Ah, Edinburgh!

Hey kids,

So, after being about four days behind, here I am in Edinburgh, during the International Festival, Fringe Festival, and every other festival known to man right now.

I got here in one piece (and unwittingly managed to buy first-class tickets for the train rides up - like that'll ever happen again), and have been staying with my friend Cindy and her cool flatmates, Brad and Lindsay, at their place just off Leith Walk.

For you film-saavy folks, Leith is the same strip that features prominently in the movie Trainspotting (says Cindy). In real life, Leith is apparently dodgy enough that any friend of Cindy or Lindsay's (well, maybe just a few) who find out they might be walking home after a night on the town immediately orders them into a cab, rather than walk. We were out last night, and (touch wood) we were just fine.

It's been a pretty lazy stay in Edinburgh so far. I spent the first couple of days just sleeping in, loafing, and then only really doing one tourist attraction a day. On Monday, it was Edinburgh Castle. Tuesday, I dragged Lindsay and Cindy on a tour of the new Scottish Parliament.

Tuesday night, we went club-hopping. Cindy - who never drinks - had a couple and it was, well, interesting. We made three stops. The first was to this place called Opal Lounge, where apparently Princes William and Harry have frequented when they are in town. Second stop was the biggest, tackiest meat market in town, (almost aptly) called Espionage, which could give Joker here in Toronto a run for its money. The last - and briefest - visit was at this place called Frankenstein Pub, which was almost dead, save for about 25 people in the place. It was thoroughly cheesy, but fun nonetheless.

Today was slightly better. Cindy and I went to the Writers' Museum, where I took in exhibits on Robert Louis Stevenson (didn't know he was Scottish!), Sir Walter Scott, who has tonnes of books and poetry to his credit, and a huge hulking monument built to him in downtown Edinburgh (near the train station), and the man whose birthday I share (which is celebrated by Scots here and around the world), Robert Burns. It was good.

Then I went over to the Royal Museum. Meh. I spent way too much time among the stuffed animals in the BioDome, and not enough time in the upper levels. And I ran out of time, so I couldn't go to the adjoining Museum of Scotland. I might try doing that tomorrow.

This evening, I managed to go on the Real Mary King's Close tour (yay!), which showed what life was like before part of the old town got demolished and built over. This, I recommend. Partly cheesy, but very infomative.

It's getting late here, so I should go to bed if I'm going to cram stuff in on my last day in town. I'm not sure when I'll write next, but it'll most likely be when I'm back in Toronto. Oh, God. I am SO not looking forward to Friday.

The Midlands: The Abridged Tour

My short weekend in the Midlands was drastically different (and way more quiet) than my previous days in London. And green. I mean, there are green, lush areas in Ontario, and I'm sure in other parts of Canada. But I don't know if they really hold a candle to the lush, rolling hills of the English countryside. It's a bit surreal, really.

I also must say, Sabrina and her parents were so good to me - too good, actually. They more than made me feel at home and spoiled me more than I should have been. I owe them big time and hope I can find some way to repay them for the kindness and hospitality they showed me over the two days.

But here we go:

Saturday: After a good night's sleep, Sabrina and I set out for Stratford-upon-Avon. It's certainly pretty and picturesque, but lemme tell ya, the Bard's Country ain't exactly cheap, either. We went to the tourist information centre to try and find a map, only to find out there were only two types: the ones for 80p, and the ones for 1.25 GBP. Who knew trying not to get lost was so expensive?

We skipped the maps and decided instead to do one of those hop-on, hop-off bus tours. Not bad. We had one of those plug-in guides, so we were trying to follow along as the bus made its way along those narrow streets. First stop: Anne Hathaway's Cottage. How pretty. The garden was enormous and filled with all sorts of plants. They also had staff who gave a brief talk about the history of the cottage in Anne's day and throughout the ages when her relatives took care of it.

We then hopped back on the bus, where we had an actual live tour guide explain things about life in Tudor times as we whizzed past some countryside scenery (and leaned to the right to avoid being whacked in the heads by wayward branches).

Back in town, I went over to Shakespeare's birthplace, which actually had an adjoining museum about his life. That was informative, but it was kind of disappointing, only because the room where Shakespeare was apparently born was one of the last rooms I saw before I left the building. I have to say though, Anne Hathaway's cottage was relatively more interesting.

