Got Drunk with the Animals (Living and Dead)

I’ve never been much of a zoo enthusiast. I’ll trek on over to the nearby Toronto Zoo to satisfy my urge to look at cute and/or terrifying animals once every few years if I’m bored enough. And the London Zoo, aside from being featured in 101 Dalmations, had no draw for me whatsoever. That is, until, they offered booze.

Zoo Lates, happen every Friday night in the summer, offering late opening times, bars, silent discos, and other fun activities spread out throughout the zoo. They sweetened the deal by saying “adults only.” The zoo + booze – children = good night out.

Wild animals this way

So Tina and I headed on over and wandered around the shockingly quiet zoo, where we could get close to each exhibit without hearing a single child scream. There were no pushy tourists shoving their way in front of us to get photos. There were no queues anywhere. It was glorious.   

We laughed at some meerkats, squealed at the snakes, drank beer at the bird enclosure, rode the carousel (and ran to make sure we got our choice of animals), played with everything in the gift shop, and generally acted like the children that were banned from the event.

Rawr!

The Lates program is also run at all of the city’s museums one day a month. Tina and I again took the opportunity and went see an exhibit called Animals Inside Out at the Natural History Museum after hours. Now, as we had shared a bottle of wine over dinner, we were, shall we say, tipsy upon entering. And still we headed straight to the bar. However, upon learning we couldn’t take our drinks into the exhibit, we chugged our ciders back and wobbled in.

Had the displays not been, quite literally, animals inside out and pretty repulsive (the amount of reindeer organs disturbing to say the least), we may have taken a little more interest. But as it was, we stumbled through the exhibit like drunken fools.

“Mmm…quite.”

I guess these Brits are more used to mixing their martinis with their museums, as the rest of the crowd (young couples on dates, every one of them) sauntered through exhibit to exhibit, pushing up their monocles, and muttering “mmm…quite” at every turn.

We, however, touched all the displays and used a dinosaur head on a stick to hand over our coat check tickets.

Watched an Off-West End Show

Daily email deals have given me some of the most interesting London experiences I could ask for. And when a deal to see Goodnight, Mother, an off-West End play, popped up for £6, I thought why the hell not?

I met Tina in trendy Angel, we had a lovely dinner, and headed to the Old Red Lion theatre. Which, as it turns out, is the upstairs of a pub. Interesting, we thought. We had a glass of wine in the pub and waited until the doors opened to the mini theatre, and headed on up.

I have always loved theatre. Musicals and plays of all descriptions have caught my fancy since I was a child, listening to the Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera soundtracks my dad played in the car. Some of my fondest memories growing up are of family outings to whatever shows came to Toronto. My mother says when I was two, she was nervous to take me to see The Wizard of Oz, but I stood for the entire show, in her words, “mesmerized.”

Naturally, being in London has been like being at an all-you-can-see theatre buffet. There’s been Chicago, Wicked, Oliver, Wizard of Oz, Shrek, Hamlet, Blood Brothers, 39 Steps, Priscilla, One Man Two Guvnors, Richard III, Billy Elliott, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Thriller, and two rounds of Les Miserables. But off-West End theatre was perhaps the most memorable.

I had no idea what Goodnight, Mother was about, but Tina and I were looking for something to do and £6 seemed cheaper than the average evening out. We didn’t know what to expect when we walked up the pub’s stairs and had to cross a small, dimly lit set to get to the bench seating. The place was full to its about 40 person capacity, and the room was so small and intimate, we could read the labels on the fake old school American food in the “kitchen.” And then the play started and we soon learned it was about a woman who, fed up with her life, is preparing to kill herself against her mother’s will.

In this exceptionally small room, that to me looked like a section of a film set, we sat and watched and got drawn in. For “amateur” acting, this production grabbed me and drew me in against my own will. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was certainly not this. When the lights came on, Tina and I turned to each other and each saw that the other was sobbing, too. I don’t mean oh-that-was-so-moving-teary-eyed, I mean quivering lips, mascara running sobs. And because the tiny theatre was so intimate, the two-woman cast looked over the audience and could see our faces clearly and acknowledged our tears.

As a theatre-lover, I find myself quite moved often and in different ways by each show I see, but this incredibly small off-West End play didn’t just move us, it left us both completely destroyed. I don’t know if that’s a testament to how good off-West End theatre is or warning against small and depressing shows. But it was definitely a different experience.

