Falling for London Page 2

  Seconds after I hung up, Julia came downstairs with a quizzical smile on her face.

  “Are we going?” she asked.

  “Yes, sweetie, we’re going to London.”

  Without a word she ran away upstairs to her room. I took a deep breath and followed. My little girl was weeping uncontrollably into her pillow.

  “WHY … WHY?” she pleaded.

  I really had no good answer other than it was something I had always wanted to do. I tried to assure her that I would make sure she had fun in London and that it was an experience she would always appreciate when she was older. Barren arguments to a six-year-old who could only see that she was leaving her friends, her beloved daycare, and her school.

  I went downstairs and hugged my wife.

  “Thank you,” I said for no obvious reason.

  “Don’t thank me. It’s not going to be easy.” She was right, of course, but she did try to help make things work.

  The plan was that they would stay in Toronto to finish the school year and to spend the summer at home so that Julia would have her friends for a few more months, Isabella could continue working as long as possible, and the kitchen renovation could carry through. They would hold down the fort while I embarked on my London adventure.

  Suddenly there were a million things to do. In a flash my old job was set aside as I started to make preparations. The easy part was signing the contract.

  The announcement was to be made on the afternoon of April Fool’s Day. As it happened, I was to be taping my final Focus Ontario show at the same time — an opportunity for a bit of drama.

  I wrote a one-minute script of goodbye to close the program, and waited to insert it in the lineup until the moment I walked into the studio, calculating that even the diligent production crew who worked hard to make me look good did not always necessarily read the content of my scripts in advance.

  I tried to make it warm and wry, and not mawkish — thanking the guests, even the grumpy ones; the production staff; and the loyal audience.

  Upon completion, the director, the always sunny and genial Amy, came into the studio and opened her arms to give me a hug. With typical grace, I tripped over a cable and nearly did a face plant as she approached.

  Back at my desk, I saw that the email had gone out and the congratulations were pouring in … many shocked, but all genuine and fine. A good day.

  One hard part over. Now another hard part was set to begin. I just needed to rip up deep roots and shift my life to the other side of the Atlantic.

  As I was about to learn, Britain was no longer so welcoming to immigrants as it had once been. I was not even going to be an immigrant, just a visiting journalist, of which there are hundreds if not thousands in London. No matter.

  The website of the British High Commission office in Ottawa made it clear that they answered no questions about visas. All advice and processing services had been farmed out to a private outfit called WorldBridge. It was reached via a 1-900 number that charged a couple of dollars per minute for the call, so I phoned from my office desk. Someone with a heavy accent answered. They asked me to spell my name, which they then repeated back painfully slowly. A couple of bucks earned for WorldBridge just to identify myself.

  “How can I help?” I think he said, given that he appeared to have only completed his first two weeks of English as a Second Language training. I recalled reading on the High Commission website that applicants for British visas required a working knowledge of the language, a prerequisite evidently not considered essential for those advising on how to obtain a visa.

  “I need a visa for a visiting journalist.”

  “A what?”

  “VISITING JOURNALIST VISA,” I repeated slowly.

  “You are a journalist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you want to work in U.K.?”

  “Yes. I’m an employee of a Canadian broadcaster and they are moving me to London.”

  “And you want a visa?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind?”

  “A VISITING JOURNALIST VISA,” I responded, raising my voice, as well as speaking slowly so that he could hear me in Venezuela or wherever he was stationed.

  “Is your employer a British company?”

  “NOOOO. Can-a-di-an.”

  “You are Canadian?”

  “I’m Martian,” is what I almost said.

  As the minutes and dollars ticked away, he led me through the WorldBridge website, assisting me in filling out their application online — which is the only method allowed. There were several drop-down menus to navigate before reaching the correct visa choice.

  Finally we were there.

  “Okay, on this next menu you will see that the visa you need is …” Silence on the line.

  “Hello?”

  He was gone. As I just discovered, my company’s phone policy stopped 1-900 calls after fifteen minutes.

  I called back. Would not connect. The policy, it seemed, also did not allow two such calls on the same day.

  A deep breath.

  Call again, this time charging it to my company credit card.

  “WorldBridge, how can I help?” said the woman who answered in what appeared to a Serbo-Croatian-Icelandic accent.

  “I need a visiting journalist visa and I already know the drop-down menu to go to,” I said speedily, trying to limit the cost.

  “Could you please spell your name?”

  “I’ve already done all that!”

  “Could you please spell your name?”

  About $30 later, having repeated exactly the same process excruciatingly slowly, we had worked our way through the online application.

  “So, on this next menu you will find a selection for journalist,” she said.

  I saw a choice for sheepherder and one for fisherman. No journalist.

  “It is not there,” I advised.

  “Yes it is,” she responded with certainty.

  “I’m looking right at it and it is not there.”

  “It must be.”

  “It’s not.”

  “One moment please.”

  It seemed she had not been following along on her computer screen, so as the minutes and charges ticked by I waited for her to find the same spot on the application.

  “It’s not there,” she finally concluded.

