Falling in Love with London
I continued to write about London my first few days in Dublin. Reading back, I can clearly remember the thrill of visiting my first London residence with a basement kitchen and the smell of the revolting Internet cafe where I booked my first easyJet flight. I can remember being so confused and annoyed by the art in the Tate Modern. Particularly Damien Hirst's shark piece, The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. I remember crushing hard on Joseph Fiennes' during his performance in 'Love's Labour's Lost' and trying not to let my mind wander to the scene in 'Shakespeare in Love' where he unravels Gwyneth Paltrow's binding.
I remember wanting to feel connected to London's cultural heartbeat, but mostly enjoying aimlessly wandering around the city. That much hasn't changed in the last 22 years.
23 February 2003, Avalon House Hostel
My week in cosmopolitan London ended yesterday and I have arrived in Dublin. I spent my last day in London wandering the streets and making a half-assed attempt to find Buckingham Palace. I thought all the walking would exhaust my bad mood, and it kind of worked.
London was everything I hoped, but better. Having my friend as an anchor made it all feel less scary. It felt like we had gone back to our disgusting university house share and I half expected him to wake me up by jump-dancing on my head. Instead I woke up to newspapers and delicious greasy croissants from the nearby corner shop. I am envious of the life he is building in London. And I am grateful for his gentle introduction to Europe.
I feel shy and it's difficult to talk to strangers. I am writing this in the common area of the hostel. It was recommended to me by a high school friend who took a similar trip a few years ago. I am trying to strike a balance between looking lonely and interesting in the hopes someone may come over for a chat. I don't recognize many of the languages being spoken around me.
This morning I brunched at a 'hip' vegetarian restaurant also recommended by my high school friend. I am not a fan of vegetarian anything. I don't understand why I would pay what seems like more money to not eat meat. The restaurant permitted smoking which seemed to cancel out the health benefits associated with eating a plate of steamed spinach for breakfast.
Eating has been challenging. My London hotel included a 'full English breakfast' which I now know is plate heaped with brown-ish and lukewarm meat, eggs, and toast. Then I discovered sticky buns and the Marks & Spencer food halls which sell everything pre-made and in a single serving size. Carrots, fish fingers, Scotch eggs, and even tiny pots of red and green grapes. London was also overflowing with American chain or imitation, restaurants. See a Rembrandt at the National Gallery and then treat yourself to a Big Mac. Watch Judi Dench in a David Hare play and then sink your hands into a greasy bucket of KFC drumsticks. Then there were the greasy, corner shop type restaurants that sell meat kebabs, fish and chips, and thick, buttered white bread sandwiches called buttys. Pubs are everywhere. But unless you know your local, they are aimed at hungry and clueless tourists hoping for an authentic English meal that ends up being £25 worth of frozen hamburger patty and freezer burned tater tots drenched in malt vinegar. The pubs have names to lure tourists like 'The Sherlock Holmes' or 'Shakespeare's Head'.
I haven't finished writing about London. I confess that despite my theatre school days, I never really understood the big deal about Shakespeare. I understand the brilliance of his language and the richness of his characters, but every time I have been made to read or to see one of his plays, I find myself wishing for the end. I went to see 'Love's Labour's Lost' in London out of respect for the history of the National Theatre. And because I have a massive crush on Joseph Fiennes.
The production was transformative. It had me questioning why I ever left the theatre to go work in above-the-poverty-line paying soulless office jobs. The actors spoke Shakespeare's words with such assuredness and eloquence. It was beautiful and unlike anything I have ever seen. For those theatre geeks, it was also Trevor Nunn's final production as Artistic Director at the National Theatre.
Hindsight. I feel a bit guilty that I didn't take full advantage of London's cultural offerings. Most days, I was happy to wander around, getting lost, stopping for expensive, terrible, cups of coffee, and buying whatever cheap theatre tickets were available. I visited the Globe Theatre. I went to the Tate Modern and felt confused by what passes for art. I don't think I understand art and only know what I like or don't like. Nothing weird or controversial. Just pieces that bring me joy and resonate with my idea of beauty. I saw a Matisse and returned to the National Gallery to buy a postcard of the Stubbs' horse.
The final play I saw was 'The Breath of Life'. A two-hander starring Judi Dench and Maggie Smith. Nothing short of perfection, and the audience followed their every inhale, movement, and responded with huge emotion.
I phone my friend after the play to get directions to a smart dinner party with his girlfriend and her accomplished friends. The kind of people I fear the most. In their late twenties with large mortgages, four-door cars, married with minimalistic decor that screams money. I was late to dinner and dressed shabby Canadian chic. Their kitchen was in their basement, which I now understand is a sign of wealth. They were kind and there was only one brain surgeon in the group. I am not kidding. They fed me a chocolate torte and I drank loads of their expensive red wine. Dessert was followed by frothy, sweet coffees and sharp, dark chocolate mints wrapped in gold foil. It was incredibly civilized until the coffees were replaced by more wine. Then a request for the Canadians to sing a Neil Young song. Which, despite their hospitality, we politely refused.
The man sitting to my left was wearing the West End uniform of very tight, perfectly distressed jeans with a fitted button-up stripy shirt with huge cuffs and collar. His shoes were unscuffed and looked uncomfortable. I never meet men in Vancouver dressed like him. He was a relatively known author and spent the evening sharing his attempts to bed twenty-two-year-old women. I wasn't sure whether to be impressed or appalled. During our minicab ride back to Clapham, my friend's girlfriend shared that she once snogged Hugh Grant (pre 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' fame) on a display model bed at a London home improvement show. He was doing promotional rounds as a working actor on the verge of his big break.
My last day in London I went shopping in Portobello Market which was accessed from the thrillingly named Notting Hill Gate tube station. It was perfect. All small, brightly coloured houses and boutique shops with uneven floors and owners calling me 'Love'. Notting Hill was exactly as I imagined. Winding roads, a mess of people, and Coldplay blasting from every shop and stall speaker. They were big winners at a music awards show last night. I bought cheap Cadbury chocolate, knock-off designer shirts, and ate greasy lamb kebabs from a street stall. I treated myself at Office shoes, unwisely given my daily budget, to a pair of black leather, low-heeled, pointed toe heels with a delicate ankle strap and black leather flower detail. They are gorgeous. They look like London to me.
My last night in London was spent with my friend at a pub near his office. A lot of skinny-suited men standing up eating roasted peanuts and downing dark pints of ale. We then went for a questionable but filling Italian meal with another expat Canadian who had the annoying habit of slipping into an English accent over her southern Ontario accent. Fortunately, she only had time for dinner. We moved to another party which was full of more beautiful and accomplished twenty somethings that seemed understandly confused by my neon white Adidas cross trainers and sweaty Lululemon clad butt. They were all dressed in black and texting more impressive people about an even better party.
London is overflowing with everything. Culture, people, restaurants, shops, and parks. You can buy anything you want in any quantity, see any play or any film, drink as much as you want at any time of day, and eat any cuisine. London seems so sophisticated and smooth.
I woke up early on Saturday feeling nervous about going to Dublin. I booked my flight earlier that week at an Internet cafe near the Strand. It is on a budget airline called easyJet and was less than £20. I am half anxious and half curious about my first budget airline experience. I left my friend's flat with loads of time and hoped to curl up in the departure lounge's payphone for a long chat with Chris. It felt like we hadn't spoken in ages. My plans went to hell when I discovered the long check-in line for my flight and the even longer line for security. It had me rushing in tears to the payphone for the briefest of chats that left me longing for a flight to Vancouver instead of Dublin.
And now Dublin.
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