Aren't we posh?

In honor of my latest article in the Toronto Star on London’s Mayfair, I thought I’d add some Mayfair fun facts that never made it into the print article.

The Bee Gees slept here!

1) Jimmy Hendrix, the Bee Gees and Handel all stayed on Brook Street – not at the same time obviously, but can you imagine the neighborhood jam if they had?

2) The celebs like Jude Law may not be evident at Guy Ritchie’s pub, Punchbowl, on Farm Street but it doesn’t mean they’re not there. My friend’s husband got lost looking for the toilet and ended up upstairs in a private room which, he said, was full of people. Who, though? Who????

I'll have a pint of Spitfire

3) A hidden cool and chichi place to eat is …. Sotheby’s cafe. That’s right. Go look at the Matisses and Chagalls or whatever else is being auctioned off at 34 Bond Street then nip into the ground floor cafe for some wild halibut and Pino Grigio (reservations recommended and don’t get upset if there are no free art shows to look at when you’re there, it depends on their upcoming auction schedule). Also, you’ll be happy to note that according to their website you don’t need to wear a tux:

The Cafe, while situated on one of the most affluent shopping streets in London, imposes no formal dress code, creating an elegant and comfortable environment. Cloakroom facilities are secure and available throughout the day.

Good to know – because personally I hate insecure and unavailable cloakrooms and I make a policy of never dating them.

4) The Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly Street has installed a ’living wall’ that runs 8 stories high on the outside of the building.

“Why did they do that?” I asked the bellman.

“Because they could,” he said.

“No, really why?”

“It continues the green of Green Park across the street.”

Welcome to my jungle

That it does. Designed by artist/scientist Patrick Blanc it’s a massive vertical garden with more than 12,000 plants and vines and gives the phrase ‘urban jungle’ a whole new meaning … so where’s urban Tarzan and how do I fit in a deck chair?

 5) A good restaurant with a lively bar is Cecconi’s at 5A Burlington Gardens … it’s just down the street from the Abercrombie & Fitch shop that looks like a nightclub. Word has it that Madonna used to hang out at this popular Italian restaurant but doesn’t anymore. And royals used to go there in the 80′s but possibly they don’t anymore either. And if you want to find out about more places celebrities no longer go to, then just keep reading this blog!

For more celebrity Mayfair tips check out Michele Peterson’s article Celebrities Easy to Spot on a London Walk. Not once does she mention a place where celebrities no longer go.

I've got my (London) Eye on you!

In response to Dawn’s (Dawn was on the London trip) request for the story of getting lost in the Park Plaza in London, England, here it is.

Sexy pants, Dawn!

Getting Lost in My Hotel

Let me tell you about the new Park Plaza Westminster Bridge Hotel in London, England. It’s round. It’s groovy. It has t0-die-for food – even in the bar – and it’s dark with plenty of mood lighting. It’s right near the London Eye – a big fancy slow-moving ferris wheel with a view, plus it’s just across the bridge from Big Ben. None of that has anything to do with my story except possibly for the round part. I’ve heard it’s the largest hotel in London but as of now (due to my laziness) that’s an unsubstantiated fact.

Round and round we go!

The hotel was only 12 days old when I stayed there. Just a baby. And possibly, just possibly, the signs that tell you where to go to find your room are misleading. I wasn’t drunk. I just went back to my room one night and started down the hall looking for 469 and couldn’t find it. So I wove around searching for it. And around. And around. And I had high heels on so I was probably doing the I-can’t-walk-in-high-heels-anymore knees-forward lunge walk. After a very long time I ended up back at the elevators. I saw a man in a cap.

“I’ve been looking  for my room forever!” I said.

Then I walked on. And as I turned a corner I heard, “Where is she?” I heard the man in the cap say, “She’s just around the corner.”

And then a security guard came around the corner. “Are you lost, Miss?” (He might have said ma’am, but I prefer to remember ‘miss.’ )

Picture a limping blond covering her mouth in embarrassment. “How did you know?”

