed Fischers on, gliding out across the immaculately manicured snow with evergreens towering and shaking their snowflakes down on me, I got choked up. Okay, I cried. I wished my Dad were skiing right beside me. He would have adored that day. I’ll admit, I don’t get homesick very often, but this weekend, I really missed Canada.
We did 11km, the first half almost completely uphill, then we sunned ourselves (yes, I have a lovely winter face burn) outside a chalet with coffees and sweet buns, before precariously making our way downhill. I am pleased to say I only wiped out twice (I have the world’s worst snowplow) but it would have been much more if I hadn’t stuck to the lakes on the return journey.
As I don’t get to keep my cross-country ski muscles in shape, I am feeling all sorts of random aches today. There is a sharp pain on the top of my forearms, shooting along my inner thighs, my butt, my lower back, my hips, my shoulder blades, all around my ribs from sustaining balance, basically everywhere. But I have to say, to subdue that ache I’ve been feeling lately for the snow, all those other aches are well worth it.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
The Transient London Lifestyle
I love living in London, don’t get me wrong, but I can certainly come up with a list of negatives if pushed to it. At the top of this list is definitely its transient nature. Expats – and even some locals – are drifting through the city for indeterminable lapses of time, posted overseas by their firms, taking Masters’ programs, settling down with British partners, or taking advantage of the amazing travel opportunities that this continent provides. And then, as quickly as they came into this London life, they are gone again.
My reason to be in London doesn’t really fit into any of these categories. I’m just here, living life as it comes. But because of that, I also don’t quite know how transient my time here will be. The timing for this blog relates to the fact that today I am losing one of my best London friends, as well as being a couple of months away from losing another.
Natalie, a London gal born and bred, and one of my best friends since the first day I met her at the end of 2009, is flying to Bangkok tonight, on the first leg of a multi-continent seven months of traveling. Now, I can accept the fact that most Canadians who move to London only last a year or two, but I didn’t expect to lose one of my British ladies. I can’t really blame her though. Nat is essentially taking the same step I did when I dropped my entire life in Toronto a year and a half ago. She’s got that itchiness to explore, the one we all get around age 30. Unfortunately for me, her sense of adventure is taking her away from me.
I do wish her the best and truly believe in the importance of taking this kind of step, as can be seen in the quote I wrote into her birthday/leaving do card: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
My roommate Lauren’s London life is also coming to an end soon. She has been here for over two years and will be back in Toronto in April with her man Scott and a new Ernst & Young job. Since she is Canadian and always intended to return at some point, this one was not unexpected. Still, it is rough to have such important parts of your daily life begin to disappear across the ocean.
I should be more emotionally prepared for these big changes. I mean, my first year in London and the people who were part of my life has already changed dramatically a few times. Canadian friends like Marge, Lisa, Carly, Sandra and Di have all returned to their various cities back home. I always convince myself to stop befriending Canadians but it is really hard to do, they just keep popping back into my life. Canadians in London gravitate towards each other like magnets.
But the thing about London, perhaps another negative, is that it is nearly impossible to get your life in order. At least in my industry – journalism – it is very difficult to earn enough quid to be able to both enjoy London life and save for the future. Some friends who have gone back to Canada mainly did so because they were ready to buy a house, start a family, or smoothly transition their careers. I don’t know what that means for me, and for my future, but I think about it every day.
And I truly don’t know how long my London life will be. I have been here for nearly 17 months and have another seven on my visa. A tarot card reader at a PR party this week told me that I will live in the UK for five or six more years, but I find that hard to believe when my visa expires in September. The reader didn’t provide any specific details to help me avoid that inevitable expulsion from London. And, today, I don’t even know if I want to avoid it. But I am keeping my options open and still enjoying every second that I spend here, especially every second I can with my Canadian and British friends because I never know when they are going to pack up and leave me.
My reason to be in London doesn’t really fit into any of these categories. I’m just here, living life as it comes. But because of that, I also don’t quite know how transient my time here will be. The timing for this blog relates to the fact that today I am losing one of my best London friends, as well as being a couple of months away from losing another.
