Tuesday, March 10/2020

 Not much distinction between Monday night and Tuesday morning when going to bed not involved. Minicab booked for 3:30. Earlier than necessary down to fears of no show and lack of Plan B. Desk staff very friendly but seem genuinely unaware that their only recommended minicab is double the price of others available. But ours is fine. Arrives promptly, having texted that it is on its way. Even in London not much traffic at 4 AM. 

Heathrow not busy either. And our flight half full. As we’ve booked aisle seats opposite that in fact gives us three seats each, suitable for catching up on so far non-existent night’s sleep. Four and a half hour flight. Used to involve a pretty decent breakfast, but now BA claims that passengers prefer buying the M&S food they sell on board. This seems unlikely, as in earlier times there was a distinct lack of passengers turning down the hot breakfast saying that they’d brought supermarket sandwiches instead. However, we have brought quite a nice lunch with us and bottles of water refilled at the points most airports have now been shamed into providing.

Just before landing the pilot announces that those who have come from areas with corona virus will be asked to identify themselves to a nurse at the airport. We wonder which areas this extends to. UK? But situation clearer if not simpler on landing. Bottleneck has been arranged with questionnaires, desks and pens - and the (fortunately short) queue comes to a dead halt. Fill out questionnaires - who we are, home address and phone, where we have been, where we will be staying, etc. Do complete it. Decide not to annoy and confuse them by saying that before Sunflower will spend two weeks in the North. Provide home phone number but don’t say it has been disconnected. Final line advises that all info above should have been completed in Roman letters. Hard luck on any Greek who completed it in Greek, the official language of the country, but presumably they got different forms. 

Kemal our driver is waiting. Drives to the border at about twice the speed of Bill, who was not a slowpoke, just observant of posted limits. Short delay at the border. Now only two crossing points open, both in the British Sovereign Base Area. Government of the South closed the others days ago “for more effective control over the entry points." Move, re covid-19, unilateral, with government in the North not consulted. Usual suspicions of political motivation. Northern immigration authorities alert and medically masked. Have a penlike device that presumably checks our temperatures from a foot or two away. No question about where we’ve been. Our new passports are pretty pristine, not even having been stamped in the UK. Cleaning staff in evidence but much less alert, as masks come off and, like faces, much handled during breaks.

Kemal has the address and lets us in with the key from a digitally locked box. Interesting place. Charming, quirky garage converted to a flat with loft by the architect owner. A work in progress. Electrical and plumbing arrangements eccentric and probably not code, but not frightening. More than well equipped. Heaters, but we don’t really need them. Lots in the fridge, but we go out round the corner to a place we know. We’re near the castle walls, and no place in the old city is far from any other. Home by the light of the full moon. Tea and sleep.

Monday, March 9/2020

Last day in London, hard on the heels of the first day. Not sure when we’ve stayed here such a short time, but hoping for longer on the way back. Media full of covid-19, streets and tube not so much. See occasional persons wearing masks, but usually Asian and not more than one ever saw, as Asians frequently use masks, most often to protect others from the wearers’ colds. Not sure how much the advice to wash hands and beware of surfaces is being taken aboard. Public transport has plenty of surfaces, but also people chewing their nails and rubbing their noses. Not in Italy, apparently, where the streets are empty and even local travel restricted.

Stop briefly at Barons to say hello to Genie and can see that it is indeed in the throes of major renovation. Can’t clearly identify previous rooms, and no remaining wall and floor coverings. Dust and debris everywhere. But Genie is optimistic, if overwhelmed. Call in May and we’ll see what’s possible.

Drizzling again and we’ve barely had time to appreciate the daffodils. 

Tomorrow’s flight just after seven in the morning, so getting to Heathrow 5 two hours before is problematic. The tube doesn’t run early enough. Night buses do, but take much longer and you have to change buses. The obvious is a cab and we do book, but a little nervously, because checking the reviews is not entirely encouraging. Four stars out of five with 200 reviews often seems to mean that most customers were very satisfied but a small but significant minority were enraged by no shows. And we can see that we really should have booked earlier, yesterday or before. So, we have a booking and also crossed fingers.

Sunday, March 8/2020

Wake up at an astonishing ten minutes to ten. In mitigation, reflect that it’s five o’clock at home, and that only because daylight savings time has begun in North America but not, for another three weeks, in Europe. Be nice if those parts of the world that implement it could see fit to all do so on the same day. Jenny’s third floor is a lovely place to sleep, cool and very quiet - and like the rest of the house full of inviting books.