Sunday: Sabrina took me to her old elementary school, which looked a bit like something out of Harry Potter. She then took me into "downtown" Leek, where we walked around and she showed me her mother's shop (which is named after her older sister, Sophie). It's the cutest town, but I'm sure a lot of towns in this part of the country all look picture-pretty.

We then drove to Buxton, an ancient spa town founded in Roman times. On the way we passed Flash, which Sabrina told me was the highest point in the U.K. (I've read it's the highest village. If someone can verify that for me, please do). In any case, the scenery on the drive up was breathtaking.

A half-hour later we were in Buxton. Apart from the lovely Victorian architecture and beautiful gardens, another big draw is St. Ann's Well, which has natural spring water flowing from its small fountain. I took a couple swigs, and it's (a) unbelievably refreshing, but (b) also quite warm. Turns out the water is - and has always been - a balmy 27.5 degrees Celsius. Buxton also profits from this, as it also has its own mineral water company which distributes worldwide.

We could only spend a couple of hours here, as I left later on in the afternoon for Edinburgh. But we managed to have some tea and scones at a small tea room in town, which capped off a nice weekend.

But it was off to Edinburgh, and trying to cram in as much as possible during the last four days of vacation ...

Stoke-on-Trent, Concluded.

When you last read this blog, I (your twit of a heroine) was waiting for my friend and her parents to come collect me from Macclesfield train station, after missing my actual stop.

I just realized I didn't have my wallet. A frantic search of my hand bag and person a few moments later confirmed it. Nice.

The last place I remembered having it was the phone booth, so I went back out there and checked. Not in sight. I suddenly knew what it felt like to be one of those people in those credit card commercials who go on vacation and lose everything.

I thought I was going to start shitting bricks (pardon the expression). I was looking around, in front of me and behind me, trying to find anyone who looked suspicious enough to swipe a wallet with money and credit cards. I saw this young guy in a gray hooded sweatshirt with a load of grocery bags and immediately my mind started jumping to conclusions. I was like, Oh my God, some yob probably swiped my wallet to buy food and will probably run up my credit card. I'm screwed!

I did snap out of it, went to the ticket wicket and asked them if they had gotten a wallet and daybook turned in. They said to go to the customer service office. I got there, to find an older man just chatting away with the men inside the office. When he finally moved enough for me to pop my head around his shoulder, there they were. My daybook and wallet. Thank. God.

I thanked the man at the office desk profusely for his help, and apologized for being such a twit. I also found out that he thought I'd gotten on the train back to Stoke-on-Trent and put out an announcement for me back there. Hoo, boy.

Things were sorted out in the end. My friend's parents -- bless them, they're the best! -- elected to come and pick me up from the station, since it would take an hour for my friend to drive from Stoke all the way to where I was, and they took me back to their place, where I did eventually see my friend.

The mini-nightmare was finally over. It also made me kind of paranoid, as I vowed I wouldn't let the same thing happen to me when I finally headed up to Edinburgh on Sunday.

Aimed for Stoke-on-Trent. Kinda missed.

So my trek northwards began Friday afternoon ... managed to lug my suitcase onto the tube and up to Euston train station, one of a number of railway hubs in the city.

Got my ticket printed, chilled for a few minutes, and then boarded the right train at the right time. So far, success.

It was at my stop that the trouble began. I noticed the train start to slow down and seeing the signs for Stoke-on-Trent, so I jumped up and began the slightly arduous task of trying to wrestle my suitcase from its hold behind my seat. By the time I got it upright and was making my way to my seat to get my backpack, the train had stopped and passengers were getting on.

It was a nightmare. I couldn't budge, so I had to stand at my seat, blocked in by my suitcase, while other people passed. Finally, the coast was clear, and as I started lugging my stuff down the tiny, tiny aisle, I got my first lesson about Virgin Trains.

Seasoned travellers, please skip this part, because you all know far better than me. But for anyone ever planning on coming to the U.K. and making part of your trip overland: Virgin Trains is NOT like VIA Rail. The train doesn't stop and wait to make sure everyone has boarded or gotten off, that has to. Virgin's Pendolino trains run on a tight schedule, so tight that sometimes, some of its scheduled trains may actually stop longer than expected because they're ahead of schedule.

I found this out the hard way. The train probably stopped for a total of maybe three or four minutes, tops. As soon as I finally made my way towards the doors to exit, the train slowly started pulling out of the station.

"No!" I said to myself as I saw the train moving out. "No! No! Shit! No! Shit! SHIT!"

It was too late though. My friend Sabrina, who was waiting for me on the other side, would have seen people get off, and then would watch as yet another train pulled in a short time later, with no me in sight.

