My cup of tea

"That's a brilliant cuppa brew."

I have been waiting to hear these words for the last year.

"Sorry, can you repeat that?" I ask.

"I said, that's a brilliant cuppa brew."

Bliss. This is the only word that can describe the affect this phrase has on me.

"Yessssss," I whisper as I fist pump and return to my desk.

Having a Brit tell you you've made a good cup of tea is like having Marc Jacobs tell you you've got style or Jamie Oliver tell you you're a good cook. It is, by far, the best compliment I've received while living in London.

Here's why. Just like the local pub, football matches and steak & ale pie, tea is an integral part of the English identity. You might say (incoming pun), their culture is steeped in it.

Now, I have always been a tea drinker. My Canadian family maintains a number of English traditions (call them our faux British tendencies) but even so, nothing would quite prepare me for the very British tradition of brewing a perfect cup of cha.

In our house we always make tea by the pot, which is fine for a family of four sitting down for an afternoon cuppa, but not so convenient around a busy office. Tea by the pot has its own set of rules, which I will not delve into today. Tea by the cup, now that's a different story. Let's start at the beginning. I'll call it Pre-Tea.

This is when you first arrive at the decision to have a cup of tea.
* An important note here. This can occur at any time of day. Teatime is by no means an afternoon only affair. It's an all day occurence. In fact, Brits have a fun little mid morning tradition called "elevensees" where, at 11 o'clock, everyone breaks for tea and snacks on biscuits and cakes (there's a reason I love it here!)

Your decision to have tea can occur in one of two ways. You can a) decide independently that you would like a cup of tea or b) be asked by a colleague if you would "fancy a brew."

There are some rules of etiquette when it comes to making tea in your place of work. To begin with, if you're getting up to make a cup of tea for yourself, it is expected that you ask your colleagues if they would like one as well. Beware, failure to do this can result in returning to your desk to work mates who give the evil eye and exclaim, "Well, I see you've made a cup of tea for yourself then, have you?!"

A word of warning. Try to limit your offers of tea to only the four to five people closest to you. Otherwise, you will spend half your day ferrying scalding tea back and forth from the kitchen to your desk, all the while looking like the office bitch.

Now, if someone is so kind as to make you a cup of tea then there are two things to remember. First, don't forget to return the favour, otherwise they may never offer again and you run the risk of feeling like the last kid to get picked at dodgeball when everyone else but you has a steaming cup of cha.

Secondly, don't complain if your tea isn't made just right. If there's too much sugar, or not enough milk, or the brew's not strong enough, just handle it. Otherwise fear the above mentioned consequences.

Once these initial steps have been completed it's time to move onto the big event: Preparation.

A truly delicious cup of tea requires a few things, experience, technique and luck. The trick is to get the brew just right, not too strong and not too weak, while maintaining optimal drinking temperature and avoiding any tea scum buildup on your mug.

This last part I haven't quite figured out just yet. I don't really know where tea scum comes from, let alone how to avoid it. However, I regularly hear people discussing techniques to combat tea scum, so I figure it must be important.

You may encounter some challenges on your way to creating the perfect cup of tea such as:

1) Impatience.
Allowing each mug the perfect amount of brewing time can be tough, but hold fast, there's nothing more embarrassing than a weak cup of tea.

2) Excess milk.
Inexperienced brewers may overdo it in the milk department. Caution, this is a beginners mistake and will surely give you away.

3) Tea bag removal.
This could be an olympic sport. While a seemingly simple task, it actually proves quite difficult to compress and remove the tea bag with the use of only a teaspoon, while avoiding getting your fingers involved. Some people don't even bother and just dive right in fingers first. Others have perfected the coveted one spoon swoop. Everyone has their own unique style for bag removal and discussion of the best techniques are often hot topic around the kettle (see: water cooler).

A mastery of tea preparation comes only with time, and possibly the help of a mentor whose brewing abilities you admire. And yes, my ability to make a good cup to tea does fluctuate daily (that's where the luck comes in). But on the whole, I can say that I can quite proud of my to brewing capabilities and, while not of Olympic quality yet, before I leave here I plan to have perfected my own version of the one spoon swoop.

