England

Even if you haven't read my last blog entry on the Superbowl and the walk home in the falling snow afterwards, you are probably aware that England has been getting some snow.

I know that you are probably aware of this because I haven't gotten a number of emails from people who don't read my blog commenting on the snow. So obviously the news in other countries is covering the fact that London and the rest of England has snow. It's been the top story all week here, usually billed as "Breaking News!"

Most of the emails I have gotten from friends in Canada and the USA tended to ask the obvious question for a North American, "London gets a couple inches of snow and the entire city shuts down? What the hell is wrong with you over there?!? Are the Brits really that fragile?"

At work this week also a few of my English co-workers have made comments about the reaction to the snow. "Being from Canada, you probably think we're all daft and over-reacting, don't you?"

The answer is simple. The answer is no...

...but, yes.

The answer is no because if there is one thing you learn living in Canada, it is that winter is all about preparation. In Canada, when I had a car, I used to carry a scrapper, a snow brush and a small shovel in the trunk. The city of Toronto budgets $67 million a year to remove snow, and has a massive array of sanders, salters and plows to take care of it. Most Canadians own parkas, boots, mitts and toques. The reason we do these things is because it snows a lot in Canada.

Here in England, they don't get much snow. The snow that fell on London on Sunday night / Monday morning was more snow than the city had received in 18 years. This weeks winter weather has maxed out the budgets of most cities here in England, and lots of places have run out of sand for the roads. I see people walking around in sub-zero temperatures in light jackets and trainers, shivering. They aren't prepared for the snow because they don't get this much snow, usually.

So, no, I don't judge the Brits too harshly for dealing badly with the snow.

However, I do think they have over-reacted somewhat.

On Monday, for example, there was no getting around in London. The buses were all cancelled, and most of the tube lines weren't running. I understand parts of the transport system not working, but basically shutting the entire thing seems overly extreme. Some reaction was warranted, but they just basically said, "that's it, let's just shut down the city."

And this week a lot of people didn't make it into work, at all. Partially this was because most of the schools were shut all week, so parents were forced to either find child care of stay home. But I know a few single folks that just didn't bother going into work at all. In the places that really got socked in, like the high altitudes or the South-west, I can understand, but even in Sheffield, which didn't get much snow at all, some things shocked me.

Yesterday a number of shops on the high street closed at noon because of the snow. The thing is, that it wasn't snowing. I had been snowing, and Sheffield could a couple inches, but by noon the snow had shopped. Yet the shops still closed up, putting up signs saying that they were shutting due to the snow.

It has been interesting to live here through this week here in the UK as a recently immigrated Canadian. I can understand why folks are reacting to the snow, but it has been a touch humorous to watch some of the over-reactions to the snow. Often as a new arrival in a new country, I have spent a lot of time feeling a bit like a tool, still learning how to act in my new country. For the first time, though, I feel like I know more than the locals.

For this week, at least, England has decided to become a little more like Canada, and make me feel at home.

I closed and locked the door on my empty flat, and headed to Willesden Green Station for the last time as a resident of Cricklewood, Brent, London today. After only 2 months in the city, I now have a previous London address. Now in conversation I drop in phrases like, “...this place near Cricklewood, where I first lived when I moved to London...” to make me sound like an old timer in the city.

Who knows, perhaps I will make such a big impact on this city that the fact that I lived in a studio flat in North-West London will some day be important, and the folks at English Heritage will honour that. Some day in the future, perhaps you will be strolling down Anson Road in Brent and see a blue plaque on the wall of an otherwise unassuming little row house identifying I lived there.

Moving out isn’t really that great a shock, as the flat in Cricklewood was always planned to be a temporary situation until I could figure out where in London I wanted to live and what would be convenient for work. Despite the fact that I don’t actually have work yet, I have decided to move, at least for the next three months all the way to the South-East of the city and into the borough of Tower Hamlets.

Ah, Tower Hamlets. Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? The word hamlet, defined as “a community smaller than a village,” conjuring up images of cottages in the English countryside, the Tower alluded to perhaps being the church steeple at the end of the main road?

