Brighton Lights, Smaller City

On a National rail service train to Brighton right now.

Days are getting shorter and shorter. We were out the door by 2 p.m. and on a train at Victoria station by 3 p.m.

Originally, our plan had been to go to Edinburgh, Scotland, however, we weighed the cost and time and decided it didn’t seem worth it. Brighton is £8 one way on the train and going for two days makes sense.

National Rail Service ticket to Brighton from Victoria station.

Been a busy couple of days. Most of a blur.

I am starting to get my bearings down. I checked the NANOWRIMO word count and I’m at about 45,000 words – so 5,000 to go.  That works out to five longer stories or 10 shorter ones.

I have found writing on the Tube – and this train – is perfect. It allows me to zone out, put on loud music and just focus.

Tube writing

I finished my Modern Love column yesterday, with some creative input. It was much more challenging to write than I imagined. Hard to be objective and put your life in third person. But it’s done. Will submit to New York Times shortly.

I do feel like I’m living here. Something unique happened about a week in that hasn’t happened travelling before – I felt a bit homesick. That is a good thing. It means I wasn’t just a tourist somewhere. I was here.

But I have been able to get a taste of home. A few friends from Newmarket and Toronto now reside here. I got to see Sarah and her partner Ved in Mayfair on Friday, where they took me out for fish and chips. The Golden Hind has been around since 1914 and the packed little shop hosted Prime Minister Stephen Harper and his 27 staffers a few weeks back for a private party (the owner has the picture of him and Harper to prove it). 

The owner of the Golden Hind with his pic w/ the PM. Metahhh!

Thought that was a cool little tale.

T and I went to see Spoon at 02 Shepherd’s Bush later that evening. It seems even club venues are these majestic places, several floor high, like Massey Hall.

Spoon!

O2 at Shepher'd Bush

It was a real treat to see Hamilton Leithauser (singer of The Walkmen) and Spoon play together on one stage. Neither has ever disappointed during a live concert and the same was true this time around.

We also went to meet Anna Marion near Portobello Rd. on Saturday. We were hankering for some brunch, but Brits do brunch differently here. Most places stop serving breakfast by noon and it’s not really the way us North Americans perceive brunch. We always take into account hangovers for the next morning, therefore, greasy eggs and bacon or chicken and waffles are served until 4 p.m.

We ended up at this place called, The Shed, which served a more random type of brunch. Lots of earthy dishes – mushrooms with poached eggs, chorizo, labneh, crisp bread and kale, beef cigars, venison ragu. Random, but totally delicious.

Two girls, one Shed.

You don't win friends with salad.

Mushroom and egg.

Fish

Anna lives in Queens Park and teaches fifth graders, looking to buy some property in London. We spent the day walking around Notting Hill and headed to Portobello Gold, a dive bar T’s father used to hang out in during the ‘70s when it was called The Princess Alexandra aka "The Alex." The bar has hosted the likes of philandering U.S. President Bill Clinton in 2000.
It’s literally like a jungle bar with some enclaves up a flight of stairs. Anna's awesome, just had a great time hanging out, shooting the shit.

Jungle Boogie at Portobello Gold.

Then it started pouring. That’s what happens in London. It rains. No bullshit about that. But you get used to it. A few days ago, we took a trip to Battersea to a famous local animal shelter, Battersea Dogs and Cats.

Battersea Power Plant -- featured on the cover of Pink Floyd's "Animals."

Mike the Jack Russell.

Excited to explore Brighton – saw the bright lights of the pier and the Ferris wheel. The cabbie that took us from the train station pointed out little bohemian nooks to explore.

Also, I’ve noticed that Brits don’t say “hi.” It’s “hiya.” Just a little observation.

Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November

I think I’ve had either too much coffee or tea today. Or a bit of both.

It’s nearly 11 p.m. and I feel anxious and nervous. And have this overwhelming feeling over me with sentiments of homesickness when I used to be at my grandmother’s place for over a week.