Will a real Londoner please stand up?

The strange thing about living in London is that you rarely, if ever, meet any actual Londoners. That is to say, people who are borough born and bred. I suppose it's the same in any cosmopolitan city. How many New Yorkers are actually from New York? My guess? Not many.

I'm pretty sure that, along with an ability to be abbreviated into a two letter acronym, NY shares with cities like SF, LA and DC, the fact that it is made up of people that are mostly from "somewhere else" who, after an acceptable period of time, begin to call themselves by the city they inhabit.

London is the same, only on a much more global level.

As part of the EU, London is an open door to people from all across Europe as well as the rest of the UK. As a member of the Commonwealth it has also, until recently, been quite friendly to other Commonwealth citizens, allowing them to stay and play with relative freedom. As a result the city is teeming with people from all over Africa, half the population of Canada, and almost every Aussie, Kiwi and white South African under the age of 30.

Perhaps what's most interesting about this melting pot of mini nations is their clearly staked out geographic settlement throughout Greater London.

When I came to London, one of the first things I learned was that there's a clear divide between North and South London (West and East don't really get a stake in this turf war). North London, I was told, is where all of the "real Londoners" live. While South London is where you'll find all of those people who've come from the ever elusive "somewhere else", wherever that may be.

The funny thing is, from what I can tell, everyone who lives in the North comes from "somewhere else" as well. In fact, the only two true Londoners I know, Erika and Evih, come from you guessed it, the South!

The more I've thought about it, the more it seems to me that everyone I know who lives in the North, while they may be from "somewhere else", like to think that they are actual Londoners, or at least don't want to be associated with those who are most definitely NOT real Londoners. In fact, it's quite likely that they live in the North because they've been told that's where real Londoners live, and want to follow suit.

Those in the South, on the other hand, are much more likely to associate with the country from which they've come, and are far less likely to assimilate into British culture, choosing instead to cheer for their home country's football teams and socialize with people from their own part of the world. They're more likely to see themselves not as Londoners, but as (insert nationality here) who are temporarily residing in London for whatever reason, but will never call it home.

Now, it's likely that these are sweeping generalizations (I like to make those). I'm sure there are many true blue Londoners who live in the North. Just as I'm sure there are many real Londoners who live in the South.

So, what am I? Well, do socialize with a surprising number of Canadians and Americans (though most Americans live Central or West). But I also know shed loads of South Africans, Kiwis, Aussies, and amazingly REAL LONDONERS! I would like to say I see myself as a Londoner, but after 11 months, I'm not sure if that's allowed. I am very clearly from "somewhere else", but I could someday be from London. I live in the South, but if I were to stick around for much longer I would probably move a little further North.

The answer then, I suppose, is that I'm a North American wannabe Londoner who doesn't really fit squarely in the North or the South, but perhaps somewhere in between.

And anyway, a person's "Londoness" shouldn't be judged on what part of the city they live in, or whether they were actually born and raised here, but by a very scientific set of criteria that has been developed to spot the real Londoners from the tourists on extended holiday.

In my estimation in order to be considered "London" you must:

1) Acquire an encyclopedic knowledge of the London transport system. This includes having memorized all pertinent bus routes, train schedules and planned engineering works. It also includes having a sixth sense for which carriage to get on on each line in order to increase your chances of getting a seat.

2) Have an internal body temperature that does not fluctuate wildly, despite being decked out in full winter wear, when transitioning from a bitterly cold and blustery outdoors to a subtropical and sweaty tube station.

3) Maintain the ability to still, despite weathering endless cold, wet non-summers, believe the Met Office when they say this summer is going to be a scorcher. Followed by the goodnaturedness to laugh it off when they change their prediction half way through August to concede that yes, this summer is going to be just as miserable as the last five.

This also requires the resolve to say, "Sure, let's have a picnic in the rain!" and mean it.

4) Command the wherewithal to pair tights with every outfit ever, and not be fooled to believe that you should take them off when it's 30C outside because, you don't care what the Met Office says, it's going to rain.

