by Sean Mallen
These were all dilemmas I would not face. The choice was to send in Tom, along with our China crew, both of whom had been in war zones before. I was told that it was easier to spare the China team, who filed less frequently. I did not argue. Perhaps I should have been miffed, but I was not really — given that my wife and daughter would have been both furious and terrified had I gone.
As it turned out, it took them all a few days to get to Tripoli and things were much quieter by the time they arrived — with a nerve-rattling exception involving a trigger-happy security guard who panicked and fired wildly just outside the front doors of their hotel, forcing everyone in the lobby to hit the deck.
While my colleagues searched for trouble in North Africa, I prepared to go on my first travel writing junket of the U.K. adventure. The helpful folks at VisitBritain had arranged a lovely weekend in the Cotswolds. I was to grab a rental car at Heathrow (thus avoiding the trauma of making my left-side driving debut within London) and head to the charming countryside.
I was to meet a hiking enthusiast who would take me on a stroll through some of the most picturesque parts and enjoy a tasting of traditional English pudding at a hotel that has revived the passion for the old heart-stopping treat.
At the rental car place, the agent offered me an upgrade to an Audi or BMW. As I weighed the benefits of wheeling a cool car through the English countryside with the risks that I would dent it because of unfamiliarity with driving on the wrong side of the road, the decision was taken away from me.
“I’m afraid your driver’s licence appears to have expired,” the agent pointed out regretfully.
EXPIRED! And so it had. My birthday and expiry date being in July, the Government of Ontario had likely sent the renewal notice sometime in May, when I was in London. Isabella had no reason to flag the letter and send it to me. I was not only a man without a nation, but now a man without a driver’s licence.
There would be no Audi or BMW for me, no Cotswolds hiking or pudding either. Merely humiliation as I trudged back to the airport to catch the train returning to London and spend the rest of the morning cleaning the tub and toilet in the flat.
Miraculously, though, when I stepped out onto the balcony, I could see there was a double rainbow over Belsize Park. The weekend had gone stupidly off track, but I was still in London. Take advantage, dummy.
I hopped on the Tube down to Westminster and bought a ticket to visit the Churchill War Rooms. It is a clever museum, playing on the vivid memories of Sir Winston and the brave Londoners enduring the dark days of the Blitz.
It was actually built before the war, in 1938, underneath what is now the Treasury building, in anticipation that the city would likely be bombed when the war came. It was never actually that secure, even after they installed a 1.5-metre layer of concrete, nicknamed “The Slab,” in the ceiling. If there had ever been a direct hit, the whole place would have had to be renamed the Churchill Memorial Crater.
But for students of history, it is irresistible to peek into the bedroom where the great man occasionally slept, the map room from where the war was sometimes directed, and the space where the Cabinet occasionally met.
You also got to see his quirky taste in clothing: he had someone design a onesie that would allow him to quickly pull something over his jammies if he needed to get up in a rush.
Having checked that tourist stop off the list, I made my way over to Trafalgar Square and bought a ticket to a performance at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. There has been a church on that site since the thirteenth century. But for me, the name resonated from my young adulthood, when I would hear a CBC Radio host introducing recordings made by Sir Neville Marriner and the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
Now here I was, sitting in a pew in that very church, listening to a mixed program of the Four Seasons, Mozart, and Bach. For no good reason I started to choke up, my eyes welling. For most of my adult life I had wanted to live in London and here I was.
One week to go before the arrival of Isabella and Julia.
On my final week of British bachelorhood, I was at last to get a road trip. The story was to be about Libya but the location far nicer. An international conference had been called in Paris to talk about what to do in the post-Gadhafi era. Prime Minister Stephen Harper was attending, so I was assigned to go. It would be solo, as Dan was away and a pool camera was shooting the PM.
My first visit to Paris was on my epic backpacking trip to Europe in 1984. In those days, it was an all-night train-ferry-train slog from London that ended just after dawn at Gare du Nord. I can still remember that first day: the smell of bread baking, the streets steaming with romance (even though I was alone), and how I walked and walked, enthralled, until my feet were screaming, not returning to my dumpy hotel until well after midnight, and had to wake the grumpy old lady who ran the place to let me in.
I came back later to take a French immersion course, and then again on our honeymoon.
Now it was as a foreign correspondent.
Travel between London and Paris is now easy — so elegant and civilized. It was a short cab ride from the flat to the gleaming St. Pancras station, a smooth run through security and then onto the comfortable Eurostar. Just over two hours later, you step off at Gare du Nord.
The smell of baking that I had noticed all those years before was no longer present, but as I rode in a taxi to the hotel my heart filled with joy: Paris was so beautiful and charming on an August day. We passed right by the famed Taillevent restaurant where Isabella and I dropped the equivalent of a month’s rent on a memorable honeymoon meal. (She started out feeling guilty at the prices but before we left was asking if we could come back again the next day.)
I sagely timed my journey so that I would be arriving many hours before I actually had to do any work, leaving plenty of time to reacquaint myself with the city.
