Watch your step

A fun thing about living in Bloomsbury is that even the sidewalk isn’t boring. It’s splattered with famous faces.

Apparently they’re were part of a welcome event for the nearby University College London. In case, walking around is a lot more interesting you’re worried about stepping on Darwin, Ghandi or Charles Dickens.

Image: Londonist

A note about the weather.

Before coming to London, I was warned constantly about the weather. Rain, clouds, gloom was what awaited me. After a summer in Brussels, enjoying less than summery weather, I was even less excited weather-wise. Then I arrived here and I have a confession to make: I love London weather.

I am in love with London weather. Who wouldn’t love 14 degree weather in October? Who wouldn’t like fall in November? Who wouldn’t love 8 degrees in December?

I know I’m prejudiced. I’m from Canada and Canada is a cold place. And Ottawa, my home for the majority of the year these last four years, sometimes feels like the coldest place in the world. So when I come to a country where I can wear a light jacket in December, no mitts and no hat and my Converse sneakers, I’m happy as a clam. Yes it’s cold, but a lot of places are cold. London doesn’t have the bone-chilling, feels-like-swords-are-ripping-at-my-skin feeling of sub-zero temperatures. Sometimes it rains—OK, more than sometimes—but rain is just water. There’s no snow, no salt stains on my pants. I now realize why I have so many jeans: it’s not for fashion but because every winter I had to wash my jeans every day after coming home with huge salt stains up to mid calf.

This will revolutionize my life: I'll spend less on pants and do less laundry. I'll buy lighter clothes with less material and therefore spend less money. I'll take less time getting dressed in the morning because I'll have less layers. And I'll use less moisturizer because it's not as cold--or dry--in London than Ottawa. This will save me time and money.

Don’t get me wrong, there are parts that suck about London weather. It gets dark at 4:30pm here, and I am not down with that. That extra hour makes a huge difference. And the grey when it rains, doesn’t make me feel cheery inside. But it just makes you appreciate the sun when it does come out. But there’s something to be said for going outside and not feeling the hairs in your nose freeze.

My New Years (Travel) Resolutions

Everyone has 'em, everyone breaks 'em. Here are my projects for the upcoming year.

1. Go to Berlin: For all I know, this European adventure will end in September (when I finish my degree). So I intend to make the most out of it. I have had my sights set on the German capital since I was supposed to spend last summer in Frankfurt. Sometimes when I’m bored I plan my trip in my head: Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, and maybe the Holocaust Memorial.

2. Go to Central Europe. For a history buff like me capitals like Vienna, Prague and Budapest are calling my name. I want to see it all. And I want to go before they develop, are yuppy-fied and get the Euro—I’m too late for Slovakia which gets the Euro January 1, 2009—but it's not to late for Prague, Budapest and Krakow.

3. Take better pictures. It’s been one of goals since I first saw the Life Magazine image of Kim Phuc after the napalming of Vietnam.

Photos are such a captivating medium that I’ve never really been able to grasp. Terms like composition, framing, shutters and aperture just confuse me. I’d like a personal tutor (Joni!) but as that might be a bit hard to find abroad, I’ll settle for learning a term a year. And Picasa and Photoshop Internet tutorials.



4. Work out consistently. This has been on my list for the last three years now and each year I get closer and closer but I never mnage to make it the "life change" it needs to be. Though I came the closest in third year. I started off well enough in the beginning of last semester. Then my system broke down around week 4. Only to collapse around Week 7. So I’d like to last longer than that.

Halloween Across the Pond

Halloween swept up on me like a thief in the night and, like always, I was not prepared. As I’m not such a fan of the holiday—and haven't been since I was in the single digits, (and even then I thought it was way too much effort for candy)—I thought I’d coast by. Halloween was a North American holiday. Ensconced in London I thought I could get away with letting the day pass peacefully.

Any chance of that soon evaporated. Turns out like SUVs and smog, Halloween has traversed the ocean and made it to Europe. My whole residence seemed to get in the spirit with a big themed dinner (Human BBQ ribs, Sponge cake as lungs, etc), decorations and a party. So I got in the spirit too. I went as a mime—I already had the striped shirt, I just had to buy the beret. Presto, change-o, Halloween here I come.