5) Lean slightly towards alcoholism. That is, when you're asked to go for a drink for the fifth time in one week, the phrase "No, thanks, but how about a gelato or a coffee instead?" never enters your mind. Never. Ever.

If you can master these it doesn't matter where you're from, you've earned your stripes in this city.

Tunnel Vision

I have a favourite bridge in London. It's not a particularly pretty bridge. It's not a famous bridge. It's not heavy with foot traffic. By all standards it is a very simple, concrete bridge, just the same as the many other bridges that dot the River Thames, connecting the South Bank to Central London. And to be honest, the reason this bridge is my favourite has nothing to do with the bridge itself, but with the journeys I've made across it.

The first time I walked across Waterloo Bridge was very late one Wednesday night. My friend Clare sings cabaret at The Cellar Door on The Strand. My friend Evih and I arrive early, stay late, and make our way through a bottle of cabernet. When we finally say goodbye just before midnight (much to late for a school night) I make the decision to forgo the tube and walk across Waterloo Bridge to catch the overland train back to Earlsfield. Despite the fact that we are well into spring by this time, the night is bracing. I hurry across the bridge quickly without pausing to notice the London Eye and Big Ben to my right, or Somerset House and the Gerkin to my left, eyes down, arms wrapped tightly around me, cursing myself for leaving the bar so late and praying that I make the last train home.

I speed along, following signs through an underground tunnel that leads to the Waterloo Station, when suddenly I stop dead in my tracks. I am alone. All alone and surrounded by strips of flashing pink, yellow, and green fluorescent lights, walls filled with verse after verse of lyrical poetry, and the sound of violins drifting in from somewhere in the distance.

Where am I? Did I go through the wrong tunnel and accidentally end up in the opening scene of some emo-yet-strangely-life-affirming indie flick?

I keep walking. Slowly. Cautiously. Painfully aware of the fact that I am alone in this strange tunnel. As I come to a bend the violin sounds become louder, more frantic, and somehow more beautiful. And as I peer around the tunnel, I see that it is violins. Dueling violins in fact. Before me a man and a woman are dancing in the empty hall, violins tucked under their chins, locked in a haunting feud.

They don't notice me as I stand watching them from a distance, their lonely audience of one.

"i dream of a green garden where your sun feathers my face like your once eager kiss", a line of poetry swirls around them as they dance and dance and dance.

I watch for what seemed like minutes, but what can't be longer than a few seconds, eventually brushing past as I hurry for my train.

And as I pass I am suddenly completely overcome by this feeling of being in exactly the right place. Not just in this moment, but in life.

I am in the right place. Right now.

Granted, I have just had half a bottle of cabernet.

That said, every single time I have walked over Waterloo Bridge and through that tunnel since I have felt exactly the same way.

Tonight I cross the bridge and once again stop dead in my tracks, and not because of the lights and poetry and violins, but because of the city stretched out on either side of me. The week has already started off a little rough, and I am feeling exhausted, drained, disappointed, and maybe even a little bit homesick. But this time I stop to see the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben lit up, and the lights of Somerset House glittering ahead of me, and the sun setting on the river. As I walk through the tunnel at the end of the night I am greeted not by feuding violins, but by the sound of a lone guitar and a harmonica.

"No, woman, no cry;
No, woman, no cry.
here, little darlin, dont shed no tears:
No, woman, no cry"

The busker tips his top hat to me as I scuttle into the station toward home.

"You've got a gorgeous smile honey. Come sing with me. We'd make a winning pair."

I look back and smile, a real smile this time, and as I turn to walk up the stairs I'm instantly reminded of something that was said in a yoga class earlier in the week.

"Find your inner stillness, " the teacher said. "Find that part of you that is always quiet, always still, and always knows."

I may not have been able to tap into that stillness during the yoga session, but somehow, in this run-down tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering around me, lines of poetry etched beside me, and Bob Marley tunes floating through the ether, I find it, that inner stillness. And suddenly everything melts away because I am in the right place. Right now.