“We have cameras, Miss.”

So that’s the story of how I got lost in my hotel. And found by a security guard. And had to be escorted to my room. How’s that for being looked after? And let me say, the staff are incredibly polite and kind. Even if/when they’ve been laughing at you in the cameras for hours.

I'm not drunk, I just don't know where I am

Ah, London!

I’ve just spent 3 days in London after the TMAC conference in Wales. It’s been a blast but I’ve come to the conclusion that for a travel writer, I’m not a very good sightseer and neither, I’d have to say, is my friend, Amy, if our foray to Westminster Abbey after an afternoon of shopping on Oxford Street is anything to go by. Too cheap to pay the 15 pound entrance to the Abbey, I persuaded Amy to go to the free choir recital there supposedly held everyday but Wednesday.

Wave to the camera!

We took a bus (I highly recommend a red double decker when your feet are tired. The top deck offers great views and the buses move so slowly that you get a good sleep). After watching an argument between a loud man and the bus driver, and the police hopping upstairs after the man, and Amy and I getting involved by telling the policeman that the arguing man had gone downstairs (actually Amy told him that the man had left the bus when he hadn’t, but she was trying to help), we hopped off at Westminster and went toward the massive golden stone building with the big clock tower.

What time is it?

“Is Big  Ben part of the Abbey?” Amy asked.

“Must be,” I said. “Where’s the entrance?”

We walked around the building without finding an open door. If we didn’t hurry we were going to be late for the free performance but we got waylaid when we saw the Sovereign’s Entrance. How could we not stop to pose for photos at the Sovereign’s Entrance?

Anyone home?

“The Queen has her own door?” Amy asked.

“Hey, this is where all the monarchs get married and buried and crowned!” I said. “Of course they have their own entrance.”

Finally we walked onto find the main entrance. And on. And on. And into a park and finally to a dead end at the river. That’s when it hit me. “This might be the Parliament Building,” I said. “I think that big churchy building across the street is the Abbey.”

So much for travel expertise.

We were accompanied across the street by a talkative policeman who confirmed that yes, the Abbey was the big Gothic building across the street. “And what are you going to do there?” he asked. I told him we were going to hear a choir. “Oh, are you going to sing?” he said. “Do you have good voices then?”

“I didn’t understand a word he said,” said Amy.

Now that's an Abbey

We found the entrance but the iron gate was closed. Free choir recitals everyday but Wednesday, my arse. There was, however, an organ recital at 5:45. Amy bowed out at that point and went back to the hotel, but I really wanted to get into the Abbey. It was built by Edward the Confessor in the 11th century (just what did he confess to, anyway?) and everyone who is anyone is buried here.

The recital was dramatic and loud and only half an hour. What a great way to sightsee! Sitting down comfortably with organ vibrations ringing through your blood while you look at all the tombs and stained glass and carvings.

Afterwards, a kindly man spoke over a microphone. “Thank you for coming and please no wandering about.” But the entire congregation was wandering about because we were all tourists trying to see the Abbey for free. At one point I looked down and saw I was standing on Charles Darwin. He was buried under my feet. How’s that for evolution?

Then I walked back towards my hotel, the new Park Plaza, a huge round building just across Westminster Bridge, where my room looks out straight over Big Ben.

Good sleeps

The sun was setting and the bridge was dotted with tourists taking snaps of Big Ben, the 13-ton bell tower built in 1858. And then, right on the bridge, I slipped in dog poo. At least I skeetered over the slippery poo instead of landing right in it, but I still went down smack on the ground. All the tourists stopped to stare and to ask if I was okay. And to laugh. The only good thing I can say about this experience is that suddenly I became a more riveting object than the tourist sites. I may never be given a tomb  in Westminster Abbey, or my own Sovereign’s Entrance at the House of Parliament, but at least, for a brief moment in time, I rated more stares than Big Ben.

