High Tea? Check.

Seating for one at Harrod's Georgian Restaurant for tea, complete with finger sandwiches, scones, desserts and huge tea pot of green mint tea: 19.95 GBP.

Tip for service: 5.05 GBP.

Taking in the ambience while savouring the gooey, sticky sweet goodness: Priceless.

That's right. I finally made it to Harrod's in Knightsbridge. I went. I ate. I bought tea. I have a plastic shopping bag. I am a Harrod's virgin no more.

(I was going to title this post, "Tea at Harrod's, Bitches!" but considering there are probably friends and acquaintances who got there long before I did -- and probably actually shopped there -- they'd probably think I was an immature loser who just happened to do what thousands and thousands of people do all the ... Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I had tea at Harrod's, bitches!)

I think I was there for about an hour and 20 minutes, but I didn't care. It was great. I did manage to eventually peel myself off of the chair to look around. I barely got a look at the place in the short time I was there, but what I saw was surreal. The Egyptian Room. A chocolate bar. (No, not like the candy. An actual bar. With big churning vats of chocolate instead of hard liquor along the back counter.)

I didn't want to get near anything, for fear I'd in some way damage it and have to pay for it. Costly pots ... pans ... hats ... Fendi and Jimmy Choo bags ... If I was a shopaholic with a penchant for expensive things, this place would be my Waterloo. It was certainly something else.

Earlier, I'd (finally!) gone to the Tate Modern, which I missed on my last trip to London. Of all the stuff I attempted to digest in the two hours I was there, I must say that this was my favourite (next to Picasso, of course). Don't ask me why, but I remember spending more time looking at it than most. Oh yeah, this was pretty good, too.

This, however, annoyed the snot out of me. Don't be fooled by the still picture. I wish I could find a video version of this to properly convey what I mean. Take my word, though - It was almost the audio-visual equivalent of being shot at with a pellet gun.

Of course, me merely mentioning it probably means the artist has achieved what he set out to do. But if you ever go to Tate Modern and stand in front of this thing, leave within two minutes. 'Cause if you're not afraid of clowns before you approach this work, I can see the possibility that you just might be when you leave it.

But on a slightly serious note, I can't believe 10 days have come and gone already! Luckily there's still more to come. If I'm not held up at the train station by long lineups and luggage searches, that is.

The East London Experience

As circumstance (and laziness) would have it, I ended up spending my entire afternoon in evening in East London.

I originally went down there to retrieve my loaned mobile from a friend of a friend, who was kind enough to drive me home last Saturday after missing the subway back. In my exhausted daze, I'd taken it out and threw it on the backseat, and forgot about it until I'd gotten back to my friend's place - about 2 minutes after he'd driven off.

He also had promised to show me around when I was in the area this week, but it wasn't meant to be. He did suggest spending some time at Old Spitalfields Market. I did come through here the last time I was in London, so I wasn't really in the mood to buy anything. But I figured I'd at least have lunch here for old time's sake.

(If any of you get to come here, go to Cafe Mediterraneo - it's where I had probably one of the best chicken salads and hummus ever. I thought I'd be done in 20 minutes. No, ladies and gents. The motto on their bill reads, "SLOW FOOD IS GOOD FOOD", and they're not lying. That thing took the better part of an hour to finish. It was like time slowed down when I ate that salad. I was this close to going home and taking a nap.)

After that, it was down to the Museum in Docklands - quite interesting if you're into the history of London through its ports, docks and mercantile industry. It's actually bigger than I thought it would be - I spent 2 hours in there and only got as far as the abolition of the slave trade. There's way more beyond that, and it's not a bad little place to visit. And for 5 GBP, you can get a ticket that's good for a year. (If anyone plans on going to London between now and Aug 9, 2007, lemme know I'll be quite happy to let you have my ticket.)

By the time I caught the Docklands Light Railway (their version of the Scarborough RT, except things smell, well, slightly river-y instead of like sulphur at Midland Station - yeggs!) back to Tower Hill Station, and tried to grab some dinner, it was time for the main event - the Jack the Ripper walking tour I'd been waiting to take for days.

Funnily enough, the tour guide (really informative) took us back through the part of East London where I'd been earlier (dang) and showed approximately where the murders took place. I didn't know part of that area of town is actually now Banglatown, which is apparently reputed to have the best curry. (Too bad I already ate!). But it was neat.

And here I am, with one full day left before I have to pack up and travel out of the city by train. Sniff. I can't believe it's almost over! Well, time to get some shut-eye and make the best of what I've got left.

Surrounded by clocks. And STILL tardy.

Today, I took a river boat cruise along the Thames. But, as usual, time wasn't on my side.

I bought my ticket and, thinking I had plenty of time to make the boat, went wandering off along South Bank, where a lot of the cultural stuff is located.

By the time I figured out it was time to turn around, and hustled over to the pier, the catamaran had taken off. I had to wait until 3:00 p.m. to catch the next one.

