Tag: london

Saffron, Cigarettes and Long Travel Days

April 18th, 2025

I have incredibly rich memories from my childhood of reading my grandparents’ big glossy art books at their duplex in Montreal. I would turn the pages, and they would make a crisp noise peeling apart from each other as I inhaled the smell of lingering cigarette on the page. Art has always been a big part of my life, so when I visited Europe last, much younger and less travelled, I knew I had to hit as many galleries as possible. I saw work from all the artists I had grown so fond of as a child, from Monet to Chagall. Some galleries were more memorable than others. When I decided I’d be joining my family in London, I knew that one of the places that was a non-negotiable for me was the Victoria and Albert Museum.

The museum had hardly changed, as I had hoped. I took a picture of myself in a dressing table mirror that was hundreds of years old and only slightly weathered. The same one I had taken a picture in seven years ago. It was strange. The structure stayed the same, my reflection had hardly changed, and yet a substantial amount of time had passed. This time I also got a shot of my mom and me.

We headed through the intricately adorned rooms and beautiful exhibits until we reached the café. Normally I skip an art gallery café, they are often overpriced and not worth it. This one is not to be missed. The food is delicious: I had trout with a fragrant saffron aioli and arugula, which reminded me of home and somehow filled the small pit of homesickness that was building. The café, built in 1868, surrounded us with stained glass windows, high gilded arches, and a beautiful garden with fountains just outside the glass doors that children were splashing in.

Sufficiently stuffed, we walked through the corridor of marble statues containing work from Rodin, Michelangelo, and Bernini. They were frighteningly lifelike and stunningly beautiful. I couldn’t help but wonder about the process and time spent on each piece. The dark room that held the gems was another highlight and something I had wanted to revisit since my prior trip. Queen Victoria’s sapphire coronet was so timelessly beautiful, I don’t even have words to describe its beauty.

By late afternoon, after having spent most of the day wandering the V&A, we all started to fade. My dad said, “Beer?!” and we agreed. We found a perfectly off-the-main-path pub with a table outside in the sun. My negroni was bitter and sweet: everything I could have hoped for. We shared a family dialogue that turned from bickering to silly banter, giggling at ourselves and each other. Then we headed to Harrods, just down the block, to fill our senses. While the V&A has a stunning collection of clothing, I was not enthralled, this time or last, with the presentation. Harrods has presentation down to an art.

Still buzzed from the pub, lightheaded from the department store perfume room, we discussed dinner. I have a soft spot for Nando’s when in London. It’s tradition at this point. I presented the idea and everyone agreed. We walked through Kensington, taking in all the sights and smells, and found ourselves walking through a charming little whitewashed alley. Soon we were sharing a bounty of salty halloumi (shockingly good, to be honest), chips as they call them here, lemony broccolini, and warm garlicky spiced chicken. We ended the day by debating how to pronounce Gloucester.

On our final day waking up in London, we packed up and headed to King’s Cross St. Pancras train station. We made our way through the droves of people coming and going, running into loved ones’ arms after having been reunited. We dropped our bags off to be stored until our train departed. In a rush to catch a few more sights, we scurried down the road, dodging taxis and tourists. We made our way to the school my mom had spent four years at getting her degree for dance. We went inside, and they graciously let us tour the building. A time machine for my mom and a view inside for us.

My dad’s final to-do list items in London were see the Thames and get on a double-decker bus. We rushed to the tube, took it several stops, and got off at the river’s edge. We walked over the bridge to the other side and caught a double-decker (riding on the top floor) back to my mom’s old school. Check and check. With a couple hours before our train departed, we stopped in the watering hole she had spent so much time in with her friends 40 years prior. I had my first true British pub meal: a shockingly good chicken, leek, and bacon pie with mash, steamed leeks and cabbage, and a steaming hot red wine gravy. My meal was complete with a crisp local cider that had a delightful funk to it and made me excited for patio season back home with my friends.

Feeling satisfied from our big meals and with our accomplishments from the day, we got on the train to Paris. An accidental purchase of business class tickets meant cultured butter with our meal and really good wine. We all read our own books during the trip and had a smooth ride through the Chunnel, 75 metres below the English Channel.

Ready for bed after a day that had felt like at least two, we reached into the spot where our keys were supposed to be: under the mailbox of our new temporary home. No keys. My dad and I headed out for a chilly midnight walk. The shawarma place a block up from us was swarming, presumably with football fans from the game that had ended shortly prior. After two hours of making the lobby into our home, offers of espresso from kind French neighbours, and endless phone calls, we were in our new apartment.