Next time I'll stay in my hotel room and look out the window

Ah, London

I’ve only been in London for two days and already travel is teaching me many things. One, be sensitive to other cultures … and this includes super powers. When I go to Thailand, say, or another Buddhist country I know that as a woman, I shouldn’t touch a Buddhist monk and I’m careful about this (except for the time in Laos when I accidentally handed a novice a pen). But it never occurred to me that I shouldn’t gloat over Canada winning the gold medal in hockey whist in London. Did I just say ‘whilst’?

We're so sorry you're an idiot

Whilst I was checking into my hotel, the lovely Athenaeum on Piccadilly Street, I overheard a conversation in the adjacent Whiskey Bar. I heard, “You’re not Canadian, are you?” and ‘What was the score?” I heard something about overtime and a 2 2 tie then saw long faces. I dashed over. “Who won?”

“Canada,” said a staff member.

“Yes!” I screeched, while giving a very undignified air punch of some sort. Don’t ask me why. I’m not even a hockey fan, but I’m evidently a patriot because I was really pleased. Maybe it’s because the pilots kept announcing the score all the way over the Atlantic so it went into my psyche whilst I was trying to sleep.

Then I saw it. The American guest’s angry/sad/generally unhappy and quite stony face.

I retreated back to the check in counter. When he walked by, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That’s okay,” he said coolly and walked away.

Actually I wasn’t sorry, I was joking, but then I realized. The Olympics are many things to many nationalities and I shouldn’t be so Canada-centric. That’s how wars get started. I mean, not that a war was about to start, but it suddenly gave me a broader point of view. I felt like saying, look, we’re not a super power. We’ve never been a super power. Just let us have hockey, but I didn’t. It would have looked a bit weird if I’d run after him.

In addition to cultural sensitivity, I have learned always to travel with a backup credit card. That’s because my card was being declined  all over London, so I went back to the hotel and blamed them. I thought because I’d had to hand over my credit card for some sort of large preauthorization charge thingy, that my card had had a heart attack. Not only were the hotel staff apologetic, they helped me contact the credit card company and then apologized again, even though, the problem with the card was that it had expired not that I’d charged anything at all.

I’m on my first day of a two-week trip to the UK and my card has expired! And you know what I’ve done with the new one? I cut it up the day before I left because I thought it was the old one. Yup. And then the lovely hotel people offered to give me a cash advance, which I thought was above and beyond the call of duty after having already apologized twice for my credit card being expired. Luckily I didn’t have to take them up on the advance because I had my backup mastercard. Honestly, I shouldn’t be allowed on a plane. But I was just grateful for the hotel’s cultural sensitivity.

Though I must say, not all of London is equally sensitive. In the The Times sports section today there is a piece about our Vancouver Olympic wrap up and how it was all giant beavers, cut up moose, and well … the writer, Giles Smith, was pretty stuck on the giant beavers. Then again, this is the country that produced the Carry On movies. I felt like emailing Giles and saying, look, we’re not a super power, we’ve never been a super power, just let us have moose and giant beavers, but he may have heard that argument before.

Anyway, I’ve learned other things, too, on this trip, but perhaps you’ve heard enough life lessons for one day. Nonetheless, here they are. I learned that taking a daytime flight over to Europe beats a night flight. I learned that if you catch the tube into town at 11 at night, the underground staff are actually very helpful.

Where am I?

One explained how an oyster card (transit pass) works and another came after me as I was standing in a dazed lost manner to ask me where I was going  and point me in the right direction. It all comes down to … yes, you’ve guessed it. Cultural sensitivity. Although I can’t really blame cutting up a new credit card on my culture and the fact that I’m Canadian, can I? Oh well, I’ll blame it on stress. That’s always a good excuse. And now, tomorrow it’s off to Wales, where I’m going to go roping, hiking, gorge walking, put on a crash helmet and throw myself into the sea. I just can’t wait to see what life lessons I get out of that.