In the meantime, panicked and upset, I first went to find the station manager to explain what had happened to me and which stop I could get off at next to get back on track (so to speak). Went up and down the entire train (I had stashed my stuff on a non-reserved seat in my car). No manager in site. I returned to my "new" seat near the door, very frustrated.

I asked a nearby passenger if she'd seen the manager, and if she knew which station was coming up next. She said no to neither. But bless her heart, she lent me her mobile to try and call and text my friend. No luck, but it was the gesture that counted.

Turns out the next station was Macclesfield, which was about 15 minutes away from Stoke-on-Trent. I stood in the little area between cars with all my gear, and as soon as the train stopped, I was off there like a hobo off a freight car. I went up to the first train staff member I found and explained my predicament. He told me that there was another train going back to Stoke-on-Trent in about 20 minutes and that I had to go to the opposite platform across from us, via elevator.

Great. So I went up and over. On the other side, I looked for a payphone. No phones. Because they were on the way out. On the other side of the platform from which I came. Twit.

So back up and over I went, through the ticket/waiting area, outside where cars waited to pick up people. The phones were on the other side. I made a call to Sabrina, but I got a message saying her phone was off. I called her house and talked to her mom, who told me to stay put.

THEN my that's when my second scatter-brained nightmare of the day took place. After making my calls, I went back into the waiting area and sat down, trying to chill out for a few minutes. After what seemed like 10 or 15 minutes later, I jumped up with a start.

My wallet!

A Wee Update

Hey kiddies,

Sorry for the lack of correspondence over the last couple days.

The abridged version: after a weekend in the Midlands (which began with me trapped on a train), I'm now up in Edinburgh, somewhat alert, and trying not to step in either dog crap or vomit (my friend Cindy's advice to me!).

Will try and write more soon (including a more thorough explanation of the last few days in chronological order).

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'!

The Skater Tsunami, The Dining Wrestler, A Well-Combed 'Stache and Silly Bus Riders

Last Wednesday:

Passing through Simcoe Park (near Front Street, just outside my building), I almost walked smack-dab into either a skate camp or impromptu skaters' convention. Could've been guys making a skating video. There were, like, 50 of them. Skateboarders landing tricks, a couple of them filming the stunts on cameras.

One of them apparently landed a really good trick when I wasn't looking, 'cause there was a cheer and scattered clapping from the skating comrades seated around the outer edge of where the action was happening.

I started making my way west towards Blue Jays Way. That's when I heard it: the sound of 200 little wheels bolted to boards, whirring, grating and scraping against the concrete. I turned around to see the legion of skaters making their way west on the sidewalk, lead by their fearless commander, who was kicking, pushing and coasting his way in between cars in the middle of the street.

Almost like a swarm of hornets, most of them jumped the curb onto the street, diagonally crossed over to the other side, and just as deftly got up on the sidewalk on the other side and did an almost simultaneous group dismount, jogging up the far-western stairs of the Metro Convention Centre complex - in the direction of the CN Tower and Rogers Centre, from my guess.

An urban symphony, if I ever heard or saw one.


Last Thursday:

Met Shakespeare for dinner (begrudgingly). After he called the first time to say he wouldn't make it until 8:30, I made my way to the Chinese restaurant we were meeting at. As I was being seated by the window, I noticed this white guy with long hair, sitting with this young woman. It didn't take me any time to figure out it was Bret Hart, a.k.a. "The Hitman". I think I did a pretty good job of not gawking or staring, but I was thinking, "Dude! I watched you when I was, like, 11 !"

I kept sneaking glances at him eating with his lady friend, even when I got hungrier, wearier and more annoyed as Shakespeare took longer and longer to arrive (finally making his grand entrance at 9:24 p.m.). The funny thing? Even though I was having my own disagreement and drama at dinner, a couple of brain cells still managed to detach themselves and scream with delight, "Dude! I CAN'T believe Bret "The Hitman" Hart is EATING at the same restaurant!" To which a couple other brain cells replied, "Relax, man. He's just a dude in town, eating dinner with his girlfriend. He puts on his shorts one leg at a time like everyone else. Stop looking." I still kept glancing over the divider at the other table. I couldn't help it.

And he was there a long time. He and his friend stayed just as long as we did. They left before us, though.

Today:

Waiting for the bus to arrive - I was just glancing around and spacing out to pass the time, when I glanced to my right, just in time to see this middle-aged man in the midst of combing his moustache, and then whipping his little banana-yellow comb back into his pocket.

