DAY 1: Shepherd's Bush and my first (jet-lagged) impressions

Today, I sympathise with all those who move to a new country and must buy food. Canada to the UK is not such a long stretch, but anyone from Asia or Africa must spend quite a few evenings with an empty stomach during the time it takes to realign their eating habits with what the supermarkets in their host countries have to offer.

I also wish someone would have warned me that the keyboards are different. I write every a as a q and the m is stashed in a corner where it can’t be seen. The period is also tricky. I have not yet found the quotation mqrks. I think I will leqve thqt to qnother dqy…

I’m tired yet feel speqded. It’s 8:30 in the evening now. I’ll soon mqke myself some supper. Claire has left behind wine, of which I might pqrtqke.

Here qre my first impressions of London:

The city, at least what I’ve seen of it in Shepherd’s Bush, is quite the mish-mash. The place is what I believe to be a Victorian-era suburb. The streets qre winding and occupied by rows of little qttqched houses. Very quaint. Somewhat fqmily oriented. I imagine for the fqmilies who wish to be near the city and can afford the rising housing rates, quite like the Plateau area in Mtl. Yet the mqin streets, Shepherd’s Bush and Goldhawk, have neglected sidewalks and doubtful looking shops. Nothing glamorous. In comparison, Plaza St-Hubert looks even a bit rich…

The metros are old with narrow passages. Nothing to boast about. Surprisingly less confusing while in them than while looking at a map, but I have a few days ahead of me that may prove me wrong.

I have yet to meet one Brit who is unfriendly. People seem generally very considerate, especially with regards to the little space this country affords. Check-out counters are about a fourth of the size of those at Loblaws. Park benches are readily shared with strangers.

I now understand when people say that the pub is a way of life. People seem to hang in a pub like they would in their living room. Des tavernes, dans le fond. Not an event-worth space.

I almost heard as much Arabic today as English. And not all Englishes are the same. Service people may very well be foreigners still struggling with words and sounds, in which cases clients speak up, or speak slower, or search for synonyms. The poor girl who served me a coffee today had quite the obstacle at trying to make out what my soft-spoken unusual accent had to say. I am in an English land where I must repeat myself, or ask “what”? (Found the quotation marks )

Claire’s apartment is quite nice and actually bigger than what I expected. Very quaint. A building thqt could never exist in Quebec for its open railings and staircase, a bit like what we see as motels along the beach at Old Orchard. Heavy snow would be much too problematic here. Very clean and charming.

Voila!

I must make myself something to eat and try to go to bed not too late. I only slept two hours on the plane and then two when I arrived at Claire’s. Still, I am glad to spend these first few nights alone. They will give me a taste of solitude. And, I was thinking of Claire today as I walked around Sheperd’s Bush, of how she succeeded at dragging my ass across the Atlantic to here, this mythical place I have not yet woken up to. Maybe tomorrow morning it will all seem real? And then this evening I reread my second to last entry in this blog, reading it on Clqire’s computer, in her flqt, in London. And it just goes to show how life can shift sooner than we think.