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Rambling Along Birdcage Walk and Vintage Pinter

Jul16


Monday, July 15, 2013
London
It seems I simply have to catch up with sleep—after two inexplicable wake-ups (one at 3. 00 am), I slept till 7. 30 am which is a virtual London lie-in record for me. This meant that I missed the 8.00 am Mass but sleep did me a world of good and my periodic drowsiness was history.
I worked steadily for two hours reviewing comments from my editors and re-drafting my proposal when I stopped for breakfast (muesli with Greek style honey yoghurt), then decided to take a chance and get the “10 at 10” tickets that the sales assistant at Trafalgar Studios told me was easily available. I hopped into the Tube, got off at Charing Cross and was lucky to get the last remaining 10 pound ticket for The Hot House—Harold Pinter’s tragi-comedy set in a mental institution in the 1950s. For me, the star attraction was Simon Russel Beale whom Stephen Fry calls one of the most brilliant British actors of our time. How thrilled I was to make my dream come true. Since this is theater in the round, my stage-side seats would be terrific, I knew, and in the States, I could never dream of seeing Broadway drama for $15! Forget it!
It was time to take advantage of another glorious day in T’Smoke. Although it is hot, there is zero humidity in the air so I am rarely uncomfortable. Armed with a bottle of water, sunglasses and a baseball cap, I feel ready to conquer the streets. My aim was to finish the sights around Westminster and Whitehall recommended by DK Eye Witness Guides, but I was also keeping my eye on the recommendations of City Secrets London.
Sculpture of Charles I at Trafalgar:
Being that I was at Trafalgar Square, it made sense to scrutinize the statue of King Charles I who is routinely overshadowed by the towering presence of Nelson on his pedestal just behind. Yet, Charlie is the oldest fixture in that space, having been installed on his mount—the work of Hubert Le Seuer—in 1633. The sculpture predates Trafalgar Square itself by 150 years although it was not installed at this location until 1675 “having been sold under Cromwell to a brazier who, with a shrew eye to later financial advantage, buried it until the Restoration although he was instructed to destroy it”. He gazes down Whitehall which would have been the route he took to his execution in 1649 at the Banqueting Hall which he constructed in honor or his father, James I. Once a year, on January 30 at 11.00 am, a wreath-laying ceremony occurs to commemorate his ill-fated end. 
     
