Let me first preface the following culinary diatribe with a qualification. For nearly three years now, I have been eating my way around London, so admittedly I have a slight bias to the British restaurant scene. But, despite this, and despite my innate competitive spirit, I went to New York City last week with an open mind (and an open mouth).
However, compared to the myriad of restaurants I’ve been to in London, you might think that five days and 11 restaurants in NYC is not a fair match-up. But I think I was as diverse as possible in my picks: from urban Asian fusion to European fine dining to American comfort food. And – I can admit it – I did some damn good eating.
Now I’ve been to New York a few times before, but not since my taste buds began to control my life. I put out a call for recommendations of things to do in NYC and, not surprisingly, the lists that came back were dominated by places to appease and delight said taste buds. I barely broke the back of the recommendations list, but I planned my days in the city quite carefully around my various dining choices.
I want to start off with my favourite of those 11 meals, probably not surprisingly, at a British-inspired gastropub: The Spotted Pig in the West Village. I’d been reading about April Bloomfield, the girl from the Midlands who has been taking the Manhattan restaurant scene by storm, and I had to check it out for myself. Forget that I’ve been to my share of superb gastropubs in the UK, from trendy The Garrison in Bermondsey to Gordon Ramsay’s The Narrow in the depths of East London; it was a pleasure to see such an authentic one in the middle of Manhattan.
Obviously, the chef is a Brit, so she knows what she’s doing. She’s also got two Michelin stars and has been written up in Vanity Fair, so I’m not the only one who thinks so. I started my meal with a lovely pint of bitter, The Spotted Pig’s own brew, while my Mom was quite pleased with her pinot grigio (placated after a 45-minute wait to sit down to eat at 11pm).
And those were just the beverages.
Both of our mains were heavenly – and at $32 a plate, very well priced for a Michelin-starred dining experience. I freely admit that my pork belly with salsa rossa and polenta was the best I’ve ever had (and I’ve had a lot!) while Mom could not stop talking about her pan-seared sea bass with cauliflower and hazelnuts.
If I had to pick a favourite country for food, I would not hesitate to choose France. And when I ate at Pastis last week, I nearly forgot that I was in New York and not in Paris. While the food was really lovely, I was more enamoured with the atmosphere and décor, a little French café in the midst of the Meatpacking District.
I also dined at August, a small pan-European restaurant on the edge of Greenwhich Village, which my friend Danni chose for her birthday dinner. The restaurant’s version of foie gras – with a roasted quince puree and toasted challah – was definitely in my top five. If you know me, you know foie gras (that endlessly controversial delicacy) is my absolute favourite, so being in my top five is not a small feat.
While in New York, I was also keen to eat at one of the Top 50 Best Restaurants in the World, as ranked annually by 800 international food experts. Unfortunately, the 2012 list wasn’t published until 30 April, which didn’t leave me a lot of time to make reservations.
I was especially dedicated to dining at one of American-Korean chef David Chang’s Momofuko restaurants (this was before I learned he is planning to open one in Toronto later this year!). Chang’s Ssam Bar made 37 and his Ko made 79 on the list this year, but I couldn’t get a table at either. So I opted for his Noodle Bar, one of which is in New York’s East Village.
Hyped as Asian comfort food, the restaurant lived up to the build-up. Mom and I shared a pair of sensational pork buns, with hoisin, scallion and cucumber. I also had a noodle bowl (as you do at the Noodle Bar) of chilled spicy noodles with Sichuan spiced sausage, spinach and cashews, while Mom had the chilled crab noodles with lemon, scallion and asparagus. It was the perfect lunch after a day of trekking from the West to East Village.
Still in mind of comfort food, I decided to next try the American version, at hip restaurant Cafeteria in Chelsea. Mindful of the adage ‘When in Rome’, we took a break from European and Asian dining to eat some proper American cuisine. Still rather full from the day’s dining thus far, I tried to keep it light (as light as you can at a restaurant known for its comfort food) with two starters: mac & cheese spring rolls with smoked gouda dipping sauce and truffle parmesan fries. My god! There aren’t even any words. You might say calorific or gluttonous, but I would opt for blissful instead.
Stereotypical American dining was my theme for my last full day in New York too. I had started off the week with an enormous pastrami on rye that nearly killed me, and finished it off with a sublime burger and pizza. The last two bites were courtesy of Danni, my Brit friend recently moved to New York. Growing up in London, she is fully aware of the truly tragic fact that you just can’t get a proper burger or pizza in the UK, so her two choices were testament to her newly found appreciation of these American delicacies.
The former was from the Burger Joint, a tiny but bustling spot hidden behind a curtain in the atrium lobby of the Parker Meridien Hotel on 57th Street. You join a queue that snakes across the lobby, prepared with your order (because they don’t take kindly to indecision), then dig into a greasy brown bag of the most amazing burgers and fries I have tasted in a long time.
The latter was from a New York institution, Lombardi’s Pizza in Little Italy, which was the first pizzeria opened in the city in 1905. We were already deep into a sunny afternoon of lager, so our pizza with homemade meatballs, sautéed garlic spinach and ricotta was the ideal antidote for soaking up the beer. Probably the biggest pie I have ever had the pleasure to meet and served, as is New York tradition, on a raised, silver dish. It was the perfect ending to a week of truly phenomenal cuisine.
So, who’s the winner: Manhattan or London? I’m aware of the fact that I barely scratched the surface of New York City’s culinary masterpieces, so I don’t think it was a very fair fight. But I also don’t think I did badly in achieving a representative New York dining experience. I’m still going to pick London nine times out of ten, though I will admit I fell a little bit in love with the idea of living, and eating, in NYC one day.
