As I was riding up the chairlift to Blackcomb Mountain, regaling my good friend Robyn with crazy stories from the last few months of travel, I realized I needed to share these experiences with you all. So I am going to tell the tales bit by bit until all the stories are told!
Since leaving the bobsled team I traveled to London and Paris, Venice – California and most recently India. When I recall some of the crazy, insane, wacky, weird, humorous events that took place I can’t help but shake my head and wonder, “How do these things happen to me?”
This first blog is about my first day in LONDON, Darling.
In the summertime, back when I still viewed myself as a bobsleigh athlete I had decided to stay over in Europe for the Christmas break. My family, not wanting me to be in Europe at Christmas time all by my lonesome bravely volunteered to make the voyage over to meet me. That’s when the idea to spend Christmas in Paris was born. I mean really, the poor souls having to spend Christmas in Paris! My mom immediately started planning a memorable Christmas vacation for us in the city of love, or should I say Amour? Everyone tossed in their ideas, wishes and wants and the trip sprang to life. We were all very excited about the romantic idea of being in Paris for Christmas, well until the day the heaving, crying phone call came explaining my change of heart. Now what? I no longer needed to be in Europe for Christmas, so what should we do about this fantasy trip to Paris? After massive amounts of deliberation (of about 30 seconds) we thought, what the heck, the trip is already paid for LET’S GO!
That’s when I got the bright idea to go to London before hand. I was going to be in Paris, so it was only logical that I go to London before hand, right? I mean really, I was going to be over in Europe anyways, and my good friend Paul had been nagging me to come and visit him, so I had a place to stay! AND, while I was there I could see my friend Leanna in Wales and also see the Turnbulls (A family we had kept in contact with from a trip to the Caribbean 5 years ago) who had also been asking me to come and visit for YEARS.) Really it was my duty to go, and who could argue with that?! I wasted no time booking my flight, and not long after that I found myself in the familiar departures area of the Calgary Airport, bags packed ready for another European Adventure. This time runner polishing, sled work, training and spending hours upon hours at the bobsleigh track were the furthest things from my mind. All I could think about was MUSICALS, shopping, and being a tourist!
The flight over was delightful. I had a window seat AND a whole row to myself. I had brought my own meals, so naturally the food was amazing! Going through immigration however was not. I had a wee bit of trouble getting into the country. Apparently, “My friend Paul’s flat” is not a detailed enough address for the British Government. (Sheesh, so picky!) I didn’t have an address to give the lady, who, by the way, held the power to let me in to the country, or not, in her hands. Since Paul was going to meet me at London Bridge station he didn’t give me his address, and I didn’t think to ask. Something was telling me that she wasn’t going to accept that answer either. I explained to her that I didn’t have an address, and all that I had was his phone number. That was good enough for her. She stamped my passport and gave me the green light. PHEW! Basically they just needed someone to blame if I ran amuck and became a burden to the country. Luckily for Paul my idea of a night on the town was going for dinner, seeing a musical and then being in bed by 11:00!
With my map of the train lines in hand, my route kindly highlighted by the ticketing officer and my two rolling suitcases, backpack and reusable shopping bag full of Christmas presents (I know, I pack light! What can I say it’s a skill) I was off to meet Paul. Prior to embarking on my trip, Paul asked me to call him before getting on the underground, so he could get to the station in order to meet me. As soon as I got off the train I found the nearest pay phones. Seriously, the pay phones in the London train stations are the most frustrating devices in the entire world. I know your thinking, “it’s a pay phone, and how hard can it be? You lift the receiver, put your coin in and dial.” But that’s were you have it wrong! I couldn’t get any of them to work and was starting to panic a little bit. I was about ready to take a baseball bat to the payphone when someone finally came to my aid. Luckily for the pay phone I didn’t travel with a baseball bat and luckily for me the person who came to help was a Canadian who knew exactly what I was going through. He helped me navigate the ludicrous machine and told me to speak fast because my two pounds (about 4 dollars) would get me approximately 30 seconds of talk-time. Our Conversation went something like this:
“PAUL, It’s me. I here in Boney old England”
“HELLO DARLING, welcome to God’s Country”
“Can’t talk, no time, almost there, I’m at Green Park station. I hate your pay phones. Where do I find you when I get there”
“I’m here already. It’s cold outside. I’m in the bar across the way. Ask anyone they’ll know what I am talking about; really it’s just across the street. Kisses darling, can’t wait to see you!”
