Jul 2008

Prologue: Injecting Some Glamour Into This Affaire Internationale

When I moved here, I was expecting my life to be, well glamourous, James Bond in a tuxedo sipping on Martinis, and so on. It hasn’t turned out that way so far. My move to Europe has been more like a cross between National Lampoon’s European Vacation and an episode of Coronation Street. So I have decide to inject some glamour into my life.

For that reason, On Sunday, July 13, 2008 at noon, I could be found at St. Pancras International train station, sipping on champagne at Europe’s longest champagne bar and getting ready to take the Eurostar to Paris, where I would check into the Renaissance Venodome for a few days of rest away from the pressures of finding jobs and places to live and such. In addition, I would be there to see the Bastille Day Celebrations, the national day of France which takes place every July 14th to celebrate the 1789 storming of the Bastille, a key event in the eventual march to independence and the creation of the Republic of France. While we know the day in English as Bastille Day, here in France they call it simply the Fête Nationale, the National Holiday.

For my friend Chris, I will mention that Bastille Day is also a ripping song by Canadian Rock Group Rush, but that is probably a whole other blog entry.

Chapter 1: Blame This Whole Thing on Paris

Ah, Paris, that beautiful city on the banks of the Seine. It’s really Paris’ fault that I moved here to Europe at all. Prior to coming to Paris for work in 2005, I was content to leave Europe to itself. Other than a 6 hour layover in Amsterdam on my way back from Tanzania, I hadn’t set foot on the continent. It probably says a lot about my feelings on visiting Europe that I choose to travel to South America and Africa before heading over there.

Frankly, prior to that 2005 trip, I always kind of considered Europe dull. It was the old world. Why bother with the old world when there was so much more interesting stuff to see? The new world, the dark continent, the Asian tiger! Now those were places that sounded exciting. The old world? The home country? Yawn.

Most of my experience in seeing Europe came from two sources: people’s slide shows of bus tours and Rick Steves. If ever there was a combination of sources of inspiration to inspire you NOT to go to the place, it was these two. Folks in darkened rooms saying, “Umm, so this was Tuesday in Venice. Here’s a nice shot of the grand canal. Ah, this is a funny one, here’s Edith feeding the pigeons. This one pigeon landed on her head!” All the while you try and not become hypnotised by the dust swirling in the projectors beam of light and try to stay awake. Then at home, you flip on PBS to find Rick Steves looking out a train window while his voice-over says, “the Swiss Alps have excellent train connections through them, and the trains are fast, reliable and frequent. You can even get food on board, as you see the crew and I sharing a few Swiss pastries.”

Not surprisingly, that sent me heading directly south from Toronto towards South America. I bounced around there for a couple months, landing eventually in Buenos Aires, the most “European” of the Latin American destinations. I hated it. It was old, in shambles, full of poor people digging through garbage while rich folks drove in Mercedes Benzes to fancy clubs with $US 9 cocktails. “If this is what Europe is like, they can keep it,” I thought.

Honestly, I did want to see Europe, eventually. It seemed like the kind of place to leave off until I was old, when sitting on a bus getting driven around Italy with a tour guide pointing to the left or right so you knew which way to point your camera.

Paris changed all that.

To start with, I don’t think I was entirely sold on the place. I was having a good enough time wandering around looking at the old buildings and historic monuments, and because I was there for work, doing it on someone else’s dime, but it wasn’t really grabbing my attention. “Nice enough place,” I thought, “I wonder how far I can get from here?”

It also says a lot about my impression of Europe that on knowing that I would be there for a few weeks, I planned a vacation at the end of it not to explore more of Europe, but to take a train to Asia. Other than a half a day in Brussels and a couple days in Moscow, I was ready to roll right out of Europe and leave it in my rear-view mirror as quickly as I could.

My Paris-Hong Kong rail trip was planned and booked before I spent any significant time in Paris. I’d only spent a week there before the tickets were all booked and the visa processing was underway.

Then I settled into, spending my days going to work, riding the metro back to my hotel and heading out for a bite to eat. This was the fall of 2005, which was beautiful, and I usually took the opportunity to sit outside on the Parisian patios and enjoy a nice dinner and a glass of beer.

That’s when I fell in love.

It wasn’t the old buildings that was impressive or the cobblestone streets or historic monuments that really grabbed me. It was the lifestyle. It was more relaxed and more urban than what I knew from home. Paris was a lively place, old couples and young families mixed on the streets with young singles out for a good time. We worked hard when we were in the office, but out on the streets at night, people just let time flow by. Dinner would take hours, but it didn’t matter, because people were together.

That started it. I don’t know if I even realized it at the time, but once I was back in North America, my mind would often wander to my time in Paris. It had infected me, and I wanted to experience more of that life.

So we can blame it on Paris. She intrigues, she pulls you in, makes you feel comfortable, makes you think this could be home. She is a beautiful woman.

