Greg Wesson's Esoteric Globe

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

Back on July 1st, 1867, the British colonies of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and the Province of Canada joined into a federation of four provinces (the Province of Canada being divided, in the process, into Ontario and Quebec) which henceforth would be known as the Dominion of Canada.

Now, the Queen of Canada Elizabeth the Second (who also happens to be the Queen of England) is our head of state, but since 1867 Canada has been outside the control of the British parliament (though there were some ties until the 1982 constitution was signed, which is so divisive to our country I won't get into at this time). Many folks, even Canadians, are not aware that our head of state is in fact the ruling Monarch, represented in Canada by the Governor General (currently Ms. Michaëlle Jean, a bilingual immigrant to Canada from Haiti).

Anyway, enough history, now more beer.

Moosehead is a Canadian beer which has a surprisingly strong presence internationally, as no one I know seems to drink it in Canada. However, I have found it in pubs in the United States, France and now England both in abundance of supply and well represented through various marketing efforts (small flags hanging from the ceiling, buxom bartenders in tight-fitting t-shirts, that sort of thing).

Anyway, the Moosehead marketing dollars were out in full force at the Maple Leaf Pub today, which is (self-proclaimed, though I can't dispute the claim) London's only Canadian Pub.

The Maple Leaf Pub is a pretty big deal on July 1. It used to be so big that they shut down Maiden's Lane to allow the party to spill out into the street, but like all things in London, that party was ruined by a stabbing, and so now the crowd is confined to inside the pub for Canada Day, with overflow being directed to the party at Trafalgar Square just a few blocks away.

Damn kids and their knives. PUT DOWN THE WEAPONS, BOYS, YOU ARE RUINING MY CHANCES TO DRINK!

Anyway, met a number of Canadians at the pub, and a few Canadians-for-a-day who managed to throw on some red and white and throw down a few pints.

And so we find me, 27 days into my life in London, already talking about life back in Canada.

Seriously, I had a few people ask me the same question today.

"Are you missing home?"

I had to answer the same way every time.

"I haven't been here long enough yet."

Ask me the same question next year. Maybe I will have a different answer.

Okay, to make up for a depressing entry last time, a few light, humorous observations.

If I was in Toronto and wanted to purchase a DVD, I would go to HMV. Here in London, I just go into any restaurant and sit down. Within 10 minutes I will have someone approach me, most likely an Asian female, and offer me DVDs for sale. At first I thought it was just one woman trolling through my neighbourhood, but now I have had it happen to me in other parts of London with different people. It's common place here, really.

It surprises me for a number of reasons. The first is that people wandering around with plastic shopping bags full of DVDs can make a living approaching people on the street and saying, "Hello, DVD?"

The second reason is that so many restaurants and pubs don't seem to mind these people coming in and selling DVDs. I have only ever seen one place that protests the practice. They have a sign on the door that says "NO DVD SELLERS." After sitting there for 10 minutes watching the Euro 2008 and drinking a pint, who walks in but a DVD seller.

"Hey," the bartender, a young woman, calls to the DVD seller, "come over here."

Oh, fireworks!

"Let's see what you got," the bartender said, who then proceeded to spend 10 minutes looking through the massive collection of DVDs on offer. I guess the sign is more for show.

The other folks that approach me on the street aren't selling anything, except perhaps for a little piece of mind about helping others, the charity fundraisers. We have them in Toronto as well, folks on the streets with binders with a charities logo plastered on it asking, "Do you have a few minutes to spare for..."

They are pretty ubiquitous here in London, so much so that you sometimes encounter them in the most unexpected place, like trolling the line up for Wimbledon ground passes. A recent editorial in The London Paper bemoaned the guilt trip that one gets from these fundraisers, with their questions of "...“Why not?” “So you’re saying you can’t give up one hour’s wages?” And my personal favourite: “Oh, so you don’t like helping people then?”"

Luckily for me I have a built in defence against these folks, my accent. When approached by one I have found if I look up and say, "sure, I have a minute to spare, what's up?" they immediately decide that I am a tourist, and therefore not able to provide a UK bank card or Credit Card for monthly withdrawals. With an "Enjoy London," they pretty quickly dispatch me on my way.