I managed to snap a few pictures, and got off at Greenwich, way on the other side of the Thames. Very picturesque. It's home to the famous Cutty Sark (which brought tea leaves to London), the Maritime Museum, Greenwich University and the Royal Naval College. But I zipped past all of this for what I thought might be the real treasure: the Royal Observatory.

I originally went because of (a) my growing admiration of Sir Christopher Wren's architectural work, and (b) my fleeting interest in astronomy as a child, so I thought, telescopes and great views - sweet. Turns out I was also visiting the symbolic birthplace of modern time and home of the Prime Meridian (a.k.a. The Reason I Have To Do Time Zone Math at Work Every Day).

I also didn't anticipate the fact it was up on a hill. Pretty when you get up there. Not-so-pretty as you huff and puff up there. As much as I admired Christopher Wren just 30 minutes earlier, I was silently cursing his name as I climbed upwards in my wedges. (I bet 20 bucks he didn't hike up there in his pointy shoes. Hot air balloon is my educated guess.)

The view of London from here is really impressive, though. There's also a free tour through the building - the living quarters of the first Astronomer Royal, a Camera Obscura outside, the Octagon Room where they'd peer through their telescopes ....

And all the timekeepers, clocks, and pocketwatches you can shake a stick at. It was definitely something I was taken by. Speaking of time, I was definitely operating on DST (D Slow-ass Time). By the time I got to the section with clocks and watches, I realized I was late for the boat leaving Greenwich for Embankment Pier (where I was supposed to jump off and meet a friend for dinner). Typical.

So I stayed a bit longer, looked around, and then lined up for the famous picture-taking spot where the Eastern and Western Hemispheres are separated by a single, imaginary, dividing line. It took about 20 minutes, but I got my small moment with time snapped (with slightly annoying kids jumping around in the background).

Then I hightailed it out of there (or as much as you can in heeled sandals) back down to the pier. The boat I'd hoped to make it on was full, so I was put on another boat, which turned out to be The Slowest Boat Ever. I was sitting at Greenwich Pier for at least a good half-hour while three other boats docked, picked up other passengers, and zipped away.

I finally had had it and jumped off at Tower Bridge, because I probably could meet my friend faster if I took the tube. I did finally manage to find her, apologize profusely (she was really really good about it) and we had a nice dinner.

But it was definitely a bit of an unpredictable afternoon. And a further reminder of why I need to invest in a wristwatch.

Torture and Jewels at the Tower of London

So after The Day Of Neverending Travel, I slept in and didn't venture out until well after 2 p.m. My plan: to see the Tower of London.

I took the District Line down to Tower Hill. Unlike the other lines I've been on, it's definitely an older one. The tube cars are old and clunky, and the term "Mind the Gap" definitely applies at each stop - it looked like there were about three to four inches (at least) between the cars and the platform. You could definitely jam a leg down there. Well, it looked that way to me, anyhow.

The Tower is definitely worth it. When you surface from the Underground, you can see a piece of the original wall that fenced in ancient London. And the actual Tower of London (a series of towers) is gigantic.

I can honestly say the best part of the Tower is the tour given by the guards there (called Yeoman Warders, or Beefeaters). The one I got was quite lively and very funny. Definitely entertaining if you're a kid. I think the tour lasts about a half-hour, and then they let you loose to see the other towers. We got a glance at where the prisoners for execution were brought in, heard a few of the stories of folks who were imprisoned, even where a couple of Henry VIII's wives were (privately) executed. Fascinating stuff.

Most guide books will say you need to give yourself at least a couple hours. I think - if you want to be thorough - you need to give yourself several hours. Because I went so late, I didn't get to see all of the towers. I spent the most time in the White Tower, but that was because there were so many people. There's a lot of armour, and a lot of weaponry in there, so if that's your thing, you would probably appreciate it. (I must say, if you go to the armoury area, check out the suit of armour for Henry VIII. He was pretty, ahem, generous with the codpiece.)

I then had to scoot over to see the Crown Jewels. This is a must. Yeah, the blinged-out crowns and sceptres are sparkly and impressive. But there's this golden punch bowl ... holy crap.

I wanted to get into the Bloody Tower, but only made it in to see the torture implements in the lower levels (nothing says "pain and suffering" like a device named The Scavenger's Daughter), and then the place closed down.

I definitely would pay to see this again, if only to hit the rest of the towers and Tower Bridge which, even from a distance, is pretty impressive. Alas, another time, another trip.

Birmingham, Scarborough Style

Yesterday, I decided to go visit my cousin Shauna in Birmingham. It was a last-minute decision, as I only found out she was there, the day before I left Toronto. And man, what a voyage that was.

Left the house reasonably early and got myself down to London Euston relatively ahead of time.

After plunking down 35 GBP, along with a few more quid for a cookie, some water and crisps, I waited for an hour and boarded the train (luckily, the right one) on time.

Two and a half hours later, I arrived at Birmingham New Street Station. I called my cousin, who I thought would come and meet me. I ended up having to take a cab to her flat (cost: about 10 GBP).