A Peep into London’s Oldest Wine Bar:
            It was time to make a detour into Villiers Street sandwiched between The Strand and the Embankment. Touted by many as the most Dickensian watering hole in the city, it simply demands a look-see—Gordon’s Wine Bar. And what a fantastic place it turned out to be! At any minute you expect Fagin to emerge from its shadows in the basement with its low-hung arches resembling a medieval cathedral crypt. Dark, smoke-streaked walls—the result of a forest of candles stuck into wine bottles—crammed with 1950’s memorabilia (suddenly made so much more significant after the Diamond Jubilee), also moth-stained and sepia-ed with time, add to the overall atmosphere of this place. No room here for light, for space, for improvement—as the present “gastro pubs” boast. This is Victorian olde-world at its most authentic. For those wishing to breathe in unpolluted, non-alcoholic air, there is a café that borders the Embankment Gardens at the back. Don’t be fooled by the nondescript exterior—although it too is profoundly aged—but take the challenge and descend the narrow, dark and dinghy stairs and enter into an era that fairly bristles with history. Be assured that Kipling who lived in the same building (today known as Kipling House) would have been a regular as well as Kenneth Clarke who came with his entire crew after filming portions of Civilizationat the National and stood quietly, drink in hand, in the corner, drowning the day’s stresses away. Gordon’s serves your traditional pub grub (read Roast Beef with all the trimmings) but most patrons come in to drink in—both the spirits and the spirit of centuries past.
Saying Hello to Embankment Heroes:
            A long-ish walk down the Embankment (opposite the Thames side) brought me within hand-shaking distance of a number of British war heroes, statesmen and colonialists—all remembered in cast metal on lofty pedestals and surrounded by the seasonal splendor of flowers: sunflowers, begonias, day lilies. I recognized Bartle Frere after whom Frere Road in Bombay is named. There is William Tynedale who translated the Greek Bible into English and was executed for his pains. There is a monument to the Chindis, a World War II regiment based largely in Burma, with an appropriate lion symbolizing the ferocity of the regiment. It is a pity that most people choose to walk along the river and these wonderful symbols of British history are largely ignored.
Leaving the tourist chaos of Parliament Square behind me, I turned onto Birdcage Walk—lovely name and I pause to wonder about its origins as most “funny” names in the UK carry an appropriately funny story. It borders St. James’ Park—its leafiest, shadiest portion, thanks to the massive plane trees that make it a bosky place.   
Rambling Down Birdcage Walk:
            First stop, Queen Anne’s Gate. I can hear the booming of the last of the Changing of the Guard on Pall Mall as I enter this wonderfully 18thcentury enclave, complete with its granite statue of Queen Anne whose haughty gaze sweeps the residences. They have elaborate canopied entrances, some in stucco, others wooden. Historical worthies lived here—from Prime Minister Palmerston to philosopher like Haldane.
            From here, it is a short hop to St. James’ Park Tube Station which is built into the building known as 55 Broadway—it reminds me of Bush House at Aldwych in its grey solidity. The building is remarkable for its Jacob Epstein sculptures that punctuate it at regular intervals. All you have to do is raise your head upwards to take in the marvels of one of the 20thcentury’s most famed sculptors. Inside the station, Art Deco elements are evident in the light fixtures. One of these days, I shall find the time to take in the art and sculpture of the Tube stations—it will be like a Progressive Museum Tour, no doubt.
            Circling the building, I arrive at Caxton Street, home to the Blewcoat School that was founded in 1707 as a charity school to teach pupils how to :read, write, cast accounts and the catechism”. It remained a school until 1939—indicated by the blue-coated pupil sculpted high on its entrance just below the ubiquitous clock—became an army store during World War II (every place in the country was requisitioned during the war), was bought by the National Trust in 1954 and used as their gift shop until recently. Alas, today it stands wan and forlorn, disused and empty. No doubt some savvy entrepreneur will soon come calling to initiate yet another Java Stop in these hallowed, red brick premises.
            The Guards Museum, back on Birdcage Walk, was next on my agenda: although I did not have the time to enter the Museum, I did pay my respects at the attached chapel with its moth-eaten standards flying from flag-poles along the sides and its stunning gold mosaic altar in Byzantine style. The Horse Guards are so revered that they have their own house of worship where Sunday choral services take place routinely and a gift shop that sells toy soldiers in virtually every avatar.
            By this time, I had reached St. James’ Court and spying a different sort of standard flying from it—that of the Taj Group of Hotels—I could not resist exploring it. I have a long family association with the Taj as my brother once worked for the group and a special affection for it as someone who has often used its excellent hotels. I have also learned from long and frequent travels that five-star hotels make great comfort stops as their lobby restrooms can often be used by the public. I needed a sit-down rather badly and air-conditioning in the lobby made it particularly welcome on another toasty day. The bonus was wifi which I used to check email and re-check the number of my doctor at the Holborn Medical Center. Attempts to call and make an appointment based on the number I had stored, drew a blank. Armed with the new number, I tried to make an appointment with little success for my sulphur allergy which has flared up again in an itchy, uncomfortable rash. Though I faced initial frustration, I have to say that the Triage Doctor called me back within the hour and gave me an appointment for that very afternoon at 2. 20 pm. It would mean making changes in my plans, but I conceded. Who knows when they would be able to fit me in next if I dithered?
            I found the time to sit under the shade of the above-mentioned plane trees and munch my ox tongue sandwiches in the company of other office-goers who were drawn irresistibly to sunshine and shade provided by the Park where Henry VIII had once hunted lustily. My sandwiches were made more delicious by my picnic environment, but much as I would have liked to linger, I had a doctor’s appointment to keep.
            So off I went on the Tube from St. James’ Park station to Lamb’s Conduit Street at Holborn, sorry to discover that my regular doctor is no more with the practice but equally delighted to discover that his place had been taken by an American doctor—one John Roegner, originally from Michigan, who knew the names of all my American medication and could work with me to combat the allergy. After a very companionable chat and an examination, I left with a prescription for a local cream to be applied twice a day and instructions to return to see him again, should it not work. My faith in the NHS was reinstated and I was grateful for the speedy service. The pharmacy next-door provided the medication which I purchased quite reasonably and returned to my plans for the day.
Meeting A Friend at the Tate Britain:
            This involved returning home to pick up my field glasses for the play in the evening before nipping into the Tube again. This time my destination was the Tate Britain to see the Turners in the Clore Collection with my friend Murali Menon, a fellow art-lover and blogger. A short walk from Pimlico brought me to the Millbank Embankment where Murali was awaiting my arrival at the main entrance. We sat down to cups of tea in the noisy Manton Café first for a lively chinwag when I discovered that Murali, an IT guy, might help me fix the glitch on my blog that was making the inputting of text impossible. He offered to come over to the Holborn flat to take a look and thrilled with his suggestion, I jumped up, rushed off to look at the Turners—only to discover that they demanded more than just a cursory glance. I would need to return for a more leisurely look.
            But first things first: within twenty minutes, Murali and I were heading back on the Tube, speeding to Holborn, where within minutes, he figured out that simply changing my browser might enable me to solve the problem. And indeed it did! From Internet Explorer to Mozilla Firefox I went and hey presto! My blog is now alive and running—as you can see. Murali’s efforts were rewarded by a chilled lemonade and a slice of lemon sponge roll cake. We had to alter our plans to meet at the Tate again—but it was so worthwhile. Ten minutes later, Murali left and I was able to take a shower and get dressed for my evening out at the theater.
The Hot Houseat Trafalgar Studios:
            I have seen a lot of drama over the years at the Trafalgar Studios—a small, intimate, amphitheater-like space that I dearly love. Arriving on the Tube at 7. 25 pm, I took my place behind the stage and was so close to the actors that my field glasses were completely unnecessary. I could not have snagged better seats if I had paid a small fortune for them! And what a show it was! This is vintage Harold Pinter—in a play he had abandoned for a long while before returning to direct it himself in the 1980s and to play the lead role of Colonel Root (superbly performed by Simon Russel Beale). This is dark comedy at its most explosive for the setting is the controversial mental health institutes that were run by totalitarian regimes specifically to use electric shock therapy to silence dissidents. It was shocking, it was brutal, it was fearsome and it was hilarious—all at the same time. Brilliant (and I do not use this word just because I am in the UK) performances, superb playwriting, excellent direction combined to make this scintillating at every turn. I loved every second—and the bonus was the chance to see British stars of film and TV in the flesh. I had gone to see Beale but on stage, I found Indira Varma (with whom I have recently become familiar in her role as Luther’s wife in the Idris Alba crime drama), a much slimmed down Harry Melling (who plays Harry Potter’s fat cousin Dudley in all the films of the series) and Christopher Timothy (James Herriot in All Creatures Great and Small) whom I have loved for years. What a treat it was and how determined I am now to get as many 10 pound tickets as I possibly cam for all the stage dramas I wish to see. Thank you Jamie Lloyd for directing such a satisfying production.
            Twilight had fallen over Trafalgar Square when I emerged from the theater and I had half a mind to jump on a bus and get out there to see the monuments illuminated—but it had been a long day and I needed to review a chapter that has a strict deadline. So I resisted temptation and went back home for dinner (quiche, salad, cherries) and in very little time, I was off to bed.
            Until tomorrow, cheerio!                    

A Most Ecclesiastical Sort of Day!