Why else would a man quit his job, leave his life and family behind to travel over the ocean and start a new life than to chase after a beautiful woman?

Chapter 2: The Fish Out of Water Re-Submerses Himself In Paris

Check in for the train went quickly, and I passed through French customs without even a word from the border guard, just a stamp welcoming me to France, even though I was still in the basement of St. Pancras station.

20 minutes prior to departure, the train was ready for boarding. After a quick check of my boarding pass from a gate agent, I was up on the platform. After a quick glance up to admire the beautiful glass roof, I headed off to my carriage.

I boarded the train and grabbed my seat. The train seemed to be mainly filled with French folks, returning from a weekend in London. There were a few grubby backpacker types, which normally I would be, but as I was trying to inject some glamour into this trip, I had dressed up.

10 minutes prior to departure, and I had settled in to my window seat. My suitcase was stored above me, my book and bottles of water were tucked into the seatback in front of me, and my laptop bag was dashed away at my feet. I was ready to roll.

A young girl, probably about 15 was escorted on the train by one of the Eurostar attendants, and took the seat beside me. She stowed her larger bag above the seat, and then sat down. After a few minutes digging through her massive shoulder bag, she looked over at me.

“Vous etes Francis?” she asked.

I haven’t really spoken any French since my last trip to Paris in 2005, so I was a bit rusty. I needed some time to wrap my head around the phrase, so I stalled by saying, “huh?”

My stalling worked, because I finally translated the phrase in my head. She was asking me if I was French! I prepared my answer, “Non, je suis de Canada,” and was about to deliver it, but she beat me to it.

“Never mind, you are English,” she said, somewhat derisively.

Tail between my legs, I replied with a “Yup.”

“Can I ask from you a favour?” she said in thickly accented and halting English. “I want to watch my Dee-Vay-Dee Player, and I would like to sit at the window, for it has the... ummm...” she paused, searching for the word. I looked down to my left and saw the power plug.

“Power outlet,” I suggested. She smiled and nodded. So we switched seats, and I settled in again, this time to an aisle seat.

I was, however, not willing to let the somewhat insulting, “you are English,” go by without comment, though. After a minute of practizing the phrase in my head, I turned to her and said, “Je parle Francis...”

Before I could complete my phrase, “un peu,” a little, she pre-empted me and completed the phrase for me with, “un petite peu,” a very little. Ouch. She smiled and went back to her DVD.

The train took off. I kept my eye out for the partial constructed Statford station that will service the Olympic area in 2012. Not much to see except some platforms, as the train is in a ditch and the station is all above, and then settled into my book, “Playing for Pizza,” by John Grisham. It’s about an American football player that moves over to Italy to play in their professional American football league. A fish out of water story about a guy in a strange land who can’t speak the language. After my encounter with the girl with the Dee-Vay-Dee player, I wondered if I am about to get the same experience in Paris.

The ride over on the Eurostar was quick and mostly uneventful, though we did arrive 30 minutes behind schedule due, we were informed by an announcement in French-accented English, to “the train in front of us hitting an animal on the track.” For full effect, drop the “H” in hitting and pronounce the word animal as so, “an-e-mal.” Really quite charming.

We arrived at the crowded and dirty Paris Nord station, which looks pretty much as it did when I left from here in October of 2005 for my Paris to Hong Kong rail odyssey. That was the last time I was in the city, and must admit that I had missed it. I bought some Metro T+ single fare tickets, checked the map so I knew where I was going and walked outside the station. I sighed. It was good to be back.

My plan was to walk from Paris Nord to the Poissonieres Metro Stop, and then take the 7 train down to Pyramides and my hotel. In attempting to execute that plan, everything about my Paris experience came back to me. I got lost on way from Train station to Metro. Paris, redesigned famously by Baron Haussmann to include wide boulevards appropriate for strolling makes it a nice city to walk in, but Haussmans love of the traffic circle means that no street really runs straight, or for more than a few blocks, and so it’s easy to get lost. I probably walked further trying to find the metro station than the ride from Poissonieres to Pyramides, but eventually found the Metro and was on my way.

The hotel is beautiful. 5 stars, just two blocks from the Place de Concorde. I am given a nice room on the top floor, with French doors that open out onto a view of the street below.

Heading out on the first night for dinner, I notice there are lots of fancy cars with flags on them and police escorts. Originally I thought some EU function, but then I see cars whiz by with flags from Turkey and Lebanon on them. That’s not EU. What’s up in Paris? There is a Union of the Mediterranean conference in in town. Launched by the French head of state last year, the union “aims to strengthen and deepen the cooperation between both sides of the Mediterranean.”

My original thought that the conference was an EU function was based on more than just speculation, though. The presidency rotates every 6 months, and France has recently taken over the presidency of the EU. It is quite a big deal here. Everywhere I look, whenever I see the Bleu, Blanc and Rouge (the flag of France), I see a blue background with 12 yellow stars beside it (the flag of the EU).