Didn't do much. Met her boyfriend, caught up with her a bit, ate dinner and watched TV and bootlegged DVDs. (Like the really bad ones where the DVD skips and you could see people's silhouettes when they left their seats, and where the screen was partly obscured when someone got up in front of the camera or the bootlegger's jacket got in the way). But it was very nice to see her again, nonetheless.

I stayed a little later than expected, leaving sometime after 8 p.m. Shauna's boyfriend was more than kind enough to give me a lift back to the station.

I ended up just missing a train back into London and dropped another 35 GBP for a return ticket on the last train to Euston.

That trip itself went well. It was when I finally returned to the station that things got a bit difficult.

I thought - if the train pulled in a couple minutes early - I could dash down to the Underground and try and make my way as far westward as possible. I was doing brilliantly until I skidded to a stop in front of partially closed gates and a whiteboard which read, "UNDERGROUND CLOSED. SERVICE RESUMES AT 5:20 A.M."

What. The. Fuh.

My friends over in Ealing were probably already asleep, and there was no way I was going to wake them and make them come down for me. I already was staying in their home and pretty much eating their food. How inconsiderate and humiliating would THAT be? It would be like New Year's Eve 2000, all over again.

That left me with only one alternative, which people back home know I'm notorious for doing after a late night downtown - I was cabbing it home.

I went out to the main street beyond the station and tried flagging down a cab. Lousy luck. And silly me. It seemed everytime I tried walking farther down the street, someone would get a cab near the spot I just stood. After about 10 minutes of this (and panicked visions of spending the night sleeping on a park bench and potentially getting mugged or worse), I strode back into the station, asked the night staff about taxis, and got directed to a taxi park on the other side of the station.

About 40 minutes and almost 30 GBP later, I was back in Ealing. And soon I was out like a light.

Portobello ... and uh-oh ...

On Saturday, my friend's fiance John and I went down to Portobello Market. It wasn't too bad, if a bit crowded. I've been told it's in one of the more expensive parts of town, being in Notting Hill. But we mainly stuck to the long stretch of road with vendors and antique shops.

Of course, with it being a location flooded by tourists on a regular basis, no doubt things were a bit pricey, depending on where you went. I didn't really see anything that caught my fancy, save for a necklace I ended up purchasing (10 GBP - not the best price, but it was okay).

We then hightailed it out of there, and John took me to this historic old tavern, the Cheshire Cheese. Built after the Great Fire of 1666, it's pretty much remained standing ever since. I had a pint of cider (not Strongbow, but actually quite nice). Unfortunately, most of the bar had been either closed off or reserved for private functions, so I really didn't see a whole lot past the front drinking room, which was really small. Come to think of it, most of the bar (and the staircase down to the toilets) was pretty small. People must've been tiny back in the 17th century. Like Shetland Pony-tiny.

Later in the evening, I met up with my friend Shenaz (who lives in Canary Wharf) and her friend for a play over in the west end, at Hammersmith. It was a political play about the Iranian constitutional revolution of 1906. Interesting stuff.

After, we drove downtown to Covent Garden. I must say - from the back of a car, London at night looks awesome. I tried to take a couple pictures, but they didn't turn out as well as I thought they would. We went to this place called Pizza Express (where they eat their pizza with a knife and fork - !!!) and chilled and joked around for a bit.

It was a great end to a good day ... except for one thing.

Unlike the subway in Toronto, the London Underground - as great as it is - has this annoying habit of shutting down completely after about 12 a.m. So by the time we figured this out, Shenaz's friend - who's from East London - had to drive me all the way BACK to West London. And we had to stop a few times along the way to figure out which way we were going. I eventually got dropped off at about 2:15, 2:30 a.m. or so. I offered to pay for gas, but he refused.

I felt awful. I was also vowing to myself not to let that happen again. Famous last words.

Out of The Hole ...

I haven't had the chance to write for a couple days, and that's mainly 'cause I've been a bit worn out by all the things I've been trying to cram in. I just got home not too long ago from Birmingham, so while I'm up, I'll fill you in.

On Friday, my friend Mandy and I went to St. Paul's Cathedral. I'd been there the last time I was in London, but never got to go above the ground floor due to renovation/restoration. But it certainly felt like I was going in again for the first time (especially when I found out I had to pay 9 GBP. I definitely do NOT remember that part). Being the Baroque style of architecture, the craftsmanship is phenomenal and elaborate. The artwork is unbelievable. The whole place is ridiculous, but in a good way. It just boggles my mind whenever I see stuff like that, to think human beings are capable of such massive works of architectural art. And that's the old stuff.

A couple things I learned about myself (or at least admitted once again):

(a) I am an out-of-shape loser. There are 530 little, tiny steps going up into the upper areas of the cathedral, and I got winded after about the halfway point. Meanwhile my friend - the runner - didn't even break a sweat. Note to self: Resume cardio when I return to Toronto.

(b) The older I get, the more uneasy I am of heights. I'm not scared, per se. Otherwise I never would've said, "Let's go up to the top!" The sections outside the actual building were fine. However, when we got to the Whispering Gallery up in the Dome and I looked waay up to all the artwork above, my stomach and my brain both said, "Oh, hell, no!" in unison, and I held on to that metal bar with at least one hand (and clutching my stuffed MEC bag with the other). Of course, Mandy - being the fearless runner friend she is, ducked in between the railing. Show-off.

