Happy New Year's Eve!

It's New Years Eve so that means another break for yours truly. I'm pretty caught up here so look forward to new posts and stories in the New Year. For today, enjoy the champagne, put on that party hat and I'll see you in 2009!

Ghosts of Places Past

Just for the record, I've done most of the things on this list. Except for #5 and #7 but that was pretty much out of choice. But I think they're missing a pretty big one...

Santa Was Good To Me

I wasn’t going to share my presents here and rest assured, I’m not going to. Except this one. Just in case you find it as cool as I do and want one yourself.

It’s called a GorillaPod tripod. I’ve been looking for a tripod since Cologne and my 16 shot attempt at a night shot. But I didn’t want to pay $50 for a tripod that was huge and so heavy I wouldn't carry it around. That’s why this is brilliant. It’s small, but it’s not like an ordinary tripod. It’s made to hang on or from things so you can get really interesting pictures from interesting angles.

I intend to use it not only for those cool perspective pictures but to take pictures at night. No longer will my hand shake and my pictures be fuzzy. Hopefully...

Photo: CameraWorld

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and the Lot!

It's Christmas Eve, what are you doing reading this blog? I'll be back December 29 with more posts. Until then, enjoy the turkey, presents and eggnog.

Why I Believe in a Higher Power

There’s nothing like a free trip. After a summer of planning and paying for every trip I went on, I was looking forward to a trip to lovely Riga, Latvia. As part of the EU Study Tour I was attending a conference on social policy in Canada, Scandinavia and the Baltic States. It had speakers from all three areas and some interesting subjects were to be discussed (right up the alley of the work I did at CEPS). Add the opportunity to reunite with my fellow Tour-mates and I was very much looking forward to it. Did I mention that because the conference was being put on by the European Commission it was free (airfare and accommodations)?

The trip conveniently fell right after my first heavy round of assignments (two 3,000 word papers), so this was meant to be my reward. My flight had been booked since September and I was missing Cumberland Lodge, an opportunity to go to the country with my department, listen to lectures and bond with my fellow students. I was blowing it off for the chance to party in Riga.

I was set to leave November 5th at 6:40pm. So after getting four hours of sleep (it was Election Day), putting the finishing flourishes on my papers and running to school to hand them in by noon, I had enough time to buy a dress for the Opera (we were going to the Opera!), run home and pack quickly and efficiently. My plane left at 6:40pm, I left my house at 3:10pm.

First I headed to Euston Station (3 min away) to catch the train I’d need to take to get to Gatwick Airport. Except when I got there they told me I had to go to King’s Cross/St. Pancras. Not a problem, it was only 5 minutes away. Except when I got there, bells were ringing and the doors were closed. There was a fire scare and they shut down the station. Police and officials told the huge mass of people not to worry as it’d re-open soon. It took 40 minutes. I was still OK. If I got my train now (4: 20pm) I’d get to Gatwick at 5:20pm and make my flight.

I went down to catch my train but the 4:27pm was delayed to 4:36. Then 4:49, then 5:03. Then 5:13. Then at 5:17 it finally arrived. By this point I was livid. It was an almost certain that I would miss my plane (unless the train broke speed records), and I’d left THREE HOURS EARLY! My train to Gatwick was the ONLY TRAIN that was consistently delayed. Train after train arrived at the station with people jumping on and off and with each one I wanted to throw myself on the tracks.

Clinging to a foolish hope that I could catch the flight I caught the 5:17pm and arrived at Gatwick at 6:20pm, 20 minutes before the plane left. I ran to the counter and asked the attendant if there was any way to catch the plane. She shook her head and spouted off information about the next flight.

I took the train back and emailed the organizer, a friend from the Tour and asked about making a reservation for the next day. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I would arrive Thursday night, having missed the first day of the conference. She told me to think about it and call her when I had decided. I thought about it and then sent her an email that night saying to book me on the flight the next day. When (early) the next morning I didn’t hear anything I left her several voice messages. At noon, I sent her a text message. I didn't leave my room until 5pm. When I didn't hear anything from here I wondered what the heck happened? Turns out she had forgot her cellphone at home that day and was at the conference the whole day. She didn't book my flight and I didn't go to Riga.

So it seems I wasn’t meant to go to Riga. It was like ever piece of modern technology (smoke detectors, trains, computers and cellphones) were against me. The worst part was having to see the pictures my friends posted about their "awesome" weekend in Riga and the four star hotel they stayed in, paid for by the Commission.

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

A Walk on the Wild Side

I live in the Bloomsbury area of London, but Camden is only a ten minute walk away. It’s also the neighbourhood of Amy Winehouse, so I knew that a trip would be a walk on the wild side of life. It’s an area known for punk rockers, hippies, skaters and just generally being hard core.

We went for the Camden market where I’d read that you can get a lot of neat stuff (rain boots, purses, piercings, vintage clothing and jewellery, fruit or wooden furnishings). And I’m also a sucker for a good market.

Camden market on a Saturday morning is a bustling place. The main road is blocked off and people fill the sidewalks, street and market like plaque on artery walls. And there really were a lot of really fun stuff there. I saw a stall of pocket watches and for the first time in my life contemplated buying a pocket watch. I started thinking of all the things I could do with it and how cool I'd look with one. Needless to say I didn’t buy it. But I walked away with a beautiful teal purse that I bartered down to £12. I left the rain boots—the reason I’d originally gone to the market—as they were too wacky for me. There were some with little cherries and others with skulls and bones.