Thursday, 17 May 2012
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Food glorious food
It might have been a mistake to purchase some key staples for my new autumn wardrobe the weekend before the London Restaurant Festival. But at least elastic waistbands and stretchy trousers are on trend for the season, because I can certainly fill my new clothes out.
It had also been a rather decadent and gluttonous month approaching October, plus my body has taken the change of season as a sign to welcome additional insulation, but I really don’t care. Michelin-star meals, losing my Gordon Ramsay virginity and dining in some of the world’s best restaurants are all worth putting on a few extra pounds.
I’ve been meaning to write a general foodie-in-London blog for a while now, sharing my love of the television program Masterchef, British celebrity chefs like Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, and the truly revolutionary world of British cooking that is swirling around me. But I’ll get on to that on another day. Instead, I want to keep it strictly about London restaurants.
My cousin Pearl says I have champagne taste on a beer budget, which pretty much sums me up perfectly. I can’t help that my tummy loves the finer things in life – the foie gras, truffle oil, cavier and basically anything tartare. Luckily for me, I am also a master at finding restaurant deals, so that my beer budget can actually afford to support my champagne tastes.
The first great deal that I found this autumn was a fixed-price five-course lunch deal at Gordon Ramsay’s two Michelin star Petrus. The second incarnation of Petrus (the first, in the Berkeley Hotel, was the victim of an acrimonious split in 2008 between Ramsay and his former friend and protégé Marcus Wareing, who now runs an acclaimed restaurant under his own name there) is in Knightsbridge, seats 40 around a semi-circled floor-to-ceiling glass tower that houses a wine cellar of 1,500 vintage bottles of Chateau Petrus.
My friend Donna and I dressed up for a Saturday afternoon lunch, pairing our five courses with some lovely wines. It was ridiculously delicious and decadent, and it was the beginning of a very foodie month. The meal started with an amuse bouche of watercress mousse, potato salad and salmon tartare, then onto a starter of ravioli of quail leg and wild mushrooms with cep sauce. My main was braised neck of Devon lamb with baby vegetables and a thyme jus, while Donna had a roasted breast of poussin and leg stuffed with wild mushroom and Madeira sauce. Next we had Gould’s cheddar with apricot chutney and toasted hazelnuts, and then British strawberries, fromage frais and rose water meringue. And it was finished with a final snack of vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate. Needless to say, we were pleasantly sated and drunk with pleasure (and maybe from the wine) when we wandered out into the early September sunshine.
I was lucky enough to have another Gordon Ramsay meal only four days later, meeting my friend Paul’s Mom Baiba and aunt Terrie at The Savoy Grill on the Strand. The meal was superb, and made even more special by the fact that Ramsay was there, dining three tables away, looking stereotypical in all black with a shock of blonde hair. We were also offered a tour of the kitchen, where we got to meet the adorable head chef Andy Cook (appropriate name for his choice of vocation). Andy returned from Los Angeles, where he got a Michelin star at Ramsay’s London Hotel in West Hollywood, to re-open the refurbished Savoy Grill in late December last year. The restaurant has been a London icon since 1889, but has been closed for three years as part of a £220-million renovation of the hotel.
So it was quite a treat to get to dine here, and a great way to meet Baiba and Terrie, who would be my constant companions for two more fun weeks.For my starter I had a heritage tomato salad with burrata mozzarella, wild rocket pesto and a shallot dressing. All three of us chose the same main – an amazing stuffed loin and confit partridge with liver paté. We all went traditional British with our desserts: I had a burnt English cream (obviously an anglo crème brulé) with rosemary shortbread.
Into October now and the London Restaurant Festival, which is basically like Summerlicious in Toronto. It gives poor plebes like myself the opportunity to dine in some truly posh and decadent restaurants. The menus range from £15, £20, £25 and £30 fixed-price arrangements, depending on the restaurant. I booked two spots at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Suka at the Sanderson, Roast and Roux at the Landau, and then opened up some invites to my London foodie friends.
First up was L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, a two Michelin star restaurant near Covent Garden. The French chef said: “For me, London is the gastronomic capital of Europe. It’s the most modern, most innovative, city where new things are happening.” Kind of a big deal from a world-renowned chef who was named Chef of the Century in 1989, and has 26 Michelin stars across his 12 international restaurants.
I met my friend Belle there on a Saturday evening. We were seated along the bar where we had a front-row view of all the action in the kitchen. After a smoked sardine amuse bouche, I started with cocotte à la crème legère de champignons des sous-bois and Belle started with pollack en brandade froide au jus de persil et ses croutons. We both had the same main and it was truly one of the most delicious dishes I have ever had: Caille (quail) avec une timbale de macaroni aux champignons et parmesan.
To cap off the lovely meal, we took our last glasses of wine up to the rooftop bar where we were equally adventurous with the cocktail menu. I had a green tea martini with herbs sorbet and Belle tried Fire + Ice, a ginger-infused Snowqueen vodka with fresh carrot juice, dash of lemon juice and perfumed with orange bitter topped with chocolate shavings. By the end of the night, we might have spent more on the cocktails than we did on the food.
Later that week, I had reservations at Suka at The Sanderson, the Malaysian restaurant that is part of the trendy Soho hotel. Donna met up with me after work and we made our way through a series of dishes, including nasi goreng, tuna tartare, a thick tofu soup, barbecue chicken, vegetable curry and braised beef. Such a yummy selection in a lovely candlelit al fresco setting.
That weekend I finally went to Roast, a restaurant perched above Borough Market that I have been meaning to come to for about two years now. The restaurant is known for its locally sourced ingredients and superb classical British cooking, with immaculate views over the market. Head chef Lawrence Keogh, formerly of The Ritz, The Avenue and The Goring, works his culinary magic on what is called the best breakfast in London but, on this occasion, Michelle and I were here for dinner.