Emma comes over after Church along with Jasmine who is eleven, and at a lovely point of combining maturity with child innocence. And then a Sunday lunch with roast chicken. Remember before leaving that Jenny has the book that our late friend John wrote, a kind of mixture of history and myth set in Cumbria where we’ve spent time in a house we borrowed a few years back. Rather poignant moment seeing John has signed the book as he died in the autumn.

Saturday, March 6/2020

Tube plus train to Thames Ditton in the morning to Jenny and Doug’s. Despite the calendar, it looks like spring here, and we enjoy the gardens on the walk from the station.  Arrive in time to have coffee with J and D before heading out to Godalming for lunch with Jenny’s cousin Elaine, a birthday cum Palestinian lunch to which, happily, we have been invited. 

Elaine and I are FB friends of similar interests and political persuasion, though we’ve only met in person once or twice. She’s taking advantage of a birthday - which, like many of us she doesn’t really “do” any more - to put on a Palestinian meal, most of which she has made herself, and accept contributions for Palestinian relief. The Arabic food is wonderful, including lamb and rice dishes and a lovely orange cake made, I ascertain, from oranges, ground almonds and eggs, which I intend to try, despite the usual quality of oranges in Sioux Lookout. 

Enjoy chatting with the friends, most of whom are either relatives or former colleagues from education or media. We knew Jenny’s father who, like Elaine’s father, was born in Haifa with  an English father and Palestinian mother and had strong cultural ties to Palestine and the Middle East. In fact Jenny’s dad taught me to make maqluba, an Arabic dish of rice, fried vegetables and meat that is turned upside down when served. 

Home to lentil soup and talk with Doug and Jenny until bedtime. 

Friday, March 6/2020

Takes a moment to recognise the light on the morning wall as sunlight. Lovely. Back to the coffee shop and then a walk along Queensway. As always a few changes, shops that have disappeared or opened. Most startling is the almost total dismemberment of Whiteley’s, the iconic 19th century department store turned mall for which there are grand redevelopment plans that will preserve the original facade but not much more. At the moment there is the most skeletal of frameworks, and we’re looking right through it at the houses on the other side.

To Kilburn, vibrant as ever, in the afternoon. Ending up at Roses, our favourite supper place, where the (Turkish?) owner stops us and comes over to say hello, and are we coming or going. Note that kleftiko, usually a Thursday special, is on the chalkboard menu, but the young waitress is distressed when we order it. You don’t like lamb? It’s not that - but it’s all gone. Oh well, fish and chips then. Recognise a couple of regulars. One a cheerful man about our age with a knitted cap and bright eyes. He’s sitting by himself and carrying on a happy lengthy monologue, almost as if he were describing a video that only he can see. On his way out he tells us to have a good day. A friendly soul, clearly well known and accepted in the café.

Thursday, March 5/2020

Raining. And the man who sells us a bottle of wine at the little Tesco round the corner says nice day, not sarcastically, as I first assume, but merely as a standard pleasant bidding - have a good day. The inevitable rain doesn’t merit comment. February was the wettest on record for England, and no change expected before mid-March, though it’s not very cold. 

Take the bottle of wine with us to West Harrow to have lunch with Jean. Also the last of the wild blueberry jam, our usual offering from home. Cosy inside, though. Samosas, and cake with custard, and lots of catch up talk. Went for lunch but it’s fiveish when we leave. 

Television news full of covid-19, endlessly repeated - though endless repetition is the nature of tv news channels. Front page in newspapers as well. Lots of lighter stuff too, most happily a coming autumn revival of the classic satirical tv show Spitting Image, with a new set of political puppets. Puppet previews wonderful.

Wednesday, March 4/2020

Whatever the reason, our transatlantic flight is only half full. This means we each get two seats, which is a huge asset on an overnight flight. Good news is that dinner yesterday was at 20:30 (we’ve taken flights to England when it was after midnight). Bad news is that it’s not very good. Air Canada’s meals have been deteriorating steadily for years now. Happily, their wine hasn’t. It’s surprisingly good. So at breakfast (minimalism now peaking at a single stone cold slice of sweet spice bread, supplemented by us with cheese) when J declines to have last night’s empty wine bottle collected with the detritus - as they’re handy in our winter existence for small amounts of oil or vinegar, the stewardess asks if he’d like another and brings it. So our carry-ons now have two mini bottles of wine, suitable for picnicking in the hotel room, as I hadn’t drunk my second one last night.