  “Correct.”

  “It should be there.”

  “But it’s not. So where do I go to find the right choice?”

  “I don’t know. I will send an email to the High Commissioner’s office in Ottawa and ask.”

  This would be the same High Commissioner’s office that refused to answer questions from applicants.

  The phone bounced surprisingly high as I slammed it down.

  Four expensive phone calls and a few billion destroyed brain cells later I finally succeeded in filling in the correct form. The next step was to print it out and for Julia, Isabella, and me to go to their centre in downtown Toronto to actually submit it, along with pictures, passports, birth certificates, fingerprints, a substantial fee, and my right testicle.

  The office was in the centre of the city, a bleak place high in a tower populated by workers who appeared to have just graduated from high school, fresh from their first fast-food job.

  Isabella was very concerned to confirm that her spousal visa would allow her to work in the U.K., so she asked the young woman who accepted our paperwork.

  Her eyes widened and a frightened look passed over her face. Clearly she had only been briefed on how to put paperwork in a plastic envelope.

  “I don’t know,” she said politely. “I’ll have to call the High Commissioner’s office.” Of course.

  WorldBridge offered a premium forty-eight-hour processing service. Given that it was a Tuesday and my flight to London was the following Tuesday, I decided to pay the extra and get it all done.

  But of course the forty-eight hours did not start until the package arrived in Ottawa, the follo
wing day. Then there was another transit day back to Toronto. So it was actually a ninety-six-hour service. Starting to get a bit tight, given that I had to submit my passport. Would be most inconvenient to miss my flight if I did not get it back in time.

  I took a deep breath and hoped that it would all work.

  The next day an email arrived from an anonymous official in the High Commissioner’s office. We needed to submit the long-form version of Julia’s birth certificate, which of course we did not have. I sent back a pleading email to the faceless, nameless bureaucrat: Please process my visa so I can get it back in time while we search for the proper documentation for Julia.

  While I sweated it out, waiting for a response, I called contacts in the provincial government to find out how to expedite a request for a long-form birth certificate. It turned out that there was one office in the city that was open late one day a week, which happened to be that day. I hopped in the car and screamed up to the north part of town, arriving fifteen minutes before closing to fill out the paperwork and get it done: another forty-eight-hour service that actually took ninety-six.

  Coincident with the paper chase were the more stimulating preparations. I bought the biggest suitcase I could find. Knowing I was covering the Royal Wedding, I visited a bookstore to buy a lightweight bio of Will and Kate, along with several royalty magazines that had them on the cover.

  I asked the sales clerk for a bag to conceal the purchases.

  As I started to sort out which clothes and personal effects to bring, Isabella and Julia watched in a kind of daze, both frightened and angry.

  We consulted with my cousin Suzie, my only relative living in London. She made some suggestions about possible neighbourhoods. We resolved to look for a home near the international school where she worked, thinking that it could be a good fit for Julia, thinking that at least she would be with other expatriates. It was also within easy reach of the bureau.

  We told her roughly how much I would be making and asked whether it would be enough to live in London.

  “Well, you might be able to go out to dinner occasionally,” was her intriguing response.

  Emails were sent to estate agents: Do you think we could find a two-bedroom apartment for maybe £500 a week?

  London landlords calculate rent by the week, but charge by the month. The better to squeeze a few more pounds out of the tenants. And we would also have to pay something called a council tax. And utilities. And more.

  I was about to learn that the two biggest headaches for those moving to the British capital are housing and schooling.

  Invariably, agents wrote back to say that we would have no problem, that there were no end of lovely flats just waiting for our arrival. I was also about to learn that London estate agents almost uniformly lie.

  But that was a lesson that I would learn in the future. I was about to embark on my grand adventure as a foreign correspondent in Europe. At the same time, Isabella would be left behind to be a working single mother, soon to have no kitchen as the renovation began. To add to the hilarity, Toronto Hydro announced it would soon be ripping up lawns up and down the street in order to move power lines.

  Isabella’s enthusiasm was restrained.

  “I don’t even know if we’ll come to join you — I can’t guarantee it. I’m worried that this may cause real damage to our marriage,” she warned.

  My euphoria was thus muted.

  As the weekend progressed, so did a complex packing job. I laid out my new giant suitcase along with two older ones in the office and allocated clothes and sundry essentials in each. Occasionally I would catch Julia staring at the piles.

  Monday: my passport was delivered, with visa. One hurdle cleared, just in time. Isabella’s and Julia’s would come later.

  The flight would be early Tuesday morning. Monday night saw virtually no sleep.

  Finally the time arrived. Isabella hugged me and handed me a present. A journal. “I’ve always told you that you’re a great writer. So, if you’re going to put us through this you may as well write your first book.” Despite all I was putting her through, she’d given me a fine, fine gift.

  Julia was inconsolable.

  “DON’T GO!” she cried, eyes streaming, hanging on to me as I tried to walk out to the cab. The monster Daddy tried to reassure her that I would be seeing them in a few weeks when they came to London for a visit to help me pick out a flat.