Jul15
Sunday, July 14, 2013
London:
A Most Ecclesiastical Day!
    Sine today was a Sunday, I suppose it is not surprisingly that my day turned out to be mostly ecclesiastical. I awoke at 4. 10 am, forced myself to go back to sleep; woke again at 5. 15 am and once again psyched myself back to sleep. Eventually it was 6. 45 am when I got out a bed—a virtual Sunday lie-in for Early Bird Me. In bed, I finished blogging, caught up with email and sorted out my day—which was largely unplanned. Sometimes, a bit of spontaneity is called for: and today proved to be one of those unstructured days that bring unexpected delights.
Mass at my Former ‘Parish’ Church:
            It felt like old times when I left my Holborn apartment at 8. 45 am to attend Sunday Mass at St. Etheldreda’s Church that is tucked away in a hidden corner of Holborn Circus called Ely Place. Those of you who read my blog regularly might remember this historic church that is considered Britain’s oldest Catholic Church as it was the first one to re-convert to Catholicism after the Reformation. Miraculously, it also survived the Blitz. On the stained glass windows  on the side walls, there are names of church worthies dating from the 1100s. I took my seat in its beautiful hushed interior, relieved to see that the small landing leading to the church doors is now brightly lit with a brand-new light fixture. In the days when I worshipped there, it was dark and unwelcoming.
            Some things change with the passage of time; and some things remain the same. I was amazed to see so many Sunday ‘regulars’ still there: the lady with the braid who serves as Lector, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday—with no one else serving in this important ministry—I wonder why. There is the overweight lady who needs help moving to the Communion rails—still there in the pew she occupied four years ago. The celebrant was the same too: Fr. Tom Deidun, the Welsh priest, who had welcomed me to the church five years ago. But other priests have left: the Indian priest from Kerala, Fr. Sebu, is no longer there; and neither is the Frenchman, Fr. Dennis. As usual, the church was full of tourists—they probably read about the church on the internet. A large group from America was present this morning—they are en route to Paris. I have always loved the Tudor/Victorian interior of this church and every time I am in London, I try to worship here at least once—not only does it evoke in me the state of mind in which I was when I lived in London but its ambience is profoundly conducive to prayer and reflection.
                   
Home for Brekkie and Another Mass:
            I got home to my muesli brekkie and made myself a cup of coffee that I sipped slowly as I watched Saturday Kitchen highlights. Then, at 10. 45 am, I left the flat, jumped into a bus and was at St. Paul’s Cathedral in exactly 10 minutes—just in time to join my friend Cynthia who had reserved a seat for me (“in Row Two”) for the amazing Mass in Angustiis (Nelson Mass) composed by Haydn that is performed once a year at 11.00 am. Here is a word about the Mass from the brochure that was handed out:
            “Although Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) would have known very few details of Lord Nelson’s campaign against Napoleon as he was composing the Missa in Angustiis (Mass in Time of Fear), in 1798, the war was very much in the minds of the courtiers at Esterhazy (where the composer was employed) and, following news of the victory at Abukir, the Mass (first performed on 15th September) became known as the Nelson Mass. In 1795, Haydn returned from a trip to London (where he composed his 104th and final symphony, and where he was reportedly moved to tears by the voices of 6,000 children in the Charity Schools Anniversary Service held in St. Paul’s) to find himself commissioned to write a new mass each year in the name of the Princess Esterhazy. The Nelson Mass is the third of the six masses that Haydn completed in response to this request from Prince Esterhazy.  It was scored for three trumpets, timpani, strings and solo organ (which Haydn himself would have played), soloists and choir.  With its unusually violent outbursts of fortissimo sound, it is a magnificent and stately work, which seems to befit both its original purpose and its adopted sobriquet.”
            I was pleasantly surprised to find Mark Hansen from New York who works for St. Paul’s in New York seated next to me. Over the years, he has become a friend and it is always a pleasure to see him. I was also introduced to a female priest from Copenhagen named Ulla. To my immense surprise, my friend Cynthia was wearing the exact same necklace that Llew had bought for me on our cruise—indeed Michael had bought the necklace for Cynthia on a similar Baltic Sea cruise—I just could not get over the sheer coincidence of it. Great minds think alike?
            Once the Mass started, I was simply enthralled from Note One. There is nothing quite awe-inspiring, I think, that a sung mass in the splendid confines of a Baroque Christopher Wren Cathedral under a ceiling painted by James Thornhill which creates brilliant acoustics. Every note resounds in the space—so much so that the soprano soloist who stole the show and had a voice of such clarity it evoked a crystal bell. The little boy choristers did as grand a job as they always do. The sermon preached by Rev. Mark Oakley was stirring (no one can preach like the Anglicans—well, maybe the Catholic Redemptorists!) Despite the fact that the Mass took over an hour and a half to end, not a single second dragged. I was so glad I attended because it is only rarely that I have the opportunity to experience so fine an audio treat.
            Cynthia insisted I return to Amen Court for lunch—which I did. It was simple but good: just fish cakes, a salad that I helped prepare with arugula, strawberries, melon, tomatoes, cucumber, dried cranberries and pistachios with a balsamic vinaigrette and a fruit salad for dessert.
Off to Celebrate Bastille Day at Borough Market:
            After lunch, Cynthia decided to join me at Borough Market on the South Bank of the Thames to celebrate Bastille Day—Le Quartorze Juillet—a national holiday in France that recalls the overthrow of the monarchy and the establishment of the French Republic. Borough Market was converted into a French village market with every conceivable purveyor of fine French food showing off his wares. As Cynthia and I made the rounds of the stalls, we were treated to a variety of cheese, brownies, spreads, even Turkish delight. At a cookery demonstration where Blanquette de Veau was prepared and offered for sampling, I was appalled to discover that the lady had completely forgotten to season the stew—it was completely saltless! I had to actually spit it out!
            The most gruesome part of the afternoon was one of the ‘games’ set up in Jubilee Park which included a Mock Guillotine. A guy with white painted face and wearing the costume of a monk invited people (for small payment) to place their heads on the stand. He shouted’ Three Two One”—which made it think “Trois, Deux, Un” would have been more appropriate—and then pulled the rope to bring down the steel blade of the guillotine to chop their heads off. Needless to say, it fell into a slot leaving the head intact—although the sporting participants playacted rather well by getting their tongues to loll out on cue! Not surprising that I heard little ones crying with terror on viewing the sport!    
Cynthia bought some Comte cheese and some sausages and then we were making our way towards the Globe Theater to cross Wobbly Bridge once again and return to Amen Court for a nice cuppa and a slice of Victoria Sandwich (sponge cake filled with strawberry jam and cream).
At 4. 45 pm, I said goodbye to Cynthia and returned alone to the Cathedral for a free organ recital by Edward Picton-Turberville of St. John’s College, Cambridge. It was wonderful again, as expected. I stayed for the entire first work: Prelude and Fugue in C Minor by J.S. Bach; but soon I felt as if I had subjected myself to an overdose of church music and I left on my next mission.
Off to St. John’s Wood on a Mission of Mercy:
            Cynthia lent me a small suitcase with which I can move around London more conveniently in the next month. I picked it up from her place, then caught the bus home to drop it off. I was back on the Tube again in a few minutes only to get off at Oxford Circus which was winding up for the day—it was 5. 45 pm when I entered Marks and Spencer to buy some Coffee Walnut Cake and Lemon Sponge Roll for my tea. And then I was on the 139 bus from Marble Arch, heading to St. Johns’ Wood, to water balcony plants for my friend Raquel and Chris who have left for the States. I was there, 20 minutes later and the plants were duly watered. It was a mission of mercy for the day had been very toasty indeed— mercury climbing all the way to 88 degrees which is sizzling for Londoners—although without any humidity in the air, I was rarely uncomfortable.  The tourists were still there at the Beatles’ crossing—I think I shall have some entertaining moments when I move into the flat next week just watching their antics as they try to get the Fab Four’s pose exactly right! Then I was on the bus back to Marble Arch from where I took the Tube back home at 7. 30 pm.
            Catching up on email and this blog took me all of the next hour when I paused for dinner: Quiche, Salad, Cake while watching something on TV called “Mock the Week”. At 11. 00 pm, it was Lights Out for me after what had been a long and unexpectedly fun Bastille Day spent largely in the company of my friend Cynthia.
             Thanks for reading my blog. Now how about penning some comments?
              Until tomorrow, Cheerio!
            