*Note: there are no photos for this event. We were too distraught to think about cameras

Watched a Rooftop Movie

Summertime in London sees all sorts of weird and wacky activities crawl out of the woodworks. Once the sun begins staying up past 4pm, and the rain subsides just a little, the city transforms, and let me tell you—Summer London is fun.

Just behind my office building, on the very border that connects businessy City of London with trendy hipster Shoreditch, sits The Queen of Hoxton– a dingy bar with a fantastic rooftop patio. And in the summertime, The Queen of Hoxton converts its rooftop patio into an outdoor movie cinema that screens classic movies.  Of course, by classic I mean  Clueless.

Queen of Hoxton’s rooftop garden

Last year, Lucy, Sarah and I managed to snag a few tickets to the rooftop screening of Edward Scissorhands. We climbed the stairs (and more stairs and more stairs and more stairs), admiring the wacky art on the walls on the way up, and walked out onto the rooftop garden. There was astroturf, a fountain in which a headless Barbie doll floated, and rows of flowers in cute planters along the wall. There was a shack-like bar at the back and a movie screen set up at the front, a popcorn machine and a pair of employees handing out headphones and blankets at the side. They set up director’s chair style seats in rows, threw out the ruffians (the unfortunates without special movie-watching wristbands), and started the film. 

Edward Scissorhands, Pimm’s, and astroturf on a rooftop

We each had our own satellite headphones tuned into the movie, our warm fleecy blankets for the chilly summer night, a pitcher of Pimm’s, and Sarah’s homemade snack packs filled with Skittles, Maltesers, and dill pickle chips. All in one bag. Together.

And there we sat, among a hundred or so British strangers, watching Johnny Depp and Tim Burton’s love affair blossom, sipping cocktails and enjoying a lovely summer breeze. This is London in the summer. And for those of you wondering—dill pickle Skittles aren’t as bad as you’d imagine.

Became a Regular at a Pub Quiz

I think we all know Britain loves a good pub. But what I didn’t know until I moved here was that nearly every pub has its own quiz night. Some are easy, some are impossible, some are just for fun, and some are for cold, hard cash. And I really came to enjoy ours.

The best quiz night in town

My first year in London was spent in quiet, lovely Wanstead. We had greenery and farmers markets and a lovely little high street that consisted of maybe 20 shops and restaurants. One of the first places I went was the local pub, called The Cuckfield. It’s a gastro-pub, meaning it’s a proper pub but with fancy food and nicer surroundings. The Cuckfield has an infamous pub quiz every Tuesday night, and me and all the Canadians I knew (and at that point, I only knew Canadians) gathered to try our luck at British trivia. And so, Team Canada was born.

The members of Canada House playing as Team Canada

The quiz consists of three rounds of 10 questions, a music round, and a sheet of pictures or word clues. And by the third question or so, it became painfully evident that we had no hope in hell. We bombed harder than anyone’s bombed anything before. We had enough successful guesses between the six or seven of us to avoid last place, but we were hanging on by the skin of our teeth. But we loved it. And we went back often.

 Let me just explain something—this quiz is serious business. Teams must reserve tables by the weekend or there’s no chance of participating. Teams can consist of two to six people, but no more. Each participant pays £2, and the winning team receives half the pot. With an average of 30 teams, this can add up. Not that we’d ever know how much the winning team gets. We were never ever the winning team. Ever.

 Every time we went, Team Canada came in near the bottom. Despite our desperate pleas for fewer British questions, much to the amusement of the quizmaster, Quizzy Lizi (whose real name, we found out much too late is Kerri), our shocking lack of knowledge landed us in the bottom four at best. We didn’t always walk away empty handed though. For quite some time, the bottom team received a bottle of wine to accompany their public humiliation. And let’s just say Team Canada enjoyed a few bottles on the house…

Though I have never come close to winning, I have really come to love this British tradition. Every week, I sat with my fancy strawberry beer and got to play what is essentially a drinking game on a Tuesday night, and had a laugh with Quizzy Lizi, who regularly apologised to Team Canada when she asked particularly British questions and laughed each time we looked at her with blank faces. We tried our hardest each time, but by the end of each quiz, our answers regularly turned to “Justin Bieber,” “David Hasslehoff,” and “Dr. Who.”