Natalie, a London gal born and bred, and one of my best friends since the first day I met her at the end of 2009, is flying to Bangkok tonight, on the first leg of a multi-continent seven months of traveling. Now, I can accept the fact that most Canadians who move to London only last a year or two, but I didn’t expect to lose one of my British ladies. I can’t really blame her though. Nat is essentially taking the same step I did when I dropped my entire life in Toronto a year and a half ago. She’s got that itchiness to explore, the one we all get around age 30. Unfortunately for me, her sense of adventure is taking her away from me.
I do wish her the best and truly believe in the importance of taking this kind of step, as can be seen in the quote I wrote into her birthday/leaving do card: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
My roommate Lauren’s London life is also coming to an end soon. She has been here for over two years and will be back in Toronto in April with her man Scott and a new Ernst & Young job. Since she is Canadian and always intended to return at some point, this one was not unexpected. Still, it is rough to have such important parts of your daily life begin to disappear across the ocean.
I should be more emotionally prepared for these big changes. I mean, my first year in London and the people who were part of my life has already changed dramatically a few times. Canadian friends like Marge, Lisa, Carly, Sandra and Di have all returned to their various cities back home. I always convince myself to stop befriending Canadians but it is really hard to do, they just keep popping back into my life. Canadians in London gravitate towards each other like magnets.
But the thing about London, perhaps another negative, is that it is nearly impossible to get your life in order. At least in my industry – journalism – it is very difficult to earn enough quid to be able to both enjoy London life and save for the future. Some friends who have gone back to Canada mainly did so because they were ready to buy a house, start a family, or smoothly transition their careers. I don’t know what that means for me, and for my future, but I think about it every day.
And I truly don’t know how long my London life will be. I have been here for nearly 17 months and have another seven on my visa. A tarot card reader at a PR party this week told me that I will live in the UK for five or six more years, but I find that hard to believe when my visa expires in September. The reader didn’t provide any specific details to help me avoid that inevitable expulsion from London. And, today, I don’t even know if I want to avoid it. But I am keeping my options open and still enjoying every second that I spend here, especially every second I can with my Canadian and British friends because I never know when they are going to pack up and leave me.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Snow Shuts Down Europe
I was going to try to avoid writing a blog entry about the absolute shitshow going on over here because of a little snow. I am so angry about it that I was afraid I would just rail on about the incompetence and the stupidity and the sheer needlessness of the whole mess. I wrote one last year, complaining about the large-scale chaos that resulted from a light dusting of snow, the Eurostar’s inopportune breakdown inside the Chunnel, and the hundreds of transport-related problems that were caused. What’s been happening at London’s airports – and travel hubs across the rest of Europe – over the past four days makes last year look like a minor traffic accident.
I just have one question: What the fuck? Seriously, I didn’t want to go there, but how is it possible that a little winter guarantee like snow can actually cause such extensive destruction?
Unless you are living under a rock somewhere (or perhaps a pile of unexpected snow) it is unlikely that this is news to you. Starting on Saturday 18 December, when eight inches (I know, child’s play) of snow descended on the UK, the island’s airports all but shut down. I was thrilled at first by the layer of white that cloaked my backyard, but when the winter wonderland threatened to thwart my holiday plans the real severity of the situation began to settle in.
Obviously I realize that this country is not used to the kind of snow that is experienced by Canada or by the Scandinavian countries, but there has to come a point (maybe after the second year of the same shit) that people have to stop making excuses and own up to the fact that something needs to change. For instance, Heathrow, which handled 66 million travelers in 2009, has 69 ice-clearing vehicles (they don’t say snowplow so I don’t know if the aforementioned “vehicles” really are that), less than twice the number that Oslo has, a country that handles a quarter of that passenger total and “suffers” 60 days of snow a year on average.
Heathrow is not the only casualty – there are delays and cancellations on a major scale across Europe, and flights grounded back in North America or other parts of the world – but Heathrow has been chosen as the face of the disaster and is taking the brunt of the bullying. Rightfully so. The airport, which is the second busiest in the world, has turned into a refugee camp for thousands of holiday travelers. London’s mayor, Boris Johnson, said aptly on the BBC: “It can’t be beyond the wit of man, surely, to find the shovels, the diggers, the snowplows or whatever it takes to clear the snow out from under the planes.”
