across the

To say we began our trip with an auspicious start would be an understatement. Our trip to london was not just merely a trip, it was a gut wrenching journey. Having started off four years ago with a cancelled trip due to a terrorist bombing, we were quite excited to begin planning again to the land where Top Shop awaited us. Lo and behold, the gods of trip planning were not going to let us through easily without making us give in a good fight. We fought through roller coaster rides of emotions filled with anxiety and angst as we listen to news reports of the erupting volcano, Eyjafjallojokull, threatening to cancel and delay flights to Europe. While we concentrated on keeping our frustrated emotions at bay, the day of our departure crept up on us. The stars aligned and we were on our way to London with seemingly no complications.

I have had trouble with motion sickness on planes before but I have gotten through many

fourteen hour plane rides to Asia with a concoction of gravol, sleep and willing he mind to not throw up. London was only seven hours away and so I was not too worried about being subjected to the intense agony of motion sickness. We had taken a red eye flight and were soon fast asleep in our cramped seats as the plane crossed the Atlantic Ocean. It was shortly after midnight that I woke up with my insides all tied up in a knot. I shook my slumbering friend and could barely find the words to let her in on my situation. With lightning speed, she dumped the scotch we had bought at Duty Free out of its plastic bag and shoved it in my face. What would I have done without Deanna and our love of drinking! Sadly, that was not the only incident during the flight, I lost the battle twice more after that. We left the plane sleep deprived, thankful to be on solid ground and I, with jungle breath.

across the

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The one thing I was really looking forward to in London were the markets. Having had a taste of European markets in Turkey's bazaars, I was excited for more of them in London. The closest thing Canada has to a market is the Kensington market but it is not nearly as big as Portobello or Camden and it lacks the energy because not enough people are aware of the little neighbourhood. European markets were also a vast contrast from the markets in Asia where vendors were mostly selling knock offs and cheap plastic doodads and it lacked a sense of authenticity. The European markets were eclectic and lively and you felt that your finds were a real gem. It was like one great big treasure hunt in the market and everything screamed for my attention. They had vintage

cameras and telephones. There were brooches of every shape and colour and stores that carried plates, lamps and black and white pictures. Every piece seemed to speak to me and I wanted to pack the whole of Camden market into my suitcase and lug it back to Canada with me.

I think the one of a kind feel of the markets was what really draws me to Europe, it is not infested with corporations and chain stores like North America. There was a story that came with every dress in the vintage shop, every shop owner and every piece of china. I hope those Brits know how very lucky they are to be able to head to a market for fresh produce and thrifty finds every weekend.

buc kinghamp a l a c e

One elephant, two elephant, three elephant, four elephant, five elephant, six. The first little elephant went to the buckingham palace to be dubbed royalty. The second little elephant went to the globe theatre to watch King Henry marry seven wives. The third little elephant went to the Eye and flew way up high. The fourth elephant went to Tate Modern to be artsy

fartsy. The fifth elephant went to the local bar to get wasted. The sixth little elephant went to Top Shop

and shopped till she was broke broke broke.

THE ELEPHANT STORY

Deanna and I did not want to leave London because we weren’t ready to face reality on the other side of the pond yet. It would mean no more lazy mornings, tube taking, market exploring and waiting in queues for museums! Lest, we ended our trip on a high note, or at least I did, a drunken mess and all. We met up with Wendy and went to a pub where we shared stories with bottles of wine, good food, and ice cream. Having left the pub with a good buzz, we were in high spirits as we boarded the tube to head back home. On the way to the house, we passed by the local pub when Joseph just had to ask if we wanted to drink some more! Never saying no to a drink, we stumbled into the bar and the rest is history. Drinking to the point of no return is never a good idea and this was an excellent example of that. Poor Joseph had to carry me back to the flat, flailing limbs and all. Alas, I woke up with a headache the size of mount Everest, in last night’s clothes and a promise to never touch a drop of alcohol again.

We packed our bags in solemn silence that morning, wrote a thank you note to Joseph, caught up on missed episodes of Glee, dragged our luggage down the stairs and out the door. How we managed to heave our two monstrous luggage and two carry ons, on to a bus, up the stairs, down the stairs, through the tube and onto the train is a mystery. We arrived at the airport desperately looking for a scale to weigh our luggage that had threatened not to close under the immense pressure of our growing pile of clothes, shoes, and electronic appliances! Luck was not on our side, our bags were too heavy. Not wanting to pay extra, we began flinging sweaters, cardigans, and jackets on ourselves and exchanging the comfy flats for the rigid.

We said one last goodbye to London and board the plane back to Canada, back to real life.