Another thing that is ubiquitous here in London is comedian Jimmy Carr. He seems to be on my TV constantly and is even playing a live show tonight at Regent's Park. He is also, I was surprised to learn, not gay, just very British. For those of you without a built in Canadian accent to dissuade charity fundraisers, he offers this potential solution.

A lady with a clipboard stopped me in the street the other day. She said, "Can you spare a few minutes for cancer research?" I said, "All right, but we won't get much done."

Some days it all adds up
And what you got is not enough
Some days are better than others
- Some Days Are Better Than Others, U2

I was feeling very low on Friday, and sometime around Friday at 10:00 pm I really hit bottom, finding myself crying as I was watching the scene from Cast Away where Wilson, the volleyball companion of Tom Hank’s character Chuck Nolan floats away, and despite his best efforts, Tom Hanks cannot swim out to retrieve Wilson. He cries out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as he swims back to the boat, abandoning Wilson to floating across the ocean by himself.

Now, lest anyone reading this worry about me, Saturday I woke up to a sunny day and felt very good. So don’t worry, this was just a short blip, the kind of thing people far from home experience from time to time.

I have certainly had days like this before, like my last day in Buenos Aires back in 2003 on my South American trip or sitting in a train station in Jining, China, abandoned and alone with the drunk and the insane surrounding me. Days when you realize that you are far from everything and everyone you know, that you have little in the way of support or help, that whatever comes your way, you’ll need to handle it on your own. Sometimes that can be an invigorating thought, but some days it can overwhelm you.

Friday started out all right. It was cloudy and lightly raining, but I got up feeling good, doing some research for an interview I was going to have that day and ironing a shirt for the interview.

The day started going downhill when I got a call telling me the interview had been postponed. The reason was sensible and doesn’t hurt my chances of getting the job (in fact, I have another interview with the company on Tuesday), but I think after spending an hour in the morning getting ready for the interview had pumped me up a bit, and the delay deflated me a bit.

I didn’t really notice until later in the day though. I went out for a wander, as I do most days when I don’t have anything specific planned. I went and saw New Scotland Yard for no other reason then they mention it on TV police dramas all the time and show that rotating sign, so I wanted to see it for myself.

Just after I snapped my photo though, it started completely without warning pouring rain, and I got caught out for a good 30 seconds in a torrential downpour until I could find shelter.

The rain stopped, and I went back to wandering around the area, but my clothes were still damp, and that put damper on my mood.

I eventually grabbed some food at a pub before catching the train back home. Though I have certainly eaten alone in restaurants many times before, for some reason (probably my foul mood), it just struck me that I was eating alone in a restaurant full of people who were not alone.

Walking back from the train station, I noticed my big toe on my left foot start to ache. I got home and checked it out - a big blister. “Great,” I thought, “this day can’t get any worse.”

It could, in fact, get worse.

About half an hour later on a trip to the bathroom the blister broke without my being aware, and I ended up tracking blood across my apartment’s floor and letting a good amount out on my white comforter before realizing what had happened.

I cleaned up my foot and applied a band-aid. I walked back to my bed and surveyed the splotches of red blood on my white duvet. I sighed and then spent the rest of the evening listening to sad music and looking up depressing video clips on the internet, which is how I found myself crying as I watched a volleyball float across the water.

I almost didn’t write this entry, as my moment passed quickly. This morning I woke up pretty happy, and after a load of white laundry felt even better to see all the blood removed from my duvet, I had a nice lunch of bagels and smoked salmon and a desert of fresh plums and all was right with the world.

Why write about something, I thought, that is probably only likely to worry those back at home?

When I moved to London I decide that I would use my blog, in addition to it’s use for documenting fun touristy things like Wimbledon or Stonehenge, to also document what life is like for someone who picks up and moves to a new country. That means both the good and the bad.

If nothing else, perhaps there is someone out there tonight who has moved to a new place and finds themselves feeling lonely and low.

This is reminder that you are not alone, others have felt the way you feel, some of them are probably feeling that way right now, and even more will feel that way in the future.

This is also a reminder that tomorrow will be a whole new day, and things can be better.

