My Great Escape: Falling for London
Natalie Kardum
I think I may be starting to love London. I have to be completely honest—it was not my top choice. I would have loved to go to Paris, but the state of my French is nothing to be admired, and I fear as I walked through the City of Lights admiring the old buildings I would have been run over by one of those famously impatient Parisian drivers. I have been warned numerous times that when one moves to Paris, one falls out of love with the city, so better that I keep my distance. I thought about Australia, a country where Canadians find it easy to obtain temporary work visas, conjuring images of beaches and sunshine, Christmas cards with Santa on a surfboard, and throwing shrimps on a barbeque. I even thought about staying in my own country and heading out to the concrete jungle otherwise known as Toronto. Toronto. I really thought about it until I realized I did not need a passport or to fill out any intricate forms to actually live there. Boring. So it became all about London.
In just one day, I will celebrate my one year anniversary in this city, and it’s a lot like being in a relationship with a person you’re not sure you want to take home to meet your parents. The city is bustling with arts and culture: proud theatres with posters boasting names of actors I have been admiring for years on celluloid, passing by random homes with plaques that read: “Robert Browning lived in a cottage that used to be located right here….”, and fun little neighbourhoods where you feel like you are in a completely different city. It all looks great, but then, like when you’ve been dating someone for a while, you notice little cracks on the surface: the city doesn’t have recycling with public trash bins (I know, I’m a little green), spending the day using the tube means blowing black stuff out of my nose, and realizing I spend a good portion on my paycheck to purchase travel cards (and of course, more tissues to blow my nose).
Also, as an aside, I have trouble replacing zed with s, meaning ‘realizing’ is ‘realising’ here. I found this out taking a spelling test after a job interview. That’s right. A spelling test. I felt the same panic as I did when I was in the fourth grade in Mr. Eng’s class, ‘realising’ I had a spelling test and I had forgotten to study the night before.
Now, I know how I must sound. I’m not complaining. Rather, I ‘realised’ there are differences I still struggle to wrap my head around, and when I do, I groan in frustration and realize how Canadian I am. Even more now than, well, when I lived in Canada. I have a friend who has lived in London for seven years, also from Canada, and claims that when she is in conversation with me, her accent comes out. I have chatted with random people who have a quizzical expression their eyes until they finally figure it out—‘Oh!’ they say, as if the timer for the game show is about to buzz, ‘Vancouver. You’re from Vancouver!’ nodding to themselves. I had no idea I sounded so ‘Vancouver.’ I was born and raised in Victoria, after all.
There is nothing wrong with London. I think there just might be something wrong with me. I’m not homesick for my land, but I have developed a new appreciation for hockey and the band Rush, and I listen to CBC podcasts more than actual music on my iPod. I find myself craving Tim Horton’s coffee, even though I didn’t drink much of it in the first place. In fact today, whilst daydreaming on my way home from work, thinking of an exotic land I would love to visit, the first place that came to mind was Newfoundland. I fret about the conservative government and when people here complain about the London rain, you’ll find me saying, “You think THIS is rain! Well! In Vancouver when it starts raining it won’t stop for four months!” I feel strangely proud when the native Briton gasps, “That sounds just horrid!” When I order a Caesar, I get a Bloody Mary, and I wonder how a country can function without the beauty of Mott’s Clamato. Above everything, I miss the nature. I miss breathing the B.C. air, I miss being close to the mountains, and I miss feeling like there are no people around me for miles.
In spite of this, I find I like using my identity as the token Canadian. I liked it when a guy at work, who has booked his flights to visit both Toronto and Montreal, asked me what he should see and do during his stay. He attentively took notes as I planned his itinerary for him: “The International Jazz Festival in Montreal! You must get tickets if you’ll be there for the run of the festival! In Toronto there is this Italian neighbourhood called Little Italy—great food! OH! And if you have the time, do a day trip to Ottawa, as it’s the nation’s capital you know….” This went on for thirty minutes before I realized I have never been to Montreal or the jazz festival, the closest I’ve been to Toronto is the airport, and I have yet to visit the nation’s capital as well. Some days I wonder where home is for me.