A London Life

Two months ago I wrote I post about my first four months in London that I never published. I'm not sure why I didn't put it up. Probably because I felt like it didn't say much of anything. And to be honest, that's why I haven't written much since I've been here. Travel writing is easy. No matter where you are, or what you're doing there's always a story hidden somewhere. The people and places are fleeting, and so the stories only have to capture those few memorable moments.

But when it comes to London I've had trouble finding the thread, the thing that holds everything together and makes you want to keep reading. And yes, living in London is exciting. And yes, it is an adventure. But it's just me....living. It's me going to the market, riding the train to work, running along the South Bank, watching the BBC, reading in the park, and spending more nights than is probably healthy chatting with friends over a pint. I would never expect that anyone would be interested in reading about that on a regular basis.

That said, I have done some pretty interesting things since I've been here. I feel like I've really started to become a Londoner. I'm not going to play a highlights reel of the last 6 months, but I will describe a few memorable moments and answer some of the begging questions in a concise sentence or two. Here we go:

My Job at Macmillan Cancer Support
I can honestly say that I am doing important work everyday for people affected by cancer. I am constantly challenged and surrounded by an inspiring and innovative group of fundraisers.

Pub Culture
This is second on my list for a reason. Brits live in the pub. They come alive in the pub. I'm not saying this is a good or bad thing. I'm just saying that it's been a steep learning curve for my liver.

Travel
My travel funds are meager, but I've managed a few mini breaks here and there.

In Bath I saw Roman ruins, felt the ghost of Mr. Darcy, and took 150 photos in one afternoon.

In Brighton I learned that beautiful beaches do exist in the UK, and that a day of festive beachside drinking should NOT be followed by an all you can eat Chinese buffet.

In Scotland I was reminded that the kind of miserable cold that chills you to the bone, to the point that you begin to ask yourself whether or not a 7th layer of clothing would actually make a difference, and become legitimately concerned that your toes will never thaw, is that the Scots call "bracing."

In Copenhagen I was reminded what it is I love about travel, and learned that sometimes adventuring solo is just as rewarding as going with a buddy.

In Bournemouth I was informed that there is nothing wrong with eating two ice creams in one day, especially if you names are Reuven and Rodrigo.

British Men
I was told quite early on not to waste my time with British men. As one older English gent at a work event put it, "British men are emotionally retarded. They will never tell you how they feel about you. In fact, if they like you they will probably make fun of you."

Enough said. I've stayed well enough away.

Accent?
No, I don't have one. BUT I have picked up a few extremely British words and phrases like "bits and bobs", "knackered", "wanker", "You all right?", "brilliant", and "shed loads". I'm sure I sound ridiculous as I say these phrases in my North American accent, but I don't care. I'm assimilating.

So in brief, London is fab. I love it here. It's not home, but I don't think I would want it to be. As cliche as it sounds, home really is where the heart is, and although London has earned its own fair chunk, my true heart will always be across the Atlantic with my family and friends in my city by the bay.

But, I have many more adventures up my sleeve. I really will try to keep writing...if you'll keep reading :)

Copenhagen says hello. I say goodbye.

It's been awhile since I've put on my traveling boots, and I'm afraid my "backpack of possibilities" is at home in California, but it hasn't taken long for me to sink back into traveler mode. I really do think it's in my blood, because even when I'm dead on my feet I still relish the excitement of exploring a new city.

So, here I am in Copenhagen, a city that seems to have a bit of an identity crisis. This city somehow manages to be simultaneously futuristic and full of ancient history. It's fascinating to see the markers of such a storied civilization, with it's uniquely barbarous Scandinavian past, juxtaposed with evidence of a culture that is strikingly modern in so many ways.

Danish culture is built on violent, magical, and often heart wrenching myths, full of gods that were as fierce and unforgiving as they were revered. Their history is founded on beliefs that are often strikingly different from their neighbors to the south, something that is evident on the face of every statue and in the stitch of every tapestry.