To further celebrate the EU presidency, the National Assembly building on the south bank of the Seine is lit up with pictures and text celebrating Europe’s great accomplishments, ending with a note that there are 495 million Europeans. I wonder if I am included in that tally?

The Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Paris, is also in on the EU fever. The tower is being lit in blue at nights, with 12 yellow stars adorning her north side. An EU flag rendered in iron and rivets.

I grabbed a map of Paris from my hotel, and go out for a wander. Even with the map, without careful attention it is easy to get lost. The map is also quite confusing. In addition to the streets in all directions, there are metro stations every 2 blocks. There is no way that the map could fit all the names on, so the stations are marked on the map with a number and a symbol (circle or square), and there is a legend off in the corner to decode the numbers. It’s a task at times.

After wandering, I found a quiet looking restaurant on a corner that seemed appropriate for dinner. The menu was placed outside, written up on a chalk board. I was reading it over, translating the dishes in my head when the waitress approached.

She said something speedily in French, which I didn’t understand but would assume, based on what happened next, was the French equivalent of “are you eating or just here for drinks?”

Things were getting worse for me. At least on the Eurostar I eventually translated the phrase. This time, when faced with French, I froze, unable to even spurt out my usual, “I’m sorry, I only speak a little French.”

She said, “Anglais?”

“English, yes,” I said.

“I speak English too,” she said, a detectable American accent. “Are you here for drinks or to eat?” she asked, and thus I was able to put together what her original question in French had been.

Turns out the waitress was from California. She had done a semester in France, and after graduating had decided to move back. I asked where in California she was from, having a fair bit of familiarity with the Bay Area myself. “Los Angeles,” she replied. I cringed. No wonder she wanted to move to France.

We finally got down to the ordering. She brought over the chalk board with the menu. “Do you need me to go through this, or do you think you have it.”

“No, I read it better than I speak it,” I said.

“Or hear it,” she added, helpfully. Ouch, again.

I ordered a leg of duck in pepper sauce, and on her recommendation a 1/2 litre of white wine. Beautiful. With still a few glasses of wine left in my carafe after finishing dinner, I decided to get some desert, something I don’t normally do (despite what my gut might indicate to the contrary. That’s all beer in there, no desert). I was tempted by the chocolate mousse, but went with a cheese plate instead. I left the restaurant full and happy.

Walking along the streets, I came across this amazing little scene by the Palais Royale. It looks like a painting of Paris from the late 1800s, but was happening in 2008. That’s the amazing thing about Paris, is that it looks like a place stopped in time, but acts like a very modern city. All these modern people with their modern fashions and modern cars dropped into a city from the past. It’s truly a remarkable place to exist in, even for a few days.

I had to wander around for a few more hours. It gets dark here so late. Coming from Toronto, I like to think of Canada as the True North, Strong and Free. But really, Toronto is pretty far south, in line with the south of France. Places like London and Paris are much further North than my hometown, and so the sun is still in the sky at 10:00 at night here.

After snapping some photos of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night from the bridges across the Seine, I find my progress blocked by road closures. The flyer at the hotel had said that streets would start closing at 6 in the morning, but apparently the Police Nationale decided to start shutting them down around 10:30 at night.

I finally make it back to the hotel for midnight, and quickly fall into bed. My alarm is set for 7:45 tomorrow morning so I can get up and get a place to see the parade.

Chapter 3: The Military Might of France

That title isn’t a joke. I know, many people in North America will think it is. France doesn’t exactly have a reputation as being a military strong man, but it actually is. It is the largest force in Europe (by solider count) and the third largest cache of nuclear weapons, behind only America and Russia. France spends more on their Military than any other country in the world except for America.

The Fete Nationale is a chance to show it all off.

I left the hotel early and try and head the two blocks to the end of the parade route, only to discover that the police have blockaded most the streets, and I soon found myself working through a rat maze of blocked streets and police instructions until I find myself closer to the Arc de Triomphe than Place de Concorde and my hotel. Understandable, though, as Place de Concorde is where all the big-wigs sit, so they are keeping the unwashed masses as far away from them as possible. Though, one would think with the largest military force in Europe parading down the streets today, the leaders of the free world would be safe?

Anyway, no hard feelings on the parade herding, as I went through the same thing to see the Thanksgiving Day parade in New York City in 2006. It is typical of our times, I suppose. When I was a kid, you would show up at a parade and stand right on the curb. If you stepped out onto the street, one of the police man stationed every 50 feet or so would whistle at you to get back on the curb. Nowadays, its armed guards, barricades and standing back from the street.

Unfortunately for me, by the time I found a spot, I’d spent an hour following the maze in a slow moving crowd, and all the spots near the front are taken. I found myself watching the parade behind row upon row of heads in front of me. So as the foot soldiers, mounted calvary and mechanized calvary marched and rode and drove by, I didn’t see much of it.