It’s a sinking kind of feeling. Dread. I remember feeling it when I marched home in Grade 8 after the principal found out I had forged a handwritten note from what appeared to be my father telling the school I would not be in class because my grandmother had died. Just so I could skip and go to Wonderland.

Or worse – when I got caught shoplifting a year later and I was waiting for the police officer to tell my parents.

It’s a certain, familiar feeling. And I can’t shake it.

London has been quite kind. The tube is slow, the weather is up and down, but I’ve seen some interesting things so far.

We went to Trafalgar Square on Guy Fawkes Night just at the beginning of the Million Mask March, where supposedly a million protesters wearing “Anon” masks would be marching to the Houses of Parliament.

We left pretty early on, but saw through Twitter updates during the night that thousands gathered and 10 were later arrested by the end of the night. Thomas shrugged it off -- "The police here are smart. They won't put up with too much shit." A few barricades were thrown and some firecrackers at police near the Parliament buildings, but that was about it. Ten arrests for thousands seems pretty quiet, in the grand scheme of things.

It was quite cool to be there before things got too hairy.

We had tickets to see Dead Alive, the cult Peter Jackson horror-comedy flick, as part of Backyard Cinema’s Zombie Apocalypse line-up.

Wow, Toronto needs something like this.

There are a number of these cinema events – the biggest probably being Secret Cinema, which only happens a couple times a year.

Basically, you buy a ticket without knowing the film or location. With Secret Cinema, the viewers are actually part of the film as extras. It’s pretty cool.

So, last night at Backyard Cinema…

We arrived in Hackney Wick at a warehouse on Dace Rd.

We were given a food/drink ration card and then a group of eight of us was instructed to stand against the wall where a guy dressed in police riot gear started barking orders at us.

“You will address me as ‘Sir, yes, sir.’ Is that clear?” he shouted.

And the eight responded, half serious, half snickering.

The officer then had us standing in two rows and told us to whisper a compliment into the ear of the stranger we were facing.

“Remember how this feels like when things get bad out there,” he said. “We have to take care of each other.”

We climbed two flights of stairs to a fluorescent blacklit hallway where another guy with a gas mask and containment suit checked us out for “decontamination.”

Shortly after, we arrived at a bar area that served burritos, nachos and beer.

A priest was there, reassuring us it would be OK, pointing a finger to a nearby wall of “Missing” bulletins of those lost in the zombie apocalypse.

Before many had time to finish their meals, a colonel pulled us into a “war room” where he took our surnames down and took inventory of our zombie survival skills. I said Shaolin spade. I know, not too original.

When the final group came in after 7:30 p.m., we were welcome to enter through part of the warehouse where they had several zombies contained. A nurse was doing experiments on one of the undead strapped to a gurney while another bleeding zombie was caged in.

At the back of the room were rows of red futons and blankets.

I'd almost forgotten how awesome Dead Alive was. Hadn’t seen it in years and was hands down the goriest film I’d ever experienced. Schlocky, slapstick and gory. So good.

When the credits rolled, the lights went out and the policemen came out again, shouting at people, that there’s been a security breach. In small groups, we had to get back out to the bar area, ducking all the zombies that were once contained.

There was smoke everywhere and was hard to see but there were a few zombies grabbing at you. It was actually really well done and freaky.

Considering that despite loving horror, the scares inside a shitty haunted house still make me jump. So I was actually taking escaping this thing pretty seriously.

And we survived. Huzzah!

Quick note: Went to Chris Stein’s "Blondie” exhibit at Somerset House today. Was surprised it was free. Great photos. There was one of Lester Bangs on a NYC beach that was classic. Bryan Adams (yes, Summer of ’69) has a photo exhibit on war heroes that will open up at the gallery next week, which is neat.

Second quick note: Went to see Neville’s Island tonight, a play about four co-workers who get stuck on an island. It was great to see Adrian Edmondson in person – his voice is so unique and it brought back so many great memories staying up late, watching Bottom and The Young Ones on YTV. Love.

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?