At the same time, Danish culture is at the forefront of many important innovations. Danes have been pioneering wind energy for years, and are seen as experts in the field. Copenhagen's new architecture is clean and sleek, ubiquitous with the famous Scandinavian design aesthetic. Danes still have an active, though not absolute, monarch and yet the Great Hall at Christiansborg Palace is lined not with the ancient relics of a long disposed autocrat, but with vibrant, almost cartoon like tapestries, given to the Queen on her 50th birthday in 1991 and depicting events and personages from Danish history with a sly edge. This city feels smart, and cool, and peaceful. There's none of the hustle and bustle of London, the smugness of San Francisco, the claustrophobia or New York, or the insincerity of Los Angeles (Copenhagen doesn't have a lot of things that make these cities great- but you get my point). It's a chill city. Everyone rides bikes, there are very few cars on the road, and people seem relaxed and happy.

Christiansborg Palace, the palace of the Danish monarchy, seems a testament to this national identity. Having burnt to the ground twice, once in 1794 and again in 1884, the current palace is in it's third incarnation. Built atop the ruins of the first two sites, the destruction and rebirths of the palace seem like a symbol of the Danish resolve to honor their past, while building the future.

And yes, this is just my impression of Copenhagen, after having only been in the city for two days. And as Emilie, my friend and tour guide pointed out, Danes may not be as chilled out and I'd like to believe. "Just wait until Monday," she said. "You won't believe the road rage."

Spending time with Emilie is fastastic because, like me, she has an unquenchable passion or travel. "I just want to see everything, go everywhere, experience all the world has to offer, and meet the most amazing people." Yes. That's it. That's exactly it.

As a result, Emilie knows exactly how to show my Copenhagen. By foot. And so, for the last two days we have walked, and walked, and walked some more. We bustled along with the crowd down the world's longest shopping street, "stroget." We meandered along the waterways and lakes, past the new opera house, and through the lush parks of Langelinie. We strolled wide-eyed and giddy through the famous Tivoli Gardens and Bakken, the world's oldest fun park, located within the environs of the King's Hunting Grounds. And, every once in a while, we stopped to take a break at a sidewalk cafe, observing the passersby, sipping lattes, cozying up under the fleece blankets provided for us, and reflecting on everything we had seen.

Copenhagen is breathtakingly beautiful. The canal that snakes through the city is clean and calm and scattered with boaters out for a night cruise, glasses of wine and cigarettes in hand. The streets are cobbled and populated with slender, brightly coloured buildings, and the cityscape is dotted with strange, ornate copper spires and clock towers. ("We put towers on everything," Emilie told me today). There's a green space around every corner, and the scent of lilac is heavy in the air.

That scent of lilac transports me to my childhood, and reminds me that I've ended up in this city at an oddly appropriate and painful time.

Lilacs take me back to the farm where I grew up. To springs and summers spent running through forests, jumping across mud bogs, and picking berries for my grandma to make into pie. And, it reminds me of my Uncle Gilbert, who passed away on Thursday. As with most of my family who lived on the farm, Uncle Gilbert helped to raised me, looked out for me, and is a part of some of my best childhood memories. Every afternoon as a kid I ran across the farm yard for tea (sometimes they let me have milky coffee full of sugar- I'm sure it didn't lead to my current addiction) and my favorite Danish cookies and sweets with Uncle Gilbert and Auntie Lee. Their home was decorated with beautiful blue and white Royal Copenhagen china, tapestries of the Little Mermaid, and Danish flags. Every Christmas I'd scamper around their house looking for the Danish elves hidden in every nook and cranny, and anticipate the annual trip into town for the Scandanvian Christmas Faire where we'd sample open-face sandwiches and ableskiver.

I didn't know Uncle Gilbert wasn't well until a few weeks ago. I haven't seen him since I last went to the farm, almost two years ago. When my dad visited him at the hospital he asked if I was married yet, and reminded my dad of the afternoons we'd spent together over tea and sneaky coffee. Homesickness hasn't really affected me since I've been away. Until now. Now all I want to do is be back with my family, drinking tea and talking about Uncle Gilbert. But since that's not possible, Copenhagen seems a strangely appropriate place to remember, to appreciate, and to say goodbye.