In fact, Tower Hamlets is the heart of East End London, just to the east of the medieval walled city of London (most of the wall is gone now). Formerly a set of small villages to the east of London, as the city of London expanded in the 19th century, many people, especially the poor and new immigrants found themselves living in an increasingly dense east end. The “east end” became synonymous with poverty and places like Wapping, Aldgate, Bethnal Green, Mile End, Limehouse, Bow, Bromley-by-Bow, Poplar, Shadwell, Stepney got a bad name. The most infamous area in the east end became Whitechapel, where gin houses and pubs serving both prostitutes and their clients provided the perfect opportunity for the “world’s first serial killer,” Jack the Ripper to terrorize the area from 1888 until 1891 through the murder of 11 women.

Somewhat to the south of the traditionally defined East End sat a rather marshy island that came to be known as the Isle of Dogs. This area, prone to flooding, is formed by one of the largest meanders of the River Thames. Originally settled in 13th century, the area was abandoned after a breach in the river embankment in the 14th century. Dutch engineers, familiar with drainage problems, were able to clear the area again in the 17th century.

Some of you might be wondering how the Isle of Dogs came to get its name, especially seeing it is more of a peninsula than an island. Unfortunately, like many things in London, there are lots of rumours but no real answers. Some say that it is due to the kings raising greyhounds for hunting in the area.

In the 19th century, the area became one of the most important centres for trade in London with the opening of a number of docks. The city of London’s river wharves were over-crowded, and boats would often have to wait to unload. To ease this crowding, docks were constructed on the Isle of Dogs and in other east end districts to serve to growing city.

The first dock on the Isle of Dogs, the West India Dock, was opened in 1802 and connected to the city via canals and later railways. The Millwall and Poplar docks followed soon after, and the area became a bustling trade hub.

Many years later, somebody invented the shipping container and the container ship. That was the end of the Isle of Dogs docks, as they didn’t have the space or facilities to unload containers. In 1980 the government took over the land, and scratched it’s head. “What do we do with all these docks?”

The Docklands regeneration project was soon born, which for the Isle of Dogs meant the development of Canary Wharf by a couple of Canadians. After building the UK’s three tallest buildings and naming them after Canada and Canadian place names, Toronto developer Olympia and York promptly filed for bankruptcy in 1990. The area was a bit of a white elephant for the better part of a decade, with half-full towers. Eventually, though, demand caught up with supply, and the building started up again in 1997 and continues to this day.

Further south, the Millwall Dock was opened originally in 1868, and in the 1980s saw a less ambitious redevelopment as both a commercial centre and residential area. Including the Barnfield and Iron Mongers development that I am moving into.

The area is pretty nice now, unlike the conditions of the area in the late 1800s and early 1900s, when the Reverend Richard Free described his rooms at No. 1 Ingelheim Cottages as 'a terrible old shanty, lacking every convenience', and crawling with lice. The area had been in disrepair for 100 years when Wimpey Homes redeveloped the site as Quay West in 1989, “an estate of houses and mews built around courts, squares and a pedestrian boulevard.”

So now I am settled into my double-room ensuite in a house with 5 other rooms and as follows, 5 other roommates. I wasn’t planning on living with roommates when I moved to London, but two things changed that. First, landlords are surprisingly uninterested in renting you an apartment when you answer No to questions like, “are you employed?” “do you have any references you’ve known in the UK for the past 3 years?” and “do you have anyone in the UK who could guarantee your payments?” Secondly, I wasn’t really meeting anyone living in a studio apartment by myself, so I figured this would be a good way to get to meet some people. I haven’t met my roommates yet (I assume they are all at work, suckers!). Hopefully they’ll be cool. Judging by the sports crap, video games and DVDs left lying around in the main room, they look like nice guys.

I have a 1st floor room (2nd floor in North America) overlooking the courtyard with its leafy trees and bricked driveway and walkways. The room came furnished, and even has a big shot of Audrey Hepburn on the wall, who I’ve often commented is very pretty. The house is probably a minute walk to the Thames River, about 20 minutes by foot to Canary Wharf and only a minute from the Mudchute Docklands Light Rail (DLR) station.