      

A Spontaneous Saturday–Bastille Day, National Gallery, Hog Roast

Jul15


Saturday, July 13, 2013:
London
           
Saturday Sans Plan:
            Things seemed to go particularly badly for me today. Pre-dawn wake-ups (today at 4. 50 am after which I forced myself to go back to sleep and then wake at 6. 10 am) means that I feel extremely drowsy mid-afternoon and can barely stand, forget about trying to force my eyes open.
I did a bit of work on my PC, then washed, dressed, had a muesli breakfast while watching BBC’s Breakfast show and began to look forward to Saturday Kitchen with James Martin which begins at 10 am. Meanwhile, when I pulled the battery out of my camera to charge it, I discovered that it would not fit into my US adaptor. Fortunately, Currys,the digital people, have a store at Holborn Circus—a trip downstairs would be in order. But wouldn’t you just know it? Since lawyer-centric Holborn comes to a virtual commercial standstill at the weekends, Currys was closed—even on a Saturday. I crossed the street to Blacks who stock travel supplies—they had no adaptor, but the sales assistant suggested I “try Argos, Miss” (It has been a long time since I have been addressed as “Miss”, so I felt flattered). So Argos came to the rescue and with the nice Indian assistant helping me out there, I was well equipped to re-charge my camera battery and add to my photo collection.
            Back home, I watched Saturday Kitchen with astonishment at the amount of weight James Martin has put on in four years—he used to be cute and sexy and slim when I used to watch his show while I lived in London. Accompanying him was Rick Stein showing viewers how to make a Bhaji, if you please—an Indian breakfast dish he claims he learned in India. He served it with chappatis topped with a fried egg for breakfast! Other than the chappatis, I could find nothing Indian in that Indian breakfast. Needless to say, I was disappointed—more so because the promised Coffee-Walnut Cake (my favorite) was never demonstrated step-by step although the completed cake was tantalizingly shown several times. 
            At 11. 30 am, I decided to investigate, by means of Journey Planner, how I could get to the Horniman Museum by bus. Once I had figured it out, I realized it would take one and a half hour each way. It was already too late in the day to set out and decided to postpone the trip to Monday. First things First, I thought: Let’s get some work done at my office at NYU. So I stepped out into the sun and the startling heat (thankfully it was not humid) when I discovered that I had misplaced my clip-on sunglasses at the Royal Academy of Arts yesterday for that was where I distinctly remember last having them on. I went back upstairs, did a thorough search of my bag and my trousers’ pockets and drew a blank. I could call the RA and find out if someone had turned them in to the Lost and Found (they hadn’t) or I could simply go to a pharmacy and find another pair. I was deeply despondent by this time for nothing seemed to be going right.
            The bus to Bloomsbury trundled up soon enough. I walked briskly to Bedford Square but Vincent, the Weekend Porter on duty, did not know me and needed to confirm my credentials before permitting me to use office facilities. A quick call to one of my former London colleagues and that hiccup was sorted. I descended into the basement computer lab and spent the next one hour working: printing and editing some text and trying to print out a chapter that has been reviewed by the editors and that needs to be reworked by the end of this month for it has a strict publication deadline. The printer worked well initially then something happened, and as so often occurs with these machines that have minds all of their own, it simply stopped functioning. Still, I had managed to get a sheaf of material printed out—which means I will be intensely busy in the next few days getting some solid work accomplished.
            By 1.30, I had completed my work and stepped into the Spec Savers on Tottenham Court Road to buy myself a replacement clip on-pair of sunglasses. I was informed by the sales assistant that such things are not manufactured in the UK and can only be custom-made by a private optometrist/optician (for a bomb, no doubt). Disappointed, I stepped into Boots pharmacy next door—and hey presto, there they were and on sale too for ten pounds!  I snatched a pair eagerly and stepped out on to the street vastly relieved at being shaded from the mounting glare.
Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square:      
Then, I was on the Tube to Charing Cross intending to poke around the Reading Festival at Trafalgar Square which was crawling with students. Unfortunately, the demographic focus was adult literacy and although the place was stuffed with school kids and some events were scheduled on the stage, there was nothing to hold my interest.
An Afternoon at the National Gallery:
After picking up a few book marks, I stepped into the café at the National Gallery which seemed like the most sensible place to be on an afternoon in which the mercury climbed to a steady 90 plus degrees! There I ate my ox tongue sandwich and took a bit of foot rest before joining folks for the start of the 2.30 pm guided tour given by someone named Carly. The National Gallery is one of my favorite places in the whole wide world and something of a second home to me as I know my way around it almost as well as I do the Metropolitan Museum in New York. This is what Carly showed in her hour-long tour:
1. The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian by the brothers Antonio del Pollaiuolo and Piero del Pollaiuolo
2. Diana in her Lair by Titian
3. The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein
4. Queen Charlotte by Thomas Lawrence
5. The Bathers at Asniers by Georges Seurat.
It was a good tour—but the galleries were noisy and crowded. Everyone wanted to beat the heat by finding refuge in its air-conditioned interiors. It finished at 3. 30 pm and since the next tour was at 4.00, I had half an hour in which to investigate the special exhibition entitled “Saints Alive” by Michael Landy. It was a truly bizarre show in which iconic Old Master works on the portrayal of saints from the National Gallery’s permanent collection are taken by the artist and given a new twist. Landy chose portraits of martyred saints and using the concept of the mechanical wheel as in kinetic art of the 1970s, mangled the originals so completely as to create moving sculpture and mechanical installations.  For example, he took Lucas Cranach’s Saints Genevieve and Appollina and created a sculpture in which the figure pulls out her teeth as the tortured saint had hers forcibly removed. Similarly, St. Jerome, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, St. Francis of Assissi and others were subjected to the same weird treatment. Thanks to the film that accompanies the show, I was able to make a great deal of sense of the artist’s vision and objective but I must admit that I did not find it even remotely appealing.
At 4.00 pm, I joined Carly’s Highlights Tour again. This is what she showed to a much smaller group on her second round:
1. The Wilton Diptych
2. The Origin of the Milky Way by Jacomo Tintoretto
3. Mr and Mrs William Hallet by Thomas Gainsborough
4. Autumnal View of Het Steen by Peter Paul Reubens
5. Bridge over Water Lily Pond at Givernyby Claude Monet
            The tour concluded at 5. 00 pm and Carly was kind enough to introduce me to Tania at the Audio Guide Desk who said that since I was a docent at the Met, she would gladly permit me to use the audio guide, free of charge, if I showed up while she was on duty. I was thrilled as I hurried to the bus stop to get back to Holborn, shower, dress and leave for the Hog Roast to which I was invited at St. Paul’s
Hog Roast at St. Paul’s Cathedral:
            Every year, Year Eight students of St. Paul’s School (attached to St. Paul’s Cathedral), have a Send-Off Barbecue at attached Amen Court (designed by the great Sir Christopher Wren in 1672). These young lads are choristers—they form the boys’ choir that sings at all the great events that the Cathedral organizes. Over the years, I have had my favorites—but by the next year when I return, they have disappeared. Their voices crack and they must leave for more grown-up pastures. This year, since I was in town, I was invited by my friends Bishop Michael and his wife Cynthia to attend. I arrived at their place at 6. 15 pm and found the Court already alive with happy families—parents, siblings and the proud young graduates themselves were present around the marquees set up on the lawn. There was even a dog called Jacob, clearly in Doggy Heaven from all the scraps the kids were feeding him.  
It was great to see my friends Michael and Cynthia and their son Aidan again and to gab non-stop as we always do. Since I stayed at their place less than three months ago, I felt as if I had never left. When we stepped outside, into a still warm evening, Cynthia introduced me to a number of interesting parents including Saro from Kerala whose Year Eight chorister son Kevin had done the Reading in church on Friday and, as I could see then, had been bristling with nerves. Eventually, we got down to some sipping (orange juice for me—no lager in sight) and eating: pulled pork (it was, after all, a Hog Roast), red cabbage coleslaw, a green salad, quiche. I avoided the bun (am trying to eliminate carbs in an attempt to lose ‘cruise weight’) and then returned to Cynthia’s table with our plates—so much easier to eat roasted meat with a real fork and knife.
Back outside, we circulated some more. I met the Music Director Andrew Carwood and the Deputy Head of the School, Clive Marriot—before the speeches began. And what lovely speeches they were too–funny and moving at the same time! They boys were given a really warm send-off with so many sincere Thank-yous mentioned all around. Their mentors were thanked and their parents and their siblings—and all those responsible for having provided them with the unique opportunity of serving as choir boys in one of the world’s greatest houses of worship. Most go off now to prestigious boarding schools around the country already having achieved more than most boys their age have done. I had a lump in my throat at the farewell speeches, I have to say, although I did not know any of them personally. It is always touching to perceive the innocent promise of youth untouched by the trials that the world presents. That’s why I have always loved graduation ceremonies.
“Choc Ices” followed for dessert after the speechifying. I stayed long enough to meet Kitty, the Colcloughs’ present house guest whose dad John I happen to have met on an earlier visit to London. She is a vivacious New Yorker ready to start grad school in London in the fall. We chatted for a long while and then I left and came ‘home’ to High Holborn ready to drop into bed after what had started off as a lousy day but improved considerably as it progressed.        