We’re hours early for the hotel check in. Not, unfortunately, the Barons, as between weather delayed renovations and some family difficulties they’re not available. But the we’re only a couple of blocks away. Location fractionally better for tube stations and coffee shop. To which we repair to wake ourselves up with Starbucks filter and read the news until we can have our room. Bigger than Barons and less familial. Well not familial at all. Decent price and not familial at all. Decent price and (a bonus) wifi, but more into printed rules and waivers - no smoking or smoking up and signed acknowledgments, e.g. of the fact that all internet use involves significant privacy, security and confidentiality risks. Yes, VPN well worth it. Room is basic but fine. Clean, loo ok, quite a decent tv, pristine kettle.

Ah yes, kettle. J spots the sign by the tap saying that the water is not drinkable. What? This is London, where the water is always drinkable, and with no chemical cum chlorine taste. I inquire in reception. Well we don’t recommend it. If you boil it, it’s all right. Tell them that we have been staying in London for years and have never encountered a hotel where you couldn’t drink the water. Some wriggling. Well you CAN drink it - I do, the girl admits - but we don’t RECOMMEND it. Ah, the lawsuit averseness. So this is the same water that other buildings in this area use? Yes. There’s no particular problem with your pipes? Oh, NO. Right. Problem solved.

Tuesday, March 3/2020

Stage one of the Winnipeg to London flight. Sit next to an American. As J puts it, a stereotypical American, a believer in the American dream. Though one who doesn’t really think, he says frequently, that it’s going to deliver for him. We learn that he’s from Virginia, raises beef cattle but can’t afford enough land to do it on a larger scale and supplements his income by delivering new semis to destinations all over Canada and the US. Also that he is a Trump supporter and did three years in Eye-raq. And that he grows hemp, for which he apparently has a licence as well as making moonshine for which he presumably doesn’t. Much accompanied by mobile phone photos.

And he has questions as well. Do we have bears, do we pay an enormous amount of income tax, do Canadians care who wins power in the US, have we been to Dubai? We give some answers. The tax is not massively different but where the tax money goes is. Less in Canada to the military and more to health. Yes, most Canadians do care who the president is. No, we haven’t been to Dubai. 

There are things we don’t say. Despite our friend’s claim to having excellent insurance himself, we can’t understand being sanguine about medical bills being the number one cause of American bankruptcies. The overwhelming majority of Canadians are contemptuous of Trump. We haven’t been to Dubai in large part because I refuse to support a regime that is guilty of such appalling treatment of vulnerable foreign workers.

The Iraq experience leads to observations on other cultures. He’s seen Iraqi palaces - beautiful but not really well constructed. Hard not to reflect that many of the sites had survived a very long time before they were attacked. 

Actually, I had intended to read my library book, which will vanish from the tablet in nine days. (No more problem with overdue books). Perhaps it’s just as well that it’s an e-book and therefore the title is not visible: Philip Rucker and Carol Leonnig’s A Very Stable Genius, an account of Trump’s shambolic first three years in the White House. 

There is a terrible kind of innocence about our talkative new friend, both disturbing and, in a way, moving. The American dream but....Have sprayed all relevant surfaces with alcohol but can’t help thinking that it’s just as well that the American is unlikely to be spreading COVID-19. Three hour conversation at two foot range not ideal defensive measure.

Thursday, May 2/2019

Well, that’s it until next travel season. Should be late October. Will be, subject to having accumulated enough satisfactory ID to acquire new ten year passports. At which point we go, whether or not we’ve had time to book accommodation. 

Did you know there’s actually a site called Sleeping in Airports? And very useful it is, too. Full of handy information, like which airports - most, I should think - have seating inconveniently divided by armrests, so that only the Loch Ness monster could hope to get a night’s sleep. Think the last time we slept in an airport may have been 2004. No immediate plans to repeat. 

Will spend at least part of-the summer figuring out how to make the Word Press site work properly. A little like the manual in the glove compartment of the Corolla we rented. Ran to over 600 pages but not easy to find the simple stuff. Word Press .com site happy to tell me how to have an image described for the visually impaired (no, predictive text, not for the visually appealing) but not as quick on how to reposition the image. Well, of course that might not matter to the visually impaired. Aware that I haven’t even done the blog there as separate posts - just as a series of headings in one long post. Also, can’t tell if anyone reads it, while blogspot showed the hits. 

It’s really largely our own journal record anyway, and have always assumed quality and not quantity in readership. Though have to say that I noticed a slight increase in hits in the week after the handbag theft, leading me to wonder if there is a market for disaster travel writing. Probably, but will not deliberate pursue it.