After perusing the stalls we crossed the street to what seemed like the “higher class section,” or the hippie area. Here we were bombarded with hand crafted woodwork and jewelery, aromatic incense and plush Indian textiles. It was all gorgeously set up and the goods were all quite impressive. The friend I was with is moving in with her boyfriend next year so we had fun decorating her non-existent flat.


When we’d had enough, we sat on the locks near some body of water and took in the sunshine. I marvelled at the fact that although it was October I wasn’t wearing a jacket and was actually comfortable.


On our way back to the main road we stuck by the water. As we were leaving we saw a bunch of teenagers, all dressed in black. Some were smoking cigarettes some not, but all were listening to loud rock music I didn’t recognize and teasing each other. A small group gathered around two pre-pubescent boys fighting, while the crowd cheered them on like betters at a cock fight (though I've never been to a cock fight, this is how I imagine it to be).

Walking through it was a surreal experience. I looked at my friend Erika and we both had that pained, slightly terrified look in our eyes, despite the fact that there were hundreds of people around and it was in broad daylight. And that these kids were 15 years old. Saying nothing I tried to scoot around the brawl as quickly as possible, but was accosted by a stray flailing arm that struck me lightly in the arm. I kept walking and kept my head down. When we were free of the kids Erika and I looked at each other.

“I’m not going to lie,” I said, “but I was a little afraid of those kids for a second.”

“Me too,” she said.

“Man, we’re getting old,” I said

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.

In fair London, where we lay our scene

Full of the excitement of being in London, living in London and studying in London, I wanted to do a bunch of London stuff. When we heard that the Globe Theatre was ending it’s season the following Sunday, my friend Nicole and her sister and I decided to make the most of cheap tickets. On a rainy (surprise surprise) Tuesday night we headed to the Globe to check out some premium theater.



The Globe is just across the Thames and based on the designs of the first Globe which was the theatre that Shakespeare played many of his masterpieces—think Shakespeare in Love, that’s the Globe. Though I’d wanted to see a Shakespearean play, none were available. Instead we saw Liberty a comedy-drama about four friends during the various phases of the French Revolution. It was spectacular. Toward the end, I was this close to shedding a tear.


The set-up of the theatre is pretty innovative. There are the stands which are in an oval around the stage. Then there are the “gallery” an empty section on the floor reserved for the “masses.” We were going to sit there—tickets were £5—except it was cold and you had to stand for almost three hours. And there’s one other thing. The unfortunate thing about the Globe is that it has no roof. I think it has to do with the idea of the people and 16th century conceptions of the theatre and bringing culture to the masses or something. In any case, it was raining and not warm, despite the fact that it had been very warm that day. So while the show was excellent, the next day I woke up with a sore throat that burgeoned into a pretty stellar cough. But it was worth it.

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.

Back to School

For those of you dying to know what I've been up to since I arrived in London, you're going to love the next few entries. They are by no means as comprehensive as the summer, as I stopped taking pictures of absolutely everything I came into contact with. And there's the whole going to school thing. But they should satisfy your curiosity for a while.

Fun with Public Transportation

Because of my extended trip to Europe, people have gotten in the habit of calling me a world traveller. But I'm not even close. I've been to about 18 cities, my country count is at a measly 9 and Facebook tells me I've been to 4% of the world.

Now there's a new way to track "world travelled-ness." How many public transportation systems have you used? It's actually shameful how small my number is (8). Though in all fairness, they didn't have Ottawa, Cologne, Bonn or Ghent. So my count should be three higher.

Got at b3co.com!

If you want to check it out yourself, click here

UPDATE: Since I made this post in September, the website has been taken down. If you could see it, you'd see the badges of the public transportation places I'd been: Toronto, Brussels, London, Madrid, Lisbon, Lille, Montreal and Amsterdam. It would have been cool. But feel free to comment with your number and the cities you've been to.

More European Ads

I know I said I'd only cite ads with celebrities in it. But this kind of counts. It gets me every time.

Getting My Hair Did

Having been in Europe for about five months at this point, my hair looked terrible: 4 inches longer and no bangs to speak of--notice that my bangs are pulled back in all the pictures. So on my last day in Portugal I got my haircut. I thought I'd show you not only the hair--which I think was really nice--but also my sweet tan. The white wall actually brings out the colour even more.

Proof that I'm Growing Up

Much of my memories of Portugal were shaped by something called the Maxibon, an ice cream delight consisting of one part ice cream sandwich and one part chocolate bar with hazelnut coating and vanilla ice cream cream-filled inside.


The Maxibon was a bit of a myth with my family. My older brother and sister and I would always be on the lookout for the Nestle sign, a rare spectacle indeed in a country dominated by Olás (the Nestle-Olá rivalry is akin to the Pepsi-Coke one, but with ice cream, in Europe, no celebrity endorsements and on a smaller scale). We would be on the lookout for that sign, calling it "tunnel vision," that interestingly enough extended to our minds as we thought of nothing else. Like a diamond, the fact that Maxibons were so rare that made them so good.

That's why I was dismayed to find that when I had my first Maxibon of this trip, the excitement had dimmed: my heart didn't beat, my hands didn't shake and my mouth didn't water. It was just an ice cream. And sadly, it wasn't even that good. I've grown out of Maxibons? What's next? Developing a distaste for chocolate? What has happened to me?

Loulé, Loulé, Loulé, Loulé

When we're in Portugal, we usually stay in a place called Quarteira. But when we get tired of the beaches, need some food or go see our grandmothers, we go into town. Either my mom's hometown of São Brás de Alportel or my dad's town of Loulé. Here are some pictures of what small town Portugal looks like.

The travel circle entering the town

Loulé City Hall

My sister and proof that Portugal has good taste in books

Shopping street in Loulé

The Mendes Sisters