,
You know that
you’re traipsing around the globe with a junior shopaholic version of yourself,
when the Kid looks you squarely in the eye, and declares that sightseeing for
the day has been officially scrapped, as the next 24 hours will be devoted
entirely towards the acquisition of 50% off
priced European bargains – or, as much as can possibly be carted across
the pond without raising the suspicions of Canadian Customs agents for grossly
exceeding one’s permitted yearly allotment of declared goods – all without
getting thrown in the slammer for importing what appears to be an excessive
amount of Kate Middleton inspired designer frocks and handbags. Like, seriously?
What happened to my former French Revolutionary
affection ado and “Marie-Antoinette
wanna-be” obsessed niece? You know – the one who had to be forcibly
removed from the Palace of Versailles because she tried to set up camp in one
of the opulent and majestically ornate state rooms? You know
– the one who literally dragged her dear ol’ Auntie to all 250+ museums and
exhibitions within every last square inch of the parameter of Paris? You
know – the one who had our complete London itinerary mapped out on an Excel
spreadsheet, with not a minute to spare, lest we should, “God forbid”, deviate from the meticulously detailed schedule and
wander off the beaten path?
Meandering
along artsy and funky Carnaby Street would therefore be quite the nostalgic
journey indeed, as we jumped back in time to a groovy, happy, hippy 1960’s swinging
London, where miniskirts, Twiggy, Mary Quant and the Rolling Stones dominated
the social scene. The Kid’s dad was of
British descent and she had grown up hearing endless tales of cool music bands
and even cooler London folk just hanging out on this three block long narrow street,
a stone’s throw from Regent and Oxford. Anxious
to experience the feel and ambiance of her daddy’s youthful stomping grounds,
my niece was determined to walk in his footsteps and re-create treasured moments
in time and immerse herself in a fragment of her roots and heritage.
Hence my
7:00am wake-up call commanding me to wake up, get dressed and skedaddle as
quickly as my pink-sneakered feet were able to, as the Kid was on a mission to
shop till she dropped and then some. Out
the door by 8:00am, we had quite a hike ahead of us, as the journey would
involve numerous stops along the way, the allure of “final clearance markdown” bargains too enticing to pass on by.
It therefore
came as no surprise that we ended up within the vicinity of Carnaby Street
around lunchtime, tuckered out and famished, anxious to put our feet up and
partake of some serious people-watching whilst languishing in a quaint outdoor
café. Spotting what appeared to be a
cool British pub that was already crammed full of patrons indulging in
Guinness, cigarettes and laid-back “attitude”,
the Kid and I gleefully raced towards “Shakespeare’s
Head” in search of vacant seating.
What happened next is akin to a scene out of a comedy film, as just as I
was reaching for an adjacent chair, it was instantaneously snatched from under me
by a scrawny chain smoking wisp of a granny, who seemingly appeared out of
nowhere, stealthily scooting away and depositing her new-found chair on the
other side of the patio. Like, hello?
What just happened here? One minute, I was about to sit down on a chair and the
next minute it is literally grabbed from under my pink-sneakered bottom,
leaving me both speechless and seconds away from un-elegantly planting my hinny
on the cool, dank pavement.
Surprised,
shocked and stupefied at the sheer audacity of someone so brazen as to shamelessly
steal a chair from literally under one’s feet, the Kid and I didn’t have the
gumption to chase after “Grandma chair
snatcher”, mercilessly bowl her
down and reclaim our pub chair - even
though we had every right to do so, and would have been victoriously cheered on
by a small army of equally aghast pub patrons, who had also been witness to
this unbelievably gutsy chaise snatch episode.
Seat-less,
chair-less and lunch-less, the Kid and I had no choice but to now search for
another pub. Refusing to allow this bold
act of nervy impudence dampen our spirits, we laughed it off, chalking it up as
a once in a lifetime (let’s hope!!) experience that added an unexpected element
of incredulity to our globe-trotting escapades, a memory that won’t be
forgotten anytime soon.
And so it was
that we stumbled upon a little bit of Parisian culture a few doors away from
the English pub that we did not get to eat in, instead discovering the
gastronomic delights of “C’est Ici Brasserie”, where we were
privileged to sample some of the best frites and burgers in London.
Some things
are just meant to be and so perhaps on one of my future visits to Carnaby
Street, I’ll be older, wiser and on the lookout for a sneaky grey-haired
chain-smoking wisp of a granny, lurking
around the corner of the pub, waiting for her next unsuspecting prey.
Come traipse
around Carnaby Street and discover avant-garde cool music, French bistros, and
the Doc Martens store – all the while trying to outsmart the sneaky chaise
snatchers, who are waiting in the wings, anxious to pull that rug (or, as in my
case, chair) out from under your pink-sneakered feet.
Next week
– Where do my pink sneakers take me? Buckingham Palace? The Tower of London? The London Eye? Paddle-boat racing in Hyde Park?
Stay tuned
for more adventures with the Kid and Auntie Nora as we tour the fabulous city
of London.
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