Down & Out In Barrow-In-Furness

I left London by train and have arrived in Barrow-In-Furness. The journey pushes to the north weast of England, passing up the coast. White sheep dot the green hills on one side; on the other, the low tide sea reveals chocolate-coloured mudflats pock-marked with pools of silver water. The sky is grey.

Barrow-In-Furness is home to a massive shipbuilding industry that has, like most globalized company towns, slowed to a crawl since the end of the Cold War. For years, this town of 70,000 people has pumped out big bad nuclear submarines, oil tankers, frigates, and ferries. Now the docks are empty. The last boat to leave was the ill-fated Canadian HMS Chicoutimi that burst into flames in the north Atlantic: a weapon of mass destruction turned into a weapon of self-destruction. The tragedy seems to be a bitter send off the local industry that won't see another launch until 2007 (or so they say).

Any rumor of a future nuclear-powered ship-building contract will make more headlines than would a nuclear war.

Burrows-In-Furness is on the border of England and Soctland -- so close that you have to be careful not to to mix it up, because people can be sensitive about that. It's low-lying, with squat, 2-storey homes in neat lines that all have a stubbly moss growing up through the shingles. The town hall is the crowning glory of the town's Victorian accoutrements. The older buildings house Chinese take-aways, two-table pubs, and barren travel agencies. Beyond, the massive shipyards look like airplane hangars. They loom over the town, fenced off with barbed wire. This peaceful-looking town makes some of the worlds largest, most lethal weapons on earth. Beyond you can see the sea, bringing in the smell of salt. When the wind shifts, you can smell sheep in the surrounding hills.

I am staying in the Hotel Majestic. But Majestic it is not. In the lobby, they proudly display a framed copy of the Tourist Authority's 2-Star hotel rating. The elevator moves so slow, it feels like an old man is hoisting me up in a fridge. The walls are covered in acres of white wallpaper with bright pink flowers. The showers spill out water that should boil a lobster or sooth a polar bear. The carpet is its own self-sustaining ecosystem.

It is a refreshing pace here -- people make eye contact with you in the streets. People are patient. If you want to tie your shoe in the middle of the street, no one will bump into you. It's a young town; it has a strip of decent pubs and clubs -- including one with a mechanical bull on the main floor that everyone attempts to conquer after a few beers. It also has a shady side. The local paper speaks of "dozens" of childen addicted to smack. As my taxi driver said: "aye, is kin'a dead dooring the week, but eh, on a fry-eh nigh' it get priddy even!"

Home in Brixton

Where do I live in Brixton?

Forget what you’ve heard about London in your Dickens books. Life here is not about clammy linen, cold water showers, rats, and the plague. I live in a newly renovated flat with a very nice couple, Jon (from Essex) and Deb (from Scotland). I found them over the Internet and my gamble paid off.



Inside, it is bright and clean with a gourmet kitchen—and proper hot water heater. Their love of designer furniture and exotic plants and a-la-mode music makes a journeyman’s travels easier at the end of the day in a fast paced city. At night, we share the cooking and drink red wine. Best of all, in the back of the flat there is a shared garden with large trees and lines of shrubs. Although it is now winter – bringing grey skies and rain – I wake up to the sound of birds singing and the wind blowing through the leaves. It is a nice soothing way to wake up before moving trough the busy streets. Unfortunately, I have made them addicts of one important Canadian institution: a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee in the morning which I make from my secret stash.

Just don’t ask how much this flat costs me per month once I convert the rent into feeble Canuck bucks.

Ouch.

Electric Avenue

The Leaning Tower of Big Ben, shot through the sunroof of a car.

I will not try to describe London for it does not need any introduction.

As the birthplace of my own language, home to Charles Dickens etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc it would be futile to try and write a definitive 2000-year-old history. Old, red-faced drunkards were tipping back pints of brew here in the local pubs as Champlain tried to find a warm place to live in Canada. Nor do I need to paint any pictures. I bet you have a postcard of Big Ben on your refrigerator, a tin tray with a map of the Underground, or a Union Jack t-shirt buried deep in your drawer. As one of the largest transport hubs, I am surely one of the few remaining humans on earth who is spending his first time here. You’ve probably already seen the Changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace, you’ve taken a double-decker bus, and you've walked up the Tower of London. And seen other things: Carnaby Street, Custards, Trafalgar, Tabloids, Thames, The Tube, Towers, Pubs, Piccadilly Circus, St. Pauls, Sir Paul, Serpentine, Sublime, Abbey Road, Diana.

Brixton


The Halal butcher with boiling chickens hangin by their feet, Electic Ave.