Rediscovering Westminster-Whitehall and Discovering Freemasonry

Jul15


Friday, July 12, 2013
London:
Rediscovering Westminster-Whitehall and Discovering Freemasonry   
I awoke at 5. 30 am—not quite in time for the opening of the Chancery Lane Tube station which lies just beneath my window, but close enough. Since I could not get back to sleep, I continued writing my journal, caught up with email and before I knew it, it was almost 7. 30 am—time for me to get out of bed, wash, dress and get to 8.00 am Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Boarding the 242 bus, I got off two stops later.  I was sorry that a late-night kept my friends Cynthia and Michael away from church—but I will see them soon. The usual left side door through which I enter St. Paul’s Cathedral was closed and I was confused. Had they changed the timings of the Eucharistic service? I walked around to the Crypt and café entrance but still drew a blank. Just when I wondered what was up, I tried the other doors and there it was—the one on the extreme right was open (I learned later that the left side one has been creaking terribly and disturbing the service). Mass was held in one of the side chapels—the cathedral has so many, they can take their pick. This one was decorated with one of the brilliant mosaics for which the space is noted and Mass was said by the lovely young pastor named Sarah who has always struck me as serene and very chic—she is a fraction too soft-spoken, however, and I could barely hear her. Mass was over in half an hour and I hopped on a bus and got back home in exactly ten minutes! Unbelievable!
Breakfast and Other Miscellaneous Chores:
           Breakfast was Sainsbury Fruit and Nut Muesli that I soaked last night in a yogurt and milk mixture—it was wonderfully soggy and creamy (just the way I love it) and very delicious but much of the liquid had been absorbed by the cereal and needed to be thinned with more milk. It reminded me of the Swiss muesli I had grown to love on our Baltic cruise. While munching, I watched the BBC’s Breakfast Show and discovered that Kenneth Branagh in currently starring in a production of Macbeth in Manchester—a show that will be beamed live by the National Theater to cinemas around the UK on July 20. I resolved to ask my friend Rosemary if she would be interested in going to see it with me.
            A few minutes later, my friend Bishop Michael called to invite me to a barbecue at St. Paul’s School in the evening. Since I had no plans and was keen to meet him and wife Cynthia, I accepted the invitation with pleasure. But you know the saying: when it rains, it pours. Five minutes later, Rosemary called to find out if I would like to accompany her to see the Summer Exhibition 2013 at the Royal Academy for the Arts (RA) at Piccadilly where she is a member and can take guests in for free. It was a late-night opening at the RA (until 9.00 pm) and she could only go in the evenings after work. How about a gad about the show, she said, followed by a drink and a long chat? I explained my predicament: Although I had just accepted another invitation, I was keen to join her in taking advantage of the late-evening closing. I resolved to bow out of the barbecue as I would be seeing my friends tomorrow evening for the Hog Roast to which they had also invited me earlier. That sorted, I became excited about my evening plans.
            Sitting at my PC catching up with email and doing a bit of research to find out where I could spend my day (the Freemason’s Library and Museum drew my curiosity) took the better part of the next hour; but by 10.00am, I pretty much knew what I wanted to do: I have resolved to go through the DK Eyewitness Guide to London page by page, as thoroughly as I had covered Paris using the same series of guide books last year for the City of Light. Well, on browsing through the book, I decided that Westminster and Whitehall was where I would begin. Not that I haven’t scoured these places before, mind you; it’s simply that with the book in hand, I am led to secret corners and hidden enclaves that one would usually bypass—and it was those that I looked forward to discovering. Using a second book entitled City Secrets London, I found three venues that were in the same vicinity as Whitehall-Westminster (The Cabinet War Rooms—which I have explored earlier; Banqueting House–which I have also explored before and love; and The Horse Guards) and armed with my Oyster card, bus and Tube maps, city map, phone, camera, bottle of water and sandwich (lettuce, ham and cheese on multigrain bread), off I went for a most interesting ramble.
Rambling in Westminster-Whitehall:
            I took the Tube to Westminster after making one change and found myself gazing up at Big Ben Tower—it was a most exciting experience, this first glimpse of the Tower in this unexpected fashion. From that point on, I could not stop clicking. I have realized that I have started to look at the world, during my travels, with a camera’s eye: trying to figure out the best angles; how to create the cleverest composition; how to include the most unusual background, etc. And this visual dimension brings me enhanced pleasure in discovering new sites. So I photographed Boadicea, one of England’s earliest queens, astride her chariot on the Embankment, the London Eye on the South Bank, Embankment Pier from where tourists board vessels to cruise the Thames and the new Scotland Yard buildings right opposite the Tower designed by Norman Shaw. I requested passers-up to take my picture on Westminster Bridge with the clock tower in the background and, likewise, I took pictures for so many people who requested my assistance. I discovered from my book that Big Ben is named after Sir Benjamin Hall, Chief Commission of Works when the bell was hung in 1858. Since that date in the hoary Victorian past, it has kept time for the nation with its distinctive musical bongs. 
Perusing Parliament Square:
         My walk took me to Parliament Squarewhere I photographed each of the heavyweight statesmen whose sculptured likenesses decorate its periphery: Winston Churchill, Jan Christian Smuts of South Africa, David Lloyd George, Peel, Derby, Nelson Mandela—some were concealed by scaffolding (such as Lincoln).  Parliament Square is abloom with vivid purple lavender growing lushly in raised flowerbeds and photographing the monuments (Big Ben, St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster Abbey) against the fragrant fronds buzzing with drunken bees was a real delight.