Wednesday, May 1/2019

Much earlier flight than usual, so the alarm set for 4:15. Already packed, so we’re at the tube station as it opens at 5:00. And not alone, either. There are a dozen other people waiting for the first trains through. Heathrow train from South Kensington is both later and much fuller than we expected, but we’re at Heathrow by twenty to seven. And know to ask for a human when we go to check in. 

And, for the first but not the last time, we encounter someone who ignores our proffered sheet of paper and asks to just see our passports. Also, for the first but not the last time, the person we initially encounter has to find a superior to refer us to. But we’re through, though with a boarding pass only for the first segment - London to Dublin. You can get the next boarding pass at the transfer desk in Dublin - no, you won’t need to go through security again, just the transfer desk. 

Cheered by this, and not having an assigned gate yet anyway, we make a quick stop at duty free and pick up two bottles of gin. Sharp woman on the desk, who picks up instantly that a) our travel documents show that we are indeed leaving the EU, despite a boarding pass that will take us only as far as Dublin, and b) we can therefore take an officially sealed bottle with us. So two sealed bottles of gin. And barely time to collect two coffee Americanos, very hot but they’ll be nice on the plane because the flight’s at ten to nine and we’ve been up forever. First flight is Aer Lingus, a code share with Air Canada. Get referred and checked through separately - you can board as soon as you finish your coffees. Well, so much for coffee. 

Sleep pretty well all the way to Dublin and then disembark and look for the transfer desk. Find it. Says closed - and to follow the arrows to the alternate transfer desk. There are lots of arrows because it’s a longish way. Think at first that at least Toronto has a trottoir. What on earth is the English - moving sidewalk sounds so clumsy? (Actually, all this means is that I associate trottoir with airport moving sidewalks, but the moving bit is not inherent in the word).

Transfer desk wants our non-existent boarding passes. We explain. The very nice lady is sympathetic, but we’ll have to get them from Air Canada. That’s at the other terminal, but it’s not a long walk. Just back and exit through the luggage claim area and turn left. You’ll be fine. Just ask anyone as you go. We do. The young lady we ask is not nearly as sympathetic, but purses her lips and does her duty. She takes us to immigration. We’re horrified. Not that it would be a bad place to immigrate to, but all they’re going to do is ask for our passports - and then we’ll have to go through security again. With limited time and two bottles of gin. The official at immigration is no problem. Passports? Oh, that’s fine. Done. 

But we’re now officially in Ireland. Need boarding passes and then through security - again. Large Air Canada woman says oh definitely no liquid through security. Never. But takes us to Nina, who checks us out on her computer. Small problem. Could we just go over to the desk on the other side. And about the gin. That’s not fair, she murmurs. See if security will let it through. If not, come back to me and I’ll check it through in one of your carry-ons. The desk-on-the-other-side lady is nice too. Some difficulty in reaching Canadian officialdom, who appear, the efforts of the High Commission notwithstanding, never to have heard of us. 

As we wait I empty the things I don’t want to leave in a carry-on entrusted to Air Canada’s tender mercies into a plastic bag - mostly various electronic plugs and cables. Also sterling and euro coins which I dump loose into the bottom of my new handbag. We’ve chosen my carry-on to take the gin if necessary as it’s old, tattered, and of no commercial value. Bought as an extra carrier years ago. Cheap then and an unattractive camouflage, it has somehow never been retired. The family joke is that its security feature is that no thief with any standards would give it a second glance. But it’s impossible to lock satisfactorily. It’s never previously been entrusted with a decent bottle. Eventually we are approved, though, and given boarding passes for the flights to both Toronto and Winnipeg. And security no problem at all. They know all about sealed liquor. Just a brief panic when one bottle of gin seems to have disappeared, but is discovered underneath the plastic tray into which our hazardous possessions are being loaded - three ipad minis and three mobiles. No time to spend euro coins (presuming they could still be identified in the darkest depths of my handbag) but not late for flight. 

Air Canada not only unfazed by our travel documents but, as we’ve skipped the queue to deal, once again, with a human, lets us board immediately. Once aboard I point out to J my cleverness in booking via Dublin - which for the past two hours has looked a little short of brilliant. It’s the configuration of the plane, a Boeing 767-300ER. The seats are arranged XX XXX XX. Two aisles with two seats, then three in the middle, then two more. So for the transAtlantic flight no one is sitting with us. A more difficult booking than it sounds, and the reason for our 4 AM rising. It wasn’t too hard to book a flight to London with this configuration (though did that mean we had to fly on a Sunday) but none were available in London returning to Canada. Assuming that they couldn’t all be piling up somewhere in Europe, I pursued this until I discovered the flight from Dublin to Toronto. So we do have good seats. And enough tidbits to significantly improve the quality of Air Canada’s meal. Though fortunately, and in all fairness not unusually, the wine is perfectly drinkable and improves our mood significantly. The crew are forbidden to give you two at a time, but perfectly willing to come back with seconds. 