Climbing the spiralling metal staircase to get up to the Golden Gallery, the uneasiness continued. I didn't dare look down, and I didn't even attempt to look up. Just straight ahead - or at least at Mandy's feet as she ascended the steps ahead of me.

Once I was outside at the top, I was pretty much fine. I snapped a couple of pictures, took in the skyline, which is quite the sight. But I felt the slight vertigo return on the way down. And I specifically remember getting back down to the ground floor of St. Paul's and feeling a slight wobble in my legs. That can't be a good sign.

We also spent part of the afternoon in the Museum of London. Nope, not the British Museum. There's an actual museum dedicated to the history of London, from prehistoric times onward. I can't speak for my friend, but St. Paul's tuckered me out, so we never made it past Roman times. Luckily the Museum was free.

Then we met up with Mandy's friend from work and we had dinner at or near Kew Gardens. It was a cute little pub called the Rose and Crown. Definitely good food, and the building - like most in London - had a history behind it.

More a bit later ...

A Tale of Two Houses

So two out of three ain't bad.

I wanted - more than anything - to visit the British Library (a.k.a. Wordgeeks' Paradise), but I just stopped short of actually heading inside the premises before having to turn around and head down to Canary Wharf to meet a friend.

(That's what you get when your friends give you a phone you can receive calls on, but can't make because you have no phone minutes and your phone hasn't been topped up. Problem later resolved, though.)

However, I did hit the Dickens House Museum over on Doughty Street (after getting lost on foot - surprised?) first. It's an interesting, if slightly cheesy, place. First I caught a 30-minute video on Dickens' life. (Well, most of it. This was the cheesy part. And I think I was caught nodding off by this 11-year-old blond girl sitting right next to me. I didn't look right at her - who needs dirty looks from a tween, anyway?)

Then I took a bit of a self-guided, brochure-free (one pound fifty pence EXTRA for the freakin' brochure!) tour. Not bad. Saw some objects that inspired his works. Did you know he and his family spent time in debtor's prison 'cause of his dad? Totally sucks, if not character-building for his literary works. He also apparently had quite the gaggle of lady-friends throughout his life. I even got a photo of the last desk he worked on before his death in 1870 (which I'll post later).

Compared to Dickens' residence, Sir John Soane's Museum may look like a typical nondescript historical home on the outside (it's actually three adjoining houses), but the inside is another kettle of fish. I went in blind, not knowing who the guy was (one of Britain's leading architects in the 19th century; responsible for designing the Bank of England), and was actually impressed.

Dude was eccentric. For serious. Mirrors. Tinted yellow glass in the roof. Crazy, beautifully designed domed skylights and ceilings. Artifacts up the yin-yang. Folding walls of paintings with stories. (Oh yes. Folding walls). And oh yeah - there's a sarcophagus in the basement.

Of course, like most museums, I couldn't photograph any of the wicked mirrors or skylights, so all I could really get is this lousy picture from outside (above). But that place seriously makes for good photography. If anyone finds a way to sneak a camera in and snap one of those convex mirrors, I'll be your BFF. Well, maybe not - I'd just think you're really cool for, like, a week.

Update: Responding to my comment about my friends' loaner phone. I was being sarcastic and was explaining a brief moment of frustration, which quickly passed.

In all seriousness, I am indebted to them for letting me stay with them during this trip and tricking me out with a phone and other things at my disposal while I've been here. It's leaps and bounds more than most people travelling do get. I'm very lucky and I know it.

Take Two ...

Much better today.

I actually got my carcass out of bed before noon, got to the right tube station this time, and hightailed it down to St. Martin-in-the-Fields church. Not bad - and surprisingly shorter than I thought it would be.

Also managed to have a muffin and tea down in the Crypt Cafe. My table was actually sitting on someone's tombstone.

After that, I went to buy my ticket for the Houses of Parliament tour. To kill time until the tour started, I went to a place called The Jewel Tower. It's a good primer on how British government essentially works, and a good history. It was also a rip-off, at 2.30 GBP. It should have been free.

I then snuck over to Westminster Abbey. Okay. Didn't expect it to take THAT long. SO many crypts and memorial plaques. And people. (Don't go if you don't like large crowds.) But still, it was all right. Got to touch Geoffrey Chaucer's tomb over at Poet's Corner and see one of the smaller gardens in the back.

Finally, I went on a tour of the Houses of Parliament. Worth every pound, I think. The only thing that would've made it a bit better was if the House was sitting ... but then again, we probably wouldn't have seen as much as we had. And I always thought the actual House of Commons was bigger.

After a late lunch, took a long walk up Charing Cross Road ... took in the sights, had my first Hare Krishna sighting, went through Soho (kinda, briefly), and up along Tottenham Court Road.

I pretty much tired myself out enough to catch a snooze on the tube back (and not miss my stop).

We'll see what's next.

South Ealing Christening (or, A Little Poo on the Shoe)

A bit of a slow start on Day 1 of my fabulous vacation.

