How the Brits do Halloween

Thomas has one word to sum this up – “Badly.”
That’s a direct quote.

I remember when Jess, Mike and I did a road trip from San Francisco to L.A. to Las Vegas for Niki and Darryl’s wedding on Halloween Night, 2007.

I have to say, L.A. puts on one hell of a bash. We ended up going to Universal Studios the weekend before Halloween where they turned the theme park into a big Halloween production. It was hands down one of the freakiest things I’d seen. They had a house devoted to Texas Chainsaw Massacre people could walk through and mingle with Leatherface and other members of the Sawyer family.

The make-up and special effects were amazing. Outside in the theme park, there were these guys with pig faces on, which held chainsaws (sans blade) and kept staring at people in the crowd. For five minutes, never breaking eye contact with me, I finally began walking quickly away.

Everyone was dressed up, it was fantastic.

Fast forward to London on Friday.

I was pre-warned that Halloween wasn’t such a huge deal here, but I kind of shrugged it off. There were a few pumpkins, but not really in residential homes.

I was happy to see some people dressed up around Oxford Circus, but mainly girls were “sexy” versions of things. Suffice to say, there was no “sexy ISIS” or “sexy Ebola nurse” costumes, which in London, they call “fancy dress.”

Bunch of weirdos

Thomas and I headed down via black cab to Tower of London tube stop and made it just in time for the 7:30 p.m. departure of a Jack the Ripper walk. Our animated guide took us to a number of different murder spots of the infamous killer in 1888 in East London.

One of the last stops was at 13 Miller’s Court where we stood in front of a realtor’s office with a red door. That was where fifth and final victim Mary Kelly was found with uterus ripped out, triangles cut out of her cheeks and parts dismembered. Someone should’ve said, “And now, everyone’s getting butchered by high real estate prices in London!” Eh? Eh?

Our guide in Spitalfields Market

So, what did I learn? Basically, Stonemasons were purportedly murderers and streets were dark. And that you could become a ladies man if you purchased a souvenir Jack the Ripper t-shirt mapping out all the locations of the murder victims, containing the killer’s alleged signature?

I wonder what would happen if someone wore that shirt on Tinder – would women say, “Oooh, he looks like a mentally-stable man. I’d love to hook up with a dude who is totally into Jack the Ripper."

Thomas in his Slash Voodoo man costume while we're waiting for the Tube.

Bored Pikachu

Satan eyes

Random double pumpkin

Yesterday was pretty low-key. NANOWRIMO is going well. I guess I am cheating a bit because a lot of my content (old Sun stories, old blog entries, travel journal stories) is already done, but that is what will compile the book, so it's all good, I reckon.

Met up with Angie at Spitalfield's Market yesterday for a coffee and late lunch at Leon. So great to see her and hear everything at CBC is going well with her.

Coffee times are happy times.

Afterwards, a jaunt to the Tower of London, where they have over 888,000 poppies in the Tower Bridge moat.

Poppies at Tower Bridge moat.

The other night, Thomas – who oversees musicians – invited me to a TV taping of Bruce Forsyth's variety show, an entertainer in his mid 80s. Still sharp as a tack. Very British, didn't get many of the jokes, but got to sit in a good seat in a prestigious old English theatre – the Palladium. Thomas showed me where the queen sits, usually once a year, in a balcony under a prestigious crest. I caught a cold on the way over here, but still cleaned up pretty nicely.

Scrubbed up nicely.

Palladium.

That's where the queen sits -- in that first balcony.

Cannot stop eating £12 boxes from Leon. Moroccan meatballs rule.

Still, some of the best meals are the ones at home.
Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding and chicken drumsticks.

Across the Pond

National Jennygraphic – London Oct 30, 2014

Another adventure.

Since my first plane trip to Vancouver by myself in the early 2000s, I have relished being a solo traveller.

My parents never really travelled – partially because we couldn’t afford it and my dad was more of a homebody than anything else. Capricorn.

Our only family trip was in 1988 to Buffalo when we still had the Ford Club Wagon aka “the pedophile-style van.”

But that JetsGo flight (remember them?) to B.C. changed my life. Even though it was a domestic trip, it sparked my thirst for travel and the adventure that comes with it.

I am incredibly lucky. I have been to many countries and seen many things. I have lived an exciting, challenging life up until now, and love the person I am because of it.