So arrive in Toronto. Canadian citizens to the left and others to the right. J incensed at being treated as non-Canadian, but really the right side queue includes, though not explicitly, everyone not in a position to slide a Canadian passport into  “the machine” - the electronic reader. The official we reach is nice, but wastes no time in sending us to ”immigration”, which proves to be the next room, where there are several wickets and a queue of maybe twenty people. Not bad, although they must all be people with problems. The young man we see is nice and efficient. As we discovered, by turning over an emergency travel document to read the reverse side, the immigration officer at our point of entry is required to retain the document. In fact one officer used the term impound. Which would leave us with no (me) or inadequate (J) ID. But when I say this our young man makes a “certified true copy” photocopy for us. 

And down to collect our suitcases. The carousel is empty and unmoving, though. There are a few straggler suitcases beside it, but they aren’t ours. We inquire at the Air Canada luggage desk. Oh, they’ll go straight through to Winnipeg. Well, that’s all right then, if accurate. I did ask someone back in London if they went to Toronto and she said yes, but then maybe all Canadian cities seem alike if you’re from away. Now up to departures with our nice certified IDs. You don’t need a passport at all to fly within Canada, just government issued photo ID. This is definitely government issued, and the photos, if unflattering, are clearly us. We’re nearly home free, though free is a bit of a misnomer for this very expensive exercise. 

Show our boarding passes and are waved into the security area by someone who barely glances at them and doesn’t ask to see our dubious IDs at all. Then, without warning, and before we’re in the queue, we’re pounced on, almost literally, by a man who seems to have sprung from the sidelines and asked for our boarding passes. No problem. But it seems there is a problem. Who made these? It’s a demand. Air Canada, in Dublin. He looks more than unconvinced. And in fact the young lady who called Ottawa to vet us and then printed the boarding passes for both flights probably wasn’t an Air Canada employee, as she seemed to be doing security checks for more than one airline. Come with me. It’s definitely an order. No time to drink the remaining water, he says,  as we’ll be in the front of the line. And he’s in a hurry, quite distressed when I stop to look for the plastic bag of liquids which has, as usual filtered down to the bottom of my handbag. 

We are indeed marched to the front of the queue. And they make it clear that they want to keep our belongings separate. No mingling of ipads or jackets. By the time I walk through the scanner and start to reassemble my life J is nowhere to be seen. Unnerving, until I spot him at one side being given what looks like a regular enhanced check. His trays are taken and checked separately. And interestingly they’re not at all concerned with the sandwiches and buns that have made it through. My mentally rehearsed explanation of the legitimacy of their contents not required. No need to explain that peanut butter is a legume and not a nut product. The gin gets what appears to be routine testing and its bags are resealed. However, the security man puts on latex gloves to handle J’s boarding pass, while showing no interest at all in mine, or in our IDs. Just as they have shown no interest in any of my possessions in the trays, while keeping J’s aside as if contaminated. 

You’re wondering why this is happening, he asks. We are. It’s random. What’s your airline? Well, Air Canada has identified you for a security check. Which sounds about as unrandom as it is possible to get. Gloves removed and boarding pass returned. And still no idea what just happened. Feels a bit like life in a spy novel. Doesn’t require paranoia to believe that they were actually waiting for us, or at least for J. Equipped with a photo? You do get your picture taken - remove the glasses please and look at the red light - when leaving Heathrow. Weird. And if they really think J is a terrorist or whatever, wouldn’t it be a bit slack not to think he might have given me the incriminating material before we reached security? 

Last flight check in and we overcome the temptation to approach the desk and ask whether our documents have to be referred to higher authority. And if our suitcases are onboard then they have to delay the flight and remove them if they don’t let us on. Not quite an ace up the sleeve, but maybe a jack. Or maybe only a deuce. And, oddly, we have noticed, on J’s boarding pass, handscrawled SSSS. Or S8S5? Not easy to tell. But when did it appear? Back in Dublin or later? Pass now officially stamped by security. Twice. And we have been rehabilitated. Maybe. Certainly there is not so much as a raised eyebrow as we board the flight for Winnipeg. And when we arrive bags on the carousel. Been a long day - approximately twenty-three hours since we got up.