And finally a reminder that while we may have seen Wilson float away into the vast ocean, just because that’s the last we saw him doesn’t mean that what happened to him next was bad. Heck, he could be sitting on a beach in Fiji right now, surrounding by beautiful native women and drinking Mai Tais.

Some days you feel ahead
You're making sense of what she said
Some days are better than others
- Some Days Are Better Than Others, U2

Well, it was bound to happen. I woke up this morning without the sun rays beating down on my face. It was grey and raining.

I will admit that I have exaggerated the dryness here in London to this point. It has actually rained a couple of times in the two and a half weeks I have been here, but those showers were over within an hour or so, and were book-ended by clear and sunny periods. This has been the first day where the whole day, from start to finish (or at least to 6 o'clock in the evening, when I am writing this) has been grey and rainy.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle around 11 o'clock, so I decided to put on a warm sweater and rain proof boots and go out for a walk. I headed down to Kilburn to find an HSBC bank machine and test out my new ATM card, which worked without issue. Sweet, I know have the ability to withdraw money over here in the UK without paying a $5 PLUS fee and a 3% foreign exchange rate charge.

After that, I kept heading south, eventually finding myself on a long and winding road that lead... to your door...

Just kidding, it lead to 3 Abbey Road, which is the home of the famous Abbey Road Studios. The sight is on the pilgrimage trail for Beatles fans, and many of them leave their mark on whatever surface they can find, including the neighbours walls.

In addition to being a place where the Beatles (among many others) have recorded, Abbey Road Studios are famous for what is out front of the building, a cross-walk. Not just any cross-walk though, the zebra crossing pictured on the front of the 1969 Beatles' album "Abbey Road."

Image linked from BBC

I snapped a photo of the zebra crossing. I was surprised how busy the street was, but then I guess that's why there is a cross-walk there. If the street wasn't busy, there wouldn't be much call for putting in a pedestrian crossing zone, I guess.

From there, I continued south down Abbey Road, Grove End and Lisson Grove (all the same road, the name just keeps changing) until I got to the Regent's Canal, when I cut across past the houseboats moored there...

...and then down Park Road, which turns into Baker Street.

Now Baker Street you might all know, if you are mystery lovers, from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of the exploits of Sherlock Holmes. According to the stories, Holmes lived in London at 221B Baker Street, described like this in the first book, A Study in Scarlet:

We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bed-rooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows.
(Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet, 1887)

The thing about 221B Baker Street is that there never was such an address. At the time of Conan Doyle's writings, there was no such address, and so Conan Doyle probably choose it for the fact that it didn't exist. Street numbers were reallocated along Baker Street and Upper Baker Street in the 1930s, which lead to there being numbers up in the 200s along Baker Street.

There is a Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street that claims to be at 221B Baker Street, but it's actual address is 239 Baker Street. While city statues prevent anyone from displaying a false address on their premises, the Sherlock Holmes Museum does have 221B on their door. They accomplished this by registering a company with the name 221B Ltd., and thus the "221B" that appears above the door of their premises is simply the name of the company that operates out of that abode.

If 221B were to exist, it would be somewhere in the middle of what is now a rather large building, encompassing the street numbers from 219 to 229. The Abbey House was built in the early thirties to be home to the Abbey Road Building Society, which over time morphed in the Abbey Bank. Abbey Bank, interesting, is apparently one of the other banks where it is easy as a foreigner to open a bank account. Abbey Bank was in the building until 2002. The building is now undergoing renovations to develop "92 luxury residential units and 40 affordable units with 3 levels of underground car parking," according to a web page run by one of the mechanical companies assisting with the build.

Not quite as glamourous to imagine Sherlock Holmes living in a sixth floor luxury residential unit with ample parking and a private elevator as it is to see him in a nice Georgian-era home with a sitting room, fireplace and lots of old books weighing down the bookshelves, so I am willing to forget the facts and buy into the mythos. The nice old house with the bobby standing out front is where Holmes lived, not the fancy new apartment block.

During my walk the rain mostly kept itself to a low drizzle, but then the rain started to fall a little heavier, so I caught the Jubilee line back up from Baker Street Station to Willesden Green, and on to my flat. I settled in to watch the F1 qualifying, which seemed a reasonable thing to do on a rainy day. After all, I can waste a day sitting around the house doing nothing. I have years ahead of me to explore.