This isn't a judgement against someone keeping a neat appearance in public. I don't think I've ever seen someone combing his moustache before. I'm sure men do that sort of thing every so often, right? I mean, there are probably some dudes out there whose 'staches are begging and pleading for a combing. I just thought it interesting.

*****************************************************

After running an errand, I caught a second bus home. As the second bus pulled up and the doors opened, all I could hear was the driver yelling, "Don't push the door! DON'T push!" And there was this dude, pushing at the back door. And it wasn't one of the newer buses that requires you to push the bar to open the door. And I could hear the little bell going off, and the driver yelling, "You want to push?!" and I didn't hear the rest of it - he was probably telling him off.

So the guy pushed his way off the bus, I got on, and by the time I got to the back, the driver was on the speaker, giving bus riders a Lecture about NOT pushing the door when they get off the bus.

Fair instruction, right?

About five or seven minutes later, this passenger makes her way (from her seat in the front half of the bus) to the back, where - when the bus had slowed down to her stop -- she proceeded to push at the door. Several people, including this middle-aged dude sitting closest to the back door, proceeded to say, "Don't push! Just wait!" I even heard myself saying aloud not to push (but not loud enough).

But apparently she knew better than everyone else, because she stubbornly (or stupidly) continued to push on the door. The middle-aged guy, probably a bit exasperated at her stubbornness/stupidity, said, "Hey, don't push! Just stand on the step and the door will open." The annoying little dinging bell rang. The doors eventually opened, and she got off. I looked at the passenger directly across from me, and we both smiled and shook our heads.

And despite all that, there were still a couple other "pushers" on following stops.

People. Sigh.

Fooled by Best Buy ... again.

So it turns out Best Buy led me on. Again.

I called this afternoon, hoping to hear the magic words, "Why yes, your camera is ready for pickup."

Last week, they said it was "in transit". Today the guy on the phone tells me it hasn't even made it into the delivery truck from the depot yet.

It's been almost 7 weeks. If I wasn't sane, I'd swear they were waiting until my original warranty runs out to get it back to me (and it happens to expire three weeks from now). That way, when I drop it the next time, they can shrug and say, "Well, nothing we can do".

I swear, next time, I'm going to Henry's to buy my camera. My friend's Nikon stopped working properly; she tried to get it fixed and ended up getting a newer model replacement. No charge.

That's the way you treat a customer, Best Buy. If he or she drops a few hundred dollars to buy an expensive product AND the good-for-nothing extended warranty package you hawk on them, the LEAST you could do is offer a little expeditious service.

Just a suggestion.

Geek Magnetism

If you thought I was being overreactive and shallow with my ranting about Shakespeare last month, here's further proof I attract plain men I don't mutually find attractive:

Walking along Front Street yesterday afternoon to meet a friend at our office building, I was waiting for the traffic light to change, when I made the mistake of looking over to my left into the eyes of a stranger. A mousy, thin-haired, bespectacled office-type with thin hair.

I tried to look quickly away, but not before he said, "Hi," smiling at me wanly.

"Hi," I said to be polite, quickly looking away. But the mistake had already been made.

"How do you do that to your hair?" he asked, orthodontic elastics stretching in his mouth as he spoke.

"I don't do it myself. Someone does it for me," I replied. C'mon green light, I thought.

"So it must take hours, then?" he asked.

"No, three hours. Not too bad, " I said back, reaching my limit.

The light finally changed and we crossed the street. I started to stride a little bit, but apparently Mr. Mouth-Elastics wasn't finished talking to me.

Mr. Mouth-Elastics: So, which team are you rooting for in World Cup?

Me: Um, none, really. I don't really watch soccer.

MME: Oh. So, you're probably more into hockey, then?

Me: I don't really watch sports.

MME: Ohh ... Well, you're into arts, then. You look like an artsy person.

Me: (For the LOVE of ...) Um, well, I don't really do anything artistic ... I'm more appreciative of other artists.

MME: Oh.

Thank GOD we were nearing my building when I spotted my boss leaving. I did a quick, "Gotta go, bye," and the torture was over.

Karma, if you're reading this: I give up. No mas! Uncle!! I'm not asking to run into models on the street. But couldn't you just give me a little more Wentworth Miller and a little less Barney Miller?

I'm good with an iota of Ryan Reynolds. Taye Diggs? Gimme somethin' to work with here. For serious. Help a sista out. I'm open and willing to negotiations. Just make the geek parade STOP.