Well, apparently Boris, it is.
Now I mentioned earlier that the UK ¬– and most of Europe – is not used to these types of winters. Fair enough. I just wonder how many more of these weather disasters the country is going to shrug and bear before actually just shutting up and doing something about it? The transport secretary has started proceedings that will see Britain consult with its chief scientific adviser to find out whether the blizzards that began last month, and the “worst cold snap” in two decades last winter, provide enough evidence for a “step change” that would justify increased spending on cold-weather gear. Let me just reiterate that one more time: Britain is asking the weather experts for a second opinion, just in case the past hellish four days are not evidence enough.
On a personal level I have spent the past couple of days with a serious nervy tummy, wondering whether I will make it home for Christmas. I am beyond lucky that my travel day does not include Heathrow, but I do have a KLM flight out of City Airport tomorrow morning that will take me through Amsterdam (Schipol) and then Toronto before I finally arrive in Ottawa. Despite “disruptions” still reported at City this evening, I am starting to feel almost positive about my day of traveling. As long as the “light snow shower” that is called for tonight and tomorrow stays as light as possible.
Some of my friends have not been so lucky. Michelle was meant to fly to Montreal on Sunday but her flight was canceled and she was re-booked on a flight this coming Thursday, five days on. Lexie and her mother Christiane, who are supposed to be spending Christmas in London, changed their travel plans after their first flight was canceled and, after a disastrous Monday morning at Pearson airport, have given up completely. Tomorrow I will (hopefully!) fly from City, my roommate Lauren is flying from Gatwick, and my friend Nat is flying from Heathrow. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for us!
I just have one question: What the fuck? Seriously, I didn’t want to go there, but how is it possible that a little winter guarantee like snow can actually cause such extensive destruction?
Unless you are living under a rock somewhere (or perhaps a pile of unexpected snow) it is unlikely that this is news to you. Starting on Saturday 18 December, when eight inches (I know, child’s play) of snow descended on the UK, the island’s airports all but shut down. I was thrilled at first by the layer of white that cloaked my backyard, but when the winter wonderland threatened to thwart my holiday plans the real severity of the situation began to settle in.
Obviously I realize that this country is not used to the kind of snow that is experienced by Canada or by the Scandinavian countries, but there has to come a point (maybe after the second year of the same shit) that people have to stop making excuses and own up to the fact that something needs to change. For instance, Heathrow, which handled 66 million travelers in 2009, has 69 ice-clearing vehicles (they don’t say snowplow so I don’t know if the aforementioned “vehicles” really are that), less than twice the number that Oslo has, a country that handles a quarter of that passenger total and “suffers” 60 days of snow a year on average.
Heathrow is not the only casualty – there are delays and cancellations on a major scale across Europe, and flights grounded back in North America or other parts of the world – but Heathrow has been chosen as the face of the disaster and is taking the brunt of the bullying. Rightfully so. The airport, which is the second busiest in the world, has turned into a refugee camp for thousands of holiday travelers. London’s mayor, Boris Johnson, said aptly on the BBC: “It can’t be beyond the wit of man, surely, to find the shovels, the diggers, the snowplows or whatever it takes to clear the snow out from under the planes.”
Well, apparently Boris, it is.
Now I mentioned earlier that the UK ¬– and most of Europe – is not used to these types of winters. Fair enough. I just wonder how many more of these weather disasters the country is going to shrug and bear before actually just shutting up and doing something about it? The transport secretary has started proceedings that will see Britain consult with its chief scientific adviser to find out whether the blizzards that began last month, and the “worst cold snap” in two decades last winter, provide enough evidence for a “step change” that would justify increased spending on cold-weather gear. Let me just reiterate that one more time: Britain is asking the weather experts for a second opinion, just in case the past hellish four days are not evidence enough.