There’s something about arriving at an airport with bags packed that makes my heart skip a beat.

But things feel different this time around.

My photographer friend Ernest once said something to me that I finally understand. “I love travelling by myself, but now wherever I go, I want (my wife) Milena with me.”

Has finding “the one” changed me?

It was really difficult leaving Mike at security check this morning. I was not expecting tears to come flowing out as he hugged me tightly and then we parted ways.

Still, I continued on, knowing that he’d be joining me in three weeks.

This time, I’m travelling with a different purpose.

Many people have been asking, “Why are you going to London?”

I have mainly answered, “To write a book.”

But maybe the more honest answer is “Because I’m young and can do so now. So, why not? I may not have the means to do so in a few years.”

And part of me wonders if you even need a reason to go somewhere. Travel is a luxury, I understand, but the more I do it, the smaller this vast planet seems.

Because seems like a reasonable answer to me.

One day, I want to step on an airplane sans luggage. Just like in Johnny Depp drug smuggling movies. Holding only a passport, a non-Costanza wallet in my back pocket.

I have never lived anywhere else other than Ontario.
It’s time.

I know it’s only a month, but it’s important to me in my mind to be somewhere else, at least for a little while. It’s not an escape from my life, it’s an addition to it.

I don’t need to be a tourist here. I just need to be.

As I was boarding the plane, I met an older couple who struck up a conversation with me.

I didn’t catch his name, but Susan was hers.

She asked me what I was doing in London and I gave her the “book” answer.

I told her part of it would be about my family’s routes – immigrants from China and Hong Kong end up in Northern Ontario and marrying in Timmins through a matchmaker.

I said I was from Englehart.

“Do you know where that is?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “I’m from New Liskeard.”

And instantly, we bonded.

I described the small town of 1,000-ish and she told me she remembered our family restaurant we ran in Englehart, the Englehart Bar and Grill.

And with that five-minute connection, I remembered in a rush why I love solo travel.

The bonds – no matter how brief – you can create with strangers.

“I find people from the North more resilient than people from Toronto,” Susan said. “We are more self-reliant.”

And with that, she took her seat in the back cabin, while I found seat 20H – “keeping my powder dry” for more adventures as soon as we touch down at Heathrow.

-30-

Le Showcase and Eating Out

Unlike Rob Ford, I clearly don't have enough to eat at home, so I've been eating my face off in Paris – if you've been wondering why this silly blog hasn't been updated as frequently as it should.

The mayor himself is a topic that I can't seem to escape, even if I flee to Europe.

At dinner at Le 6 Paul Bert the other night, coincidentally, we were seated next to some loud Torontonians who kept bringing up Rob Ford. I think some Canadians are becoming the "ugly" tourists these days. Most Parisians I've encountered on this trip have made no mention of our crack-smoking mayor and I was quite thankful for that. But friends of mine via Facebook would also keep me up to date of Ford's activities, that he had been spotted in Bracebridge and ventured off to his cottage.

Meeting up with my friend Melissa Saturday at a cafe near the Eiffel Tower, she wanted to hear how the Sun broke the story about Ford going to rehab. She was in town for a work conference and to liven up some of the small talk, she told people she was going to meet me and that I report on Ford. She said it was "the most interesting conversation" among her co-workers that has ever come up on a travel trip.

Rob Ford aside, it's been a great trip. It's our last day in Paris and we're going to take it easy. Sunday is a day of rest here, as many places choose to close their doors today and Monday.

We still haven't had a chance to try the poulet de bres, but the Marche Bastille is still on for another two hours, so maybe I'll take a quick jaunt over there.

I went to see 2ManyDJs at Le Showcase early this morning (late last night). It was a three-DJ set that began at 11:30 p.m. and ran right until 6 a.m. The venue is this old port or docking station for boats, lots of arches and stone, horizontal and packed. Dare I even use the word, "bumping?"

And the train ride to Invalides – was the train of youth. Literally. So many plastic bottles filled with booze. I watched a guy wearing a Bob Dylan shirt coo his very drunk-and not in great shape-friend bent over sitting on the train.

I'm not usually a club person by any stretch of the imagination, but I really loved that Radio Soulwax album they put out in 2000-something during my record-peddling days at HMV. Of course, they're not mashing up Basement Jaxx with Destiny's Child anymore, but they did throw in some New Order with Tame Impala. Everyone was freely dancing. That is something I have to say Torontonians are a bit shy about.