Almost whole again!

I called Best Buy on Thursday afternoon to find out the status of my camera, which I'd dropped at my cousin's wedding in Florida in April.

After more than a miserable month, I'm FINALLY getting it back next week. Woot! No more lame Google Images! (Well, not as many.)

You'll hopefully see some original pictures here soon, kids. All in good time.

Subway Pet Peeves (or, how to keep from getting stabbed)

I have been wanting, nay, waiting to write this post. I almost didn't 'cause it's not exactly original. But in light of the stabbings in New York (two were subway-related) and the long trek home today (damn police investigation at St. George), it seemed almost fitting.

As an increasingly-seasoned commuter, I'm used to the subway and most of its quirks. But as someone who's admittedly neurotic, there are just some things that, on top of delays and suddenly out-of-service trains, can turn the TTC into the Crankypants Express.

So if you don't fancy getting attacked by a crazy commuter at her wit's end, wielding a nail file or Swiss Army knife she stole from a fellow passenger, then I suggest maybe NOT doing any of the following:

1 - Mouth noises. The sub-categories:

a) Loudly smacking, cracking and/or popping gum.
My biggest pet peeve. Ever. It's the ultimate aural assault. I'm not sure who exactly thought it was a cool idea to use chewing gum to demonstrate their impression of a Christmas cracker, but it needs to stop. Okay, okay. Hearing you chew your gum when I'm four metres away or less? Almost understood. Hearing you half a subway car away? Oh, hell no. Why do I have to listen to the oral percussion? Do you know how many 15-minute naps I've missed out on 'cause of you guys? Oh, if there was a way to put all the gum-poppers in designated cars so the rest of us could have some relative peace, man, I would. But since I don't have that power ... I. Don't. Want. To. HEAR. You.

b) Open-mouthed gum chewing.
Sometimes accompanies a), but just as annoying as hell on its own. Maybe you think you're just chewing gum. But in actuality, you look like a COW. It's. NOT. Attractive. I saw a young woman early the other morning on the subway doing this. She's probably quite pretty, but you wouldn't have known, since she looked like she was preparing her cud for her second stomach. I don't care if you think smacking your lips together and rolling the wad around inside your mouth gives you more attitude or whatever. It doesn't. And I'm sure it gives you premature age lines 'round your mouth.

c) Open-mouthed food chewing.
Like b), only worse. Also saw - or rather, heard - this on the subway the other morning, and was glad I only had to endure it for a few stops. But MAN was it painful. I didn't know this man two seats away had just unwrapped his morning meat sandwich until he started eating it. Smack-mack-smackety-smack ... gaaaaah! Makes me want to smackety-smack you! Listen, I understand the life of a commuter. If the trip is long, we all need to eat, whether on the way down to work, or to tide us over until we get home. But you don't need to let me know! Quit it with the slack-jawed mastication.

d) Phlegm-fighting (a.k.a. guttural noises, horking, etc.).
It's disgusting. If it's in your nasal passages, use a tissue and blow it out.

2 - Nosepicking.

How old are you, six? What's next, eating school paste? How is it possible that grown adults are digging for gold while sitting or standing in what's essentially a public venue, and they don't for a minute think they're being watched? And then the same folks will hold on to the subway poles as they're standing to leave the train. It's like SARS never happened. Psst ... hey. People are watching. No, I'm for serious. They're watching, and then going to work or home and talking about you and how disgusting you are. If you do it 'cause you fidget, then find a hobby for those idle digits! Learn to knit! Do a puzzle! Finger yoga? I'm sure they have some special exercises for that. Scratch your nose if you must. But please don't pick.

3 - Loud talking/cellphone conversations. It's a given - everyone's gotta talk. Sometimes, you need to communicate on your phone. But hello?! Why the hell do I need to hear you on the other side of the subway car? Or bus? Or streetcar? What you have to say to your friend(s) or girlfriend or boyfriend or spouse is none of my business. And I'm sure if I was turned your way, attentively listening to your conversation, you'd either give me cut-eye or ask me what the hell my problem is. Bottom line: if you can't have a conversation without shouting, you shouldn't be having it. Either wait for a period of peace and quiet when you can hear - and talk - properly or take it elsewhere.