Two cities in one day, a full heart, and an unexpected midnight stroll; our arrival may have been delayed, but somehow, it made everything feel more alive. We were in Paris. Finally.
Meditating on Eggs and Fashion

April 14th, 2025

I love to start my mornings with a poached egg. The exactly four minutes it usually takes to perfectly set the egg white and leave the yolk runny left me, yesterday morning, with an overcooked, albeit jammy, yolk. Does the water boil hotter here? Even the lowest setting on the toaster burnt my bread. After this disappointing breakfast, we set out for Camden Market.

We walked around a little, but it was even crazier than Notting Hill had been, so we kept going. We wandered up through Hampstead High Street while quickly descending into that familiar jet-lagged hanger.

When we left the flat, it was gorgeous and sunny, but I suppose London is known for the same temperamental weather that Vancouver is so accustomed to. Within minutes of fanning ourselves and complaining about the heat (not me, I would never), we were shivering and shielding ourselves from sparse, oversized raindrops. We took cover in a packed pub. They sat us on the outdoor patio, sheltered from the rain, at least until the wind picked up and my dad’s long-awaited fish and chips fell victim to it. My elderflower spritz, luckily, was safe on the far side of the umbrella.

When the rain subsided, we headed back through Camden Market, which by then had far fewer crowds. I found a beautiful, chunky red sweater with cherries knit down the sleeves and ties down the front. It felt like it had been manifested straight from my imagination. We made our way to the Tube, catching the train we thought would take us to our station. It didn’t. We ended up passing it by one stop, or as we later learned, about an hour’s walk out of the way. We could have waited eight minutes for the next train back, but some of us are more impatient than others, and “we” decided to just walk.

This is a good time to mention that instead of paying for a cellphone plan here, we’ve just been surviving without our phones until we’re back at home base. A nice reprieve from the constant notifications we’ve all grown so used to, but less nice when you’re lost and not even sure which direction to head. With a combination of street maps and constructive family bickering, we made it back just in time for me to make a beautiful Thai red curry in the comically small pot in the apartment, using items we’d picked up along the way.

Three and a half minutes for the egg this morning. Still not perfect, but much closer. I wore my new sweater: a perfect colour match for my favourite red nail. Suddenly, the perfectly curated capsule wardrobe I planned for this trip isn’t satisfying me. I like to pack light (carry-on only), but I hate the implications of not having the options I want. I miss my leopard pants. And it doesn’t help that they seem to be all the rage here, I keep seeing them everywhere. I’m officially bored. I must find a vintage store to get lost in the second I get to Paris.

We got to Highgate Cemetery around midday, after a quick jaunt through the neighbourhood my mom lived in for four years. Perfectly caffeinated and enjoying each other’s company. We said hello to Karl Marx, found the grave of the Russian intelligence officer murdered in London in 2006, and had our path crossed by an adorable little black cat. As we got closer to George Michael’s grave, I couldn’t get “Father Figure” out of my head. No complaints: it was a welcome haunting. I later learned the cemetery had once been marketed to future clientele as the “Great Garden of Death.” Adorable and fitting.

We were off to meet one of my mom’s first yoga teachers, and one of Gucci’s former photographers, in Notting Hill for a beverage. From the cemetery, we had quite the walk through Hampstead Heath. We sped along, trying to catch all the sights my mom wanted to show us from her memory lane. We hit the men’s swimming pond and continued until we realized how deep into the park we’d gotten and how little time we had. From there, we asked several locals for the quickest way out, getting a different answer each time. We picked one and were well on our way, feet sore, running on dark chocolate, and tired.

At the restaurant in Notting Hill, I couldn’t help but drool over the delicate Italian glassware. My jasmine French 75 came in the most beautiful intricately etched coupe; flowers and bows all over it. We talked about yoga, travel, dance, psychology, but my favourite topic: our date’s past life as a fashion photographer. One of his clients was Gucci. He talked, in his Italian accent, about knowing Aldo Gucci, the challenges of being a spiritual person in such a fast-paced, materialistic industry, and his decision to step away, though not before telling us all the fun stories, too. I couldn’t help but smile when he gushed over photos of my past collections. Obviously.