After dropping my bag at the hotel, I paid a visit to the Canadian embassy to meet with the friendly press secretary, Normand, ostensibly to get a briefing on the logistics of the PM’s visit but more importantly to tap into his knowledge of Paris so that I could make the most of the visit and find an excuse to come back as often as possible.
He was a font of useful tips and insights. It seemed Canada had suddenly become cool in France, with Parisians clamouring to book trips to our side of the Atlantic. One of the most popular art exhibits was titled My Winnipeg! What a change from my month in Paris in 1989 studying French, when my teacher delighted in mocking the Quebecois accent, calling it épouvantable.
Continuing my preparation for the Libyan summit, I made my way over to the sublime Musée de l’Orangerie to drink in some Impressionists. Then it was back to the hotel for the short amount of work that actually had to be done that day: Preparing a brief “look-live” stand-up previewing the conference, which I taped in the early evening with a view of the Arc de Triomphe in the background — another memorable image for the old resumé.
The pesky distraction out of the way, it was back to the more important parts of the visit: eating and drinking. Normand had recommended several attractive restaurants close to the hotel. I settled on a place called Le Galvacher, where I opted for a traditional French choice: a barely cooked steak with some frites on the side and several glasses of red wine.
Travelling with the prime minister was no vacation. Stephen Harper’s hostility toward reporters was deep and visceral. If they were to come with him to fascinating spots around the world, he would ensure they would be left little time to sleep and work, let alone actually enjoy themselves.
My colleagues who were on his jet from Ottawa flew overnight to the Trapani air base in Italy and were rewarded with three hours sleep before they were allowed to witness Harper saying hello to Canadian fighter pilots for a few minutes. Then it was on to Paris, where they arrived a mere couple of hours before his only event. They were then given a brief amount of time to file their stories before jumping back on the plane to Canada.
By contrast, the PM’s tim
etable was a happy thing for me. After a leisurely breakfast, I made my way over to the Left Bank to search out a chocolate shop to buy gifts for my loved ones, leaving time for some shopping in the terrific men’s clothing stores along the Boulevard St. Germain and an elegant lunch in a café. One of the clearest memories of my 1984 trip was a supper in a similar place, sitting in the open air, eating a simple but delicious chicken in cream sauce. I sigh wistfully at the thought of it. This time, I opted for lapin à la moutarde (I would never be permitted to eat rabbit in front of Julia and Isabella) and a glass of crisp chardonnay. Okay, two glasses.
It was now 1:30 p.m. and there was really no alternative than to go back to the hotel and actually prepare to work. More than sixty nations were coming to hear from the Libyan National Transitional Council on the future of their nation, post-Gadhafi. The colonel was still on the run, occasionally surfacing on radio to spout delusional defiance.
The French newspaper Libération had an explosive story that threatened to overshadow the conference: a report that Nicolas Sarkozy’s government had cut a deal with the NTC in April, guaranteeing France 35 percent of Libya’s oil once Gadhafi was gone. The high-minded NATO mission to protect rebellious Libyans from the murderous vengeance of their despot seemed to have strong commercial motivations.
My Ottawa colleagues pulled into the hotel in midafternoon, bleary-eyed after the long haul from Canada to Italy and then here. Shrugging off the fatigue, a couple of them buzzed out the door, determined to squeeze in an hour of walking on the Champs-Élysées in spite of the prime minister’s grim scheduling.
Harper’s single news conference was in a characterless meeting room at the embassy, a locale that could have easily been found in a hotel in suburban Toronto. It was noticeably lacking in news, and coincided with the closing news conference of the larger meeting, which was happening at the same time across town. It all made for a scramble in finding something to report and writing our stories. The PM added to the enjoyment by deciding to leave thirty minutes earlier than scheduled, which meant all of us TV reporters had to run out to the Champs-Élysées and quickly line up to await our turns in front of the pool camera to shoot our stand-ups before the Ottawa crowd had to run to the bus to the airport. Their delightful sojourn in the City of Light lasted about five hours.
While they jetted home to Ottawa, I had my own problem: the bistro that Normand had recommended for tonight was actually closed so I had to settle for a more ordinary meal in a touristy place.
As I awaited my order, I got an email from Isabella advising that the kitchen renovation that had turned our drab eating area into one worthy of a magazine cover was finally complete, and her crew from House & Home had been there to shoot a segment on it. The consensus was that it was stunning, giving our Scarborough kitchen the flavour of a French bistro, with new chrome appliances, marble countertops, and an antique lighting fixture as a tasteful contrast. All completed just in time for her to leave it behind in favour of the flophouse kitchenette at the Buckland flat.
The kitchen reno would be the subject of an article I wrote for the Homes section of the National Post, in which I talked about the five-month debt I owed my wife — incurred when I flew off to London to play at being a foreign correspondent while she stayed at home to be a single, working mother with no working kitchen. I concluded that I would be spending the rest of my life paying it off.
Isabella recounted a series of conversations she had had at a party in which mutual acquaintances kept telling her how conservative and straitlaced I was compared to her free-spirited nature. I ordered another quarter litre of wine.