I kept it as traditional as possible, starting with a Lorne sausage Scotch egg with piccalilli, and Mich had Laverstock park buffalo mozzarella with Lincolnshire beets and pea shoots. My main was the house recipe pork sausage with Roast’s homemade brown sauce and chips, while Mich had Goosnargh chicken legs with creamed baked potato and Scottish girolles. We were so happily full at the end of it, we had to walk all the way into Shoreditch for our night out.
The grand finale of my London Restaurant Festival experiences was Roux at the Landau, a new collaboration from father and son Albert and Michel Roux Jr at the Langham Hotel, where chef de cuisine is Roux protégé Chris King. I dined with Jenny and we were both totally blown away by the food, the immaculate dining room, and the wonderful service.
We both started with the Saucisson Lyonnais Maison with Dijon mustard and herb salad. My main was grilled flat iron steak with Vacherin glazed cauliflower gratin and sauce Bordelaise. Jenny had Cotswold white chicken with orzo pasta carbonara and Alsace bacon. The orzo carbonara was, in Jenny’s words, “sex on a plate”. It was truly sublime.
So now you probably understand why I am struggling to fit into my new fall wardrobe. This is not the way I normally eat, but every once and a while I love to retire my beer budget and entertain my champagne tastes. I really don’t think there is any better way to spend what little money I do have.
It had also been a rather decadent and gluttonous month approaching October, plus my body has taken the change of season as a sign to welcome additional insulation, but I really don’t care. Michelin-star meals, losing my Gordon Ramsay virginity and dining in some of the world’s best restaurants are all worth putting on a few extra pounds.
I’ve been meaning to write a general foodie-in-London blog for a while now, sharing my love of the television program Masterchef, British celebrity chefs like Heston Blumenthal and Jamie Oliver, and the truly revolutionary world of British cooking that is swirling around me. But I’ll get on to that on another day. Instead, I want to keep it strictly about London restaurants.
My cousin Pearl says I have champagne taste on a beer budget, which pretty much sums me up perfectly. I can’t help that my tummy loves the finer things in life – the foie gras, truffle oil, cavier and basically anything tartare. Luckily for me, I am also a master at finding restaurant deals, so that my beer budget can actually afford to support my champagne tastes.
The first great deal that I found this autumn was a fixed-price five-course lunch deal at Gordon Ramsay’s two Michelin star Petrus. The second incarnation of Petrus (the first, in the Berkeley Hotel, was the victim of an acrimonious split in 2008 between Ramsay and his former friend and protégé Marcus Wareing, who now runs an acclaimed restaurant under his own name there) is in Knightsbridge, seats 40 around a semi-circled floor-to-ceiling glass tower that houses a wine cellar of 1,500 vintage bottles of Chateau Petrus.
My friend Donna and I dressed up for a Saturday afternoon lunch, pairing our five courses with some lovely wines. It was ridiculously delicious and decadent, and it was the beginning of a very foodie month. The meal started with an amuse bouche of watercress mousse, potato salad and salmon tartare, then onto a starter of ravioli of quail leg and wild mushrooms with cep sauce. My main was braised neck of Devon lamb with baby vegetables and a thyme jus, while Donna had a roasted breast of poussin and leg stuffed with wild mushroom and Madeira sauce. Next we had Gould’s cheddar with apricot chutney and toasted hazelnuts, and then British strawberries, fromage frais and rose water meringue. And it was finished with a final snack of vanilla ice cream covered in white chocolate. Needless to say, we were pleasantly sated and drunk with pleasure (and maybe from the wine) when we wandered out into the early September sunshine.
I was lucky enough to have another Gordon Ramsay meal only four days later, meeting my friend Paul’s Mom Baiba and aunt Terrie at The Savoy Grill on the Strand. The meal was superb, and made even more special by the fact that Ramsay was there, dining three tables away, looking stereotypical in all black with a shock of blonde hair. We were also offered a tour of the kitchen, where we got to meet the adorable head chef Andy Cook (appropriate name for his choice of vocation). Andy returned from Los Angeles, where he got a Michelin star at Ramsay’s London Hotel in West Hollywood, to re-open the refurbished Savoy Grill in late December last year. The restaurant has been a London icon since 1889, but has been closed for three years as part of a £220-million renovation of the hotel.
So it was quite a treat to get to dine here, and a great way to meet Baiba and Terrie, who would be my constant companions for two more fun weeks.For my starter I had a heritage tomato salad with burrata mozzarella, wild rocket pesto and a shallot dressing. All three of us chose the same main – an amazing stuffed loin and confit partridge with liver paté. We all went traditional British with our desserts: I had a burnt English cream (obviously an anglo crème brulé) with rosemary shortbread.
Into October now and the London Restaurant Festival, which is basically like Summerlicious in Toronto. It gives poor plebes like myself the opportunity to dine in some truly posh and decadent restaurants. The menus range from £15, £20, £25 and £30 fixed-price arrangements, depending on the restaurant. I booked two spots at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Suka at the Sanderson, Roast and Roux at the Landau, and then opened up some invites to my London foodie friends.
First up was L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, a two Michelin star restaurant near Covent Garden. The French chef said: “For me, London is the gastronomic capital of Europe. It’s the most modern, most innovative, city where new things are happening.” Kind of a big deal from a world-renowned chef who was named Chef of the Century in 1989, and has 26 Michelin stars across his 12 international restaurants.
I met my friend Belle there on a Saturday evening. We were seated along the bar where we had a front-row view of all the action in the kitchen. After a smoked sardine amuse bouche, I started with cocotte à la crème legère de champignons des sous-bois and Belle started with pollack en brandade froide au jus de persil et ses croutons. We both had the same main and it was truly one of the most delicious dishes I have ever had: Caille (quail) avec une timbale de macaroni aux champignons et parmesan.