I eventually did leave the house after about 3:00 in the afternoon. I tried, in my sleepy-but-fairly-rested haze, to remember my friend's directions to the Northfields tube station. Two rights, then a left, then a left. No problem.

So imagine my surprise when I turned up in front of South Ealing station instead. A check of my guidebook showed I'd actually walked up to the next one up on the Piccadilly line. No worries.

Next step was trying to trying to figure out what kind of ticket I should buy. Which meant getting change.

As I paced back and forth, I was trying to figure out (a) where I needed to go, and (b) who I should ask for change, and (c) who I should ask about tickets. I wasn't sure what to do next. And the station kinda smelled like ass. I wasn't sure why, so I tried to ignore it, since I figured I wasn't going to be there very long.

As I was standing over at the map for the upteenth time, I noticed the floor was kinda slippery, 'specially under my left foot. I couldn't figure out why ... until I looked down.

Crap. Literally.

Someone's dog had shat a bunch of fresh, reddish brown ones on the place where I'd been standing, and I managed to grind the mushy mess into the treads of my left loafer. Classy. I hobbled outside, sidestepped more poop to find some newsprint, something to wipe the mess off. It helped a tiny bit, but not that much.

So, trying to do my best impression of the British stiff upper lip, I ignored the dung, broke a twenty at the guys who (I guess) handle cab service, got some help from a really nice guy at the wicket, and managed to catch the tube to Leicester Square (sitting, with my right leg firmly crossed over my left the whole time).

I managed to get to the National Portrait Gallery (where I later washed my hands and tried to diminish the poop on my shoe before washing my hands again). Not bad, but I think I spent too much time trying to take in all the pictures from the Tudor and Elizabethan eras. Meh.

I couldn't really see much else, since everything pretty much closes between 5:30 and 6 p.m., so I took a stroll down to Trafalgar Square and snapped a couple pictures of the fountain and the monstrous Nelson's Column.

I walked past the Old Scotland Yard, went through Victoria Embankment Garden, and then decided to go home. (Which was interesting in itself, since I managed to get on the wrong line and changed trains probably 3 times before I got back to my friend's place. I honestly don't remember getting lost on the tube once when I was here the last time.)

I did manage to have a nice dinner at an Indian restaurant with my friend, with free Tia Maria shots to boot.

It ended well. But there's always tomorrow.

What's Latin for "seize the sleep"?

Hey kiddies,

Am officially in London - and officially disoriented. My body knows it's almost 1 p.m. here ... but my brain still is on Toronto time (which, by my watch, means it's barely 8 a.m. there).

Uhh, this jet-lag is gonna suck.

As soon as I get my bearings and get my behind down to the Tube, I'll start this vacation - and the pictures - I swear!

Also, a Happy Birthday today to my brother, stuBlog. He'd probably hate it if he found out I linked him, but hey - he's family. And you can't forget about family.

See you on the other side ...

Well possums (to steal a phrase from Dame Edna), I'm off to the U.K.

While I'm gone, don't do anything I wouldn't do (actually, go right ahead. I want to come back and have people tell me tonnes of stories).

If I get chances during my trip, I'll try to blog and post some pictures. It'll most likely be via Flickr, since the ol' Blogspot won't let me do it, for some strange reason. And even if you can't see them, I'll put them up when I get back.

Time to go cause some havoc!

Annoying Transit Habit #6 : Seat Crushing

I had finally reached the end of my cross-city travels for the day, having run around for the last several hours picking up much needed items for my trip.

Having just missed the Middlefield bus, I raced toward the McCowan bus, which luckily had no driver as yet. It was barely even full, which was a bigger bonus.

I lugged myself and all my bags (including a new carry-on backpack for my trip) to the very back of the bus - in the corner - and sat down.

Of course, I noticed a couple of the passengers staring at me. I hate people who stare. It makes me feel like I've got two heads or something. Plus I think it's just plain rude. So I stared right back at them until they'd look away. Then I'd catch them staring at me again (or maybe in my general direction), so I'd look right back at them.

Then one of them, a middle-aged East Indian guy with one of those briefcases with all the compartments (who had been standing mid-way down the bus from me), decides to sit down. Not in a seat where he could take advantage of all the space. Not in the middle of the empty back row, which only had one other passenger, sitting at the back on the other end of the row. Right next to me.

And the ride only got worse from there. Until the man got off at Finch, it was like he was trying to crush me and my multiple bags out of my seat. He was practically pressing up against me. At one point, I'm pretty sure I was leaning to the right to avoid his elbow, which was practically digging into my ribs. For serious - he was sitting with his elbows sticking straight out. I kept trying to straighten up to regain some of my buffer zone and to let him know without saying anything that he was crowding me out. Apparently he either didn't get it or was used to sitting among people smaller than me.

At one point, I straightened up and nudged him. Of course, stupid me, I said "sorry". (I've GOT to stop doing that.) I was so relieved when he got up.

I know that the seats themselves don't allow for a lot of room. But what happened to respect for personal space?