4 - Rushing subway doors as they're closing. I admit, I've done this. But I'm reformed. I've learned that rushing the doors slows the train down. Worse: if you get a Crankypants Conductor, you get The Lecture. Translation: 30 extra seconds of your life is wasted, because you have to listen to someone who dislikes his job, telling you that you're wasting his time. It's so counterproductive. Sometimes, it's kinda dangerous. I once saw this dude rush the doors at Kennedy Station. He almost made it. He was stuck in the straps of his teal knapsack, which was wedged between the doors, and had to wait until the train reached Warden for him to free himself. He looked like an ass. (Man, I wish I had a camera.) Just wait for the next train.

Honourable mentions:

Singing/Whistling/Loud music listening. These are my personal neuroses. But somedays I don't want to hear any of it. In the case of loud music listening: I shouldn't be able to know exactly what you're listening to. Either get earphones that don't leak or get your hearing checked. There's nothing that's going to be sadder than a generation of 30-somethings who can't hear 'cause they punished their eardrums.

Farting. I know. Disgusting. But if you don't want someone pulling the emergency alarm, either fart in your seat when you're sitting down, or lean up against something. Don't be holding a pole near bucket seats and think no one's going to notice if you let one rip.

All that aside: I'm not actually saying that any of this will get you stabbed like the two poor dudes did in New York. But they literally were stabbed for no reason at all. They were minding their own business. I can't think of what would be a good reason to stab someone. Can you?

So here's my public service announcement: If someone asks you for your money, cellphone, whatever. Don't fight them. Just give them what they want.

Unless you're bigger than your attacker and think you can take him no problem. In that case ... I don't advise dudes high on machismo. You're on your own, sucka.

An Ode to Calvin

As a suburban commuter who doesn't let the subway schedule dictate my own, I rely on cabs to get me home.

Sometimes, I find it's the cab driver who dictates whether the ride will be pleasant, or if I'll be resigning myself to taking a nap in the back seat.

Commuting home from downtown the other night, I decided to catch a cab at the end of the subway line because the rapid transit I usually take home had finished its run for the night.

I plodded up the escalator and made my way along the queue of taxis to the one in front.

Usually, I never expect to get a particularly talkative cabbie. That night, I was in luck.

Calvin had to be one of the nicest cab drivers I've ever met. A 38-year-veteran, he's a lot of things in his time. He even owned a part of the cab company he drives for, but decided to get rid of his share.

As I'm sure is the case with a lot of professions, some people at that stage would just tire of the same job and look forward to getting out. Not Calvin. I think he said he was semi-retired, but he still loves to drive, which is why he's still in the business.

Even as his line of work seems to be getting more dangerous, he seems to take it in stride. He told me a story about this one passenger he picked up at a police station in the east end.

He was a young guy, Calvin said, whose parents own a popular West Indian restaurant. And the man seemed pretty cordial, very nice. He took him where he needed to go, but then the passenger asked him to wait as he stopped off somewhere, then got back in the cab and told him he needed to go to another destination.

He asked Calvin if he could have a smoke. Normally in a cab that wouldn't be allowed, but Calvin obliged. It was only a short while before he noticed a change in the passenger's behaviour. He started getting increasingly agitated, and just started giving Calvin all sorts of erratic directions. Turns out he'd been smoking crack and he was high and crazy.

Things came to a head when the guy lunged over the front seat and grabbed the steering wheel. Calvin managed to regain control of the car, and from what I can remember him telling me, he safely stopped the car and tossed the guy out.

As startled as he was, Calvin took a day off and was back on the road again. He even found the guy again and went to speak to him. For peace of mind, I think he said, and to make sure the guy was all right.

Despite that incident - and all the attacks on cabbies that have happened in recent months -Calvin says he'd never get a protective shield for his taxi. If that's not unyielding faith in the goodness of complete strangers, I don't know what is.

So one of these days or nights, if you ever take an East End taxi and happen to get a nice Trinidadian man who wears fingerless driving gloves, don't ignore him. Have a chat with him - it'll make your ride that much more worthwhile.

Well, dang.

So this morning, I'm on the University-Spadina subway to work, and I sleepily gaze over at someone reading one of the commuter dailies, when through my blurred vision, I see a really familiar face.

I wasn't sure I was seeing it properly, so I grabbed a copy lying nearby and got a really good look.

Guess who's staring back at me?

Well, dang, Wentworth.

You mean to tell me you rolled up into my hometown yesterday to promote my favourite show, and you couldn't even holla at a sista? What's THAT all about?