I did manage to catch a glimpse of the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy as he rode by on a troop inspection. He was standing in the back of a jeep, and frankly seemed more interested in waving to the crowds than actually inspecting his troops, but it was nice to get a smile and wave from the French President.

His wife Carla Bruni, was not with him.

France was nice enough to fly some of its most expensive military might right over my head, though, so I did get to see some of the parade. Planes, helicopters and even skydivers filled the air.

I captured some of it on film, and cut it together, resisting the urge to use the song “Danger Zone,” from Top Gun, I have set it to La Marseillaise, the National Anthem of France, recorded by David Zinman and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra & Chorus.

About one minute in is some shots of the tanks. You can just barely see the heads of the soldiers as the tanks roll by. I included it more for the sound. It is deafening hearing them roll down the street, a real warfare of intimidation. I already had a lot of respect for that student in Tiananmen Square in 1989 who stood in front of the tank, but after hearing them today, that respect doubled. Frankly, the sound alone is enough to make you pee your pants and want to go hide.

Chapter 4: The Skies of Paris Are Alight

I had an easy afternoon of surfing the web, reading my book, watching some TV and having a bath (Shh, don’t tell anyone I’m a sissy). After having walked the entire length of the Champs Elysee in the morning I wanted to rest up, as I knew I would probably have another long walk to the Eiffel Tower that evening.

I headed out about 8:30 at night, and after a quick sandwich and beer at a cafe, headed into the Champ de Mars. At one end of the grand Boulevard there was a stage were musicians played to a large crowd. I didn’t recognize anyone except for James Blunt, who came out for a few songs. His appeal escapes me. He looks pained when he sings, and he sounds like a cat being wrung out.

Finally, the light started to fade and the anticipation built. Soon the skies would be on fire.

I moved from the main area and closer to the Eiffel tower to get the best view of the fireworks. Night fell, the speakers blared to life, and the show began.

Mostly I just stood and watched, moving around throughout the area to try and get the best view. Near the end of the show, I found myself standing just to the east of the Eiffel Tower, watching the fireworks explode through the open grid work of the tower. I tried filming it, but it was out-of-focus and the sound was a little choppy. I’ve included it anyway, as the last clip in the video below. As Pavoritti sings Nessun Dorma, the black lines that you criss crossing in front of the fireworks are the iron beams of the tower.

The sky lights up with white sparks as Pavoritti sings, “Dilegua, o notte. Tramontate, stelle. All’alba vincero, vincero, vincero!”

Vanish, o night!
Set, stars!
At daybreak, I shall win! I shall win! I SHALL WIN!

Vive la France.

A friend of mine recently wrote me and said that some of my blog entries lately had been "kind of down." I hadn't really thought they had, other than the one about crying watching Wilson the volleyball, but then I took a gander back at them and realized that it is possible to take away a certain negativity in them.

I sat at a bar last weekend contemplating this fact as I was having a pint. The bar was called The Crown, and is just down the street from my flat. It's in a beautiful and imposing Victorian building that now also holds a hotel.

Now, I was there for about one and a half hours, sitting at the bar and drinking two pints. The place was pretty busy. On a Saturday night the "it" crowd in Cricklewood seems to make their way down to The Crown to party. Despite there being a bar full of people, in that time, other than the bartender asking if I wanted a refill on my pint, no one talked to me.

Yet, when I walked out of the pub (finishing the last of my 2nd pint on the patio out front under a cloudy but warm night sky), I thought to myself, "what a good night."

What stuck with me wasn't the fact that I was alone in a big city with no one to talk to on a Friday night, even though I was surrounded by people. What stuck with me was two things:

Firstly, I was awed by what an amazing place, architecturally, The Crown is. It's got an amazing two floor bar area, and the bar I was sitting at (one of, I think, 6 bars on site) rose up two floors and was backed by amazing, huge mirrors.

The second thought, though, was how cool it will be once I've settled in and made some friends to have neat places like The Crown to come out to on Saturday nights. Not specifically The Crown, because I don't plan on living way out in the North-west sticks of Brent much longer, but places like it, preferably closer to The City.

As I thought it over, I realized that my optimism is one of the most important things that I have here. Bad things happen, as bad things are apt to do. In fact, the bad things will at times outnumber the good things, especially in these early days of trying to build a life here.

I truly believe though, that things will get better. There isn't a question in my mind that I will be successful here. That makes the tough stuff bareable. I also find that the tough stuff tends to waste away to the dark corners of my memory never to be recalled again, whereas the cool stuff - running down the escalators and feelings like I was flying, finding Roman ruins in the middle of a the business district of London, sitting in the yard of St. Paul's cathedral having lunch, even the fact that a computer crash meant free bus and tube rides things morning, those things stick in my mind, easy to recall and make me happy.

It's all about looking at my half-empty pint glass and knowing that not only is it not half-empty but really half-full, that the future holds the undeniable fact that the glass will be full again.

