Travel post: London

Land of Ex-Pat Love and Toothrot

I’m buying ugly vintage clothes.

I’m telling my story to friendly strangers.

I’m eating cake like it’s going out of style.

In short, I love this city.

My London Favourites :

Soho—you’ll have to pry me from here by my cold, dead hands. I will spend the rest of my days in this neighbourhood. I’ll consort with the independent fashion designers on Carnaby; wear bedazzled gear from Beyond Retro; hide from the tourists near Piccadilly; watch the locals head into the sex shops; and eat hummus and gourmet burgers.

Dishoom Restaurant (in Covent Garden)—London understands the lone traveller, the expat waitresses and baristas, and the need for me to have good Indian food. My waitress is from Montreal and I give her carte blanche to order me whatever is a decent portion for a solo diner. She brings me her favourite: a bowl of steamed greens, chicken curry, and naan with embedded bits of garlic like the chef is playing LiteBrite with it. It’s a hot date with my food—seriously, it’s slightly spicy—and I don’t want it to end yet. So I invite the other half of the curry up to my place for a 9 PM snack.

Borough Market—from Ethiopian to Thai to an entire hog on a spit, foodies are kings here. There’s a glass canopy with seating and wifi where the tourists and the suits eat their lunches. Dessert stalls make an appearance, too, and I go for the ginger cake because there’s a swarm of bees on the bread pudding; they made a ‘beeline’ for the best seller? (And yes, there are plenty more dad jokes where that came from.)

Tower of London—it’s like some strange concert for the history nerds: we’re elbowing each other out of the way to get as close to our Yeoman Warder so that he spits on us. We want to hear about the beheadings of Anne Boleyn and James Scott. Our ‘Beefeater’ tour guide has his prepared speech, of course, but he’s also an incredible improviser. Maybe more jester than guard? We’re all a bunch of savages, but touring this palace—still one of HRM’s official homes—is a visceral ride through history.

St. James’ Park—do a double take, rub your eyes, pinch yourself: yes, there are resident pelicans in the park (not the deformed swans I originally took them for). They’re social butterflies—er, birds. You might not even need feed or a shiny something in your hand to attract them. I sat on the green grounds and watched a couple have, what seemed to be, their first date here. Another girl was chewing gum and writing in a journal, and another couple napping all pretzeled up in each other. 5 PM on a weekday never seemed so peaceful. Even though I secretly hoped the pelicans would swoop in and start a dance party.