Tuesday, April 30/2019

Last day. And usually ready by now despite our gypsy inclinations. Though seeing that the highs in Sioux Lookout are falling somewhat short of 10 degrees is a little sad. Though can’t really complain, as it’s the coldest we’ve experienced since last October. And ice out is on the early side. We arrived in London this month late enough that we missed the daffodils and magnolias. Thought that the lilacs we could see from our window were lasting surprisingly well until we realised they weren’t lilacs. More likely wisteria. Our schedule does have the advantage of giving us more than one spring. To the little period jewellery shop in Hampstead Antique Emporium.  Always fascinating. And a top up at Aldi on dark chocolate. 

Monday, April 29/2019

Genuinely last stop at High Commission - knock on wood - so they can return our photocopy of previous passports. Then check out route to Heathrow for Wednesday morning. The usual won’t work for crack of dawn departure. Transport for London’s suggestion of changing at Hammersmith works much more smoothly than one might have imagined even though it means two changes rather than one, as it cuts out a set of stairs. An advantage with suitcases. And, having gone as far as Hammersmith, explore a bit in the area of the charity shops. There’s an Amnesty bookshop with really tempting (other than the weight) second hand books. Next time? J refuses even to look at the CDs, as they’re all on sale for a pound and he knows he wouldn’t resist. Next time too for a new restaurant too, called Brown Rice. It’s a Thai place, and the buffet displayed in the window looks absolutely delicious. But by now we’re on our way to the Polish Cultural Centre for a spot of comfort food and nostalgia. Perogies, veal gołabki, and - sheer indulgence - apple szarlotka for me and poppyseed cake for J.

Sunday, April 28/2019

Tube back from Kilburn via Oxford Circus as Circle and District on weekend upgrading. It’s also the day of the London Marathon, a nice cool day for the runners, and opposite us in the carriage is a man about our age wearing the Marathon tag on a shoe and the lanyard round his neck. He looks tired but has every good reason to, and we give him thumbs up on the way out. On the Central line platform J looks across at a grimy metal ledge high  on the far side of the tracks and wonders how some orange peel and food scraps can possibly have ended up there. Then, more unlikely one would have thought, we spot a very small mouse active amongst the leavings. Twenty-six metres underground in a structure entirely of metal and concrete held together with generations of black grease. 

Saturday, April 27/2019

To Thames Ditton to have a meal with Jenny and Doug. First time we’ve seen D since December, when he had fallen and suffered what was later determined to be a broken wrist. A number of small and not so small repercussions from that fall. Pleased to be able to visit with him and spend more time with Jenny. Jenny’s role as guarantor was happily successful. Barrister-at-Law, retired, formerly with HMRC did the trick. Tea and talk and a very nice high tea. The only short trip holiday abroad (Nile Cruise, 2005) that has ever blossomed into a real friendship.

And as a bonus we’re able  to renew J’s driver’s licence online and print the resulting document. Easy and secure to renew on tablet with VPN, but not easy to print from same at public facility. Easy to print at library or internet café, but using their insecure computers. And impossible to renew in Ontario more than six months before expiry. So this is welcome.

Friday, April 26/2019

Down to the Canadian High Commission for, hopefully, the last time. Note that my predictive text now knows that the word that follows High (though not high) is Commission. Helpful, if a little depressing. Our documents are printed. One single sheet each, good for one specified trip. J sees that the Observations section is blank. Speculate on what it might usually include if used. Must be handcuffed? It also seems that that one thin sheet is too little (and expires too soon) in exchange for the price, emotional and monetary, of acquiring it. Though in fairness would not be better pleased with fat portfolio of documentation to carry about, even though have replaced handbag with one that feels distressingly light with little in it. 

Also getting to know the passport section of the High Commission better. Quite different from the posher part where we once attended a talk by journalists, accompanied by wine and nibbles and higher diplomatic staff. Or even from the little art gallery. Different too from the earlier incarnation where Canadians were free to drop in and check their email or read (admittedly outdated) copies of the Globe and Mail in the lounge. And the passport section different from its previous version visited by me many years ago when I had accidentally washed my jeans with passport in pocket. Much simpler procedure, though somewhat simpler diplomatic problem. Evidence matched my story and no one else potentially in possession of passport. No bulletproof glass windows in those days. (Re windows, have no observed that what seemed to be shouted conversations were actually being transmitted via microphones - more dignified if not any more private). 

