The True North

I'm from Michigan. For anyone whose US geography is a little shaky, -- I'm looking at you, Kentucky -- Michigan is the one in the north that's surrounded by all the water. From where I live now, driving to Windsor is faster than driving to Toledo. Given the option, I'd rather drive to Canada than to Ohio anyway. I have more friends there and I know the area better. This unique border-state position of being closer to a foreign country than to a neighboring state makes for some interesting blending of cultures.

For starters, I have a deeply rooted affection for Canada. Sort of the way I imagine I'd feel if I had a younger brother who had out-grown me. He's bigger than me, and if I really pushed him, he'd probably be able to kick my ass, but he would never do that because at the end of the day, he's still just my sweet little kid brother. And I'd never claim that Ontario was exactly like Michigan any more than I'd claim my brother was a little clone of me. But we can't deny we grew up on a lot of the same culture -- euchre, "The Red Green Show," fantastic winter storms, no shortage of corn fields, and of course, the Lakes.


Ontarigan -- Between the two of us, we pretty much own all the cool beaches.

Ohio's like my stepbrother. We live in the same house. Other people seem to think we have things in common, but... I don't really know him. I'm told they play euchre there, but sometimes they use sixes and fours to keep score instead of fives. And while Michigan has nearly 3300 miles of shoreline on four of the Great Lakes, Ohio borders Lake Erie for just over 300. I can't begin to relate to that.



When I returned home from Seattle, I took a little look-see at my calendar and realized I had two empty weeks before our annual family romp on Lake Huron. I wanted to get out of the house, but after so much traveling, I knew I needed to head for somewhere relaxing. I immediately composed an email message to send to a handful of my Strong & Free friends. It began: "Dear Canada, are you busy next week?"

Several emails, a few pricey phone calls, and one exemplary set of directions later, I set out on the eight-hour haul to central Ontario.



Despite having several friends in Toronto, I decided to spend the majority of my week a couple hours east of there in a quiet, rural area close to the shore of Lake Ontario. Going to another major urban center just didn't appeal to me. So instead, I went to see my buddy Brice -- an old work mate from Japan who, like me, has since returned to his hometown. This made Brice the fourth ex-NOVA friend I got to see this summer. Well done, me! And as with Dave and Jenny in Dublin, I hadn't seen Brice in over two years, so it was a deeply gratifying reunion.



In the first fifteen seconds after I pulled into Brice's, I got three things: a bear hug, a brief introduction to the fam, and a cold beer. That set a pretty good tone for the whole visit.

Despite Brice's assurances that there was absolutely nothing to do in his town, we kept pretty busy. We went to a bonfire and a baseball game; we grilled out every night; we played ferociously competitive euchre (the only kind, really); and we sat outside at their mom's listening to the coyotes. Brice and I went swimming in a rock quarry one afternoon, which is an experience everyone should have at least once. His brother's girlfriend and I got to laugh and roll our eyes while the menfolk attempted to force open a safe they had found, using an electric drill, hammers, chisels, and sheer tenacity. Naturally, we spent a day on a Lake Ontario beach with a bit of frisbee, a bit of sunburn, and a respectable cooler of beer. And at night when I crawled in bed at the family farm, it was pitch black and perfectly silent. I haven't slept that well in quite a while.

I even changed my plans for the rest of the week so that I could stay longer. I guess I just couldn’t think of anywhere worth running off to. :-)

London, Day 3 -- Harrod's, Hyde Park, and Our Rob

Before I start on Day 3, I have to briefly wrap up Day 2 for you. We did the tourist game during the afternoon, but that night (Monday night), we met up with a real Englishman and did some real English things. The Englishman was Rob, or "Our Rob" as we would soon come to call him.

I met Rob online. Now kids, I do not recommend meeting strangers in foreign countries on the internet and then flying around the world to meet them in person. It's foolhardy, imprudent, and downright peligroso. But hey, what can I say? I walk on the wild side.

So I met Rob online, and when we were planning the trip and our living arrangements in London fell through, he was kind enough to offer his place. I didn't take him up on it -- even I am not that injudicious -- but I did get his number and arrange to meet up so he could show us around. This ranks in the top three best decisions I made on the entire trip (with staying at the Astor Victoria and buying an Oyster card). Monday night, he took us to The Sussex, a cozy pub near Leicester Square, taught us how to say "Leicester," got us fish 'n chips from Rock & Sole, and gave us the nickel 5p tour of Covent Garden and the surrounding area.

The tourist attractions were fun, but we didn't really start enjoying London until we met Rob, not only because he spoke British to us and loaned us his A to Z (/zed/), but because he is an awesome person who went way out of his way to make us feel welcome. Rob, thank you so much! Couldn't have done without you. Your friendship is my favorite favourite souvenir from the whole trip. Even better than the bendy Buckingham Palace guard (and I am pretty damn fond of him).



So Day 3, Tuesday, was a major shopping day. By "shopping", I mostly mean browsing and not actually spending money, but S and I did pass the entire morning in Harrod's. A disproportionate amount of that time was spent in the chocolate department, shown above. I didn't actually buy any chocolates, but I drooled over a lot of them. S bought Turkish Delight for her Narnia-enamored sister, and I purchased a substantial quantity of tea. I may pass some of this along to my sister. If she asks nicely.

After Harrod's, we walked down to the ginormous Whole Foods on High Street Kensington and met Rob on his lunch break. He gets an hour for lunch every day. I get 24 minutes. *seething with jealousy*

Of course, I also get three months off in the summer...