So, a friend wrote me today and said that he was worried about me because I hadn't posted in my blog for a few days. I realize that I posted something like 20 blog entries in June, and I really didn't mean to post that much, for a number of reasons. Firstly, I don't really think my life is interesting enough that people want to read a blog entry every day and a half. Secondly, I don't want people to become "overwhelmed" by the amount of stuff I am posting. Finally, because I don't want to set any expectations that anyone should expect that kind of frequency in the future.

Anyway, a quick blog entry to say that I am fine. I've been busy, but just not in a way that's interesting in a blog entry. I've been getting together with friends in town, friends of friends who live her, a few contacts from travellerspoint.com and even going on some interviews. In addition, I have been looking for a new place to live, watching both the British Grand Prix and the final of Wimbledon and checking out a couple new neighbourhoods for future living.

Two things to say.

First, if I had any illusions that I was Ra, the Sun God, and thus not going to get any rain in London, that has been destroyed by the past 5 days. A note from today's paper:

As much as half a month's rain fellon London last night, leaving it awash - and weathermen have warned there is worse to come. The deluge was so severe that flights at Heathrow were grounded, leaving thousands of passengers stranded. Met Office forcaster Barry Grommett said showers would continue to drench the capital throughout the day and added, "It's going to be pretty wet tomorrow too, I am afraid."

Rain? In London? Who would have predicted that?

Secondly, I have always admired poets. I think I am an okay writer of prose, but when it comes to being concise, I am not. If it can be said in 8 words, I'll find a way to say it in 10,000. But I wanted to try and capture that feeling I had when walking through those greenfields in Eynsford, so I attempted to write this poem.

If you have read the entry, let me know what you think. If you haven't read the entry, read the poem, and then let me know if the poem captures the mood the entry.

Dark day, all closed to me
Sit under clouds of grey
Where does the sunshine?
On the fields in the distance
Field of green
green wheat, not yet mature
sways in the wind
I touch it, feel it's impermanence
sway with it, young myself
born again, a field of green

Greg

When we last saw me, I was wandering a field in south-east England. A few hours later, after taking a circular route that saw me walking through more fields, a small forest and getting cut up by even more thistles and thorns, I wound up back at the train station as clouds started to roll in. The train arrived just in time. After 15 minutes later the rain started to come down.

Riding back, my plan had been to take the train to Blackfriars Station and then the tube home, but looking at my train schedule a name popped out at me and I decided to take a detour. Elephant and Castle.

The name Elephant and Castle was familiar to me, as it is the name of a chain of British pubs in North America with locations in Toronto, the rest of Canada and the US.

It wasn’t until I arrived recently in London and looked closely at my tube map that I realized that the name Elephant and Castle wasn’t just two randomly squeezed together words (as pub names often are), but the name of an area in London. It’s the name of a tube station as well as a national rail station. The road between two round-abouts in the area is called Elephant and Castle, as is the shopping centre adjacent to road. In fact, the whole area has started to take on the name Elephant and Castle, replacing the previous name Newington in even official documents, like this website outlining a regeneration project in the area.

I pulled out my tube mapped and confirmed that I could still get home without issue, taking the Bakerloo line, which has its terminus at Elephant and Castle up to Baker station and then transferring to the Jubilee line.

The rain was really coming down when the train pulled into the station, but luckily the covered platforms let right down in to the Elephant and Castle shopping mall. I puttered around the mall for a few minutes, waiting for the rain to let up. The mall, I later find out, was voted the ugliest building in all of London by Time Out readers in 2005.

Soon it was a mere drizzle outside, so I left the confines of the indoor mall and stepped outside and into a very lively multicultural market place. There were tons of stalls crammed into the small space of the moat that surrounds the mall.

Heading up from the moat I come across a pub called the Charlie Chaplin. A sign outside provides a brief explanation of why the pub is named after the famous comedic actor. He was born in the area and lived there until moving to the USA to become a famous movie star.

The rain starts falling again, so I decide to grab a pint at Charlie Chaplin and wait for the rain to stop. The bartender serves me my pint, and I pop the question.

“Why is this area called the Elephant and Castle?”

She cocks her head to the side and slightly shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’ve lived here all my life, and I have no idea,” she admits, before turning to face a man down the end of the bar. “Hey Robbie, why is this place called Elephant and Castle?”

Robbie laughs. “Nobody really knows. There’s lots of rumours, but no one knows the truth. It’s been lost to the mists of time.”

I plop some coins in the juke box and after selecting my songs, spend time doodling in my notepad, drawing an elephant and a castle, very poorly. The elephant comes out looking like a dog with a long nose, and the castle is just a box with some teeth at the top. I have to colour in the elephant with a red pen so it stands out from the castle wall, giving it a faintly pinkish tint.

“Hmmm, I guess that makes sense. Pink elephants. I can’t imagine there being any other kind in London.”