I crossed the street back to architect Barry’s Houses of Parliament with their flamboyant carvings of creatures, real and imagined. Barry designed the buildings after the original structures of Whitehall Palace (as it was then known) were destroyed by a fire. Only Westminster Hall and a small tower (known as Jewel Tower which is across the street) remains of the medieval buildings. I arrived at the Sovereign’s Entrance where I posed for a picture: it is the only entrance through which the monarch is permitted to enter and not without asking for and receiving the permission of the House. The Queen goes through elaborate protocol twice a year when she is invited to attend Parliament—she is never at liberty to go there whenever she pleases in the way that any of us, lesser mortals, might do!
            I was disappointed to find that Auguste Rodin’s monumental sculpture The Burghers of Calais that usually decorates the park at Westminster Palace Embankment is traveling. Its plinth looked wan and empty without its bronzed Frenchmen. Crossing the street, I spied a giant sculpture which looked like the work of Henry Moore on the grass near Jewel Towel—which I also circled. When I had purchased the London Explorer Pass, four years ago, at the time of Chriselle’s visit in early 2009, she and I had climbed Jewel Tower and viewed the exhibitions inside. Past Jewel Tower, I reached tiny St. Margaret’s Church, a real jewel of a place with a rich history that is often overshadowed by the towering (literally!) reputation of Westminster Abbey next door. It was in this church that Henry VIII married Katherine of Aragon, his Spanish first wife—a magnificent stained glass window above the altar bears witness to this event. Here too Winston Churchill married the love of his life, Clementine Rozier, and here Walter Raleigh (he who had laid down his cloak over a puddle for Queen Elizabeth I to step over) lies buried just near the altar. The gilded Tudor altar piece is simply stunning. I was fortunate enough to catch the Free exhibition entitled “Picture the Procession” which featured photos of Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London brought together by Westminster Adult Education Services. In the case alongside, there were the church marriage register open to the entry for the Churchills. 
            Serpentine queues outside Westminster Abbey had to be seen to be believed. I am glad I wasn’t one of the tourists getting hotter by the minute as the mercury climbed to the mid-80s today—28 degrees in London measurements. I peeled off my jacket and continued my walk to Dean’s Yard, the lovely quiet patch of park which one enters through twin towers known as The Sanctuary, a medieval safe-place for those escaping the law. Dean’s Yard is characterized by structures in varying architectural styles from Tudor to Baroque. Across the street, the Beaux-Arts style Central Hall—today the Central Methodist Church—stands proud and pretty. I crossed the street to make a right on Great George Street past the Cabinet War Rooms which City Secrets London describes as one of London’s best-preserved and most atmospheric places—and I agree. It is where Winston Churchill and his Cabinet ministers holed up during World War II as they strategised with Roosevelt on how to defeat Hitler—Clementine Churchill who refused to be parted from her husband during this challenging time has her own little bedroom down there and very feminine it is too compared to the utilitarian spaces of the chaps.    
            I hung a Left on Whitehall and reached the Cenotaph which was shrouded in renovation scaffolding: “We’re Getting Ready to Remember” it said. On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, there is a moving ceremony held here each year (Armistice Day in the UK, Veterans Day in the US) when poppies truly come into their own as the flower of Remembrance and the Queen lays wreaths to remember the fallen of the two World Wars. This monument designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens is one of my favorite in the city and after seeing the monument last year at Thiepval in Picardy, France, that he designed to remember the Missing of the Somme, I have even more affection for it.
            Almost opposite the Cenotaph is the entrance to 10 Downing Street, residence of Britain’s Prime Minister. Tourists swarmed around for a glimpse and a few lucky ones with pass-invitations were in the actual precincts that are heavily guarded. I managed some rather surreptitious pictures but that was it. The street gets its name from Sir George Downing (1623-80) who bought land near Whitehall Palace and built a street of houses of which four survive. When King George II gave No. 10 to then PM Sir Horace Walpole in 1732, it became the customary residence of the country’s Prime Minister—and maybe the most photographed stoop in the world.
            Across the street once more, I moved towards Banqueting House with the intention of using its facilities—only to be informed that the place was closed to the public in preparation for a huge exhibition that is slated to open on August 14. I adore the Peter Paul Reubens’ ceiling inside this Inigo Jones double-galleried structure and its poignant history (Charles I walked to his execution through this building that he had constructed in honor of his father James I who is featured in Reuben’s painting) always brings a lump to my throat.
            Across the Street, the Horse Guards had their share of attention—everyone who is anyone has a picture in front of one of the horses at the entrance to the vast compound which is the venue for much showing off during the ceremony known as the Trooping of the Color.  
            Then I was across the street again at Trafalgar Studios inquiring about tickets for The Hot House starring Simon Russel Beale who I have seen on screen and whom I would like to see on stage. Tickets are available, it seems, so all I have to do is consult my calendar. My feet were aching my this time, so I hopped into the Tube (the Black Northern Line) to get to Covent Garden after walking underground for what seemed like endless miles! My idea was to get to a museum that had intrigued me when I had begun some searching on the internet—the Freemason’s Library and Museum at Great Queen Street in Holborn off Kingsway.
