Saturday July 5/2014
The rate at which time flies lately is almost getting on my nerves. How is it July already? Five months have passed. Five! That's almost half a year. What the hell? Five months of calling myself a UK resident and now here I am, a week before I return to Canada, feeling pangs of anxiety. To be clear, I will only be in Canada for seven weeks-- one of which stupid ginger beard will be joining me-- but still, the thought of leaving my metropolis lover is nausea inducing. It's surprising really, just how much I don't want to leave. Of course, I am over the moon excited to see my family and friends. And every day I am reminded of things I will be able to enjoy again that aren't readily available to me here (Kraft Dinner, Oh Henry chocolate bars, driving a car, legitimately delicious sushi, the beach, being able to use phrases like 'double fisting' and not be looked at like some kind of perv). But the idea of leaving my beloved community, well it feels a lot like giving up chocolate, an attempt that is never successful, and completely unnecessary. What I'm really looking forward to is the motivation that I know will come from six weeks of teaching in Canadia. A month and a half locked away in a dance studio is just what I neeed to remind my fat ass what exactly it initially came to London to do. Dance. Even so, with each remaining day passing quickly by, I can't help but think how different it's all going to be.
For instance, I highly doubt my tendency to receive free shit almost everywhere I go, will carry over to Canada. One of the biggest perks of living where I do, is how often I am given free food. Generally, all it takes is opening my mouth long enough for men to hear I have a Canadian accent, and bam. Free shit. There's a Kabab shop mid way between The Alex and the unnamed bar. When I worked at the Alex, I would often stop in on my way home for a late night meat fest (not intended to sound sexual). The first time I went in, the kebab men and myself participated in broken english, barely understandable small talk. One man yelled something in whatever european language to the chubby, quieter one, and two seconds later he was coming up the stairs with a single red rose. The yelling man handed me my kebab, along with the perfectly wrapped red rose, and smiled. The next week I came in to satisfy another meat craving, I was greeted with a communal "It's the Alex Girl! Hello Alex!" And then I left with my kebab and a free tub of homemade humus-- extra black olives on top. Since the surrender of my "Alex Girl" title, visits to my kebab men have become sparse. But every now and then I'll catch their eyes as I walk past and will be received with a big grin, and excited wave. It's not humus, but it's still cute. I'm not bothered though. Charlie's Fish Bar beside Clapham North Station more than makes up for my lack of flowers and smashed chick pea dip. Whilst waiting for yet another kebab, the man asked if I was Canadian. I said, yes. He asked if I was enjoying my time here. Yes. He asked if I liked meat. Without first wondering if this was in fact sexual innuendo for his man meat, I naturally said, yes. Two minutes later he set a small box of fried chicken before me.
"It's fresh, just been cooked. Please, enjoy."
I had already ordered a full kebab, a side of chips and onion rings, and a giant gherkin, but ya, of course I'll eat this box of greasy chicken.
Then there's the Caribbean Roti house beside the unnamed bar that always gives me free sides of sauces with whatever I order. Even if I order something that couldn't possibly go well with gravy, a side of gravy will always be dished out. On the house. "Just for you!"
The little old italian man in Stratford who gives me free cookies while I wait for my panini to toast. The young, lanky dark haired fella that works at my favourite coffee house, and always lets me stay long past close when I'm writing.
But the best is my overly kind produce man. He sets up his fruit and veggie stand directly in front of a corner store that sits between the bachelor pad-dy and the underground, which means so long as I leave the house, crossing paths is unavoidable. So every day I say hi and smile, and every day he gives me a free banana. A banana which I choose to believe is not a symbol of him wanting to give me his actual man banana. I still have naive tendencies. This went on for some time, with the odd offering of other fruit, but in the end I'd still always leave with a banana, regardless if I asked for blueberries. Finally the day came when I could no longer deny the fact that my produce man had an agenda, and he wasn't just looking out for my potassium intake.
"I love your body. When will you meet with me?"
The next day I took Irish for a walk past the produce stand, making sure his arm was wrapped tightly around my waist as we turned the corner. I don't get free bananas anymore. Such a shame though, creepy produce man was my only hope at ingesting healthy food on a regular basis.