The rain clears up and I move on. Under a subway tunnel and across the street I find a pub called the “Elephant and Castle.” Surely they’ll know the truth.

A sign out front says that the pub sits on the site of a theatre dating back to the 1600s. I walk in and find a modern looking restaurant, complete with a Thai menu. I take a seat at the bar, not at all the cosy, old English pub I was expecting, but clean and the staff seemed friendly, so I popped the question again.

“Why is this area called the Elephant and Castle?”

Another bartender with no answers to offer, as she admits she doesn’t know. Luckily, she also has a regular she can turn to. “Tom, why is this area called the Elephant and Castle?”

Unlike Robbie in the Charlie Chaplin, Tom has a definitive answer. “Prince Louis. He brought the elephant here from France. Kept it in the palace grounds, thus you had an Elephant in a Castle.”

Seems a sensible answer, so I jotted it down in my book and closed the case. At least until I got back to my apartment and could do some research on the internet.

Despite Tom’s definitiveness with an answer, it appears that in fact Robbie had it right. No one quite knows why the area is called Elephant and Castle. There are lots of theories, most of which are examined in this thread from a local London internet group.

There are a few popular theories:

• The area is named after a pub called the Elephant and Castle. The pub was converted from a blacksmiths in 1790. The blacksmith was affiliated with the Culter’s Company, a maker of swords, knives and other cutlery, who often used ivory in their handles. Their crest has three elephants on it, including one with a howdah on the back, which is a seat used by hunters when riding an elephant. The howdah is shaped like a castle.

• The name is a bastardization of the words Infanta de Castile, and references a Spanish queen or princess who visited the area. Most often Queen Eleanor of Castile who was the wife of King Edward the first is the one mentioned in this story, though other names can be found. An infanta was the eldest daughter of a king, something that Eleanor was not. Variations on this theme have Infanta meaning young, as the princess in the story was only a teenage when she was married.

• The name is a reference to the King's menagerie (zoo) located at the Tower of London, thus you have Elephants in castles. A variation on this theme was the theory that Tom from the Elephant and Castle pub was espousing with his Prince Louis and his elephant.
  

What is right we will probably never know, so the case will remain open but cold, I guess. Much like the beer at the Elephant and Castle pub in Elephant and Castle, South London, England.

Part I: Lullingstone: A Comedy of Errors (Some of Them Mine... Okay, Most of Them Mine)

I had planned to write a blog today about ruins. Roman ruins, to be exact. I had stumbled across some in central London a few weeks ago, and after some research found out about a rather well preserved Roman villa just 45 minutes by train to the South-east of London. For reasons I can't quite explain, the concept of the Roman ruins fascinated me. I was going to chalk it up to them being so old, but then Stonehenge is older and I didn't find it that interesting. I wasn't sure what it was the grabbed my attention about Roman ruins, but either way I decided I was going to see them and write about them here. I had pictures of Roman sights in London (the wall, the Temple of Mithras), had done some research into the period of Roman control of the Britain and was ready to put together an entry jam packed with interesting pictures and descriptions of the villa placed within the context of historical fact.

This blog entry, however, is not about Roman ruins. This blog entry is about things going wrong.

The day started off okay. It was supposed to rain (which would have been fine because the villa is covered) but turned out to be sunny instead. I was starting to think that perhaps I am the reincarnation of Ra, the sun god. How else could I explain the fact that I had been in London for one month and only seen a day of rain. I got dressed, brought along an umbrella and rain coat just in case and headed down to Victoria station.

Trains to Eynsford, where the Lullingstone Roman Villa is located run from both Blackfriars station and Victoria station. The train from Blackfriars is direct, but the train from Victoria is quicker, even though it requires a change, so I decided to go with Victoria station. That's when the trouble began.

I had a piece of paper on which I had copied down the name of the town I was going to, "ENYSFORD." I went to the automated ticket machine, and there was no Enysford as a destination. I went and looked at the route map and it didn't list an Enysford station either. I contemplated getting into the line up for tickets which was very long and very slow.

I was very confused. Had the website lied to me last night? Did trains not leave from here for Enysford? Finally I found a different route map that showed a more central view of London and the surrounding area. Apparently the route map I had been looking at only showed major stations. I found the place I was going on the very edge of that map.

Did you catch it, what I had done? Look back three paragraphs, where I said, "Trains to Eynsford, where the Lullingstone Roman Villa..." and compare that with the station I was looking for in the preceding two paragraphs, "Enysford." Apparently I had suffered a temporary case of dyslexia when coping down the name.

"Well, no harm, just a few minutes wasted," I said as I purchased my ticket and grabbed a timetable so I would know when trains were returning to London. I thought it would be the last gaff of the day, but it was only the first.

