Have you ever stopped to think about how so many places in the world have two different names? Sometimes it’s because of language, sometimes because of history, and sometimes it’s enough to create a pretty funny misunderstanding.
That thought came back to me during one of the little missions my husband and I accidentally found ourselves on with our daughter.
She was away at school working on a special project about Canada, so naturally we spent a lot of time talking about the country. Around the same time, we were also having the never-ending conversation every parent eventually has with a teenager about money. More specifically, how every minor inconvenience in life does not require DoorDash.
If you’ve ever raised a teenage girl, you already know that convincing them not to order food every time they don’t feel like cooking deserves its own Olympic sport. At one point, she spent almost thirty dollars having ice cream delivered. Then she decided she needed protein, so she added an Impossible Burger and proudly announced she was “adulting.”
Listen…I’m all for protein.
I’m just not convinced a thirty-dollar ice cream run counts as financial responsibility.
After one of those conversations, my husband finally looked at her and said, “How are we supposed to take an international trip if you don’t even have enough money to get your passport? Maybe we’re going to London.”
Well…that got her attention.
My husband and I have been fortunate enough to travel abroad a few times over the years amid life’s ever-changing landscape. This was her first passport and her first trip outside the country, so suddenly London wasn’t just somewhere she’d heard us talk about. It became a place she thought she might actually get to see.
The way she thought about spending changed overnight.
Now, before anybody feels too bad for her, let me explain something. She goes to a residential school for gifted students out of state, and the girl has seen more of the US than most since medical issues kept us here, so it’s not like she was sitting there starving. The cafeteria is literally downstairs.
Is it superior dining? Absolutely not.
But she’s getting a superior education, earning college credits before she even graduates from high school, and one day she’s going to look back and realize ramen is practically gourmet compared to some seasons of adulthood. Learning to eat what’s available might just save her someday.
There was just one tiny detail we forgot to mention.
We never said London, England.
We meant London, Ontario.
Listen…technically we never lied. We just conveniently left off the second half of the sentence.
By the time she figured it out, it had become one of those family stories we’ll probably laugh about for years.
The funny thing is, none of us ended up disappointed.
We only stayed in London for one night before heading to Toronto, and honestly, I wish we’d planned another day. The first thing I noticed wasn’t some famous landmark or must-see attraction. It was how easy the city seemed to be to live in. Bike lanes were everywhere, and not the kind that disappear after two blocks, leaving cyclists wondering whose bright idea that was. Real bike lanes, with their own traffic lights. I didn’t even know those existed anywhere. We even drove past construction where they were expanding more of them. Buses were easy to find, people were actually riding them, and everything just seemed connected. It didn’t feel like a city built around cars that later remembered pedestrians existed. It felt like somebody had actually asked, “How do people get around?” and built the city around the answer.
Our hotel for the night was a Best Western Plus, and if you’d asked me before this trip whether I’d recommend staying at a Best Western somewhere in the States, my answer would still be a solid no.
Then this one came along and made me eat my words.
Was it the fanciest hotel I’ve ever stayed in? Not even close. Was the bed the greatest thing I’ve ever slept on? Also no.
But my daughter loved the very cool waterslide, waterfall splash pad, koi pond and hot tub inside of a glass dome in the center of the hotel while my husband and I sat nearby talking about the day. Lifeguards at a hotel pool, who knew. We’d just finished dinner downstairs, and honestly, we couldn’t stop talking about that either because somehow, against all odds, one of the best meals of the trip came from the restaurant inside a Best Western.
I ordered this massive Portobello mushroom burger with arugula, tomatoes, vegan cheese with a pesto puck, as they call it, and a honey fig sauce that was absolutely delightful. Of course, I had it with a side of fries and malt vinegar. (All fries should be served with malt vinegar, but that’s another story) I washed it all down with a mocktail that was $4. No, that was not a typo: $4 for a juice, sparkling, Shirley Temple with an extra kick situation. Delicious and SO CHEAP! I have paid $6 for a soda, so that blew me away.
Sometimes the places you expect the least from end up giving you the best surprises.
The next morning, we headed downtown to visit the art museum, and that ended up being my favorite stop in London.
The museum is donation-based, which I absolutely love. If you can give, wonderful. If you can’t, they still want you to experience the art. I wish more museums worked that way because art shouldn’t be something reserved for people who can afford an admission ticket.
As we wandered through the galleries, one thing kept standing out to me. There were artists from all kinds of backgrounds, cultures, and lived experiences. It wasn’t one exhibit tucked away in a corner somewhere or a highlighted exhibition that screams “Look at me, we’re diverse.” It was woven throughout the museum. Every room had another story to tell, every wall was layered with an array of perspectives, and you could tell real thought, adorned with appreciation for humanity, had been put into making sure people could see themselves reflected somewhere inside those walls.
Then we wandered into Yaya’s Café.
Y’all…This was not Starbucks.
Tucked inside the museum is this little African café, and the smell alone is enough to pull us in. We all ordered various versions of the signature house coffees because if you’re standing someplace new, why would you order the safe choice? Every single latte concoction was incredible. Rich, smooth, warm, incredibly flavor forward, and unlike anything I know how to make at home.
Then the food came.
Hear me out.
Plantains are not bananas.
People compare them all the time, and they’re just wrong.
These were warm, sweet, soft, and caramelized around the edges to perfection. Then they set this little bowl of peanuts on the table, and I remember thinking, “Well, that’s different.”
Now, I already have a soft spot for honey roasted peanuts. Honestly, give me a bowl of honey roasted peanuts, some popcorn, and a glass of wine, and I’m calling that dinner.
These weren’t honey roasted.
These had some kind of African seasoning on them that started with a little kick and got hotter with every morsel. I still have no idea what they put on them, but I couldn’t stop eating them. The sweetness of those plantains with those spicy peanuts was just a bewildering combination I didn’t know I needed. I shared in disbelief of what I was eating, but I didn’t want to share. Every bite made me reach right back for another. We also partook in the sambosasa, and well…it was eyes-rolling-back-in-your-head good.
After we finished eating, I wandered over to the little retail corner of the café. I’d already spied a print I needed while we were waiting for our food, and before we headed on our merry way, I grabbed it.
At checkout, the chef and owner came out of the kitchen to introduce himself. Since it was our first visit, he asked where we were from, what had brought us to London, and before long, we were talking about food, art, and the importance of culture.
As we talked, he mentioned the beautiful blue wallpaper on the largest unobstructed wall in the restaurant. It showed Black families enjoying the water with the words Soft Life woven throughout the design.
He smiled, regaling us with the history of indigo and its significance throughout parts of West Africa. He explained how communities like the Yoruba people of Nigeria, known for their beautiful Adire cloth, and the Hausa have worked with indigo for centuries. That deep blue wasn’t chosen just because it was beautiful. It represented prestige, prosperity, and spiritual strength. In many traditions, newborn babies are wrapped in indigo cloth as a blessing of protection.
I just stood there for a second.
Blue has always been one of my favorite colors.
It was my grandma’s favorite color, too.
I have no idea if she ever knew any of that history. Maybe she did. Maybe she simply loved blue because it made her smile. Either way, standing in the corner of Yaya’s Café, holding a print I’d already decided was coming home with me, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Funny how that happens.
You travel somewhere expecting to learn about someone else’s history, and every now and then you accidentally stumble across a little piece of your own.
We walked back out into London carrying a print, a full stomach, and a whole lot more than we’d expected to find in a city we almost overlooked.
I thought London was the surprise of the trip. Then we got to Toronto and accidentally discovered an entire city underground. But that’s a story for another day.