Thursday, April 25/2019

Call from Samura at the High Commission, saying that our travel documents are printed and ready to collect, so will do so tomorrow. Checking online re replacement of stolen documents. Seems quite simple. Any document can be replaced, for a price, by filling out a form and providing two other ID documents. If you never want to travel, drive, or use medical services, life could be quite pleasant. And truly wish that sites that purport to give info on what to do about stolen ID could refrain from using most, or in some cases ALL, of their space talking about why you should never allow this disaster to occur.

Temporarily cross posting on Blogger and Word Press. Word Press the better site (as well as probably being safer) but has far more complex possibilities which I don’t have time to sort out with limited wifi access. Can tell how many people access it via Blogger and not via Word Press, although presuming roughly same number total as previously. Never aimed for numbers, and this serves a second but equal function as my travel journal. In that respect, Blogger easy to search and have used it on occasion to check dates or names from years back. 

Wednesday, April 24/2019

Back to the High Commission for 9:30 now we’re better informed. Paperwork looks ok. J signs away $240. No doubt only the beginning, as we have to apply for new passports when we get home. Trickiest bit probably J’s citizenship card. Replacement apparently running at five to seven months. Sumira, herself from Ontario, is positive and sympathetic, though. Do we have other possible references? They needn’t be Canadian but could be from anywhere in the world. Slowly grasp the point - Canadians are asleep. Central daylight savings time is four AM. Text Alexander, in Cambridgeshire and ask if he is available if the consulate phones. Yes indeed. So reference number one is done. Sumira says she’ll get a second reference in the afternoon. 

We’re free to use the computer and are given the password. Realise how long it is since I’ve used anything other than a tablet. Also realise that this computer is less secure than anything I would normally be prepared to use, and limit it to checking a couple of addresses. Explorer with no VPN. 

What hasn’t been stolen are the matinee tickets for this afternoon. We’re booked to see Come From Away. It has won an award for best new musical, but even so is much better than I am expecting. Runs for about an hour and forty minutes with no intermission and holds the audience for the whole time with a mixture of humour, poignancy, and sheer energy. And it’s not an easy mixture to maintain, a balance between the utter catastrophe of the events of 911 and the warmth and wit and generosity of the people of Gander, Newfoundland. And the characters are all pretty closely based on the real people who were there and their stories - quirky, romantic, funny, and sometimes tragic.

Tuesday, April 23/2019

So, down to the Canadian High Commission. Thought it opened at 10:00 but turns out it was 9:30. You take a number, like at the butcher’s - or, to be fair, like the hospital outpatients. We have number 16. We’re seated near the toy corner, which is a nice touch on their part - the existence of the corner, not our sitting there - as the woman next to us ends up waiting over an hour with a little boy who would be about 18 months old. We wait that long too, which is how we know. 

One wall screen keeps track of how the queue is progressing. It has a large font bit of welcome, sort of. “Welcome the High Commission of Canada to the United Kingdom”. Ungrammatical, or (as J suggests) an order? But the French has it right: “Bienvenue au Haut-commissariat du Canada au Royaume-Unis”. This is embarrassing, but we decide not to mention it. It is likely to be only one of a number of things we will not mention. 

There is a wall rack full of forms. No pens on offer, but the books in the kiddie corner work well as clipboards. First, report forms on lost/stolen passports. Lots of good info to fill in here, even though some of the questions are repetitive. Happy not to be in the embarrassing position of having to answer the “if not why not” regarding whether theft has been reported to the police. Even have a Metropolitan police crime number. Last question slightly odd. Have other provincial or federal ID documents been stolen? Tick box yes or no. But doesn’t ask what documents or provide much space for volunteering info. (Later told that the form asks for said documents, though it definitely doesn’t). 

Second wall screen has superfluous info on why you shouldn’t lose your passport. Also info on what forms payment to consular services can take. Basically a credit card with a separate form listing personal info and card number and guaranteeing payment. Or, if one prefers paying in sterling, a bank transfer. Not cash, though probably consulates are not the first place one would choose to dispose of counterfeit currency. This form, unlike some of the others, does not mention imprisonment as one of the possible consequences of messing up. 

We also need to fill out new passport applications. Including providing references. Fill in names, addresses, home phone numbers of suitably presentable neighbours. Reach optional box asking for email addresses and “cells”, and am so accustomed to the European habit (regardless of language) of referring to mobiles that my first instinct is to say that our friends are not, to the best of my knowledge, incarcerated. Leave that bit blank. Guarantor section trickier. Must be filled out before request for travel document can be processed. Guarantor can be either a Canadian with a valid passport or a non-Canadian from a list of select professions (much like the old Canadian passport requirements). Lawyers included. So our question is whether they mean licensed to practise or actively employed. Verbal response (one hopes accurate) is that the requirement is that they be licensed to practise. 