Anyway, we picked up sandwiches and went to Hyde Park to eat. Half the west side of London had the same idea. Everywhere you looked, people were sprinkled in pairs and trios all over the grass, with the occasional loner napping under a tree. The sun was shining, the pigeons were... well, not really singing, but they were there hanging out, too. Glorious day! Londoners may get more than their fair share of rain, but they have a fervent appreciation for the sunshine. When they get it, they drink up every drop!



After lunch, Rob went back beneath the corporate lash, and S and I went to Madame Tussaud's. If you're on your way to London, I suggest you carve a little niche in your itinerary for this famous (yet bizarre) landmark. For those who don't know, Madame Tussaud's claim to fame was making wax likenesses of important people. She started by making death masks during the French Revolution, including those of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, or so the story goes. In the museum in London, they actually have a diorama of her searching through a pile of decapitated bodies, looking for the queen's head. Charming, eh?

Most of Madame Tussaud's isn't that gruesome. They have wax sculptures of a wide variety of celebrities -- actors, athletes, musicians, politicians, royalty -- and the whole purpose of the place is to let tourists pose with them. Seems a little cheesy, but with the proper sense of humor, hours of entertainment ensue. Among my favorites were Tom Cruise -- who looked incredibly lifelike, minus the insanity and hysterical outbursts of laughter -- and Bob Marley. I typically avoid posting pictures of myself on this blog, but Bob and I look so into it here, I can't resist.



Red, red wiii-iiii-iiiine... Stay close to me--ee-eee...

*ahem*

That night we went out with a couple of the roommates -- Canadian Anna and Australian Dave. Relaxed in a little Soho pub for a while, then found a club and danced the night away. Our table happened to be in front of a mirror that rose the whole height of the wall, so when we weren't on the dance floor, we got to watch people watching themselves in the mirror. Great fun! The self-proclaimed star of the night was the guy in the green t shown below. He ruled the dance floor with his fair-to-middling looks, his corny dance moves, and his massive ego. Anna couldn't resist the hypnotic spell of his white-clad butt, as documented below.



Green T guy didn't really do it for me, but I had a marvelous time chatting up David. Not to encourage cultural stereotypes, but I really do adore Australians.

London, Day 1 -- The Astor Victoria

Some people collect snow globes, some stamps, and some shot glasses. My grandmother collects those little engraved spoons. I don’t know why.

I collect places.

I collect significant places – places I call “home,” even if only for a short while. My newest place is the Astor Victoria Hostel in London. 71 Belgrave. Room 12. Home.

I’d never stayed in a hostel before this one, and kind of like the first doll I ever had or the first boy I ever kissed, I find it strangely irreplaceable.



When S and I arrived, we were struck by how gorgeous the neighborhood was – a long strip of soaring, white columned buildings, mostly hotels and obviously frequented by tourists. Our hostel – number 71 – had a bright red door, a well-polished gold address plaque, and a printout of Fidel Castro on the door declaring “I stay at the Astor Victoria every time I come to London!” We schlepped our luggage up six narrow flights of stairs to get to our third-floor room and claimed the two empty beds opposite the window.

Of course, it is never the place itself that makes a home. Homes are made up of the people we encounter there, the connections we make with each other, the moments that color a place in our memory. We spent that first afternoon in London exploring the nearby parks and shops and returned home in the evening to meet our roommates, a motley crew of global nomads.

First we met the Frenchman, Victor, a dark, curly-headed fellow who spoke little English and went about with a generally haunted air. He probably would have been handsome if he hadn’t given such a strong impression of a startled rabbit. He blushed and twitched awkwardly at our frequent outbursts of laughter, though they were never at his expense. Attempts to stifle the giggles or explain the jokes only exacerbated his discomfort. He quickly gave up, went out, got drunk, and stumbled back in long after the rest of us had gone to bed. The drink must have helped him feel more comfortable around us; when we woke the next morning, he was stretched out on his bed naked as he came from the womb.

Apart from S and I, another American girl – Lauren – was in our room the first night. She was freshly out of college and had been traveling for three months with a few friends. Her body was going home in two days, but her brain had already shipped out. She sat vacantly on her bed while the rest of us got acquainted. She introduced herself but then barely said a word, evidently uninterested in meeting anyone new or having anything like fun. She must have been exhausted.



Anna had the lower bunk by the window, and she was at the beginning of her adventure, traveling abroad alone for the first time. She had no real plan – just a few vague ideas of places she wanted to go, people she wanted to see. When I first started chatting with her, she talked entirely too fast, giggled too much, and was so clearly in over her head that I thought I might drown just sitting next to her. I know the feeling of diving headfirst into the unknown, so I felt for Anna, but I knew too that once she started meeting people, she’d settle in. Over the course of the week, she got her feet on the ground and her head on straight, and by the time we parted ways, she at least gave the impression of being travel-savvy, even if she still had a lot to learn.

Above Anna was David, an Aussie surfer on a working holiday. Like Anna, he was on his own and anxious to meet people and have adventures, though considerably calmer and more confident than she. He was the sort of person who has obviously grown up in the sun – like guys from Florida or Southern California – the perfect roast marshmallow golden brown with sun-bleached blonde curls. And he smelled like sun-burnt skin and salt water and Linx, as all good Australian men should. That first night, he split his gut laughing when S asked him if meat pies really had meat in them. He then tried to convince her that as a child, he had jumped on the backs of wild kangaroos and ridden them to school. She finally realized he was joking when he said you can steer them with the ears and I couldn’t keep a straight face. We call this “cultural exchange”.