Next up, figuring out where to go. Ticket in hand, I stood staring up at the board. Eynsford wasn't listed anywhere on the board. I went back to look at the route map, trying to figure out what the terminal destination would be, but it was hard to do as the lines criss-cross each other all across the map. I wandered around aimlessly for another 10 minutes, staring up at the board listing departures, feeling like a complete moron.

"Damn man, you can't even figure out how to take a train?" I scolded myself. Finally I clued in. All the trains listed on the board were departures on Southern railways. I looked at my timetable. South-Eastern Rail.

Sighing, I headed to another part of the station that listed South-Eastern departures on the board.

"Ah well, another little gaff, but all's good now," I said to myself, as I boarded my train for the uneventful ride to Swanley, where I switched for a train to Eynsford. It was a nice ride through some pretty English countryside scenery. Just after passing over this viaduct bridge (dating back to 1862)...

...the train pulled into Eynsford station.

Next up, a short stroll to the Roman Villa. I had checked out the location of both the train station and the villa using Google maps last night, and I knew that you left the train station, when down Station Road to the main road, turned left and then a little ways along there was a footpath on the right side. No worries, no problems.

The station had a map of the local area, so I thought I would confirm my directions. I looked at the map, got completely confused by what I saw, and determined that I should turn right instead of left at the end of Station road. My confusion was further enhanced by the sign at the end of station road saying that the villa was to the right. So I turned right, which was wrong.

I knew it was wrong almost immediately as there were way too many houses along the side of the road and the villa was out alone in the country, but kept going anyway. Soon I found myself in central Eynsford. It was very picturesque, but I had come to see a Roman villa, not a picturesque country village. I took some snaps anyway.

I consulted a map I found nearby of footpaths in the area. "Aha, I may have taken a wrong turn, but all is not lost. If I follow this road I'll hit the Roman villa in no time," I said. So, of course, I didn't follow the road.

Actually, I followed the road for about 200 metres. Then there was a footpath off to the right. "Well, it looks like it vaguely follows the same path as the road, and is probably more scenic," I thought. So I took the footpath.

It was very scenic. First I walked through these red flowers.

It made me sleepy, so I lay down. When I woke back up, my companions the scarecrow, lion, tin-man and that little girl from Kansas were gone, but no worries, they were headed somewhere different anyway.

I carried on over a pedestrian crossing on the rail tracks, which amazed me. Trains are electric here, and get their power from a third-rail on the ground. The third rail is discontinued at the footpath crossing, but two a few feet on either side is a high voltage electric rail. I can't even imagine this in North America. Somebody would wander over to their right, get electrocuted and sue the pants off the rail company. Europe is a different animal than North America, with their off piste skiing and high voltage footpaths.

At this point I noticed that the path had diverged quite dramatically from the road. If the road was heading east, I was heading north-east. I considered my options - onwards and hope to find a path back down to the road, or turn around and backtrack. The sensible thing would have been to backtrack, but I carried on. I walked for another 20 minutes, by which time I was sure that not only was I far from the road, but I would have passed the Roman Villa. Finally I found a path heading towards the road, so I took it.

The path was very overgrown and closed in around me. Leaves and branches brushed against my arms as I walked, which wouldn't have been a problem if it wasn't for the fact that some of the plants had thorns. A thorn managed to dig it's way into my left hand, stinging ferociously and causing a pool of blood to cover the top of my hand.

I finally emerged on the road. I was sure that the Roman Villa was to my left, so I went right. I went right with reason, though, as there was a sign that said that the Lullingstone Castle was to my right. I figured I would go and see the Lullingstone Castle, and then double back to the ruin.

I wandered down the road, a nice, winding country road with little traffic and scenic farms and fields off to either side. Perfect for a walk, and these two gentlemen would agree.

Now, as I hadn't planned on seeing the Lullingstone Castle, I hadn't done much research on it other than to know that it existed. I had browsed the website and knew the basics. Lullingstone Castle is a family estate built in 1497. Its present owner is Tom Hart Dyke, who is a plant hunter. He was once taken hostage by FARC guerillas while searching for rare orchids in the Darrien Gap between Panama and Columbia. While as the FARC's prisoner, he decided that if he got home he was going to plant a "World Garden," that would "contain plants from around the globe planted in their respective continents of origin." And so he did, and he opens the estate and garden up to visitors.

Only, he doesn't open it up every day. That was the part that I failed to notice when I had browsed the website. The site isn't open to visitors during the week, only on weekends. So the best I could do was take a few photos of the gate and turn around and head back towards the Villa.

I had fumbled getting my train ticket. I had turned the wrong direction. I had taken a footpath to nowhere. I had gotten lost. I had seen a castle that wasn't open to the public.

All that didn't matter, though, because I had only come to see one thing. I turned a corner and saw the large aluminium building which covers the ruins of the villa to protect them from the elements. I developed a spring in my step as I approached the front door. I turned the corner and saw perimeter fencing blocking the entrance.

"What the heck?" I said, walking closer. Workmen walked in and out of the building, covered with dust and dirt. A large sign was posted on one of the fence panels.