One variation of Team Canada, as depicted by Tina

I brought every visitor to the quiz to show them my Wanstead life, and each and every one of them loved it. But sadly, Team Canada started to dissipate as its members moved to different parts of the world. And we forfeited our regulars status.

 But hopefully, one day, Team Canada will reunite over a pint and throw out hopeless guesses while embarrassing ourselves publicly. Hopefully one day soon.

Slept in a Market

Across the street from my office is a bustling little market, called Spitalfield’s. I’ve always loved this market for its ambience, its ever-changing vendors, and it’s regular special events. I never thought I loved it enough to want to sleep there, but that’s just what I did.

Last year, my friend Sarah asked us if we’d join her for the Big Issue Big Sleepout. I remembered back to when I first arrived and someone told me that the Big Issue was a magazine sold by homeless or near homeless vendors. This charity helps rehabilitate its vendors, hoping to help get as many homeless people back on their feet as possible. The Big Sleepout was like a giant slumber party in Spitalfield’s Market to help raise money for the Big Issue and its vendors. Unsure of what to expect, we all agreed though we were a group of four Canadians with limited UK networks, we got to work raising over £700 as a team.

The dream team: Canadians Who Care

This night was not intended to give us a taste of homelessness— we received goody bags with warm hats and eye masks and the tiniest toothpaste you’ve ever seen. We had our pillows and hot chocolate, we had a roof and overnight security guards. More importantly, it only lasted one night. Instead, the event was held to support the Big Issue and its vendors, who have spent years sleeping with one eye open in doorways and on cold streets, where the average life expectancy is only 46 years.

The cardboard city

Though we had a fun evening, enjoying comedy and choir performances and teaching Mad Libs to strangers, it was also eye-opening. Three long time Big Issue vendors took questions and helped us understand exactly what the Big Issue stands for—“a hand up, not a hand out.” Each vendor must prove that he or she is homeless or vulnerably housed and is then given the opportunity to purchase the magazine at £1 a piece to sell for £2.  Any unsold issues come directly out of the vendor’s shallow pockets. They receive retraining from the Big Issue Foundation, which works together with vendors to get them housing, keep them sober, and secure them a brighter future. The vendors also spoke to us about the biggest misconceptions around homelessness and the importance of changing the public opinion that some homeless individuals actually choose this lifestyle. Whatever the circumstances were that led them to the streets, be it a bad financial decision spiralling out of control or abuse in the home, no homeless individual wants to be homeless.

Some of the before-bed entertainment provided

Catching a few winks

Even with a cardboard “bed” and an eye mask to block out the many lights (more than the homeless ever have), it was a sleepless night, cold and noisy. We were woken up soemt time around 6:30 by Billie, the outrageous extrovert who was one of the panel of vendors, and packed away our sleeping bags. We were given a breakfast sandwich and a grateful kiss on the cheek from Billie, and we set off home. Once home, I got to lock my door behind me, take a shower, change into new clothes, and nap comfortably on the couch in my in front of a tv. No, we certainly didn’t experience life on the streets. But now I know more about those who do.

Had A Proper Afternoon Tea

The Brits– they love their tea, they do. I always knew that. I just never understood how much until now. At least four times a day, someone in the office gets up and goes on a hot drink run. And every time I politely delcine the offer of tea, they look at me a little bit funny. But twice now, I have decided to try to fit in and join the tea-drinking society with a quentessentially British afternoon tea.

The afternoon tea spread at Harrod's

I’ve mentioned before that I live for a good Groupon, so it’s no surprise that my first afternoon tea was the fruit of a long-awaited daily deal. Time Out Deals offered a picnic basket containing a full afternoon for two for £20. I couldn’t turn that down, and bought two, knowing my fellow immigrant friends would be interested.

It took months to finally find a time when the four of us could get together. When Lucy, Tina, and I were all available, Sarah wasn’t. When Sarah and Lucy were available, Tina and I weren’t. Etc…etc…etc. So finally, one afternoon right after work, I asked Lucy to meet me at St Paul’s and we went to pick up our baskets. We received two beautiful white and blue baskets filled with goodies and four different types of tea. Of course, this being London, even a summer’s afternoon can’t be counted on as far as the weather is concerned. It might have been June, but it was windy and chilly, and threatening rain. So we took our baskets on the packed Central Line at  rush hour, much to the chagrin of fellow commuters.