A 45-minute over ground train ride, a frustrating experience with a pay phone, 20 underground stops later and I had finally arrived at London Bridge Station! I felt as giddy as a schoolgirl as I lugged my suitcases up the escalators and stairs and emerged into the daylight. I was in LONDOND, BABY and ready to hit the town. I took a second to marvel at the grandness surrounding me and then set off to find Paul.
Since this trip, there are a few things I have learnt to expect from Paul. One, if there is a bar around he’ll be there with a glass of Pinot Grigio in hand. Two, his ability to give directions is atrocious. From his nonchalant description of how to find the bar I figured finding this place was going to be as easy as pie. I mean really, it was right outside of the exit. How hard could it be? Turned out a lot harder then I assumed since there are about 6 different exists to the surrounding streets. After 10 minutes of wondering around the area trying to find this stupid bar that was ‘across the way’ I decided to stop and ask someone, because there was no WAY I was going to use the payphone again! The Russian street meat vendors who barely spoke English were not able to help me. Neither were the 5 other people that I had asked. Apparently nobody knew what Paul was talking about. THEN, it was as if the clouds parted and the sun came out to shine down upon ‘Bar One’, the one bar that I was looking for, while the angles sang a harmonic, AAAAAAAAHHHHH, in the background. I had finally arrived, Hallelujah! I ran as fast as I could with two rolling suit cases across the cobble stones, while “minding” the taxis and double decker buses, who apparently don’t stop for anything, especially meandering tourists. I excitidely threw open the door and made my grand entrance into the bar where I found Paul, a glass of Pinot Grigio in hand, and one on the table waiting just for me.
It was truly heavenly to sit down with a good friend after a long day of traveling. The wine was a nice touch as well, although it went straight to my head! And, even thought I was exhausted I could barely hide my excitement. We sat and laughed as we exchanged stories and sipped our wine. After a few hours of carefree banter it was time to head home. I was glad to have Paul guide the way, since my navigational skills had gone out the window due to wine added to extreme exhaustion mixed with the insanity of London! On the way home Paul and I were probably the most obnoxious people on the train to Hither Green – the classy part of the shady district of Lewisham (pronounced lew-ish-HAMMM with a finger snap on the ham according to the book of Paul “Brookland” William’s!)
After we dropped my bags off at the apartment we sauntered down to the “thriving metropolis” of Lewisham (*snap*) to pick up a duvet for the guest bedroom aka me! We perused the local equivalent to Zellers and came across one with a good amount of “togs”. However, Paul deemed it too expensive and decided to pick one up from the street vendor outside, who actually had MORE “togs” for less money. Thinking it a bit doggy, I asked Paul if he thought it was a good idea to buy his “togs” from the street vendor? I wasn’t going to be sleepy with no shady blanket! He looked at me, shrugged and told me that it was a good duvet just cheap, since his plethora of “togs” were most likely stolen out of the back of a truck! Oh well that makes it SO much better. Turned out the “togs” weren’t actually good, because they were GREAT! Oh I loved my togs. Partially due to their snuggly softness that made it feel like you were being hugged by a cloud, but mostly because Paul’s flat was so BLEEPING COLD, it was a treat to be warm.
I am still not entirely sure what a “tog” is, but it was a source of many laughs throughout my stay in London. I slept on the pullout couch in the living room and each time before we made up my bed he would declare, “Alright gurl, GET your togs out!” I was supposed to sleep in the spare bedroom, however the ceiling was leaking and there was condensation on the walls, so we thought it best I stay on the pullout couch. That first night I was so grateful for a place to sleep I could have slept on the floor! I actually think that I might have for a couple of minutes while waiting for Paul to convert the sofa. Standing was just WAY to much effort! OH the joys of jet lag! The bed was not my usual temprapedic but I actually had a lot of fun sleeping in the living room. When we got home at night, after Paul declared it tog-time, we would make up the pullout, snuggle into the togs and watch an episode from the box set of the quirky sitcom, Pushing Daisies. Well every night except for that first night. Paul left to teach a Pilates class while I let the jet lag carry me into a fatigue induced sleep coma!
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"
Tune in next week for my adventures on the under ground, my first London musical, getting lost, and the district of South Wark.
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