To cap off the lovely meal, we took our last glasses of wine up to the rooftop bar where we were equally adventurous with the cocktail menu. I had a green tea martini with herbs sorbet and Belle tried Fire + Ice, a ginger-infused Snowqueen vodka with fresh carrot juice, dash of lemon juice and perfumed with orange bitter topped with chocolate shavings. By the end of the night, we might have spent more on the cocktails than we did on the food.
Later that week, I had reservations at Suka at The Sanderson, the Malaysian restaurant that is part of the trendy Soho hotel. Donna met up with me after work and we made our way through a series of dishes, including nasi goreng, tuna tartare, a thick tofu soup, barbecue chicken, vegetable curry and braised beef. Such a yummy selection in a lovely candlelit al fresco setting.
That weekend I finally went to Roast, a restaurant perched above Borough Market that I have been meaning to come to for about two years now. The restaurant is known for its locally sourced ingredients and superb classical British cooking, with immaculate views over the market. Head chef Lawrence Keogh, formerly of The Ritz, The Avenue and The Goring, works his culinary magic on what is called the best breakfast in London but, on this occasion, Michelle and I were here for dinner.
I kept it as traditional as possible, starting with a Lorne sausage Scotch egg with piccalilli, and Mich had Laverstock park buffalo mozzarella with Lincolnshire beets and pea shoots. My main was the house recipe pork sausage with Roast’s homemade brown sauce and chips, while Mich had Goosnargh chicken legs with creamed baked potato and Scottish girolles. We were so happily full at the end of it, we had to walk all the way into Shoreditch for our night out.
The grand finale of my London Restaurant Festival experiences was Roux at the Landau, a new collaboration from father and son Albert and Michel Roux Jr at the Langham Hotel, where chef de cuisine is Roux protégé Chris King. I dined with Jenny and we were both totally blown away by the food, the immaculate dining room, and the wonderful service.
We both started with the Saucisson Lyonnais Maison with Dijon mustard and herb salad. My main was grilled flat iron steak with Vacherin glazed cauliflower gratin and sauce Bordelaise. Jenny had Cotswold white chicken with orzo pasta carbonara and Alsace bacon. The orzo carbonara was, in Jenny’s words, “sex on a plate”. It was truly sublime.
So now you probably understand why I am struggling to fit into my new fall wardrobe. This is not the way I normally eat, but every once and a while I love to retire my beer budget and entertain my champagne tastes. I really don’t think there is any better way to spend what little money I do have.
Sunday, 16 October 2011
Journalism Porn
It wasn’t the first time I heard the News of the World phone hacking scandal compared to Watergate. But when Carl Bernstein draws the parallel the words ring very true.
I had the good luck to be among an audience on a panel, titled ‘After Hacking: How can the press restore trust?’, organized by The Guardian newspaper. It consisted of Carl Bernstein (Pulitzer-prize winner journalist who broke Watergate along with his colleague Bob Woodward), Sylvie Kaufmann (former editor of Le Monde in Paris), Alan Rusbridger (current editor-in-chief of The Guardian), George Eustice (MP and former press secretary for Prime Minister David Cameron), and chaired by Krishnan Guru-Murthy (anchor/presenter on Channel 4 News).
It was a night of serious journalism porn.
After a general review of how the phone hacking scandal leaked out into the world and culminated in the printing of the very final issue of News of the World this summer, Bernstein was the first to share his opinion on the matter. In making the Watergate comparison, he said the two events were “shattering cultural moments of huge consequence that are going to be with us for generations”, and that they were both “about corruption at the highest levels, about the corruption of the process of a free society”.
In the case of the phone hacking scandal, Berstein said the actions helped “drive the ever descending lowest common denominator of journalism that resulted in a diminution of reporting standards” across the British press. Like the British press really needed one more reason for people to hate it.
I was home in July, right after the scandal really broke across the world. When I met new people or was catching up with old friends, I was constantly reminded about that stereotypical negative that comes with being a journalist, especially in the UK. Even my Dad said that, as a journalist working in London, on that particular July day, I was automatically one of the most hated people anywhere. What’s really interesting to me is that Britian has the most trusted broadcasting media in the world (the BBC) and yet probably the least trusted print media.
Anyways, while the parallels to Watergate were interesting to hear about, it was not the central topic of the panel discussion. Turning to the restoration of trust between the British public and its press, Eustice, the Conservative MP, argued that the press needed tighter regulation. He said “journalists shouldn’t fear regulation” and that there was “not much wrong” with the existing Press Complaints Commission (PCC) code, apart from the fact that it is not really enforced. Bernstein responded that he was horrified at the idea of introducing more severe regulations on the press. He said: “We are headed towards a truth commission if we are going to go down this road.”
Channel 4’s Guru-Murthy polled the audience to find out who was in favour and against stricter legislation for journalists, and the majority of those in attendance, including myself, raised their hands for the latter. Predictably, he next asked any journalists in the audience to raise their hands and, amid an outbreak of laughter, nearly all of us did so. About two-thirds of us were also in our late-20s/early-30s (and Tweeting as the panel discussed), which made me feel a warm glow about my profession and this next generation of brilliant journalists, and the fascinating ways that the industry is growing.
I don’t think I’ve written about this before, but I am coordinating all the social media at my magazine. It is no secret that print, as a medium, is in drastic trouble with newspapers going the way of the dinosaurs, many publications moving online, and the blogosphere giving any random person with a computer the opportunity to become a citizen journalist. At Employee Benefits magazine, I coordinate our daily online news, our Facebook page and our Twitter account. And the leaps and bounds that this medium is growing make me feel very proud to be a part of it.
