Bars are better by the dozen

Hello Christmas my old friend, I’ve come to talk of you again.
One of the best parts of the Christmas season is that old friends and family who have moved away from London come home for the holidays.
For the last 25 years I’ve called London my home so I usually wait for people to come to me, but this year is different – this year I came back to the 519 after spending three months in Fiji.
At the risk of sounding cliché, there’s no place like home, especially during Christmas time.
And my timing couldn’t have been better. Not only would I be home for Christmas, Boxing Day, New Year’s Eve and my birthday – but I would also be home for the 5th Annual 12 Bars of Christmas.
Twelve bars, the brainchild of Dave Strano, is night of organized Christmas bar-hopping where CCH alumni –- and those who wish they attended Catholic Central – get together to drink, drink and be merry.
Now in its fifth year, the event has become the de facto meeting place for many friends who wouldn’t normally see each other. I, for example, have limited time in London and won’t get a chance to spend time with everyone I would like to see. One friend of mine is coming home from Belgium and only staying in town for a short time, another is now a proud father and doesn’t have time for partying, but we all decided to go out for 12 bars. The night is a one-stop shop for catching up with old friends or having a much-needed night out with familiar faces.
More than 150 people came out for the night, which starts in downtown’s south end and gradually moves northward one watering hole at a time.
Allow me to use a metaphor to describe the 12 bars. The event is like a snowball rolling down a hill. It starts out small, perhaps with old man Strano, his Fugazi crew and few die-hards. But slowly the snowball starts to pick up momentum as it gets rolling to new bars, and with each bar it picks up more and more people people. Eventually the snowball becomes gigantic and somewhat out of control (usually around the 8th bar) as a group exceeding 100 rolls down Richmond Row.
Most in attendance try to drink at least one drink before “the Skip” blows his trademark whistle signaling time for the snowball to roll out, but some seasoned veterans manage to down two beverages with time to spare.
At some of the locations, the 12 bars crew are the only patrons, while at other stops we mix in with students fresh off finishing exams, unknown locals – and even another, albeit much weaker, 12 bars party.
From fraternizing with a freckled friend who I see only once a year on 12 bars to telling tantalizing tales of my Fijian escapades to having a few drinks with some old pals I never should have fallen out of touch with the evening is an incredible success.
The night has a specific feeling that cannot be replicated on any of the calendar’s other 364 days. I don’t know where I’ll be living next year, but I’m already looking forward to coming back to London for the 12 bars of 2010.

A taste of the Pacific in London

One of the great parts about travelling is bringing a small piece of a foreign country back home: both figuratively and literally.

Last week I came back to my hometown of London, Ontario, for Christmas and I have never been so happy to be home. On Saturday my parents threw me a welcome home, Fiji theme party. Fijian folk music filled the air, the walls were decorated with wooden masks and swords purchased in Suva, there was a ton of food, and of course, plenty of kava being passed around.

With the exception of my parents, who visited me in Fiji, and my uncle Skip (who has been pretty much everywhere in the world) nobody in attendance had ever stepped foot on the tiny Pacific Island, and little was known about its culture.

All of my aunts, uncles, cousins and friends had lots of questions about the far away land that I now call home, and I was happy to showcase my new found knowledge of the country I once knew nothing of. I talked about food, politics, music, sports, living conditions and especially weather – all of which my family and friends were genuinely interested in.

Then came the part everyone was waiting for: drinking kava.

From reading my blog, everyone at the party heard plenty about the traditional Fijian drink – and its mouth numbing, relaxing effect.

We all gathered at the table while Hart brewed up a large pot of the brownish liquid. Those brave enough to partake in the festivities took a seat, while the fearful watched from a safe distance away.

When the brew was ready, Hart began passing a kava-filled coconut shell around the table in a clockwise direction. Some drinkers took the kava with grace and dignity while others ran for chasers. There were those who smiled after the drink and those who resembled Fear Factor contestants after drinking. Some requested high tides (big portions), while some opted for low tides (small portions). Even my grandma tried a drink.

Feeling loose from the kava, the party moved into the living room to view a slideshow of Hart’s and my adventures in Fiji. Hart put together an incredible 15-minute slideshow featuring some of our best pictures (we took more than a thousand) mixed with music.

People laughed; people were awed by the country’s beauty; and people asked questions.

After the slideshow, the party migrated back into the kitchen for some more kava and food.

Not only did the guests leave that night slightly mellower from the kava, they also left my house a little worldlier.

Fiji’s history and culture isn’t taught in Canadian classrooms – but that doesn’t mean it’s unimportant. The short time I’ve already spent in Fiji has been an incredible learning experience, and now I’m sharing what I’ve learned with my family and friends back home.

Despite being 12,343 km away, Fiji came to London, Ontario on December 12.

A terminal treat

Often people refer to airports as hell, but really they’re more of a purgatory.
Airports and purgatory are similar in the sense that there’s nothing to do there – except to wait around for what seems like forever. Like purgatory, nobody is happy to be stuck in an airport, and yet, there’s a sense of better things to come.
But as of late, I’ve found a positive aspect about spending time in an airport: the amazing newspaper selection.
One of the biggest limitations of newspaper circulation is the problem of proximity. Remember, a newspaper is unsellable after 24 hours, so it’s not feasible for papers to distribute too far outside of their market base.
Therefore, I’m in newspaper hell over in Fiji. Because the island is so isolated, there are absolutely no newspapers here except for Fijian papers – which, to say the least, aren’t great.
So I was actually excited about flying home this week because I haven’t cracked a decent paper in three months.
Suddenly, the prospect of a 10-hour layover in the LAX airport doesn’t seem so daunting; it will give me a chance to finally read every inch of the renowned Los Angeles Times. Living in London, Ontario, it’s impossible to get a copy of the LA Times. Yes, I know you can read it online, but it’s just not the same.
So while my travel companion Hart opted to take a nap in the LAX lobby, I dash off to the airport general store.
At the newsstand I feel like a kid in a candy store. Racks and racks of America’s finest papers filled the store. The smell of newsprint fills the air. Geography isn’t a problem at this paper shop because flights from all over the world are coming in – so it’s stocked with papers from every corner of the U.S.
Although tempted by both the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, I pick up my first copy of the LA Times. I headed for the nearest bench and open my paper with the excitement of a child opening a Christmas present.
For a few hours I actually enjoy my layover, while I read a great column by Steve Lopez (the reporter who inspired the Jamie Foxx movie The Soloist).
Which leads me to wonder: maybe purgatory wouldn’t be so bad if it just had some quality reading.