We ended the day with dinner at a nearby hole-in-the-wall Malaysian restaurant, packed with locals. All of us eating in silence, not mad, just tired. We planned our final full day in London. A gallery day. Something I’ve looked forward to since the last time I was here. Somehow, no matter how many days I give myself in London, it never feels like enough.

Thinking about tomorrow’s poached egg.
25,000 Steps and Counting

April 12th, 2025

“Did somebody drop this harmonica?” someone shouts in the security lineup.
“I did!” my dad calls back.

A much-needed moment of hilarity amidst the stress and chaos of family travel. The last time the four of us went on a big trip together, I was eight and my sister was one. We spent three months in South India. This time, it’s Europe.

I’d be lying if I said the lead-up to a trip doesn’t make me a sentimental sap. Walking through my neighborhood before we left, I caught myself admiring the trees, the birds, and my favorite bakeries like I’d never see them again. This always happens before I leave the city. I knew the hardest goodbye would be Malcolm, my boyfriend of nearly five years, who I haven’t spent more than a week apart from in all that time. I was right. When he dropped us off at the airport, I kissed him goodbye, shed a tear, then said, “See you in Paris,” which quickly lifted my spirits. He waved to us all, and we were off.

Aside from some light turbulence, the flight was uneventful, exactly what you’d want. I couldn’t get Anxiety by Doechii out of my head. I always get anxious leading up to flying, but once I’m in the air, I’m fine.
Dinner was a mixed bag. I nearly broke a nail trying to tear the roll in half. The butter was real. The pasta salad, inedible. The Merlot was fine, made me sleepy. The dessert made me excited for Paris. I dozed for an hour, read for a bit, then switched to Bridget Jones’s Diary: a classic.

At one point, my mom pulled out a bar of dark chocolate that had to have been at least a foot long and broke off a piece right on the tray table. Phoebe and I lost it, gasping for air. Another moment of hilarity… or maybe exhaustion.

We arrived at our flat around midday, and the real challenge began, staying awake.

We ventured out to orient ourselves in the neighbourhood. We picked a spot that gives us easy access to the tube without being too central, crowded, or noisy. We found a lovely coffee shop, then grabbed groceries and wine for dinner. I joked that this trip will take us on a journey of pasta; from its worst (the airplane) to its best (Italy).

Our jet lag showed up in all the classic ways, plus a bit of short-temperedness with each other. We oscillated between tense silence and uncontrollable laughter with tears running down our cheeks. Coffee and sunshine helped mellow things out.

We made dinner at the flat, then wandered over to the park across the street to read in the sun. I’m currently devouring Piglet by Lottie Hazell, and both of my parents are reading books they borrowed from me: my dad’s reading The Art Thief by Michael Finkel and my mom is reading Power Shift (The Massey Lectures) by Sally Armstrong. Back at the apartment, I made it to 9 p.m. before a chapter lulled me to sleep, eyes refusing to stay open.

This morning, we set out with no plan. Over coffee, I said, “I know the way to Notting Hill” forgetting entirely that it was Saturday. An hour later, we were shoulder to shoulder with what felt like all of London: people hunting for food, vintage gems, or the bookstore from the movie Notting Hill.

In scenes like that, I find it hard to make clear decisions. The noise, smells, and colours overwhelm me. I either buy too many things that don’t feel like me, or I’m too careful and end up with nothing. Today was the latter. But I’m not upset, I packed light, just a carry-on, and left room for a few thoughtful additions. I’d love to find a perfect spring coat, a pair of wool trousers, and, as always, a massive stash of postcards.

My dad decided he needed his first London beer, and I’ll never say no to a spritz. Over drinks, I suggested we walk to the gardens at Kensington Palace. We did and then kept walking, all the way to Big Ben. That’s when we realized it was 5 p.m., and all we’d eaten since morning was ice cream in Hyde Park. We were collectively hangry. We rushed for the tube passing the national gallery (one of my favourites) and made a pact to return in a few days.

On the way, we spontaneously caught the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Maybe controversial, but I found it crowded, overrated, and kind of boring. As always, the gardens and sculptures were my favorite part.

Over 25,000 steps later, we’re slightly less jet-lagged and hungry for what’s to come. My feet are sore, my body still unsure when to sleep or be alert. But we all like each other again, and our fridge is stocked. I’m so excited for the galleries we’ll see over the next few days—and to finally track down a proper full English breakfast.