  And then I was out the door. Dawn was just breaking on a cool April morning as I hopped into a taxi, heading to the airport and a new life.

  Hoping I had not wrecked my current life.

  Chapter Two

  Through a strange confluence of events, I somehow managed to get into business class for my landmark flight to London. I asked if there was a complimentary upgrade available, and for some reason, one was — the one and only time that has ever happened to me.

  It meant that I had a nifty little cubbyhole all to myself while the rest of the crew headed over for the Royal Wedding were jammed together back in economy. I could actually put up my feet, relax, and enjoy a higher level of service. Did not help. I could not sleep a wink, even though I was exhausted.

  It was a day flight, meaning we left in the morning Toronto time and arrived late in the evening London time. Under normal circumstances, this meant a quicker recovery from jet lag. In my case, it was not so much a case of disrupted sleep patterns as disrupted life patterns.

  Our hotel was a posh place in Mayfair, just off Piccadilly. Paparazzi were stationed out front. Rumour had it that Jamie Lee Curtis was staying there. They made no effort to raise their cameras when I approached the door.

  My room was sleek, austere, and modern. I noted that the toilet required several flushes to take away the paper. Seemed strange, considering this was an expensive joint. I was about to learn that all English toilets failed to take away what they were supposed to take away. It did not matter if they were in Buckingham Palace or a fleabag bed and breakfast. The British built an empire upon which the sun never set — gave us Shakespeare, Newton, and Crapper. But their toilets are not worth a shit. At 2:00 a.m. I was wide awake. What the hell was I doing?

  In the morning I took five steps out of the hotel and Mayfair announced itself through an endless parade of stunning tall women in expensive short frocks — often emerging from the Bentley or Jaguar driven by their middle-aged, burned-bronzed hedge-fund boyfriend. It is one of the poshest parts of town: the home of Claridge’s, the Ritz, and the U.S. Embassy, which dominates Grosvenor Square. In those days, the Canadian High Commissioner’s residence was just opposite, occupying a more modest slice (it was sold in 2013).

  Mayfair is the most expensive property in the English version of Monopoly.

  It had been twenty years since I had last seen London and I did not remember the sky being so blue and the women so beautiful. The city was in the middle of an unusual April heat wave. The flowers were blooming and fragrant.

  Exhausted, drained, and disoriented as I was, I still could not believe that I was there, doing what I was doing. Europe Bureau Chief. Sounded pretty good.

  It was time for the Europe Bureau Chief to find the Europe Bureau. Global’s office was in the centre of the Camden Market. Despite having visited London on several occasions, I had never heard of the market. I was about to discover, however, that it was one of the biggest tourist attractions.

  I could have taken a taxi but was determined to start finding my way on the Tube. Not yet conversant with the map function on my new iPhone, I invested in a quaintly archaic navigational device: a pocket version of the London A–Z map book. Armed with an address on Oval Road, I entered the underground at Green Park, hopped on the Piccadilly line eastbound, changed to the Northern line at Leicester Square, and rode north to Camden Town. This was going to be a snap.

  One step out of the Tube stop, though, and my head started to spin. I was at the confluence of six streets, which came together in a typically London fashion — that is to say in a series
of crazy angles, none of which was ninety degrees. Across the street was a pub called The World’s End. The wide sidewalk was jammed. A busker was hammering away at his guitar. A vacant-looking guy was holding a sign advertising Indian food nearby.

  Staring down at my map book I could see Oval Road only a few blocks away, but looking up I could find no obvious means of getting there. I tentatively took ten steps in one direction and was immediately lost.

  I turned in another direction, started to cross a side street. HONK. A driver was pulling out through a stop sign, uncaring of my obvious right of way, and jammed on the brakes millimetres away.

  “Watch where yer goin’, mate,” he barked out the window.

  “Mate” expressed thusly in London-ese does not mean “friend” — a closer translation is “fucking idiot.” As a good Canadian, I said, “Sorry, sorry,” even though the mate was utterly in the wrong and could have ended my foreign correspondent’s job before I had even completed a full day. I was reminded that London drivers tend to speed up when they see a pedestrian step off the curb.

  Retrace the steps back to the station and start again, this time in the correct direction, north on Camden High Street. A guy with a blue mohawk haircut was handing out coupons for a discount piercing. He did not bother with me.

  On the upper floors of the shops, there were large sculptures of shoes attached to the wall. The voices in the crowd were Italian, French, German — even some English. The Camden Market was jammed with shops manned by South Asians selling millions of cheapo Union Jack T-shirts, phone booth piggy banks, and masks of the Royal Family.

  With increasing confidence, I took a left at Inverness, then a right along some stately houses on Gloucester Crescent — maybe a good place to find a flat, I thought. At the end of the crescent, there was Oval Road. Success.

  I took a right again and looked for number 32. Except there was no 32. There were other buildings in the 30s, but not the number I needed. Not an auspicious start for the Europe Bureau Chief when he is unable to find the office of the Europe Bureau, even though he is standing on the street where the Europe Bureau is located.