If it was only a matter of sacrificing free food upon returning to Canada, I could probably learn to deal with this--not to mention lose a little chub in the process-- but it is unfortunately more than that. I have already come to terms with the fact that once back in my home and native land, I will be perceived as a raging alcoholic. I will be disappointed when no one wants to go to the bar on a Monday for a few cheeky pints. Or feel an emptiness when I don't wake up on a Friday morning to a particular pad-dy flatmate offering me champagne (sans orange juice. I've learned this is just a watered down waste). There may be a few judgemental stares, an annoyed eye roll when I whinge, repeatedly, over the inconvenience of the 'liquor store' and that I am forced to purchase my cider (if I can even find a good Magners in these parts) separate from my peanut butter. Perhaps an attempted intervention here and there. And because I still have enough brain cells to anticipate all of this, I decided to begin my booze hiatus before Canada, therein avoiding public knowledge of my transition to a pained alcohol-free existence, and inevitable emotional and physical withdrawal symptoms. I decided that I would seize all consumption of alcohol for the last two weeks leading up to my departure. Believe me, I am well aware how ridiculous it sounds that two weeks without liquor is a challenge. A great one at that.
Day one and I felt great. I was determined and hopeful. Day two was also grand. I could swear I could already feel my waistline deflating, and my liver regenerating. I even managed to spend an evening in the Alex and not succumb to pint pressure. Day three and four were a breeze. Teaching dance is like an alcoholic's kryptonite. The only time I crave H20 over B52. I don't think I've ever had a B52, but it reads well. Day five worried me. Friday. Closing shift at the unnamed bar. But my favourite bar wench was also avoiding the devil's juice and reassured me we'd conquer the jager-less evening together. And we did. Amazing. Saturday I woke up as if I'd slept in a field of daisies, surrounded by little white kittens, while being spooned by Jesus. In other words, I was hang over free. What a feeling. A foreign one, but a lovely one. This sobriety business is super cool guys. It's really awesome. (Sorry, practicing my Canadian) (Sorry-- Even my brackets sound Canadian). Having avoided the hang over plague, I was actually game for a fun filled, gin free day in Camden Town. Irish and I weaved our way through the endless rows of every sellable material item imaginable. It's the market that never ends. Yes it goes on and on my friend. Some people started walking it not knowing where it ends-- and then they needed a pint. I would have killed a small child for a pint of Mortimer's at this point. No, I don't care about children enough to emphasize my feelings that way. I would have ripped the head off a baby sloth and force fed it down the throat of its mother for even a half pint. That's actually quite horrible. I don't think I would do that. I love sloths. I wonder if you could train a sloth to bring you a pint bottle of cider. It's long furry arm reaching out to you with it's tiny little claw hands wrapped around it, it's slightly creepy but ridiculously cute half smirking face looking up at you, without judgement. I bet you could.
I digress. We found a hipster bar amid the market chaos. Chris ordered a cider (bastard), and I occupied an obnoxious amount of the bartenders time fighting my inner drunk demons. To my own disbelief, my sober self proved victorious. If only I could describe how satisfying an ice cold glass of fresh cucumber water is after a long day in close proximity to delightfully oblivious tourists. I imagine the description would be just as free from sarcasm as the previous sentence-- and the current. Bullocks. Day six can suck my bullocks. Some more wandering and then the discovery of a tiki bar. Another cider for the boyfriend I was beginning to loath, and a deliciously refreshing glass of pineapple juice and soda for the most agitated, non-alcoholic in Camden. Despite my new found ability to go from 0-10 in a half a second with regards to any emotion, I was doing quite well, and genuinely enjoying the day. I had successfully kept my sobriety. The devil had tempted me and I remained strong. We returned to Clapham in the early eve and both agreed we weren't ready to go home. A stop in at Clapham North Pub on the way home would suffice. The minute we entered the pub, something shifted. It was as if the Clapham air had me instantly hypnotized. Without a single thought, I word vomited a request for a large white wine spritzer. Maintaining my cool, I simply justified my moment of weakness as a more than deserved celebratory hall pass for being so strong for 5.75 days, particularly the most recent .75 day. One measly glass of wine is nothing.
Four measly glasses of wine, two ciders, and a double Hendrick's gin later, and my hall pass had become a one way ticket to rehab. God dammit. Quitting drinking is a lot like dieting; one single cookie slip and you've convinced yourself the entire day is ruined, and a complete right off so you might as well finish the jar, order pizza and bake a cake which you will proceed to devour by yourself, alone in the dark. My diet starts tomorrow, you tell yourself.