Me and Erika as Mime and Mickey Mouse respectively

Sarah as Little Bo Peep

Our party was held at a nearby bowling alley. Somehow I ended up beating everyone else I played with, a testament to (a) my competitors sucking, or (b) their alcohol consumption. Then there was karaoke (which required singing loudly and off-key to the Spice Girls) and getting down on the dance floor. In any case, much fun was had and here are some highlights.

Melissa, Gong, Ama (all without costumes) and Sarah

A Mickey Mouse that smokes and drinks

Little Bo Peep, a Hare Krishna, Mickey

Celeste is a Ballot Box

The Gingerbread Man sings karaoke

Welcome to the Neighbourhood

There are a lot of reasons I chose the residence I’m living in. It’s only a 20 minutes walk to school, and relatively cheap. It’s catered—a mostly fabulous dinner is included. And I have a single room. But a nice addition is the neighborhood.



My residence is located in the Bloomsbury area of London, a place that’s known to be home to artists, academics and yuppies. In the early 20th century it was home to the likes of John Maynard Keynes, Virginia Woolf and the many members of the Bloomsbury Group. In fact, you could say we’re neighbours now as their houses are on the next street from me.

Keynes' House

The proof

Meeting place of the Bloomsbury Group

the proof

A nice feature of the neighbourhood is the parks. There are no less than four parks within five minutes of my house: Russell Square, Gordon Square, Tavistock are just some. And Regent’s Park (link) is just a 10 minute walk and five minute run away (I know this because when it’s nice outside, Ericka and I would go for runs in it).

Tavistock Square

These parks are gorgeous, especially in the autumn with the leaves changing. They have fountains, statues (like one of Gandhi in Gordon Square) and plagues on the benches engraved with dedications, just like in the movie Notting Hill. They’re a nice detour from the mundane sidewalks on my walks to and from school.


I choose this place hoping that it’s chill, bohemian vibe would rub off on me and I’d learn to be relaxed, artsy and chill like them. So far, this hasn’t happened.

Home Sweet Room

Friends and comrades, for those of you seeking to place me in a setting when reading my blog, this post is for you. A picture of my room, my lair, my home.


It's not as big as my room in Brussels and I think it's smaller than my room in Ottawa. It's certainly more narrow. I'm standing in the doorway; on one side is a wardrobe, on the other, tucked into a knook are my suitcases. The sink in the middle of the room was very jarring in the beginning, but now I barely notice it. In fact, I don't know how I ever did without it. The window is also a nice part of the room. It's actually a commodity here and apparently cost a bit more (though I had no choice in the matter). Though because my desk is right beside the window, if the curtains aren't drawn, I get the mother of all drafts.

My incredibly tidy desk. Imagine this overflowing with books, papers, pens and highlighters and you'll get a more accurate vision of my life for the past few months. If you'll look at the left of the picture, you'll see my collection of cutlery at the top of the shelf. It began as a covert operation, with me smuggling one piece out at a time a la the Carleton cafeteria. But when news broke that a friend had gotten caught taking a mug and had lived to tell the tale, the free for all began. My count stands at 9 cups/mugs, 8 teaspoons, 2 bowls (one salad and one soup), one knife, one spoon and one fork.


This is a view from in front of the window. It's all pretty self-explanatory. The box with the blue lid is a convenient place for hats, mitts and gloves as well as miscellaneous clothes. But it also contains non-perishable food: pretzels, Melba toast, soup-in-a-box, etc for when I get the munchies. All in all, it's not a bad set up. The building is a renovated 19th century Georgian hotel. I share a bathroom and shower with about 7-10 people. There's a common kitchen that we share with the floor (about 20-40 people maybe). Though it gets snug in the fridge I use it to hold my milk, sandwich meet and miscellaneous dip, if I'm feeling extravagant.