The issue that is growing, though, is that there is no regulation, and no way to regulate, bloggers and Tweeters. Bernstein pointed to these bloggers and Tweeters and other new forms of media as the clear way forward for journalism. He said: “You’re listening to a bunch of old dinosaurs. People aren’t getting their news from us anymore.” I feel kind of thrilled to be a part of the new generation, wherever it takes us.
And the entire evening made me really proud of my profession, after a long onslaught of negative slant on print media in Britain. Berstein said: “We are not saints in this business. Every day we are faced with the question of privacy and the dissemination of that information. How we answer that question shows what kind of journalists we are.”
The Guardian’s Rusbridger closed the discussion by asserting that we need to achieve the right balance in transparency, and that all journalists need to be in charge of their own transparency. He also referred to the idea of an impending extinction for our industry. “Reporters are like bees,” he said. “Once we lose them we are all fucked.”
I had the good luck to be among an audience on a panel, titled ‘After Hacking: How can the press restore trust?’, organized by The Guardian newspaper. It consisted of Carl Bernstein (Pulitzer-prize winner journalist who broke Watergate along with his colleague Bob Woodward), Sylvie Kaufmann (former editor of Le Monde in Paris), Alan Rusbridger (current editor-in-chief of The Guardian), George Eustice (MP and former press secretary for Prime Minister David Cameron), and chaired by Krishnan Guru-Murthy (anchor/presenter on Channel 4 News).
It was a night of serious journalism porn.
After a general review of how the phone hacking scandal leaked out into the world and culminated in the printing of the very final issue of News of the World this summer, Bernstein was the first to share his opinion on the matter. In making the Watergate comparison, he said the two events were “shattering cultural moments of huge consequence that are going to be with us for generations”, and that they were both “about corruption at the highest levels, about the corruption of the process of a free society”.
In the case of the phone hacking scandal, Berstein said the actions helped “drive the ever descending lowest common denominator of journalism that resulted in a diminution of reporting standards” across the British press. Like the British press really needed one more reason for people to hate it.
I was home in July, right after the scandal really broke across the world. When I met new people or was catching up with old friends, I was constantly reminded about that stereotypical negative that comes with being a journalist, especially in the UK. Even my Dad said that, as a journalist working in London, on that particular July day, I was automatically one of the most hated people anywhere. What’s really interesting to me is that Britian has the most trusted broadcasting media in the world (the BBC) and yet probably the least trusted print media.
Anyways, while the parallels to Watergate were interesting to hear about, it was not the central topic of the panel discussion. Turning to the restoration of trust between the British public and its press, Eustice, the Conservative MP, argued that the press needed tighter regulation. He said “journalists shouldn’t fear regulation” and that there was “not much wrong” with the existing Press Complaints Commission (PCC) code, apart from the fact that it is not really enforced. Bernstein responded that he was horrified at the idea of introducing more severe regulations on the press. He said: “We are headed towards a truth commission if we are going to go down this road.”
Channel 4’s Guru-Murthy polled the audience to find out who was in favour and against stricter legislation for journalists, and the majority of those in attendance, including myself, raised their hands for the latter. Predictably, he next asked any journalists in the audience to raise their hands and, amid an outbreak of laughter, nearly all of us did so. About two-thirds of us were also in our late-20s/early-30s (and Tweeting as the panel discussed), which made me feel a warm glow about my profession and this next generation of brilliant journalists, and the fascinating ways that the industry is growing.
I don’t think I’ve written about this before, but I am coordinating all the social media at my magazine. It is no secret that print, as a medium, is in drastic trouble with newspapers going the way of the dinosaurs, many publications moving online, and the blogosphere giving any random person with a computer the opportunity to become a citizen journalist. At Employee Benefits magazine, I coordinate our daily online news, our Facebook page and our Twitter account. And the leaps and bounds that this medium is growing make me feel very proud to be a part of it.
The issue that is growing, though, is that there is no regulation, and no way to regulate, bloggers and Tweeters. Bernstein pointed to these bloggers and Tweeters and other new forms of media as the clear way forward for journalism. He said: “You’re listening to a bunch of old dinosaurs. People aren’t getting their news from us anymore.” I feel kind of thrilled to be a part of the new generation, wherever it takes us.
And the entire evening made me really proud of my profession, after a long onslaught of negative slant on print media in Britain. Berstein said: “We are not saints in this business. Every day we are faced with the question of privacy and the dissemination of that information. How we answer that question shows what kind of journalists we are.”
The Guardian’s Rusbridger closed the discussion by asserting that we need to achieve the right balance in transparency, and that all journalists need to be in charge of their own transparency. He also referred to the idea of an impending extinction for our industry. “Reporters are like bees,” he said. “Once we lose them we are all fucked.”
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Moving day and the quest to win back my deposit
Following up my last post about the challenges of flatshare hunting in London, I think it’s only fitting that I whinge on a bit about that other nightmare of the moving-house experience: Dealing with estate agents on move-out, or the pursuit of the deposit.
So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.
You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.
To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.
In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.
By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.
In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.
I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.
When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.
And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.
Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.
Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.
In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.
And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.
So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.
So, you might have noticed that one of the striking differences between living in London and basically anywhere else is the whole process of flat-hunting, flat-finding, flat-moving-in, and then, later, flat-moving-out. While I’ve spent the last month on the super-stressful path towards a new flat, I have also been dealing with the equal anxiety of making sure that, when I leave One Florence Street, I get my whole deposit back.
You see, the estate agent in London is one of the most hated creatures on the earth. And rightfully so. Honestly, if I met a guy in a bar and found out he was an estate agent, I would promptly turn on my heel and run away. It seems to me their only purpose is to be as difficult as possible through the entire experience, from moving in right through to moving out.