Arriving back at the flat the next day, I found a letter from the Royal School. It seemed that after more than a century and a half the trustees had run into some financial troubles and so had cut a deal to sell out to a private educational conglomerate that ran several schools around the city. We were told that this would be the final year for the Royal under its current name but that everything would remain as it would have otherwise been — aside from some renovations to prepare it for its new role in the education empire.
It was only later that the true magnitude of the announcement came clear. The trustees and the new owners had waited until the very last minute to tell the parents, thus ensuring that it was would be too late for any of them to decamp and depopulate the Royal.
As of that moment, all I knew was that Julia had not even started at her new school and already it was being turned upside down.
Thus began my final weekend solo in London.
Chapter Nine
Sunday: arrival day minus one.
I scrambled off to Waitrose for the most pressurized grocery shopping trip of my life, trying to adapt the English offerings to what I thought my wife and daughter would accept. It seemed every single shopper was standing in my way as I navigated down the aisles of Duchy Originals and other exotic brands. Where were the damn Honey Nut Cheerios? Oh, the Brits call them Honey Cheerios. No nuts. Close enough.
My iPhone constantly buzzed with updates from home. To distract themselves from thoughts of their imminent departure for a new life, Isabella took Julia north for two days, indulging their newfound love for camping with close friends. She’d packed in advance, meaning they just left the camp early, parked the Fiat at home, picked up their bags, and headed to the airport.
My heart pounded as I searched in vain for the Goldfish crackers that were the only snack Julia would accept for school. I dropped almost £200 in groceries. The cart was jammed to overflowing and I had to haul two other bags across Finchley and back up the stairs to the Buckland flat, sweat now pouring down my face.
The fridge and cabinets filled, I collapsed on the sofa. I was ready, sort of.
With only a brief bit of time left to enjoy London solo, I decided to take in a last sight. In my four and a half months of bachelor life, I had never made it to the Tower of London. Now seemed as good a time as any, so I made the long Tube trek out to the east and got in for the final two hours before closing.
Amazingly, there was no lineup for the Crown Jewels viewing, and I was able to linger for an extended look at the Queen’s stash, walking the wrong way on the treadmill that is designed to keep the tourists moving on crazy days. Although priceless, I do not think I would ever give them as a present to my wife. Garish, really.
Back at the flat, I chowed down on one of the microwave chicken tikka masala dinners, with a can of John Smith’s — the combination that had been keeping me relatively nourished since April.
My iPhone buzzed again.
“We’re in the taxi to the airport and I have to keep yelling at Julia to keep moving!”
Well, at least they were en route and likely to make the flight.
Sleep was deep and dreamless as the women in my life jetted across the Atlantic, headed to the world’s greatest city for an adventure they never sought, never wanted, and would be enduring under protest.
Monday, September 5, 2011: my family was to be whole again. London’s weather behaved for a change, delivering a mild, sunny day. On the train ride out to Gatwick, I stared out the window, wondering whether it was all really going to work.
At the arrivals gate, it seemed to take forever before they appeared. In brief moments of anxiety, I considered the possibility that they had changed their minds at the last minute and not gotten aboard. Then, there they were: Isabella struggling to push a luggage cart piled as high as her head, Julia pulling her little carry-on case, which she dropped when she saw me, shouting “DADDY!” and running into my arms.
Isabella’s enthusiasm was more muted as I embraced her and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for coming.”
“Okay, okay. It was a bit crazy, but we did it. There was absolutely no one there to help us with the luggage, though. We’re exhausted.”
She not only had a stack of large bags, but also had brought a folding table and seven pillows. I said nothing. Now was not the time for critical commentary. They were here.
I put my hand on Isabella’s knee.
“You made it,” I said, feeling honest and deep affection.
“Don’t get happy … yet,” she warned.
At the flat she immediately headed for bed, having barely slept on the flight. Julia, by contrast, was now awake so I told her we should walk up to the Royal School so she can have a look while Isabella rested. I had already timed it as a seventeen-minute brisk walk from the flat, the last portion uphill. But that was seventeen minutes for a motivated adult. With a wary six-year-old in tow it was more like thirty-five minutes.
As we approached, I warned her again that the exterior was a bit industrial but that the inside was nice and the teachers seemed very friendly.
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. The girl who was normally bursting with opinions was now noticeably quiet. School was to begin in two days and the signs were ominous.
When we returned to the flat, I dragged her reluctantly upstairs to introduce her to her neighbour Elena. The Bulgarian-American girl with the plummy British accent was keen to play, and her mother even more so, all but pushing her out the door.
Julia, not so much, but she tolerated a visit by Elena to our flat.
Elena demonstrated her flexibility after months of dance classes by lying on her back, and arching herself up into a bridge. Julia said little. I knew she could not do the same and felt a bit for her. The playtime was forced and one-sided, with Elena doing most of the talking. Julia was relieved when the neighbour was called upstairs for supper.
“Thank God she at least has her,” said Isabella.