The First Day

My first day in London rivals that of my first day in Brussels all those months ago. First of all, my flight left Portugal so early I had to be up at 6am, not my favourite time. Second, when I got the airport, my flight was delayed an hour and a half. So I sat in “Departures” waiting for my flight to show up on the screens. Then a lounge full of ornery British people on vacation attempted to squeeze through the only available gate, and then piled on a tiny bus to our waiting plane. Being the resilient and experienced traveller I am, I was barely fazed by this. Except for the early wake up call, I was sitting pretty: I had my book, a wheelie suitcase and my iPod. I was impervious.

My flight landed without incident at Gatwick airport and I managed to maneuver the luggage carousel, buy a train ticket and get to King’s Cross/St. Pancras without incident. Following my parents instructions I took a cab the 5 minutes (and £5) it took to get to my residence.

Full of glee and laden with two suitcases a purse and a backpack, I walked into the reception and proudly claimed I was here to check in. The young women at the desk took my name, checked her list and after a while gave me a key card to E204. She said it was in the annexes and thrust a piece of paper at me with instructions and off I went.

First, a note about the building I live in. There are 4 floors, but only 3 have rooms. Then there are three annexes located outside the building: Tavistock, Endsleigh and the one where the warden (or person who manages the hall) lives.


It took me 5 minutes just to get outside. I rode the elevator on every floor except the one I wanted, was distracted by meeting a fellow Canadian and checked every floor in the main building before realizing my room was outside. Once outside, it didn’t get any easier. I had no idea what annex I wanted. I tried the wrong two first of course: one I couldn’t get in (the warden’s probably), and the second took me climbing the two flights of stairs (with no elevator and carrying ALL my stuff) only to find my key card didn’t work. I finally realized what the “E” in my room number meant and headed to Endsleigh annex, walked up the two flights of stairs (again no elevator), waved my card in front of the scanner and saw the green light. Absolutely giddy with relief I heaved a spine trembling sigh of relief and opened the door.

Immediately something wasn’t right. The bed was made, had sheets and towels were neatly folded on the edge. There were papers and folders on the desk and cosmetics on the sink.

“Wow, way to clean up for me,” was my immediate thought. The hall is used as a hostel in the off season so I assumed someone had just moved out and they hadn’t cleaned up. Then I went to the closet and found clothes still there, shoes near the bed and a jacket behind the door. After a slight debate over whether I should leave it or complain, I decided on the latter.

At reception, the woman checked the computer. “Oh, that’s not your room,” she said. Well that explains it. Turns out I’d changed my move in date once and they gave me the wrong room. She gave me another card to my room (this one in the main building) and I went there immediately. I shed one of the layers of clothing I was wearing and went to the other room to begin the process of transferring stuff. I got there (outside, up the stairs, then up the stairs to the room, etc) and found it locked. Strange.

I went back to the reception and she gave me another card. I went back and tried it again. Nothing. I went back to reception where people know me now and this time she comes with me. She opens the door with her master key and ends up helping me to move my stuff into the other room—which considering she sent me to the wrong place, is the least she could do.

After she left, I took stock. I was drenched with sweat from the constant moving and going up and down stairs. This room was smaller than the other one and I had to share a bathroom and shower with a floor that seemed to go on for days (it wasn’t actually that bad but I was a bit hysterical). I tried to console myself that I wasn’t going to be here very long—my contract didn’t start for another 4 days and I was told this was a temporary room until then.

Then there was the matter of the Internet. A friend of mine had already moved into residence and was on the internet that night. Of course it wasn’t that easy for me. I needed an Ethernet cable, which of course I didn’t have. So with a rough map and rudimentary advice provided by reception (someone other than that woman, but still bad), I set off to find my materials. It took half an hour but eventually I found my cable—I went to three stores as the first had closed minutes before I got there—but got lost coming home (one of several times that week). I got online, checked my email sent my parents an “It’s OK I’m still alive” email.

Next was the phone. I wanted to call my friend to let her know I was in London. But I couldn’t just dial the phone in my room that would be too easy. No, I had to buy a phone card and set that up. When I arrived at her flat an hour later, I was exhausted and on the verge of tears.

London had not welcomed me.

Call off the guards, I'm still here...