Insetead of London, I have settled in Brixton, south of the Thames. You won’t find many postcards from here. It’s the last stop on the tube line, dangling on for dear life. Yet it has an infamous reputation. In the 1980’s it had race riots – similar to those of Rodney King in LA. Brixton is home to a large Caribbean community, mainly from Jamaica. The Reggae-Poet Linton Kwesi Johnson made street names like Railton Road famous after the anti-Thatcher demonstrations. It is also the home of Electric Avenue – the Eddie Grant Song – named so because it was (apparently) the first street in London that was blessed with electricity. Although it may have been the centre of progress 100 years ago, it is now the home of old-world capitalism. Similar to a Carribean market, there are dozens of small food stalls piled high with fresh bananas, plantain, potatoes, and peaches -- cheaper than the nearby supermarkets. There are small butchers that sell oxtail, cow tongues, and plucked chickens that hang from hooks with their heads still attached. There is also the usual assortment of electro-gizmos, phone cards, and refurbished cell phones. It's a busy place. Buzzing. All of London is busy. But downtown London has the usual capital-city roster of stores that I can see everywhere from Bangkok to Berlin: Starbucks, The Body Shop, Footlocker, HMV, and Micky D's.

But Brixton also has a seedy side. As I walked through the Electric Avenue market, I was followed by a man with a baseball cap.

“Psst,” he said.
“You need some ganja man?”
“Nah”
“Any tin’. What ya need, mon?”
“Nah. Nothing.”
I kept on walking. He followed.
“You sure?” he said.
“Ya. I'm quite sure. But thanks anyway.”
“Ya new ‘round here?”
“Yes,” I said reluctantly.
“What’chu do. You a student?”
“No.”
“Then what cha doin’.”
“I’m a journalist.”
I hoped saying that would have discouraged him. I could be undercover, afterall. Maybe I knew some police officers. Or something like that.
“Ah. I see,” he said with a grin. “But even a jounalis’ need to get imself ‘igh now and then.”

A suit for London

Before I left for London, I decided that, since I was going to be working in an office environment, I should buy some new clothes. My student-budget-era jean and sweaters were faded; my coat was covered in those tiny little balls. I didn’t look terrible, just worn. I just needed to spiff a few items up.

One sunny fall day, I was in Kensington Market in Toronto. I was about to start my grocery shopping. As I headed to the bulk bean shop, I passed Tom’s Place, the notorious suit and menswear shop on Baldwin Street.

I hopped off my bike, chained it to a post, and entered the front door. I was wearing a pair of cutoff shorts; my hair was cemented to my head with sweat, shaped into an aerodynamic bowl by my helmet. I wandered past the rows of suits, the racks of ties, the neatly folded piles of sweaters. I could smell the chemical dyes in the air-conditioned air. I realized I had no idea what to buy. I was struck with analysis paralysis. Do I need Khakis? Collared shirts? Ties? The price for one shirt was exceeded my budget for three normal shirts. I didn’t know if the office was a suit-and-tie kind of place, or had it adapted to the more North American business casual phenomenon.

In panic, I turned to leave. Suddenly, I salesman approached. He had a head full of neatly combed white hair and a matching beard. He wore a pair of grey flannel pants with a blue sweater with a white collar jutting from the collar. He held his hands together behind his back as he walked.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked.

His accent was British. I was going to England. I realized that I was in luck. He would know what to suggest. With an English accent, surely he knew what the people of London wore to work.

“Hi, well, I am going to be working in London. In an office. And I am trying to figure out what I should be wearing, what I should, you know, buy.”

“Well,” he snuffed. His eyes scanned my body. “You can’t be going around in what you are wearing now.”

“Oh”

“London is a very dressy city.”

“I heard that.”

“What will you be doing, where will you be working?”

“At CBC. As a journalist.”

He paused. He was searching is internal database to pull out the proper dress code for journalists.

“Well, you’ll need a proper coat for the winter. That’s a start. Can’t go around without that. Then will work on everything else.”

He lead me to a rack of black trenchcoats, some with large belts that fastened up along the waist. There was other man, also with grey hair, tying on the same coat. These looked like something Inspector Gadget would don, or a serial exhibitionist.

"It's a bit conservative isn't it?"

"Well, London is conservative," he replied. He leaned his elbow against the rack.

I suddenly felt a wave of panic rush through my body.

"What about business casual?"

"No no no. Certainly not. You need a proper suit and tie to get by."

The cheapest suit in the store was $400. I had to work five days a week. The math was deepening my panic.

"I'll have to come back," I said. I realized I would have to reacess my wardrobe, try to salvage my old clothes and see if my old suit, my old pants could be given new life. "I'll come back later."

I left the shop and rode home on my bike.