No, I'm serious. If you're going to be my pretend TV boyfriend, the least you could do is dial a couple of digits. And NOT 9-1-1, neither. I don't think I'm asking a whole lot and last time I checked, your fingers weren't broken.

When you were up in your frou-frou VIP tent downtown and listening to the adoring throngs of squealing girls and women over at Massey Hall, know what I was doing? Just guess. No, go ahead. Guess. Don't know? No? Give up?

Here's an image for you, sweetie: Me. In my workout gear. Slumped over my HUGE knapsack. Sleeping on my long, lonely subway ride home. Slobbering on my own arm.

For someone my age, that's neither attractive, nor funny. At ALL.

Do you know where I could've been? Down. TOWN. You could've prevented the aforementioned image of pity. The outcome could've been different. You let me down, dude.

Stop smirking! Stop it! You really have some nerve! I'm really beginning to think you're playin' games. You say you're too busy to call, you can't come and see me 'cause of your hectic schedule, and then next thing you know, you whisk through town.

Like I WASN'T going to notice. You didn't think someone wasn't going to take a picture? Seriously? You're all over Just-friggin'-Jared-dot-com!

Oh n-no. Don't you start gazing at me with that Blue Steel! Not this time. You're not getting off that easy. The sleepy eyes and hint of a slow smile may work with all the other women, but not me. Nuh-uh. You know what you are? You're a cad, a scoundrel who uses his good looks like a sexual weapon. You, sir are a ... a ... Ooooh!

You make me so mad I could just ... I ... I ... I ...

Sigh.

Okay, fine. FINE. I give up. I'm letting you off this time, mister. But next time, call.

Crazy people LOVE me

I've always believed I attract crazy people. Case in point:

While standing at my desk this morning, the phone rings.

It's one of the security guards downstairs.

Not just any guard - it's Dan. We're on first-name relations. Why? 'Cause the one person we both dread seeing has dropped by the building. For the fourth time. In three weeks.

It's this middle-aged Korean lady who wanted me to find someone to do a story. She's somehow here in the country illegally, because she tried to get from her native South Korea to the United States, but she says her immigration attempts were foiled by her country's government.

What else? Ummm ... she came up with this medicine, which she tried to get patented, but to no avail, because the Korean government interfered with that, too. And her secret serum somehow ended up in the hands of last year's Nobel Peace Prize winners for Chemistry. (I barely know how to spell "chemistry" on my best days, let alone understand it.)

I'm sure some of you have sympathy for her. I did, too. At first. That was mainly because her English - spoken or written - wasn't the best.

Then I found a colleague who speaks Korean - and has better judgement than me - to talk to her and translate.

She thinks everyone is conspiring against her. I'm not just talking about her homeland's government. I mean, the U.S. Patent Office, and even her own family, who's tried to put her in a mental institution. Twice. And disowned her.

She even gave me one week to get back to her and decide whether we can interview her. And I called her back earlier in the week and left a message at the place she was staying and said, "No interview."

Apparently to her that translates to, "No interview today. Try again tomorrow."

I even said to her face, "We can't do this story. No interview. None." I explained to her why. Or, at least I tried.

I'm waiting for the phone calls to start.

THAT was close.

Ever had someone threaten to storm or destroy your place of work?

No. I don't mean in a crank-call-the-school-principal's-office way. I mean, in an-Al-Qaeda-kill-lots-of-people way.

Well, it happened to me and my fellow employees yesterday.

The Coles Notes version (if you don't want to read it here): Authorities arrested up 17 people last weekend, suspected of being part of a homegrown terrorist cell that was concocting an attack on the country. Over the next few days, they were corralled into court.

On Tuesday, during such proceedings, a lawyer for one of the suspects rattled off a litany of allegations by the Crown, including beheading the prime minister, and storming and/or destroying various buildings, ours included.

Most of this would have just left people shocked, speechless and just plain scared.

My response when I heard?

"Whoa! Our building was a target?!"

Imagine the above phrase inflected with a mix of incredulousness ... and something closely resembling awe.

Even when I reached home, my parents asked me about it. And I still kinda brushed it aside.

My dad relayed what he'd heard. I was a bit nonplussed about it.

I repeated what I'd said earlier in the day to my mom.

"Target? Um, you could have been a hostage," she replied.

So what's shocking? What almost happened? Or how I reacted?

I mean, some of us at work were half-joking about it. To an outsider, I'm sure we'd be labelled a bunch of insensitive clods. But working where I do, I think being exposed to countless hours of radio and television desensitizes a person with time (at least, a little bit).