Hello friends,

Yes, I'm still here, alive and well. It's been a busy week--we've moved in to our new place, I've had my first full week at work, the Euro Cup, and I've mostly recovered from my cold--so that should explain the lack of posts. I think it's appropriate that I start up again after my birthday. Now that I'm a bit older, a bit wiser, I'll share that aforementioned wisdom with you lot.

For those wondering, the big 2-2 has come and gone. It was brilliant (there was yummy Thai food and cake involved--who wouldn't like that?). Thanks to everyone in Belgium for the awesome party and everyone at home for the lovely wishes.

Real Estate Advice From Yours Truly

I was never supposed to be here. I was originally supposed to intern at the European Central Bank in Frankfurt, Germany. This was my first choice. But at the last minute—two weeks before I left for Belgium and after finding an apartment in Frankfurt— the Bank canceled all internships there and so I was allocated to CEPS instead. This meant spending the summer in Brussels instead of Frankfurt. Though I was filled with rage for a day (I feel sorry for the hapless Future Shop employee who fell victim to my wrath in the aftermath of my finding out), I became resigned to my fate. At least this way I would be with the Brussels interns (numbering about 15) and would get housing help from the tour administration as they had promised.

A week into the tour and said administration announced this “help” consisted of gathering us into a room and informing us that housing was our responsibility and that should we have any difficulty to check the Internet, email the institutions we were to work at and good luck. Then we left for Luxembourg, Germany, and France two days later. Gee, thanks a lot.

I, being the proactive superstar I am, had been emailing potential landlords on craigslist a week before the aforementioned intern information meeting. I had some responses but each demanded a deposit be before I would receive keys in the mail. Why in the mail, you ask? Well because these landlords were in Africa doing missionary work, or in Georgia (the US state) working for months or some such international locale and unable to show me their places. But send the deposit, and they promised I’d get the keys (one even promised God would keep the deposit safe). Being smarter than I looked, I refused. But while I had street smarts, I had no apartment, and street smarts won’t keep you warm when you’re actually on the streets.

So I exploited my human resources. Cassandra’s parents live in Europe and they sent emails to their friends, family and contacts inquiring about available accommodations. The results were slow and dismal—we were offered rooms in various homes and locations for differing periods and were almost always separated. For my part, I hounded people who went on the tour last year. They pointed me to websites and ads and gave me email addresses. While we went on a bit of a hiatus for a week (our biggest tool—the Internet—was in a poor state in Germany and France), we came back to Brussels terrified we’d live in boxes. So Thursday was a flurry of emails and further Internet scouring.

Finally, last weekend was spent looking for apartments. After exhausting our Internet resources—we emailed, called or messaged every apartment/housing site in Belgium—we decided to hit the pavement. Literally. People had told me the best way to find a place was to simply go to a neighborhood and walk around. To my North American ears, this sounded ridiculous. But oh it worked. Friday we walked for five hours looking housing. In the process, I developed a new game I’m confident will sweep the nation.

It is best played with two or more players and requires use of a residential street. Each player takes their position on opposite ends of the street. Then they look into the windows of houses on the opposite street they are on (it’s easier on the neck that way) for signs that read “a louer” (to rent en française). The person with the most sightings wins.

I know it sounds ridiculous but it’s amazing how efficient this is. Cassandra and I played this game twice (Friday and Saturday), though we didn’t get into the swing of things until Saturday (where I ended an hour and a half session with a win 11 to 9). Whenever we saw “a louer,” we’d go over and read the ad. If it met our elementary standards (have at 2 bedrooms or 1 very big bedroom and was furnished) we called the number—sometimes we called when none of those were met.

And I’m happy to announce, that after much searching and stressing, we have finally found a suitable apartment. It only took two weeks and a few lemons (while looking at one place, we asked a police officer if we should live in the admittedly sketchy looking neighborhood, to which she replied, “No, not at all!”), but we got one. It’s close enough to work that I can walk, in a safe neighborhood, has a big bathroom, a washer and dryer, a balcony and a big closet.

We move in Thursday. Provided that the Australian who lives there is out by then…