This isn't the first time this has happened. I remember getting crushed against the wall of a subway car months ago by this really thick black woman. Not fat. Thick. And the winter jacket only added to it. She pinned me in the bucket seat for, like, 14 stops. It was unbearable. I couldn't even take a nap, it was so uncomfortable.

Seriously, seat-crushers - ease UP! Maybe I look slender or something to you. Believe me, I'm not. Give me a couple of inches' worth of buffer space! It's folks like you that make me hate public transit. Grrr!

She's no Zanta ...

A couple of mornings ago, I boarded the slightly-crowded Rapid Transit out of Scarborough, as is part of my usual commuting routine to get downtown.

So there I was, saddled down with bags, newspaper tucked under my arm and minding my own business, when I heard this unintelligible nattering behind me. And then I felt this hand give me a semi hard tap just above my elbow. I turned around ... and saw her.

And by "her", I mean this crazy Chinese lady who I swear just rides up and down the subway all day. I immediately stood near the doorway and gave her a quick glare.

I was already annoyed by the fact I couldn't read my paper. But having her on the subway really made my ride a little less pleasant. I've seen her a number of times before, so she's not new to me. It's not the fact she yammers and sometimes raises her voice in an unintelligible language that's neither English, nor seems to be Cantonese. It's not even the fact she sometimes scratches her long, dandruff-y hair, or that she can't look directly at you because one of her eyes rolls to the left.

It's this unbelieveably irritating habit she has of snatching newspapers out of other people's hands like she can't stand the crinkling and rustling of the pages, stuffing it behind her, and then proceeding to take it out a few minutes later and pretend to read it. I witnessed this later on in the trip to the subway. Some kid was reading a leftover copy of the Epoch Times to pass the time, and Crazy Paper Lady just reached across, past the passenger sitting between them, and slapped the paper out of the poor guy's hand. Then she proceeded to stuff it behind her, then pull it out a few minutes later like she just noticed it was there, pretend to read it, then stuff it back behind her, only to pull it out again and pretend to read it.

The guy was pretty good-natured, and gave her the customary "crazy lady ..." look that anyone would have. But seriously, though - for whatever reason, I was mad. I mean, I know the woman can't help it - she's mentally ill. But irrational thought had already taken over. I was trying to picture myself in that same situation and lemme tell you, the outcome wasn't good.

I pictured myself snatching that paper back, rolling it up and whacking her with it. I even imagined myself towering over her trying to wrestle that paper back from her. For real - is this what white-collar rage is like? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I'm an eye-twitch away from choking the woman if I ever run into her again.

Seriously, having Zanta on the RT would probably be more entertaining ... mmm, wait. Maybe not.

Summer Movie Quota: Filled

Yes folks, just like I said I would, I got in my serving of summer blockbusters, just in time for
vacation.

On Canada Day weekend, I saw Nacho Libre. Yes, I admit - it was a wee bit silly and probably not all that funny. But c'mon - Jack Black. With a man-perm. In stretchy white polyester pants. Enough said. And - spoiler! not really - I thought that song he sang for the nun before his big fight was a nice touch.

AND there was also the brief appearance of Peter Stormare, a.k.a Abruzzi from my favourite show, Prison Break, as the Gypsy Emperor. I need not say anything else.

A couple weeks ago, I went to go see The Devil Wears Prada (which I'd never read). I was pleasantly surprised. It was GOOD. I'm not normally a chick-flick kind of person, but seriously? Who can't relate to having a job where they've worked for someone they don't feel like they can ever impress with their hard work?

Yes, some of it was exaggerated (loved the one-upmanship with the whole Harry Potter manuscript incident - it was on like Donkey Kong!), but that's the beauty of fiction. This was a book that actually works as a movie. And plus, I was seduced by all the clothes and sleek movie cinematography. For about a nanosecond, I wanted to live in New York and work for a fashion magazine. Then I shook my head a couple times and my Pepsi-induced haze cleared.

And last night, I stopped the straggling and went with my friend Patty to see the second installment of Pirates of the Caribbean. Dead Man's Chest was - again, I'm biased - good, and that's because I knew what I was getting going into the movie. I didn't need to be challenged, and that was fine.

I do agree with my friend Kristy, who saw the movie before me - it was a bit on the longish side. The special effects were decent. And the white sand in some of those scenes. MAN! Wish I could take up residence somewhere like that, like, right now. But I can't wait to see the third one and see how it all comes together. Plus I hear Keith Richards is going to be in the movie (not a spoiler, common knowledge!), and nothing entertains me more than seeing the Original Arthritic Cockroach in action. Heh.

I did sneak another movie in there, but it wasn't one of the overhyped ones. If I do see anything else before I go on vacation, or before the Film Festival in September, I don't think it'll be anything above the calibre of, say, John Tucker Must Die or My Super Ex-Girlfriend. A girl needs to flush the junk through her system to make way for the good stuff.

Onwards, theatre-goers!

Jumping the Pond in 10 Days ...

Wow! I can't believe July is almost over. Sorry I haven't been as bloggy as I should. It's been a busy month with my job and just trying to be out and about socially.