My sobriety starts tomorrow, I told myself as I sat, gleefully swaying to the groovy tunage of my favourite bar in Clapham, Cafe Cairo. The ultimate hippy bar. I may not be a hippy myself, but this place makes me want to stop shaving my armpits, pierce a pointless part of my face, and talk in a much softer tone while sipping herbal oolong tea laced with cannabis. The tiniest little hideaway, only steps from the bachelor pad-dy; easily unnoticed amongst it's strip of various neighbours, despite it's outside being deep red. The inside is small and narrow filled with mismatching tables and chairs and the dreadlocked patrons that occupy them. The bar serves overpriced, mostly crushed ice cocktails, organic cider, and wine in cups. Next to the bar sits two vital components of a perfect bar: a glass case filled with liquer infused truffles, and a turkish delight stand. But what honestly has me obsessing over this strange oasis more than anything is the bread station. Yes. Across from the bar, stands the most brilliant use of space conceivable. Raised by a small stairway, a red toaster, a cupboard overflowing with complimentary bread, and a row of various spreads, including MARMITE and PEANUT BUTTER await weed motivated munchy victims, and myself. Absolutely brilliant. A long corridor takes you to little rooms decorated with worldly nicknacks, a garden that might as well grow it's own marijuana, and two bathroom stalls that could easily be mistaken as outhouses. But like cute outhouses, with flushing toilets and a surprisingly fresh aroma. As you do your business, you quickly realize you are not alone. A rather posh voice fills the indoor outhouse and for a moment you are a tad frightened, before realizing this voice is educating you on how to say your uncle lives in America in Arabic. Or that you have a family of four. You end up sitting in the faux outhouse for much longer than socially acceptable, trying to pronounce, Where is the nearest camel?
The night of my wagon falling, we had met up with Irish's brother, Gavin, and later the third addition to the bachelor pad-dy, Anton and his evening's spanish squeeze. Now usually the cafe plays anything from middle eastern chanting hymns, to mellow, slightly bizarre house music-- what house would sound like if it had just smoked a joint-- but tonight was another story. While sipping forbidden drink number god knows what, a particularly hairy man appeared from a set of stairs letting us know there would be a live band playing in the basement, and to feel free to join in on what would be a very good time. Why the hell not. When a particularly hairy man invites you downstairs for a very good time, you just say yes. The basement of Cafe Cairo is like a psychedelic version of Ghandi's rumpus room, assuming Ghandi had a rumpus room. Bean bags and giant pillows in corners make for intimate seating, along with heavily patterned couches that could have once inhabited your great grandmother's house. The walls house little cubbies filled with more pillows and have you questioning how many stoned couples have crawled out of them with post sex faces, their dreads a tad messier than when they crawled in. A disco ball sits under a mirrored pyramid and red, rotating lazer lights make you question if you're experiencing a vicarious contact high. The life sized stuffed camel in the room doesn't help either. Though normally fairly empty, on this night, the room was littered with eager listeners sitting cross legged, facing a small stage, tucked in a corner. I wondered for a moment, whether we had unknowingly stepped into some kind of cult gathering. There better not be any sacrificial sheep slaughtering.
No, apparently Cuban-Celtic music just has a very huge following. Cuban-Celtic music. It sounds exactly like what you're trying to imagine right now. But I strangely enjoyed it. Or maybe I just enjoyed the carefree, chilled out atmosphere. Those hippies and their calm ora can be quite contagious. I sat in front of stupid ginger beard, at the back of the overly zen room, leaning against his chest, half listening to the confusion that was Cuban-Celtic. In that moment, I realized how much I was going to miss him. I was really going to miss him. I told him this, and we talked about it. We talked about it like two grown ups, who know that life happens, and that is that. And then we got shhhh'd like two small children and were warned that if we couldn't keep it down we would be asked to leave. So much for that zen atmosphere, you hippy wankers.
The next morning I had a hang over so intense that I would have willingly sacrificed my own life to the Cuban-Celtic hippy cult, rather than live through such hell. Concluding that 6 days without booze makes for a supremely worse hangover, I swore to myself I would never quit drinking again. So help me Alah.
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