Other forms require establishing Canadian citizenship. No real space to explain that being born in Germany in 1945 might not make one a former German citizen but simply an involuntary guest of Hitler. And after we leave we reflect that, while the banks have identified us almost instantly, cancelled our cards within seconds of being contacted, and only after that explained the replacement procedure (pretty simple) the High Commission has sent us away with a great deal of paperwork but has not wanted to see our completed stolen passport forms or even asked our names. Seems rather odd as they have the most to say about the dangers of losing a document. Will add to the list of things not to mention. 

And also in the not to mention category is the office setup. The toy corner is a cheerful touch, but contrasts with the communication arrangement. The available staff consists of two people behind wickets with thick (presumably bulletproof) glass. Can see that this is a safety measure but the result is rather in conflict with the extensive legalese on the forms re our privacy protection, which would appear to refer to the cyber world only, as the protective glass leads to a great deal of semi shouted information, and we learn rather more than we need to know about the difficulties of the other waiting room attendees. 

Jenny kindly invites us to meet her for a drink and dinner. Not only the first REALLY NICE thing to happen this week, but lovely to be able to catch up, having missed Emma’s gathering yesterday. And Jenny, who is a retired barrister, looks at the guarantor section of our forms. The difficulty is that, despite the assurance that retired but licensed is ok, the form asks for a firm. She fills it out giving profession and saying retired but giving previous UK government employment. So fingers crossed.

Monday, April 22/2019

Easter Monday. Should have been the day we went to Emma’s for lunch with the Clarke clan, but more pressing needs, though the fact that it’s a bank holiday means that places like the Canadian High Commission and HSBC will have to wait for tomorrow. We do go down to Apple in Covent Garden in order to set up the ipad mini that I erased yesterday as I was unable to tell which ipad mini 4 was the stolen one. Should be clear now, and the missing one will be erased if there’s an attempt to connect it to the net. Confirmed by phone that my debit as well as credit card has been frozen. 

Unfortunately J’s debit card, not used for ages, appears not to work. BMO says they have no record of its existence - go into a BMO branch and have them sort it. J volubly unimpressed. Does, however, succeed in having them concede that we should not, under the circumstances, be charged interest on a cash advance on credit card. The first bloke he spoke to kept asking how many dollars our last withdrawal had been, and seemed unable to grasp J’s explanation about UK withdrawals coming in pounds sterling. Did give him an approximate exchange rate, but to no avail. Entire procedure made somewhat more difficult by the fact that advertised willingness of BMO to accept collect calls is hampered by inability, despite much inquiry and googling, to find a number to dial (does anyone say dial any more - it’s not what happens) for the UK international operator. All info online apparently erroneous or outdated. 

But happily Three, our mobile provider only charges 4p a minute for calls to Canada. And J’s credit card does work as it should, so looking up. So, back at our room, we open a bottle of red wine, providentially stashed in the wardrobe. It promises “classic aromas of tobacco and cigar box” - which fortunately proves to be untrue. It’s very nice, though honesty compels me to admit that the 18, prominent on the label, refers to months and not years aged in oak. And then we listen to a British man on BBC news channel paying tribute to his wife and two children who were killed in the Sri Lankan massacre, talking with dignity and gratitude about his wonderful family and the help of Sri Lankan hospital staff and consular assistance. And know we are very lucky. 

Sunday, April 21/2019

Day starts at Starbucks as usual. Then my handbag stolen from the bench beside me - with far too much in it, including both our passports and various cards. Wipe both the mini iPad that was in the handbag and the one that is at the hotel as I can’t be sure which is which. Then tell the Starbucks staff, who are genuinely upset. The girl who is shift manager calls the police and then tells me they say I should call. I do, and they’re really nice. Kind and patient and thorough - but not, of course, optimistic. Hopeless trying to find a UK operator to place a collect call, but a combo of fongo app on the ipad and a VPN with a Canadian location do the trick. BMO  credit card people super. Debit card results in repeat recording suggesting I call back later. Kudos to the agency Steinbach credit union uses. I wait three minutes through the leave-a-message-or-stay-on-the-line spiel and leave a message saying that they don’t make reporting theft particularly easy and giving a mobile number which I tell them is UK. Five minutes later get a pleasant and efficient call back. Consulate still to deal with. Being a long weekend doesn’t help.