Sarah met us at my house, and when Tina couldn’t make it, my new roommate Emma stepped up and took her place. We spread out a blanket on the living room floor and divied up our goodies. Tiny sandwiches, cupcakes, brownies, marshmallows, and of course, la piece de la restistance– the scones with clotted cream and jam.

Our indoor afternoon tea picnic

The second time around, when Amanda was visiting from home, I booked a table at Harrod’s (yes, that Harrod’s) for her birthmas (birthday and Christmas) gift. It was quite a different experience, having my loose leaf tea poured for me, and picking my gourmet sandwiches and sweets from a three-tiered cake stand. But you bet your bottom dollar, it was just as British.

My loose leaf rooibos being poured for me

 

I’ve enjoyed both a down to earth picnic tea, sprawled out on my living room floor with some amazing friends, and treating someone special to a fancy shmancy posh tea. They were both different and both lovely; I couldn’t say which was a better experience. But one thing I do know for sure– scones are always to die for.

 

Scones with clotted cream and jam will change your life

Drank in a Speakeasy

When you arrive at The Breakfast Club, a hipster’s dining paradise, you are faced with retro artifacts, kitschy knick knacks, fun decor, and a big ol’ fashioned fridge. For those who know to ask, this fridge opens up and serves as a door to an underground bar.

The fridge and the unsuspecting diners

As you know, a speakeasy was a place that served alcohol in secret during the prohibition. You had to know where to go, who to speak to, and what to say to get in. The “speakeasy” underneath The Breakfast Club tries to replicate this process. When greeted at the restaurant’s door, you have to ask to be let ino The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town, their basement bar. Your host or hostess will go ask someone else. This person will then lead you through the bar, past a neon sign that reads “thrills,” and into a tiny little cove of a bar. In the dimly lit bar, there are high tables and benches lining the sides, a rustic corner with arm chairs, and strange odds and ends everywhere, including a cartoon portrait of an old lady wearing bling and sunglasses, reading “Gran Master Funk” and a sign that reads “no heavy petting.”

The first time I went, the friendly waitress handed us menus, complete with a list of rules for appropriate speakeasy behaviour (for example, you may only use the fridge door for your first entry of the night and never ever as an exit), and she told us that it was happy hour. At £5 a pop until 6pm, we sampled some delicious cocktails, like the Rosey and Gin– a combination of gin, lemon, and a hint of rosemary (though the pear cardamom combination is also worth mentioning).

Scaredy Cat Cocktail

We walked over straight from work in hopes of grabbing a table before it got crowded. Between 5 and 6, this place is generally empty. By 7– on a Tuesday night, mind you– there was elbow room only. This has always been the case each time I go back. I’d hate to see it on a weekend.

No, it was never a real prohibition-time speakeasy, and no it’s not a real secret (The Breakfast Club’s menu mentions it, if you read closely enough) bar. But watching the looks on diners’ faces when you walk into a fridge and don’t emerge again is priceless.

Brought Down the House at Karaoke

Ah, the Birdcage. The tiny, dingey, out of the way pub that hosts quite possibly London’s best karaoke night week after week. When you walk into the nondescript Bethnal Green pub before 9pm, you find exactly what you’d expect from the outside– a few tiny tables with worn seats, a couple of gaudy birdcages housing glittery, feathery birds hanging from the ceiling, and several regulars spread out throughout the bar. But if you arrive after 9, you’ll find someone on stage belting out a well-loved tune to a packed house. And don’t expect to get a seat or a song.

The Birdcage's Birdcage

Sarah had found the Birdcage the year before I arrived by Googling karaoke for her birthday. And as she highly recommended it, we gathered up the troops and headed out to Bethnal Green. After gathering up our (liquid) courage beforehand, we found the bar and somehow managed to find a table. We found the song book, made our selections, and handed them to the karaoke master, and waited for our names to be called. There were all the old favourites, and some surprises. Like, for example, the old man we came to know as the Snow Patrol guy, who belted out Chasing Cars in a style that combined opera and Sinatra.Yes, it was as amazing as it sounds. And continues to be, as he apparently sings this every single week.

I have to admit I’ve never been brave enough to go it alone. I always coax a friend into singing something with me. And this time, Steve agreed to join me on– get this– Don’t Stop Believing. What’s a karaoke night without Journey, I always say.