To be fair, my experience with apartment hunting back in Canada is limited. When I moved to Toronto, I found my adorable little bachelorette pad after only two or three other viewings, and I set up shop for four years. I had it real good: my landlord/building manager lived across the hall and was literally available 24-7 for any situation that arose.
In London, the landlords do not really factor into the process. Instead, their identities are shrouded in darkness and they put all the power into the hands of the estate agents, who shoddily manage their properties, making life for the tenant as difficult and disorganized as possible.
By estate agents I am referring to the likes of Foxtons, Savills, Ludlow Thompson, Winkworths and the incompetent crew over at Thomson Currie, which I have had the painful pleasure to deal with for the past 12 months.
In searching for a flat, you must inevitably sign up with these estate agents, registering your requirements and then waiting for that elusive match. For the privilege of arranging viewings for the tenant and putting together a tenancy agreement, the estate agent takes at least £100, not to mention whatever exorbitant fees they charge the property owner. At move-in, they also take a hefty deposit, which is a guarantee that the tenant is not going to trash the flat during their time there.
I do think that the general principal of a deposit is fair enough. But, what happens here is a far cry from the Canadian tradition of forking over first and last month’s rent. Back home, you pay for those beginning and ending months, but nothing else is on the line. And there isn’t some ridiculous administrative fee for literally changing names and dates on a contract.
When Lauren and I moved in last year, we had to have the contract redone about three times, due to the complete disregard of a few of our very clear requests, not to mention the fact that the agreement was made out for Lauren Patterson and Jenniffer Fleming, blatant spelling errors and name changes repeated over and over again.
I mean, I would gladly pay an administrative charge if I knew I was going to be looked after, with prompt responses to maintenance and other queries, and general competency. But that is not the case. Our numerous requests had to be constantly followed up, locks changed more than once after a few scary incidents of being locked in the bathroom, and simple maintenance to the outdoor space blatantly ignored.
And all this without any contact with the actual owner of the property. I completely understand the need for a landlord to enlist the expertise (I use that term loosely and ironically) of a management company for the day-to-day needs of a building and its tenants. But at least, with a known landlord, you have the peace of mind that they care about the property and the person living in it, while the estate agent simply sees you as one in a multitude of addresses.
Anyways, this is a broad rant about estate agents in general, but I promise there is a personal point somewhere in here. My estate agents have a big chunk of my and Lauren’s money (£1,100 each, to be specific), so it doesn’t get much more personal than that. It is basically key to my survival to have all of that returned to me so, coming into the home stretch of living at One Florence Street, and with my lovely roomie returned to Canada, I became obsessed with making sure the flat looked identical to the day we moved in.
Even though we are very tidy and organized tenants, there is still that inevitable wear and tear of 12 months of living. (Not to mention a certain mishap that left a splash of red wine up one of the walls.) When we moved in the flat had been newly painted a sparkling white, and the countertops and appliances newly fitted. So I was focused on returning it to that pristine condition.
Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever cleaned so diligently in my entire life. And, on top of my own work, I also brought in a professional cleaning service, just to be on the safe side. Last weekend, clad in sweatpants, blasting tunes, sipping whiskey, and armed with every single cleaning product known to man, I set to work. I washed walls, bleached the porcelain bathroom fittings and kitchen sink, cleaned windows and cupboards, dusted baseboards, swept and mopped the hardwood floors, and grouted and repainted little nail holes where we had hung our limited art.
In fact, I was so pleased that the generic white paint I had picked up at my local DIY shop blended right into the previous coat, that I obsessively covered various scuff marks – not to mention a certain red wine stain that had made an impressive Pollack-style canvas out of one wall. Yesterday, with all of our belongings (much more than any temporary London inhabitant should own) moved out, the professional cleaners took care of any nook and cranny I might have missed.
And, this morning, the last step in the whole nightmare process was completed. I met with an independent inventory checker, as we did when we first moved in, so he could determine whether the flat was being left in a suitable condition. I was expecting a cold and uninformative third party, based on past experience, but this guy was friendly, and reassured me that there was only a missing light bulb that would be flagged up as a tenant responsibility. Big sigh of relief.
So now we wait for our deposits to be transferred back to us. I anticipate we will get the whole sum back (though I suppose they would be in their right to charge me for the cost of a single light bulb). I am back at my gracious and considerate cousin Pearl’s house, set up in the West Wing, which I called home for my first six weeks in London two years ago. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.
And, of course, the flat-hunt continues. Hopefully, I will discover the perfect new home in Angel with a great double-room, lovely new roomies and, if I’m really lucky, a private landlord rather than an estate agent.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
The ups and downs of flat-hunting in London
I had intended to wait for a happy ending before I launched into the tale of my latest flat-hunting adventures. But, yesterday marked exactly one week until I must vacate my lovely Florence Street flat, and I am no closer to finding a new home than when I first embarked on the search a few weeks ago.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
It was a hard decision to give up my flat. I have spent one amazing year here. But rents are up and I need to save a bit of money every month. It turned out, once the flat was on the market and then quickly let, that finding another two bedroom in the neighbourhood I love, and to save a few quid on rent each month, was a better idea than it was a reality.
My roomie of three months, Donna, who took over Lauren’s room when she returned to Canada, had a very different list of flat requirements than I did, the most important of which was the preferred borough. She wanted to be closer to work (near Victoria station, so Pimlico, South Kensington, Chelsea, Fulham) and I was having serious issues imagining a life outside of Angel, or Islington in general.
So we have decided to part ways, as flatmates but not friends, and she soon found a lovely flat in Pimlico, with an 8-minute walk to the office. Meanwhile, I have spent the month of August seeing flat after flat, and am still essentially homeless. I am looking into flatshares, and have seen 12 flats in the past two weeks, but that perfect new home still evades me.