I also can't believe I'll be on a plane to London in nine days ... and that I'm STILL not ready!

I've got so much to do, and so little time to do it in, I just don't know where to start. I'm excited but anxious at the same time. Well, at least I managed to buy myself a guidebook of Britain.

Eeeeee!

I'd better start making a list - no futzing around this week.

The Broken Camera Chronicles - Done, for now ...

So, my battle for a camera that works has ended. For the moment, anyway.

Prior to last week, I hadn't called Best Buy in about two to three weeks, as I was busy with other things. I decided to check in on what is now my least favourite electronics store to find out what lies they were going to tell me this time.

On Tuesday, I called Best Buy to check on whether my camera had returned. Keep in mind, I dropped it off for repairs on May 8th. The guy from Geek Squad said he'd check on the status and would call me back.

Went to the gym and came out close to 7 p.m. No call. Took the subway, then the rapid transit into Scarborough. Still, no call. That's it, I said. I'm near the Best Buy, I might as well trudge over there. So trudge, I did. Waited in the customer service line in my gym clothes and my big hobo backpack. Got up to the counter and told the guy I was checking up on my broken camera, and someone had called me but I hadn't heard from him. The guy said he'd go and check.

Unbeknownst to me, the first guy from earlier called me, leaving a message that my camera was still "in repair". This was completely different from the "in transit" I got from the previous guy about three weeks ago. I happened to check my phone about three minutes after he called. Where in the store he was calling from, I still don't know.

The second guy (presently) helping me returned to tell me the camera's status was "in transit". I said, "Well, funny you should mention that, because your colleague who'd called me earlier just called my cell to tell me it's still in repair, which is contradictory to what you're telling me." The guy said he'd go in the back and check, just to make sure.

To fast-forward this story, because Best Buy had my camera over 60 days (63 at that time, to be exact), they had to exchange it for a brand-new camera. Of course, I could only get the equivalent, since my camera (a) was only 4 megapixels (and the new ones are at least 6 megapixels now ) and (b) it had depreciated in value over the last year - $100, to be exact. And the Best Buy extended warranty was used to "pay" for the new camera.

I opted not to get one for my new camera, because it's a waste of money.

So I got my new camera on Thursday, which I guess means BB and I are even. I'll ride out the warranty that comes with the camera, until I have to get a new one. Then I'm going to go to Henry's. Where they KNOW what they're doing.

Four girls, a spa ... and a former Governor-General?

What a weekend!

My friend Helen arranged to surprise our friend Jeannie with a day at the spa as a belated birthday present.

This wasn't just any spa, as I found out. Nuh-uh. We're talking about the Haldimand Hills Spa Village, a.k.a. Ste. Anne's. Also known as, What I Hope Heaven Is Like When I Die.

The day started early. Three of us -- Helen, our other friend Veronica, and myself -- met at Jeannie and her boyfriend's condo to pick her up. At this point, she was still under the impression we were going to Sandbanks Provincial Park (which is what Helen told her).

We thought she may have gotten suspicious, but she had absolutely no clue whatsoever. Not when we turned onto the gravel road and we passed the "Welcome to Ste. Anne's Spa" sign. Not even when we parked and walked up through the beautifully landscaped courtyard into the main reception area.

When our orientation guide sat us down to explain how things worked, she said with a dazed look on her face, "Um ... so you mean there's no beach?" Completely priceless.

Before Saturday, I'd never ever been to a spa in my entire life. If you caught me on the right day, I'd probably even wrinkle my nose and call the whole thing a frou-frou waste of money.

Now you're preaching to the converted. Yes, it's still an extreme luxury, but even if I never go to a spa ever again, it was worth every penny (and all the Aveda products that I'll never get access to again).

It was ridiculous. We all got these robes to lounge around in all day, and a towel. While Veronica was whisked away for a Thai massage, the three of us remaining started off in a hot tub, then a lap pool (you can generate little waves with the slap of a button). Then we moved into an insanely intense steam room, which blasted eucalyptus into the room, like, every two minutes.

I had a yoga class with, may I say, a HOT instructor. (Jeannie said later that she and Helen had the same instructor for an afternoon class, and he touched her foot as part of a demonstration of one of the poses they practiced. Well, dang.) Even though I only cantaloupe bits for breakfast on the drive up, I luckily I didn't poot and make an ass of myself, so I was happy for that much.

This was followed by a five-minute neck-and-shoulder massage, my first one ever. SO good, I had to make sure I didn't drool onto the face rest.

We then regrouped for lunchtime, which was great. I got a small homemade pizza. But not just any pizza. It had an almond-flour crust, and even though I apparently could only choose from getting smoked salmon or chicken on it, I managed to get a half-and-half.

The afternoon was the highlight of my day. I got my first ever full-body Swedish massage. Oh. My. God. It was heavenly. AND they have these outdoor gazebos (which are actually like enclosed huts), so imagine getting a massage and hearing nothing but the breeze blowing through the trees ... it was perfect.

We met again for afternoon tea, which we enjoyed under a patio umbrella in the sun. I tried not to stuff myself silly so soon after having lunch, but it was a challenge.