(An aside - I have a dirty poem that I composed using the DLR station name of Mudchute and tube stations St. John’s Wood and Shepard’s Bush. If you are over 18, remind me to tell you next time I see you).

So begins phase 2 of a yet to be determined number of phases of my life in London. I may be from Cricklewood originally, but from now on, I’m a Docklands boy.

At least, until I move again.

I knew arriving here that they drove on the other side of the road. That's pretty common knowledge. As such, I've been pretty afraid to get behind the wheel of a car, so far avoiding it completely. Luckily, I haven't gone anywhere yet I've had to drive.

What I wasn't expecting was that I would find that walking here would be something that I would end up having trouble with.

In North America, you walk the same way you drive - you keep to your right and people coming the other direction pass you on your left. Anywhere in North America that I went, if I was approaching someone I would move over to my right, and they would move to their right and we would pass each other without incident. If you want to pass a slower walker, you pull out to your left, get by them (passing them on your right, their left), and then pull back in front of them, just like passing a Ferrari passing a Yugo on the highway.

There is only one time that I recall when these rules failing me in North America. I was a teenager, cycling on a bike path in my hometown of Burlington, Ontario. A cyclist was approaching me, so I moved over to my right. Unfortunately, the other cyclist decided to move to his left, and before I could make an adjustment, his bike smashed into mine. I crumpled like a piece of paper jammed in an old laser printer displaying the error message "PC Load Letter."

I got up, woozy, and looked at my front tire, which was no longer shaped like a circle but rather like a Möbius strip in an M.C. Escher painting. The other cyclist looked up at me and said, "whoa, dude. I had a dream that this was going to happen last night!"

I was too shocked to ask the obvious question, "if you knew this was going to happen, WHY DID YOU LET IT?" Instead I stared at him blankly for a moment, and then started the long walk home, dragging my now useless bike behind me.

Coming over to England, I figured that like driving, things would be the reverse of North America. People would keep to their left, and pass other people on their right. So the first day, I was out walking and when that first person approached me coming in the opposite direction, I moved over to my left. They moved to their right, and we soon found ourselves face to face.

"Sorry," I said, moving over to let them pass. Sure that it was a one-off incident, I continued on my way only to find the next person I came across did the same thing - moving to their right and forcing me to make an adjustment and make my apologies. "Excuse me. Sorry."

"Okay, I see. They drive on the left but walk on the right! No problem, I can do that," I told myself, and the very next person I walked up to went against my new rule, and moved to their left.

I have since discovered that there seems to be no rules about which side to pass people on when it comes to walking in London. Perhaps there are just too many people on the sidewalks here to come up with any hard and fast rules - it's every man for themselves. Much like a New Yorker trying to walk through the gawking tourists all staring at billboards in Times Square or a running back splitting the defence, you just have to find your seems and work your way through, constantly adjusting.

Even the tube stations add to the confusion. While they have rules and signs posted, the rules are different depending on what station you are at. Sometimes you keep left, sometimes you keep right. Sometimes you run down the middle of a stream of people on either side of you. The only real rule seems to be to head towards the escalator that is going in the direction you want to go, and hope that nobody hits you.

So, I guess I will just...

...unless I should...

I played cricket yesterday for the first time.

It wasn't a proper game of cricket, just some goofing around in a park at a picnic with a bat, some wickets and a few tennis balls, but nonetheless, it was my first experience ever playing the game.

Some friends of mine back in Canada had passed me the name of their family in England, and they were nice enough to invite to their family picnic. We had a very nice lunch in the back garden, and then headed over to the park for some football and cricket.

Football was up first. That was a game I had played that before, having played 4 years of soccer in the local intramural league as a kid. It's been a while, though, and after spending a few minutes running hard (and even scoring a goal), I was happy to retreat to play keeper for a rest. The nets weren't very big, probably about 5 feet high and 10 feet across - frankly not much larger than an ice hockey net, so I was able to stop most shots using a butterfly technique.