Pair that with the fact the plan was foiled before it was executed. Had someone actually made it to the front lobby of our building and some scuffle or takedown had ensued, perhaps it would have been different.

Frankly, I can't speak for anyone else, but any attack since 9/11 has seemed completely surreal to me. Like some sort of a prolonged sort of shock or denial. Despite reading about it, or watching it, it's like part of my brain thinks it's some big elaborate ... I don't know, global play?

It's not that I don't think people attacking other innocent people is a horrible thing. It's dastardly and the most gruesome, dispicable form of hate and cowardice imaginable.

Perhaps part of me is still holding on to tiny threads of the past, from The Time Before Everything Changed.

Or perhaps despite all this horrible stuff, I'm still optimistic about life and people.

Because for the life of me, I can't figure out why I'm not more worried.

Someone please call 6-6-6 ...

(Apologies to Wyclef and Mary J for the above title)

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (courtesy of Wikipedia):

A fear which originates in the belief that the Biblical verse, Revelation 13:18, indicates that the number 666 is linked to Satan or the Anti-Christ. Outside the Christian faith, the phobia has been further popularized as a leitmotif in various horror films.

Number one on my "To Do" list today is done.

Now all I have to do is walk under an open ladder while holding a black cat, open an umbrella indoors and break a mirror with the handle, and spill a shitload of salt without tossing any over my shoulder.

Cue the hail, frogs and locusts.

June Jigglies

June. Sweet June.

You're only three days old, and I'm already crushin' on you.

Ah, the warmer weather. More hours of daylight. And fewer hours of sleep -- you can't engage in any summer shenanigans if you're napping.

My mind is already on imagination overload, daydreaming about the fun I'm about to have: Drinks on patios. Barbeques. Vacation. Hot nights out on the town, eating hot dogs or something greasy early in the morning. The annual camping trip ...

And then my mind stops abruptly at the two two-piece bathing suits stuffed in my drawer. Which reminds me of my June Jigglies.

I don't think I'm fat. I've actually had someone tell me I should really put on a few more pounds. (And he needs the weight more than I do.)

What I dread is what shape my package is in after being bundled up for about six months. And what gelatinous surpises I might find.

I just know that looking at myself in the mirror in a bathing suit will wake up the inner Shallow Gal. I'll start hearing the voice -- and she'll say the one thing I loathe: "Girl, you need to get to a gym. Like, YESTERDAY."

Bicep curls. Dead-leg lifts. Crunches. Squats. Tricep and calf exercises that sear with pain.

Sexy, no?

When it comes to exercise, I think there are three camps. There's the camp that says, "Suck it up and go", and they find a gym or some activity and do it. There's the other camp that doesn't see exercise as all that purposeful and says, "Sweat? Ew! Why?" and just doesn't go.

Then ... there's the camp I'm in. You join a gym, start off slowly at first. You get into a routine. You gain confidence. Then you start showing up at the gym more often. It used to be twice a week. Then it becomes three times a week. Then maybe four or five.

Before you know it, you're jauntily jogging on the treadmill, and you're like, "After I finish my 60-minute run, I think I'll hang myself from that chin-up bar upstairs and do some upside-down crunches. Maybe bench-press 250 after that. Summer, I will OWN you."

Then in a surprise attack, the Inner Slob jumps the Inner Gym Rat, covering her mouth with chloroform and putting her in a sleeper hold. The Slob then drags her into a room in the basement, locks the door, and attempts to laugh maniacally, but laughs so hard she starts coughing.

You've just fallen off the wagon.

That's what happened to me. I'd actually been going to the gym since November or December. But starting in March, and continuing in April with my cousin's wedding, and the most manic work schedule I can remember, my inner lemming took over -- seriously, she's such an unmotivated little douche -- and I stopped going to the gym and started stuffing my pie-hole with junk food.

I've now almost back to going twice a week, but not without its consequences. Due to my infrequent schedule, my trainer saw fit to open the can of whoop-ass on Tuesday and Thursday. On Wednesday, my physiotherapist took up the slack. It's the weekend and I still feel like I was shaken down and beaten for my lunch money.

My only consolation in this is that my friend Kristy -- who just recently acquired a trainer at her local gym -- and I commiserate about our aches and pains. So I know I'm not the only one trying to fight this uphill battle.

I'm not looking to drop the equivalent of a small toddler (although Shallow Gal would love nothing more). But a little more motivation and a little less jiggle wouldn't hurt.