At around 3 or so, a man approached me, pinched my cheeks and said something to me in French. I said, "Rien" or something to that extent and he said, "Are you telling me to fuck off?" He eventually went away, but I figured that was my cue to go home.

***

There have been a lot of highlights on the trip. Meeting up with some friends – Vivian, Ida, Melissa – meeting Mike's brother and sister-in-law and our dinner at the Jules Verne at the Eiffel Tower where bracelets – not rings – were exchanged, with a Star Wars theme to it. There will be a separate entry on that. And just so much good food. This really is a magical city.

Terre Des Morts – Land of the Dead

One of the unique things about the City of Lights is there is an underground city of darkness.

No trip to Paris is complete without a visit to Catacombes de Paris if you're looking for something unique, unusual and creepy. The ossuaries are located south of the former city gate outside of the current location of Place Denfert-Rochereau.

There are about six million people's remains neatly displayed here through two kilometres of renovated tunnels and caverns.

After joining a line-up of hundreds that stretched around the block and waiting a couple hours, we were at the entrance way, which, in itself, looks like the doorway to a haunted house.

A woman working at the museum asked if I was pregnant because I had been wearing a bulky sweater underneath my coat. In hindsight, I should've said yes and skipped the tenuous wait in the rain.

As I carefully walked down the 84 tight and winding steps, I asked Mike, "Uh, so is this how you get vertigo?" He cheekily replies, "No, you have to see James Stewart first."

The ossuary entrance was marked in stone with the inscription Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort ('Stop! Here lies the Empire of Death.') I can picture zombies from 28 Days Later inheriting this portal.

Marco Chown Oved, a reporter for the Star, but who used to work for AP in Paris, told me about a story on the Catacombes he wrote a few years ago. There are a group of people who illegally break into the tunnels that are not open to tourists and take you past the closed off gates and into the underground network. People have gotten lost down there and died. A bit unnerving to say the least.

But of course, we stuck to the designated path. Really, there was no other place to go but forward.

And as creepy as it was – I am superstitious to an extent, refusing to touch any of the bones for fear of bad juju – it was also eerily peaceful. So much, in fact, that at one point, while waiting for Mike to catch up, I sat down and took a mini nap. And I thought, no wonder the dead love cemeteries. It's a great place for an eternal snooze.

So, what kind of freaked me out after the fact, was this weird light in the picture Mike took of Vivian and me. Bad juju?

Musty and famous bookstores, sweet treats and stumbled-upon good food

It's 5:53 a.m. Sunday and the jet lag continued to hit me an hour ago when I unexpectedly awoke from having a very strange dream.

Aside [the dream]: I was about trying to get into a restaurant and making reservations and being turned away (as was the case tonight when we just showed up to Le Chateaubriand.) The hostess said no way and a war broke out. Wampa came into a museum three hours earlier than she was supposed to be dropped off at. Then a war broke out in a parking lot and I ran over someone's long machine gun.

Flight was a reasonable eight hours on Air France's hard seats. Mike and I posted this shot of us prior to taking off. We thought we saw Mayor Rob Ford on board (we didn't) as Toronto was still in its "Where in the world is Rob Ford" curiosity.

"Look into zees eyes!"

After landing at Charles De Gaulle airport, we got the usual stuff – Metro tickets and some direction from the helpful folks at the tourism counter – and headed in to town. On the RER to Paris, a young woman began playing the accordion and asking for money. How French.

Around 10:30 a.m., we arrived at our home for the next 10 days – 36 Rue Oberkampf – a gorgeous, airy, spacious and bright, rustically-designed flat in a pretty hip neighbourhood between the 3rd and 11th arrondissement. It is perfect and can be yours only on AirBnB for $200 a night.

And! It has a vertical towel rack heater in the ensuite bathroom. Have I leaned against it naked if you're wondering? Yes. Yes, I have.

But enough about my first-degree burns.

We didn't do much on the first day. We wandered around the bustling Republique area to the more serene Canal Martin where we had some great bagels and saw some locks on a bridge.

***

On Saturday, we had a bit of a late start. Try 4 p.m.