Then Veronica and I hightailed it back into the building for our 45-minute facials. Like a massage, but from the shoulders up. I think also actually put cucumber slices over your eyes. I've always thought this was something they made up for TV shows or movies.

The four of us met up again, and spend part of our remaining time there in a huge hammock under one of the open gazebos. Pure perfection, I say.

There were two things I couldn't help noticing:

1) For whatever reason, I was peeing like a racehorse. Usually I pride myself on holding my bladder like a camel stores water. But that day, I felt like I had THE smallest bladder on the property. And I wasn't the only one complaining about having to use the facilities for the umpteeth time, either. My theory is that there was something in the water. I have nothing to substantiate that, but I haven't been like that since.

2) I'm pretty sure I saw former Governor-General Adrienne Clarkson there. I'm known to be wrong, but I saw this tiny, older Chinese woman in a bathing suit earlier in the day, and while trying not to stare at her to make sure, I had that moment of face-recognition in my mind. You know the one - when you look at someone and if you recognize them, you have a name instantly flash in your mind.

I was thinking, "Nah", until a little while later, I heard her say something to someone else, and I noticed her voice was definitely a deep alto. And later, when I was chilling with Veronica on one of the long chairs on the lawn, I noticed the same lady about four chairs down, under a huge tree, reading a book. She was kinda turned away from us, but I was pretty sure it was her. Given how expensive the place is -- and people book whole weekends there! -- it would definitely be the type of place she'd go to.

Beyond all that, I'm so glad I went. Maybe it'll help me deal with returning to reality. With a thud.

Boys and relationships, according to cabbies

So, while out for Canada Day last night, I had to take cabs at two separate points in the night - and got more than I expected.

The first ride, my friend Patty and I were at Queen and Bathurst, waiting for a streetcar so we could get to College. We gave up and flagged down a cab.

The guy driving the cab was hilarious and kept us laughing our entire trip. He asked us, "Do you know about English polyphonic a capellas?" Having a smidge of musical knowledge, I'm not entirely sure if that was really a term, but we played along, and said, "Uh no." Then he asked us about some opus by Beethoven in B-flat. Again, we played along.

And he said, "This is something you can use to find nice boy. If he says he knows about these, than he is the boy for you."

The second cab ride was on my way home. Having walked with my friend Heather from College down to King Street, we parted ways at King and Bathurst, and I hopped in a cab across town.

I was wide awake at this point, but the rocking motion of cabs travelling 60 kms/hr tend to have this hypnotic effect, rendering me asleep within about 15 minutes. I was wondering how to keep myself awake.

I didn't have to wonder much, thanks to my cabbie Shafiq. The conversation started out pretty simple enough - we were just making small talk about what we both did for Canada Day.

And then he asked some question about what did my boyfriend think (I guess about going out so late) and I said, "I don't have a boyfriend. I live with my parents; I don't have to worry about that sort of thing." And then he was wondering aloud why it seemed more and more girls don't seem to find boys - or at least, why they don't want to find boys, opting to study instead.

The conversation then took another turn onto the subject of interracial/inter-cultural dating. He relayed this one story about himself as a younger man from Pakistan, who'd dated this Polish girl, fell in love with her and told her he wanted to marry her. She said no - the difference in culture would just make things difficult. Needless to say, they probably broke up shortly after. He asked me what I thought about this.

Here's my general philosophy on these things: As far as I'm concerned, it's understandable if someone wants to date and/or marry someone of the same culture. It's safe and uncomplicated. And I understand the whole need to keep the culture alive.

But with the way things are, especially in countries like ours, we shouldn't judge if someone wants to date or marry someone else who's different, outside their culture, outside their religion. And there's a growing number of these relationships everywhere you look.

Sure, it's hard, and it's a lot of work - especially if two people plan on having children. But any relationship, whether romantic, platonic or otherwise, requires people putting in the effort for it to work. Whether two people are of the same culture or different ones, if they're not willing to do the work, then don't put in the time. And I think as the number of intercultural or interracial families grow, there's a chance it might get easier (aside from people guessing what you are every five minutes).

On top of which, yeah, it does help if you have the support of the families who will be joined together. The lack of family foundation just makes things that much more difficult.

To me, it doesn't really matter who I'd end up with, as long as I can deal with the things that transcend racial/religious/cultural boundries: the inital spark, whether feelings are mutual, the ability to communicate with the other person and whether the two of us can stick together during the rough patches.

It's probably a pretty idealistic way of looking at things, and I'm sure I'm glossing or missing important factors other people consider daily. But to me, happiness is ultimately what matters, more than what other people may think.

'Cause if you can't share happiness with someone you love, no matter who or what they are, then what do you have?

Happy Belated Canada Day!

Hey,

Although it's the morning after, just thought -- while high on rum-and-cokes and wide awake -- I'd wish everyone a happy Canada Day and hope the rest of your long weekend is a good one.

If you're bored, check out the other blog I write entries for, Tummy Yummies. Hopefully it makes you hungry enough to go out to eat somethin'!