The Freemason’s Library and Museum:
            Knowing nothing about the Freemasons except what feeds on rumor, I thought it would be a good idea to find out more by visiting the beautiful towering building on the corner of Long Acre and Great Queen Streets in Holborn. Their website informed me that free guided tours were available throughout the day and I was quite excited to get there in time for the 2. 00 pm one.  I was given a Visitor’s Pass upon entry and told to sign the book. Instructed to climb one flight of stairs to the Library/Museum, a guide would arrive in a few minutes to lead us on the tour, I was told.
My first impression of the building was one of awe. The walk up the stairs is majestic: wide marble balustrades, thick star-patterned carpeting, beautiful chandeliers—they led to a wide corridor that led to the library filled with showcases crammed with all sorts of items from badges and medals to china. The number of visitors swelled by the second—many were French, judging from their conversation and the women appeared more enthusiastic than the men. The guide arrived in a few minutes—a short stocky chap with a bald head, very reminiscent of Mr. Pickwick. If I thought the tour would be edifying, I was sadly mistaken. For one thing, the guide had such a heavy Cockney accent, I could barely understand what he was saying. Secondly, he said nothing at all about Freemasonry—so I was more mystified than ever. Frequent references to royal family members who have served as Grand Marshalls were made and their oil-painted portraits hang upon the walls of the grand rooms that comprise the interior. It seems that Prince Edward is the current Grand Marshall and the longest-reigning one in its history.
What was really special about this visit for me was the magnificent interior of this building. Its rooms are simply gorgeous: the ceilings exuberantly painted, the marbled paved corridors palatial in appearance, black wood paneled rooms, so rare as the trees have become extinct in Tasmania from where it was transported. In the Memorial Room to the Wars, there is  a beautiful chest with a scroll containing the names of all Freemasons who fell in battle. It sits just below a splendid stained glass window that is a tribute to the men and women of the armed services. There are ornamental doors so heavy—each side weighs over a ton and half—that with magical engineering can be pushed open with a single finger! Throne-like chairs sit in sprawling halls until finally you arrive at the Grand Temple with more gold-throned chairs and an exquisite ceiling. Overall, this is not a place in which to learn anything about the Lodges and their doings—it is not called a secret society for nothing, I suppose. But it is a great place in which to marvel at the amount of money that Freemasons seem to possess and the generosity with which they give to their Lodges.
I don’t know whether it is jetlag or all the travel I have done in the past couple of weeks but by 3.00 pm, I was nodding off in the Grand Temple while the guide droned on unintelligibly—so I decided to abandon my plans to go to my office at New York University at Bloomsbury to print out some material. Instead, I took the Tube from Holborn station to Chancery Lane for a much-needed nap. I usually shut my eyes for 20 minutes exactly but this time, I slept for more than an hour. I jumped up at 4. 15 pm to shower and get dressed for my appointment with my friend Rosemary whom I know as “Roz”.
Summer Exhibition 2013 at the Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly:
            Jumping back on the Tube, I could not believe that I reached Piccadilly in less than 20 minutes—the convenience of my Holborn location never ever fails to fill me with amazement and delight at the ease with which I can get around and the little time it takes to get anywhere. No wonder I had loved living in this building and feel so grateful to my friends who have let me have their flat in their absence.
            Piccadilly was strung with purple banners proclaiming the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee—I have yet to make sense of it (still thought it finished last year). And the entrance to Fortnum and Mason sports a green-covered tea set—some allusion to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, perhaps? I will have to find out. Into the lovely quadrangle of the Royal Academy of Arts (RA) I went for the annual Summer Exhibition which has been held here for 200 years. Every year, artists are invited to submit their work which is then judged by a panel comprising members of the Royal Academy. If selected, their work is shown during this exhibition that attracts huge crowds.
I was delighted to see my friend Roz again. We paused for a quick cuppa in the café at the entrance before entering the fabulous mansion—one of the few 18thcentury London mansions that survived the blitz. The rooms are sumptuously decorated with lavish use of gold leaf on ceiling moldings We spent the next couple of hours simply enthralled by the entries. There was every conceivable form of art on display—from paintings and sculpture to wacky installations and architectural models. Some of the work was hugely impressive and much of it was very affordable indeed—especially if you remember that these artists, twenty years from now, might be very significant names indeed. However, brilliant though the show was, it seemed endless and after traipsing through London for miles and after a long day at work, both Roz and I were ready for a sit-down in the Members’ Café. With her glass of wine and my beer, we had a lively chinwag and caught up on all our news. We also checked calendars and made plans to return to the RA for the “Mexico” exhibition which undoubtedly features the work of Frieda Kahlo and Diego Rivera which I would love to see. Meanwhile, Roz was very enthusiastic to join me in seeing Branagh in Macbeth—so we will be headed there on July 20 after she gets us tickets. And we have plans to see some London theater together. What a great month I have in store!         
It was after 10.30 pm when I got home to fix myself a dinner of Brocolli and Cheddar Quiche and a small salad washed down with Ainsley Herriot’s Spicy Butternut Squash Soup. At 11.00 pm, when I was frankly nodding of, I switched the light off.