I suppose there is time to find out, while I continue to fall in love with London. Such a big city ought to provide me with some answers. Where I’m from defines me to some extent. Being here for a year and a bit makes me realize I’m not ready to leave. I may not have my beloved mountains and water, but I have a glorious view of Canary Warf, and at night, when the lights twinkle against the dark sky, I’m content to have this view. And for once, I’m content to just stay in the moment and fall deeper in love with my new home.
In just one day, I will celebrate my one year anniversary in this city, and it’s a lot like being in a relationship with a person you’re not sure you want to take home to meet your parents. The city is bustling with arts and culture: proud theatres with posters boasting names of actors I have been admiring for years on celluloid, passing by random homes with plaques that read: “Robert Browning lived in a cottage that used to be located right here….”, and fun little neighbourhoods where you feel like you are in a completely different city. It all looks great, but then, like when you’ve been dating someone for a while, you notice little cracks on the surface: the city doesn’t have recycling with public trash bins (I know, I’m a little green), spending the day using the tube means blowing black stuff out of my nose, and realizing I spend a good portion on my paycheck to purchase travel cards (and of course, more tissues to blow my nose).
Also, as an aside, I have trouble replacing zed with s, meaning ‘realizing’ is ‘realising’ here. I found this out taking a spelling test after a job interview. That’s right. A spelling test. I felt the same panic as I did when I was in the fourth grade in Mr. Eng’s class, ‘realising’ I had a spelling test and I had forgotten to study the night before.
Now, I know how I must sound. I’m not complaining. Rather, I ‘realised’ there are differences I still struggle to wrap my head around, and when I do, I groan in frustration and realize how Canadian I am. Even more now than, well, when I lived in Canada. I have a friend who has lived in London for seven years, also from Canada, and claims that when she is in conversation with me, her accent comes out. I have chatted with random people who have a quizzical expression their eyes until they finally figure it out—‘Oh!’ they say, as if the timer for the game show is about to buzz, ‘Vancouver. You’re from Vancouver!’ nodding to themselves. I had no idea I sounded so ‘Vancouver.’ I was born and raised in Victoria, after all.
There is nothing wrong with London. I think there just might be something wrong with me. I’m not homesick for my land, but I have developed a new appreciation for hockey and the band Rush, and I listen to CBC podcasts more than actual music on my iPod. I find myself craving Tim Horton’s coffee, even though I didn’t drink much of it in the first place. In fact today, whilst daydreaming on my way home from work, thinking of an exotic land I would love to visit, the first place that came to mind was Newfoundland. I fret about the conservative government and when people here complain about the London rain, you’ll find me saying, “You think THIS is rain! Well! In Vancouver when it starts raining it won’t stop for four months!” I feel strangely proud when the native Briton gasps, “That sounds just horrid!” When I order a Caesar, I get a Bloody Mary, and I wonder how a country can function without the beauty of Mott’s Clamato. Above everything, I miss the nature. I miss breathing the B.C. air, I miss being close to the mountains, and I miss feeling like there are no people around me for miles.
In spite of this, I find I like using my identity as the token Canadian. I liked it when a guy at work, who has booked his flights to visit both Toronto and Montreal, asked me what he should see and do during his stay. He attentively took notes as I planned his itinerary for him: “The International Jazz Festival in Montreal! You must get tickets if you’ll be there for the run of the festival! In Toronto there is this Italian neighbourhood called Little Italy—great food! OH! And if you have the time, do a day trip to Ottawa, as it’s the nation’s capital you know….” This went on for thirty minutes before I realized I have never been to Montreal or the jazz festival, the closest I’ve been to Toronto is the airport, and I have yet to visit the nation’s capital as well. Some days I wonder where home is for me.
I suppose there is time to find out, while I continue to fall in love with London. Such a big city ought to provide me with some answers. Where I’m from defines me to some extent. Being here for a year and a bit makes me realize I’m not ready to leave. I may not have my beloved mountains and water, but I have a glorious view of Canary Warf, and at night, when the lights twinkle against the dark sky, I’m content to have this view. And for once, I’m content to just stay in the moment and fall deeper in love with my new home.