After playing to a 5-5 draw, we headed over to a mostly flat (though admittedly somewhat sloped) part of the park and set up the wicket for cricket. Instead of a traditional game, we just played around with a bowler, two batsmen and the rest of us in the field. We kept score of the number of runs each duo of batsmen scored. When a batter went out, the next person in the rotation took their place and the score reset to 0.

I bowled first. After a quick lesson to say that I should keep my arm straight and pitch the ball overhand and aim vaguely at the stumps, and I was off. I don't think I am a very good bowler, as mostly those batting seemed to be reaching pretty far to make contact with the balls I had thrown. After I had thrown my 6 balls, I was back in the field.

My turn came up to bat. I think I scored 5 runs or so. Sadly I was out quickly when (reaching for some baseball terminology here) I hit a blooper over the head of the bowler that was rather spectacularly caught by one of the fielders on his knees and in his gut. I really had thought it was going to drop. Ah well.

After we'd all rotated once through the order, it was back to the house for tea and desert. Just like the tea break in the real matches, though we never picked the game back up again.

So there you have it. I've played cricket. I'm practically English now!

Since getting back from Paris, I've had a bit of a stressful week and a half. Not bad stress, just a busy calendar running errands, going on job interviews and planning for my upcoming move, so when I saw a free day on my calendar and a weather report from the BBC that said sunny and clear skies, I decided I deserved a little beach holiday. So on Thursday I packed a towel and my swimming trunks and caught the train to Brighton.

Brighton is due south of London, about 80 miles from where I live right now. The first order of business was figuring out how to get there. London and the surrounding area has a dizzying array of transit options. Most people are familiar with at least a few of them - the iconic black taxi cabs, the red double-decker buses and the extensive tube network are known even to those that have never been here. I admit when I first arrived in London, I was a bit of a tube snob. If I went anywhere, I went by the London Underground.

As I have settled in, though, I have figured out that there are a few other options to getting around that can be quicker, cheaper and more comfortable than the tube. Specifically, I figured out that there is a train station called Cricklewood which is as close to my house as the tube line, and has frequent trains that run into the city and beyond. In fact, I could have saved myself some time had I known when I went down to Wimbledon, instead of taking two underground routes that stop frequently, I could have taken a commuter train straight through the city to Wimbledon station.

The trains are run by First Capital Connect, which sounds like a bank but is really a train company. A very popular one, it seems, as the first time I tried to take one of their trains was from St. Pancras to Cricklewood after returning from Paris. Ticket in hand, my train pulled in. It was only four cars long and full of people. Despite the 100 or so people on the platform trying to cram on the train, we weren't all going to fit, and a large number of passengers, including myself, were left on the station when the train pulled away. The next train wasn't for another 40 minutes, so I hauled my stuff all the way across St. Pancras station to the tube line.

Luckily, I had no such trouble getting on a train yesterday. I even got a seat once we'd passed Farringdon station, though I didn't get to sit long as I had to change at Blackfriars. Normally I wouldn't mention something as tedious as changing trains, but I wanted to mention how much I like Blackfrairs station, which is partially out over the Thames river.

There was a woman standing on the platform across from me who was staring out at the river. She may have been happy for all I know, but for some reason I got it in my head that she was sad, sitting there staring out at the water and wishing that her train wouldn't come today, so she could go back home and go to sleep.

A few minutes later a train pulled in and three of her friends got off. They walked away smiling and laughing, so it turns out my imagination was wrong. My train pulled in, and off we went.

A little over an hour later I was in Brighton. The walk to the sea-shore from the train station is about 10 minutes downhill. You pass the clock tower and a few minutes later, the wind off the ocean is hitting your face.

The beach is incredibly rocky and the water is testicle shrinkingly cold, but that doesn't stop the masses from coming out to the beach. Because the water is so cold, few people venture into it, and if they do, it's usually only for a quick dip and then out into the sun again to let the sun dry you off.

There are two piers at Brighton. Well, at least there were two piers at Brighton. The west pier has fallen into disrepair, and is mostly just rusted metal pilings and beams in the water now.