This is not to say that I didn’t love any of those 12 flats. In fact, I did. I fell in love with three of them. But those flats didn’t love me. Hunting for a flatshare is much like dating: Even if you meet a guy you like, feel the chemistry and the attraction, it doesn’t mean that he is going to feel the same way. The rejection is like that empty-stomach-drop of a break-up with a really great guy. It is gutting.
So, imagine having your heart broken three times in three weeks. Now you can imagine my general emotional state these past few weeks.
The first flat I fell for was off Essex Road, really close to my cousin Pearl’s. The rent was ideal, the girls who lived there were super-friendly, and the place was really adorable, with large living and dining area, and a great kitchen that opened into a backyard. I expressed interest, waited with bated breath for a second date, but they chose someone else instead.
The next flat came along the same week, this time off Upper Street, with three mixed-sex roomies, large living area and backyard space, and a young, down-to-earth landlord. For this flat, I even went on a group date with my potential new roomies – meeting one Irish girl, one French guy and one Aussie lad at a local pub. I really put myself out there. But, it turned out they had been seeing someone else the whole time. Though they were stringing along three other possible roomies, they had already essentially planned to give the room to one of their friends.
Flat #3 was at Highbury Corner, 30 steps from my favourite tube stop. It’s going to sound weird, but it was a room in a house with a couple. They were young, super cool and had a lot in common with me. I feel like she is the British version of me, and he is a chef at The Narrows, a Gordon Ramsey restaurant that I’ve been dying to try. In the 30 minutes I spent chatting with them, I fell for them pretty quickly, but it was not to be. They also picked someone else. And, by this third strike, the rejection was killing me.
Twelve flats later, I should know better. I should know how to protect my heart. But you don’t find the perfect match without diving in head-on from time to time. My first experience with this process, that first month that I lived in London back in 2009, I found the perfect flat rather quickly, and was welcomed with open arms by Justin and Arthur. I guess I was lucky back then. I never imagined that searching for a flatshare was so difficult, and finding the ideal relationship would be so emotionally wrenching.
Anyways, despite rejection after rejection, I am still open to that idyllic connection. In fact, I have a date this afternoon. It sounds almost too good to be true. Two very well priced rooms are available in a four-bedroom flat off Essex Road. I am going in blindly and, despite recent experience, getting my hopes up yet again.
I think though, like with any worthwhile relationship in the challenging world of dating, you do have to just get back out there. It can be painful, but you don’t find true love, or the perfect flat, without taking the risk.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Extending my Life in London
Arriving at Heathrow on Sunday morning I had my very first intensive inspection at customs (verbal not physical, thankfully). In hand I had my brand new Tier 2 migrant visa, which allows me to stay in the UK until August 2014, and the customs lady had a lot of very specific questions about my job, my company, and my time in London.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
About two weeks previously I had quite a few questions myself. I had arrived in Toronto to spend 14 days with my friends and family and, within hours, I was seriously questioning how I could possibly leave again. The inevitable homesickness had overwhelmed me, as it does with every visit home, and I was yearning to re-start my life in Toronto.
That is not to say that I don’t love living and working in London. It is just to say that a big part of me feels more at home back in Canada, as it should, and that feeling can sometimes blind me from really appreciating the great opportunities and experiences I am constantly gaining from my life in the UK.
Anyways, I was home to sort out my end of a sponsorship visa. My company had jumped through all the hurdles to procure me the visa. Since my working holiday visa will be expiring as of 15 September, this was the best way for me to stay in the UK – beyond actually marrying a Brit.
The visa process ended up being a bit of a nightmare. I had intended to pop into the Toronto visa office with all my documents the very first weekday that I arrived there, and then wait to hear about the outcome through that first week. Unfortunately, there was a little situation with a non-original document that caused a minor panic attack in the visa office, and slowed my progress considerably.
While waiting for the document to be urgently posted from London, I re-booked an appointment at the Ottawa visa office for the end of the week. Long story short, the document was late (having decided to take a “short-cut” through Cincinnati), I re-scheduled the appointment for Monday, and had a mere five days to be considered, issued the visa (hopefully), and sent all my documents – including my passport, which was going to be rather important come my cross-Atlantic flight that weekend.
Obviously, I am back in London so everything worked out in my favour, but it really was touch-and-go there for a while.
Besides trying to sort out my visa through my two weeks in Canada, I had a wide range of proper Canadian summer experiences. A good deal of the time was spent submerged under water as a heatwave had swept southern Canada and the northern US, making for some very steamy weather.
I spent time at Norway Bay, swimming, boating, tubing and windsurfing with my cousins; ate well, whether it was a steak barbecue at my parents’ house, sweet potato fries at the Victory Café with the boys, or an amazing five-course meal at Luma in Toronto; basking (rather, melting) in the Ontario heatwave with a trip to Toronto island, a canoe ride along the Rideau River, and an afternoon with the girls in McKay Pond in Rockcliffe; and fun nights out, with a backyard party at Leslie’s, flatcrawl around Elgin Street to meet the Ottawa girls’ new homes, and pints on patios.
It was a really fantastic two weeks at home, but I am glad to be back in London, even back at work, and settling back into my life here. I know that, when it really comes time to return to Canada, I will make a healthy transition, since I am really excited for phase two of my life in Toronto to begin, whether that’s one year from now or three.
Monday, 18 July 2011
La Belle Provence
I can’t remember exactly when we started talking about celebrating our 30th birthdays with a holiday abroad but, as I prepared earlier this month to meet nine of my best friends in the south of French, I felt like we had been planning it forever. And, frankly, I am super impressed with the fact that we pulled it off – though so sad it’s over.