I had no idea, but apparently, Paris really likes to have its lunch hour in restaurants from noon to 2 p.m. and then reopens later for dinner. We thought, "OK, so the patisserie where we were going to get some buttery croissants is closed – we'll just go for lunch at some other restaurant."

Yeah, no dice. You have to find a spot that serves food all-day and that is useful for when on holiday.

Luckily, we did find the Bistrot du Peintre in the Bastille area, which has a decent duck confit leg with frites. 12 euros. Hit the spot.

Up the street, is a delightful chocolatier shop where you can't go wrong, no matter what you pick.

We took our tarts and headed towards Notre Dame.

A girl documenting tarts. MICHAEL PEAKE/Pic

I'm not in to religion, but that structure is just a grand piece of architecture. We waited a short five minutes and were allowed inside as a mass service was being conducted. 

Across the street is the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore. Besides carrying an impressive selection of anglophone books, it really is a quirky place full of musty, tiny enclaves for writers and readers and many vintage typewriters. No wonder Woody Allen used it in Midnight in Paris.

For dinner that evening, we meant to head to Le Chateaubriand, but upon finding it was packed and we weren't getting in, the waiter recommended we head two doors down to Le Dauphin, another restaurant under the same owner's wing.

We stumbled upon a gem.

It's a French tapas restaurant, very hip with white marble everywhere.

We were seated at the bar and our bartender spoke English quite well, which was very helpful. Every plate was flavourful and a delight, but an unexpected and pleasant win was the squid ink risotto. Sounds gross and when the plate was set down in front of us, it appeared intimidating, but I am still blown away by it. Never had anything like it. Amazing. Mike really enjoyed the lamb. He said it was the "best lamb I've ever eaten,"mainly because all Canada imports in lamb from New Zealand, which tends to be tougher, perhaps? A perfect denouement – the chocolate profiteroles with vanilla creme glacee.

Today: Getting an early start to the outdoor food markets in Bastille, lunch at Le Train Bleu (an old 1900s train station converted into a restaurant), the Catacombes, the cemetery where Serge Gainsbourg is buried and who knows what else.

Adventures await! Maybe we'll meet some French weirdos today.

To the land of Baguettes and Cheese

"The city of love."
The last time I went to Paris, I went solo.
That was in 2010 during a multi-city trip by myself across Europe.
Paris was my fourth stop after Barcelona, Pamplona and San Sebastien.
I stayed near the sultry and tacky windmills of the Moulin Rouge, a clown busker tricked me into kissing him on the lips, a boy who was "trying" to help me in the subway after I was lost and train service had shut down held my hand after he saw me staring at the Metro map, dumbfounded. Within five minutes, we were holding hands while walking down the Champs D'Elysees and I was even more confused. "This is how they do it in France," I supposed.
He took photos of me in front of an expensive car dealership on the strip and in front of a MAC make-up store. It was awkward. But I went along with it, because "this is how they do it in France."
We continued walking, still holding hands. I tried to speak to him in broken French. English was not in his vocabulary.

I told him I had "un petite chou chou" back home. I had meant to say I had a boyfriend back home, because I did at the time and vaguely recalled this was the translation of that. But I later realized I basically told him, "I have a small cabbage in Canada."
This is my favourite part of this little encounter.
He kept telling me, "Je ne comprends pas" – I don't understand – and continued to lock mitts with me.
I started to worry. If "this is how they do it in France," I'm going to end up at this strange dude's apartment insisting I keep small cabbages in my refrigerator back home.

So, a phrase I learned in Grade 7 French class magically popped into my head at a time when I needed it most – I threw up my hands and shouted, "Zut alors!" and ran to the nearest cab.
 
Was it the classiest thing I could've done? Probably not. For all I know, this guy could have been a nice fellow who just wanted to hold hands with a random tourist. But he also could've been an axe murderer. Not just any murderer – but an axe murderer.
This time, though, I have company.
Travelling solo or with a partner has its benefits and downfalls – I think it will be a test. If we don't kill each other after 10 days, it will be a win. I have a feeling we will survive, though. My French sucks.
 We have a lot of cool stuff planned – The Catacombs is one of them, a dinner at the Eiffel Tower, lots of walking around at local markets and my attempt at making a "poulet de bresse," apparently the world's most delicious milk-fed chicken in our AirBnB rental.

Flight time: T-minus seven hours.