On a personal level I have spent the past couple of days with a serious nervy tummy, wondering whether I will make it home for Christmas. I am beyond lucky that my travel day does not include Heathrow, but I do have a KLM flight out of City Airport tomorrow morning that will take me through Amsterdam (Schipol) and then Toronto before I finally arrive in Ottawa. Despite “disruptions” still reported at City this evening, I am starting to feel almost positive about my day of traveling. As long as the “light snow shower” that is called for tonight and tomorrow stays as light as possible.
Some of my friends have not been so lucky. Michelle was meant to fly to Montreal on Sunday but her flight was canceled and she was re-booked on a flight this coming Thursday, five days on. Lexie and her mother Christiane, who are supposed to be spending Christmas in London, changed their travel plans after their first flight was canceled and, after a disastrous Monday morning at Pearson airport, have given up completely. Tomorrow I will (hopefully!) fly from City, my roommate Lauren is flying from Gatwick, and my friend Nat is flying from Heathrow. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for us!
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Finding Football
There is an old saying: "Football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligans’ game played by gentlemen". Having been to two rugby games since I moved here and now two football games in the past month, I can whole-heartedly agree with this. Football players (and their fans) are a special breed of human – but I kind of like it.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
I was very spoiled for my first live football game ever. My magazine (www.employeebenefits.co.uk) is doing an employer profile for our January issue on the Manchester City Football Club and the interviewee graciously offered two tickets to a match. I was already going to be up in Manchester for a conference so my friend Nicola, who was conducting the interview, invited me to be her plus-one. Despite having grown up in the UK, she had also never attended a match. The much-hyped Manchester derby (MCFC versus Manchester United) is not a bad place to loose your football virginity.
Amped up by the excitement that had been gripping the city leading up to the big match, we visited the MCFC gift shop for some blue scarves, gloves (it was freezing!) and other paraphernalia. Also, since it was our first time and we played dumb, we managed to carry pints of beer into the stadium seats, which some rather discouraged male fans pointed out was against the rules.
The atmosphere was tangible, blue-clad fans filled the stadium, singing ‘Blue Moon’ and shouting hilarious obscenities in thick northern accents at the Man U players. About 1,000 fans of the visiting team were segregated from the rest of the enormous stadium, framed by riot police in fluorescent yellow in case things got too rowdy.
Unfortunately, they didn’t. The match was kind of boring and ended in a draw, nil-nil. The fans pouring out of the stadium did not incite brawls with one another, just begrudgingly wandered back into the city centre. I have to say, I was a little bit disappointed.
For all those Man U fans who find it questionable that I would so suddenly become a Manchester City fan, the reason is three-fold. For starters, MCFC were our hosts to a free football match. Enough said. Secondly, my cousin Colin – a Mancusian since his days as a university student in the city more than 20 years ago – is a serious fan and choosing Manchester United would be akin to betraying the family. And finally, since I live for metaphors, I have come to see the MCFC and Man U rivalry as somewhat similar to the relationship between the Ottawa Senators and Toronto Maple Leafs. At least before the team was bought by an Arab sheik and revived with lots of cash, MCFC was a true grassroots underdog up against the rich and powerful Man U. If those reasons don’t work for you, I also look much better in blue than I do in red.
Back in London, nearly a month later and about 15 degrees colder, I finally saw my local team play. Based on where I live in Islington I should, technically speaking, be an Arsenal fan. Or so I have been told. The ladies from my book club are fans and had an extra ticket for the quarter finals of the Carling Cup. Bundled up in my longjohns and big red riding hood coat – conveniently colour-coordinated to support the Red Army – I sat 20 rows up from the pitch and thoroughly enjoyed a much more thrilling match than the Manchester derby. Arsenal won 2-0 and advanced to the next round.
Though it did not include an actual football game, last week I attended a conference at the Chelsea Football Club. Between presentations on pensions, employment tribunals and sustainable businesses, I got to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. It was a cold and empty pitch but it was pretty cool nonetheless – I mean, Didier Drogba plays there.
The sport will never replace hockey for me but I am starting to realize that I do enjoy it. The players are cute, the fans are fun and the atmosphere is a thrill to be a part of.
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