There are development plans afoot to build a massive tower and pier where the ruins of the west pier is now. The plans are nice enough, but I feel it's a bit of a shame really. I like the rusted and derelict nature of the present west pier. It's like a piece of art, a statement on the transitory nature of all things.

The east pier is definitely not in a state of disrepair. It is a lively tourist attraction with amusement, arcades, casinos, bars and restaurants. There are also a lot of signs reminding you to make sure that you put out your cigarettes thoroughly so you don't burn down the mostly wooden structure.

Seeing the Helter Skelter put The Beatles tune in my head.

If the fear of a flaming wooden pier keeps you from going out above the water, there are still lots of amusements along the beach to keep you interested.

Heading east from the pier, you find the Volk's Electric Railway. Operating since 1883, the electric train runs from the Aquarium and pier in the west to the Marina in the east.

The eastern most station, by the marina is called Black Rock. I've been watching Lost on DVD all this week, and one of the key locations at the end of the 1st season is the mysterious Black Rock. Seeing the station name replaced The Beatles Helter Skelter in my mind with thoughts of the TV show. Damn media infiltrating my brain! Can't I just enjoy Brighton without having to contextualize it within some media-created framework.

I didn't take the train. There was a big sign on the train station talking about how important it was to get exercise, and that it's a good thing to walk, which persuaded me to hoof it to the Marina.

If I was going to walk all that way (it's about a mile), I figured I needed something to power me up, so I grabbed some lunch. Given the seaside nature of where I was, I figured I should eat from the ocean, so fish and chips with mushy peas was on the menu.

There was a place just down from my lunch spot that was selling muscles and cockles, and it made me think of Sweet Molly Malone, calling "Cockles and Muscles - Alive-Alive-Oh!" Another song in my head...

The marina is just that, a marina, with boat slips. There is also a number of restaurants and shops.

I wandered back to the beach and settled into a spot on the beach at Duke's Mound, just to the west of the nudist area. Yes, there is a nudist area. No, I didn't take any pictures. I did take a peak into the spot. Mostly it was clothed people sitting around looking at the few brave, naked and male souls.

There were no change rooms close by, so I changed into my swim trunks using the old towel round the waist method, and headed into the water. It was freezing, and as the tide was high the bottom was all rocks. Further out, or when the tide is lower, there is a sandy bottom, but when I was in, all I could feel was cold water shocking my system and rocks stabbing at my feet. I was out of the water in less than a minute.

I lay down on my towel and let myself air dry, every once and a while sneaking a peak at the two beautiful Indian girls sunbathing topless just down from me. Much better viewing than the male-heavy nude beach.

As the waves washed in and out, it moved the rocks on the beach, sounding a lot like someone carrying a bag of marbles. That's the sound of the ocean in Brighton - waves, gulls and rocks banging together.

Once dried off, I headed into Brighton. Lots of little shops and some nice pedestrian areas for strolling.

Not interested in buying anything, I eventually made my way back down to the sea front and found myself a table at the Gemini Lounge and Beach Bar. The place has a huge patio with a band playing, and a built in temperance mechanism in the form of some of the slowest service I have ever received.

I slipped off my sandals. My feet were killing me. Not only did I walk a few miles in sandals (not the most supportive shoes for hiking in the world) and have the rocks of Brighton beach stab at the bottom of my feet, but the tops were lobster red from the sun. Actually, only half of the top of my feet were lobster red. The parts that were under the sandal straps were alabaster white. There is an interesting red-white zebra stripe on my feet now.

I settled back, resting my feet and sipping on my beer (once it finally arrived). The band announced that they were going to play one more song before coming around to collect donations and then taking a break. In honour of the sunny weather, they played Beautiful Day by U2. Despite the fact that the singer didn't seem to know any of the words and mostly just mumbled a tune, I still gave them a pound when they came around with their collection bucket.

I sat back and let the sun shine on me (while keeping my feet safely under the table in the shade), and just watched the people roll by. The beach may not be white sand, the water may be somewhere close to the freezing point, the service may be slow as molasses in January and the band may not know the words to the songs they sing, but no bother. The sun was shining and I had a day off, without any stress, and that was a damn fine thing.