In three different teams we descended on Provence to drink wine, eat baguettes and cheese, swim in the Med, visit adorable villages, and bone up on our French. Jill, Julia and Sophie arrived in France first, traveling from Toronto and visiting a few towns outside Marseille on their way to meet the rest of us. Lex, Lyl and Lindsay came through Marseille from Montreal, picking up Anne who had taken the TGV down from Paris. And I arrived with Jane and Kelly from London, where we had torn up Trafalgar Square the night before celebrating Canada Day.
Our meeting spot was the cutest little village on earth – Le Garde-Freinet – where Lexie has been coming to her family’s house for 25 years. Nestled in the Maures Mountains and 20 minutes north of St Tropez, the village is an ideal base camp for trips around Provence, and also to return to at the end of the day to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals, vase-sized pitchers of various cocktails, and catch up with amazing friends I don’t see enough of.
Out exploring the region we drove the perilous winding roads to a 12th century monastery, went into St Tropez to shop at the market and yacht-stalk, took a ferry to L’Iles Porquerolles to beach it up in paradise, shoe shopped in Aix in Provence, and had a lovely dressed-up dinner out to celebrate the start of our 30th decade.
Without getting too over-feely and cheesy, the week we spent in the south of France was truly one of the best of my life. I adore my girls, and I miss seeing them as often as I want, so those days together, cooking amazing food, drinking a lot of local rosé, exploring the gorgeous region, and laughing our faces off, will stay in my heart for a very long time.
One week after we all met, Anne and Lindsay were off to spend a few days in Paris on their way home, Lex was left behind in LGF to await the arrival of her family, and the rest of us drove back towards Marseille, with one night in the adorable beachside village of Cassis.
We lay on the beach for one last afternoon, strolled through the harbour in the evening, ate some adventurous French food (or at least I did, trying pieds et paquets marseillais which I can only describe as the French version of haggis), and were even greeted at the end of the night with a round of beautiful fireworks – the perfect end to a perfect holiday.
Though, for me, it wasn’t quite finished. Once I saw my Canadian besties off at the airport I had almost eight hours to kill before my flight. Left with my patchy French and without my helpful translators, I eventually found storage for my suitcase, and caught a bus into bustling, steaming, crime-infested downtown Marseille.
Clutching my bag to me, I managed not to get robbed, wandered through the harbour to see the views out to sea, the rising Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde on the hill, and the Byzantine-Roman Cathedrale de la Major. I even took a boat out to Chateau D’If to indulge my literary-tourist tendencies, visiting the real island prison that was used fictionally in Alexandre Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I was tired and so sweaty, not to mention missing my girls like crazy and not embracing the alone time, but it was a good last day in France.
And now, though some of us are still trying to get a handle on turning 30, we are casually making plans for our 35th or 40th birthdays. A villa in Tuscany in 2016, ladies?
In three different teams we descended on Provence to drink wine, eat baguettes and cheese, swim in the Med, visit adorable villages, and bone up on our French. Jill, Julia and Sophie arrived in France first, traveling from Toronto and visiting a few towns outside Marseille on their way to meet the rest of us. Lex, Lyl and Lindsay came through Marseille from Montreal, picking up Anne who had taken the TGV down from Paris. And I arrived with Jane and Kelly from London, where we had torn up Trafalgar Square the night before celebrating Canada Day.
Our meeting spot was the cutest little village on earth – Le Garde-Freinet – where Lexie has been coming to her family’s house for 25 years. Nestled in the Maures Mountains and 20 minutes north of St Tropez, the village is an ideal base camp for trips around Provence, and also to return to at the end of the day to enjoy delicious home-cooked meals, vase-sized pitchers of various cocktails, and catch up with amazing friends I don’t see enough of.
Out exploring the region we drove the perilous winding roads to a 12th century monastery, went into St Tropez to shop at the market and yacht-stalk, took a ferry to L’Iles Porquerolles to beach it up in paradise, shoe shopped in Aix in Provence, and had a lovely dressed-up dinner out to celebrate the start of our 30th decade.
Without getting too over-feely and cheesy, the week we spent in the south of France was truly one of the best of my life. I adore my girls, and I miss seeing them as often as I want, so those days together, cooking amazing food, drinking a lot of local rosé, exploring the gorgeous region, and laughing our faces off, will stay in my heart for a very long time.
One week after we all met, Anne and Lindsay were off to spend a few days in Paris on their way home, Lex was left behind in LGF to await the arrival of her family, and the rest of us drove back towards Marseille, with one night in the adorable beachside village of Cassis.
We lay on the beach for one last afternoon, strolled through the harbour in the evening, ate some adventurous French food (or at least I did, trying pieds et paquets marseillais which I can only describe as the French version of haggis), and were even greeted at the end of the night with a round of beautiful fireworks – the perfect end to a perfect holiday.
Though, for me, it wasn’t quite finished. Once I saw my Canadian besties off at the airport I had almost eight hours to kill before my flight. Left with my patchy French and without my helpful translators, I eventually found storage for my suitcase, and caught a bus into bustling, steaming, crime-infested downtown Marseille.
Clutching my bag to me, I managed not to get robbed, wandered through the harbour to see the views out to sea, the rising Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde on the hill, and the Byzantine-Roman Cathedrale de la Major. I even took a boat out to Chateau D’If to indulge my literary-tourist tendencies, visiting the real island prison that was used fictionally in Alexandre Dumas’ ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. I was tired and so sweaty, not to mention missing my girls like crazy and not embracing the alone time, but it was a good last day in France.
And now, though some of us are still trying to get a handle on turning 30, we are casually making plans for our 35th or 40th birthdays. A villa in Tuscany in 2016, ladies?
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