Monet, the father of impressionism known famously for his water lily paintings. I admired him especially because our painting styles and subjects were quite similar and I drew a lot of inspiration from both him and Van Gogh. I was lucky enough to see one of his famous waterlily paintings in person when I was in New York. The canvas stretched across the wall of the room and the sheer size of the painting was enough to blow me away. I sat in front of the painting mesmerized like a child watching television for the very first time. After years of learning about Monet in art history classes, there it was, in all its glory in front of me. After sitting through countless hours in the lecture hall listening to the professor groan on and on about art history, it truly paid off when I was finally able to be in the presence of the work. It also helped to sound like a pro when my friends asked about it!

On one of the days we were staying in Paris, we decided to take a short trip out to Monet’s home in Giverny, where the gardens were the inspiration to many of his paintings. To get there, we had to subway to the train station, take the train out to Giverny and then board a bus to Monet’s house. Deanna and I were so proud of ourselves for figuring out how to get there. Unfortunately, we sat next to a couple of ignorant Americans on the bus ride and had to endure hearing them butcher the French language. At that moment, we were so thankful to be Canadians!

The town itself was so beautiful, with cobble stones, quaint gardens and little European houses. It was almost exactly how I imagined the South of France might look like, minus all the tourists. We had a hearty lunch outdoors, with a glass of wine and facing a magnificent view.

The garden was home to many different species of flowers and I was overwhelmed by the many colours and fragrances. We fought our way through other tourists to take pictures on the infamous Japanese bridge which had Japanese blossoms dangling from it. The lily pond itself was the only disappointing part, it lacked the presence of water lilies and in its place were only a few sad weeds. We probably didn’t come during waterlily season but I could imagine how the garden must have looked like in its finest hour. There weren’t enough words to describe how it felt to be in the very same garden Monet was in. Deanna snuck us both in to his house and I was surprised to see many Japanese inspired decor in the house. Somehow I had failed to learn that Monet was greatly influenced by Japanese block prints and their culture.

We returned to Paris that night satisfied and exhausted after all the traveling and walking. We hadn’t planned on going to Giverny prior to the trip but it was a delightful surprise!

napolean

napolean

The L'Arc de Triomphe sat on an island in the middle of the road with surrounding traffic that went in every direction possible. The mad intersection looked like the devil spawn of a British roundabout and the freeways in Shenzhen. We admired the arc from the sidewalks at first, it looked very majestic and grand against the backdrop of the fast flowing traffic.

Deanna casually asked me if I knew the underlying meaning of its name. I said I only had a very shallow understanding of the arc's history. She told me, in order to get to the arc, we needed to make a mad dash across the traffic and when we reached it, we would be triumphant. WHAT? Was she trying to get us both killed? There weren't even any traffic lights to obey from and no indications as to which direction to even begin looking from.

Not one to back out of a challenge, I braced myself for the run while Deanna got ready the video recording on our camera. At least there would be a recording of our triumphant death. On the count of three, we began our dash. My adrenalin began pumping instantaneously as my eyes widened because everywhere I looked, there was a car heading straight for me. I swerved in front of a red sedan, shimmied

behind a silver van and dodged a speeding BMW. Just when I thought I was in the clear, out of nowhere a motorcycle was heading towards me but before I was able to let out a scream, his speedy reflexes avoided me in the nick of time. Flailing arms and all, Deanna and I cursed our way through the mad intersection. When I was finally safe on the island, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my throat and collapse into a heart attack.

In the video that Deanna shot, we could hear the blaring horns of the cars, the pitter patter of our running feet and our loud cursing, SHIT, FUCK FUCK FUCK. Just as i regained composure, I looked up to see a set of stairs going underground. Upon further investigation, I found that these stairs led to a pedestrian tunnel so the tourists could walk leisurely underground to the arc! Deanna obviously played dumb and I had to admit living life on the edge makes for a more interesting story.

The arc had looked more majestic on the other side of the road and we only wandered a little around the arc taking pictures. I took the underground pathway back to the other side of the road, I decided gambling with the devil twice in a day did not sound like a good idea.

I for one, was not a big fan of paying a ridiculous amount of money to board an elevator to ride to the top of a very tall building and to look down on a smog filled city. When you were a hundred stories up in the air, all you could really see are buildings meshed together in varying shades of grey. I often found that the cityscape of Toronto, Chicago and New York started looking awfully similar and boredom settled over me.

I had heard many wonderful things about Sacre de Coeur and Deanna had convinced me it was worth the trip up the stairs to get a view of the city. As soon as we were able to catch a glimpse of the church sitting on top of the hill, my breath was taken away.

The church’s architecture seemed different compared to other Parisian buildings we had seen. Particularly the dome roof of the church hinted at influences of Islamic mosques, like the Taj Mahal.

We walked up a couple flights of stairs to reach the church and just as I had reached the top, I casually looked to the view of the city on my right. Wow. The view of the city was spectacular from where we were standing. We weren’t up so high so that I couldn’t make out the details of the buildings but just high enough that I could still see a full view of Paris. We sat lazily atop the railing soaking in the view, not wanting to leave the romantic city.