Releasing my inner rockstar

While I’ve done karaoke at home, I’ve never quite experienced a thrill like this before. The karaoke I’ve been to in Canada consists of a small area of a bar with a microphone and a screen on which only the singers can read the lyrics. But at the Birdcage, I stood on a raised stage, while the lyrics to our song played on a big screen for the whole bar to follow along. Holding the mic, looking down into a crowd that is singing along with every word in between shouts of  encouragement is a buzz far greater than the one copious amounts of alcohol had already given me that night. For about 5 minutes, I was a bonified rockstar. And you’d better believe I continue to go back for a fix time and time again.

Cooked a Holiday Meal

Though I now have a cooking portfolio complete with meat pies, old family favourites, roasted vegetables, baked goods, and curries, I used to be lacking in the culinary department. When I arrived in London, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I had about three recipes under my belt: grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, and a good ol’ fashioned sandwich. A chef I was not.

I spent the first couple of weeks cooking things like pasta a la jarred sauce (with mince if I was feeling fancy) and very quickly graduated to hodge-podge stir fries– the kind where you toss packaged noodles and chicken with pre-cut veggies into a pan and add whatever flavourings live in your cupboard. I would open the package of raw chicken strips with a knife and use a fork to move them from package to pan, making sure never to let any of it touch me.

Soon, I got braver and tried pork chops. Then came touching meat to put seasoning on it. Then I tried some baking. I was becoming more and more successful with my meals, and my office went crazy for my peanut butter cookies (the easiest cookie you will ever make, and yet somehow the most impressive to the average Brit).

Before I knew it, my family was coming to visit over Easter and I felt I was ready to tackle Easter dinner. The first holiday dinner not cooked by my mother somehow fell into my lap and became an opportunity to prove myself.

Before they arrived, I found myself a Jamie Oliver recipe and went out and bought a whole chicken (without giblets, because let’s face it, I’ll never be ready for that) , all the fixin’s, and the ingredients for the rhubarb crumble I had promised my mom. This was a daunting venture to say the least.

My first roast ever

And so, on Easter Sunday, my parents came over from their hotel, and my sister hung around my house, and I got to work. I made my crumble the night before, hacked my way through rock hard root veg, and peeled a ton of potatoes. I didn’t hold back, giving my chicken a butter massage, getting up under the skin and everything. I crammed a lemon and some herbs into the carcase’s cavity. I even chopped an onion!

Isn't he beautiful?

 And I proudly served my “perfectly cooked” (thanks, Mom and Dad) chicken, with garlic mash, root veg, and yorkshires. And my family, who were, I’m sure, secretly praying they could avoid food poisoning, got to see what I was made of. Or rather, what my holiday meal was made of.

Had My Feet Eaten by Fish

You know when you’re on vacation, and you’re swimming in the ocean, and you spot tiny fish whizzing by, and you swim away, and you avoid touching them at all costs? In London, I do the opposite of that. I have, on several occasions, dunked my feet into a tank full of tiny fish with the intention of having them not only touch my bare skin, but eat it right off my feet.

Fish pedicures are not a new concept in London, or the world, for that matter. But the first time I saw a stall Camden Market offering people the chance to have fish eat the dead skin off of their feet, I must admit I was a little shocked. And intrigued.

I am known around these parts as the Queen of Groupon, and when a deal came up to try a fish pedicure for the low, low price of £9, I couldn’t not go for it. I bought two deals with the hopes that I could convince someone to try it with me. And when I found a willing participant, we headed on over to Camden.

These fish are hungry

With my jeans rolled up to my knees and my feet dangling in a square tank full of itty bitty silver fish, I was surprised to find it relaxing. It feels like soaking your feet in tepid bubbling water. No, it doesn’t hurt; no, these fish do not have teeth. The Garra Rufa fish have enzymes in their saliva that break down dead skin cells, which they then suck right off of your feet. And yes, it really works. When you pull your feet out at the end of your half hour, they do feel smoother. It’s not comparable to a full-on pedicure, of course, because these fish don’t have razors or buffers for mouths. But there is definitely a noticeable difference.

Being fish while being munched by fish

 Since that first try, I’ve dunked my feet in fish tanks a fair few times, including one in the shadiest area of London I’ve ever been to, where the only employee in the building left us alone while he went to the shops, double-decker sandwich in hand, to purchase the champagne our voucher said was included in our deal. And I’ve been in many a tourist’s home videos and photos for it.

I like to take visitors for fish pedicures