Closed, until mid-summer 2008, whenever that is. All that trouble, all the things that had gone wrong, they all caught up with me. My day turned dark.

"Damnit," I said to no-one, though a few of the workers turned and looked at me, "you think that's the kind of thing that English Heritage would have mentioned on their website." The workers shrugged and walked away, exuding an air of indifference.

I was left to stew in my own juices.

Part II: Green Fields: A Fresh Start (To More Than Just the Day)

I walked back dejectedly to Eynsford, where I took the advice of the closed sign and saw Eynsford Castle. Unlike Lullingstone Castle or Lullingstone Roman Villa, it was open and free. Also unlike Lullingstone Castle, this castle is a ruin. It dates back to around 1100 and was used by the Normans until it was abandoned in 14th century. It saw some use later as a stables (which included knocking some holes in the walls to bring hay in and out), but now the horses have moved out and it's a dedicate tourist site.

At the time I figured this was going to be my only adventure of the day, so I put on a brave face and took this shot, with me trying to look like a majestic explorer.

Inside though, I was pretty bummed. Eynsford is not a big place, and so other than the 3 attractions I had come and seen, there is little else for a tourist to do. I went across the street from the castle to the Five Bells pub and had some lunch, contemplating what to do next.

I perused my train timetable. Trains back to London left every 30 minutes at 17 and 47 past the hour. I could be back in London by 3 o'clock.

I couldn't let myself do that, though. I gave myself a pep talk.

"No, come on, Wesson. Don't let this day defeat you. If nothing else, you've come all the way out to the country side. Why not take a look around. Surely there must be something worth seeing."

So I headed out, off the main road, up past a park and into a large field. Here in England there are public footpaths that criss-cross the country, many of them cutting right through private land. This was one of those paths, cutting through a field of green wheat off into the distance.

It immediately reminded me of the movie trailer for Toys, the 1992 comedy staring Robin Williams, where he walks through a field of green grass, just like this one.

I didn't know where the path led, and debated turning around and heading back to the train station instead of taking a path that might get me lost in the middle of the English countryside, but I carried on. I reasoned that going home would be tantamount to admitting defeat, and I already spent one day last week sitting at home looking up sad clips from films on YouTube and crying. I wasn't going to let that happen again.

So I followed the path.

I walked through the field, letting my hands brush the wheat. It reminded me of another movie. This time Gladiator, which uses the image of walking through grass to symbolize Gladiator moving into the afterlife. I laughed. "I don't want to go into the after life today," I said.

At the top of the hill the path cut through a stand of trees and into another farmer's field. There the path rose a bit more before cresting a hill and providing an amazing view of rolling hills of green off into the distance.

"Green fields," I said to myself.

A memory was triggered at that moment. The term greenfield is used in IT to signify a project that is going to be built from scratch. It signifies that you have a blank sheet of paper with which to start, and you can design the project anyway that makes sense. You don't have to worry about any old bits of technology, wonky bits of old code, out of date software modules or licensing agreements shackling you to a specific solution. You can do anything. It's a fresh start.

"Yeah, that's what this is. It's a fresh start. Forget about earlier. We start right here, right now," I said, and started to laugh.

When I said that it was a fresh start, I had consciously only been thinking about that day, about putting the mess up at the train station, the wrong turns and closed villa behind me. But then I realized that I wasn't just talking about that day. I was talking about everything.

I worked on one massive greenfield project once, building a call centre with 300 agents from nothing. We started with 3 floors of an empty building, nothing but concrete floors and elevator shafts, and built it into a show piece of technology and people. It was one of the toughest things I have done. We were installing servers on one side of the floor while workmen were putting up walls on the other side. I spent a lot of late nights and 16 hour days dealing with schedule delays, software installations going wrong, power outages, failed integration tests and a million other problems. In the end, though, it was an amazing feeling to see it finished. I took a lot of pride in the work I did there, that I was part of the team that built that place up from the greenfield of those concrete floors.

It hit me in that field that was what I was doing here in London. A fresh start on my life. It was greenfield. I came over to the UK with two bags of clothes and an Apple MacBook, and that was it. Everything else was left behind. I have a blank sheet of paper to design my life on.

I don't know how long it will take, maybe months, maybe half a year, maybe years, but at some point I will "settle" in here, and I can take pride in the fact I did it all from scratch.

More importantly though, I now had an image. An image I can use to pick me up in the interim when things were going wrong. All the days that want to bring me down, the tortuously slow interview processes, the confusing adminstrivia of trying to get bank accounts, health coverage and taxes set up, getting lost on the streets of the city I am supposedly a resident of. For all the times when I want to go home and watch Wilson float away on the sea and cry, instead I can now think of green fields, and remind myself that it may be slow and hard and painful at times, but that I am building something from a blank sheet of paper here and eventually my new life will get built up into something special.

From nothing more than a greenfield.