Back in a Blighty State of Mind

Jul11

Thursday, July 11, 2013
London

With apologies to the late Frank Sinatra, I have slipped effortlessly into a Blighty State of Mind. Although I arrived in Holborn in the wee hours of the morning (just past midnight to be exact) and it is almost midnight now–which means I have been a Londoner again for less than 24 hours–I feel as if I never left.
But for all those folks who follow me religiously and have circled their calendars to begin reading my Blog on July 11, I have to beg your patience for just a few hours. I am tired and sleepy and suffering mind fog. So please hold your horses for just a few hours longer. I promise to add to this installment first thing tomorrow morning.

Hello London! Getting Settled in Again
            Our Baltic Sea cruise was incredible—but the end really sucked. Arriving at Kastrup airport by 9. A00 am, Llew and I had intended to simply stash our baggage in the Left Luggage Lockers and take the train into the city to visit the National Museum—no such luck! We discovered that city trains had gone on strike just that morning. We did not want to take chances getting into the city on the Metro in case they too decided to strike—we’d have been well and truly stuck then and unable to get back for our flights—Llew’s to the States at 4. 30 pm, mine to London at 8. 50 pm. I tried to get on to an earlier Easyjet flight to London but discovered that the cost of making the change was more than the cost of a new ticket! Furthermore, my flight was delayed by an hour, so I only arrived in London at 10. 25 pm. Fortunately, I cleared Immigration in a jiffy (most passengers were in the EU/UK queue and there was no one in the “All Other Passports” section). Yesss!
              Although I arrived at Gatwick airport at 10. 30 pm, got the 11. 17 pm. train to Farringdon station and took a black cab to High Holborn (where I arrived at 12. 15 pm) and it is now close to midnight—which means that I have been in the UK for less than 24 hours—I have slipped so easily into a London State of Mind that it seems as if I had never left. Tim was still up when I rang the bell to enter my former building but because Barbara had retired for the day, I tip-toed into my room and fell right into bed. It was late, I had spent a boring day at Kastrup airport, had dozed on the flight and was ready to call it a night myself. It was about 1.00 am by the time I slept.
                Not surprisingly, I awoke at 6. 30 am, did some reading in bed and sat up when Barbara knocked on my door with bed tea! What luxury! And how kind of her. I joined her in the living room and caught up a bit—it was so great to see her again. Between Tim and her, I learned how the land lay! They connected me to wifi, showed me how the TV, microwave, kitchen hob, coffee maker and toaster worked and left me a set of keys. In due course, Tim provided us with croissants, butter, jam and coffee. Around this time, I became conscious of a headache and felt awfully drowsy. Nothing a Tylenol wouldn’t cure, I thought, as I popped one in and felt a desperate need for a shut eye.
                Well, I slept for a solid hour but my headache was history! The rest of the morning flew by as I attacked the first priorities on my To-Do List: Buy Lebara SIM card for my UK phone (I got this at the W.H. Smith store at Holborn Circus), bought a Top Up Lebara voucher at Sainsbury (also at Holborn Circus) where I picked up a sausage roll for a snack lunch, topped up my Oyster Card with one-month’s worth of unlimited bus and Tube rides in Zones 1 and 2 (from the kind man at the Chancery Lane Tube station) and crossed the street to get back when I met Arben, the concierge of the building, who always gives me a royal Welcome Back when he sees me and makes me feel like a million dollars. He was aware that I will staying at Tim and Barbara’s for the next few days and he asked me to make sure to reach out to him should I need absolutely anything. I promised I would!    
                 Tim and Barbara were all packed up and ready to leave when I returned from running my errands and were off in minutes. I showered and spent the next one hour on the phone with my Dad in Bombay (as I was speaking to him after more than a week) and with Llew. I spent the next two hours catching up with email and informing London friends that I was back on Blighty soil again. Luckily, Chris, the friend I was supposed to see later in the evening in order to pick up the keys from him to his flat at St. John’s Wood, where I will be staying next, responded super quickly. He would meet me at the apartment at 8.00 pm. At 5. 40 pm, I left my flat and took the bus to St. John’s Wood, with the idea of passing through Central London and absorbing it all. From the 8 (which was terminating at Holborn Tube Station), I jumped into a 98 and got off at Marble Arch—Oxford Street, as usual, was crawling with shoppers swarming like ants. There is agreat big purple banner at the intersection of Regent’s Street proclaiming the 60th year of Elizabeth’s reign (1953-2013)—I thought last year was the Diamond Jubilee! Am I in a time warp? I then connected to the 139 bus in which I rode all the way to the famous Beatles Crosswalk on Abbey Road for my friends Raquel and Chris live in a building right opposite it! Who’d have thunk it????
Exploring The Beatles’ Abbey Road Studio:
            
           Since I was several minutes early for my appointment with Raquel’s husband, Chris, I watched dozens of tourists literally stop traffic! They posed on the cross walk in the manner of the legendary album cover—striding across in single file with their arms swinging from their sides. Drivers seemed very patient indeed and gave them wide berth! I decided to use my City Secrets London guide book to find out a bit more about the venue than was indicated by the graffiti that covered the low walls surrounding the building.
            So here goes: Abbey Studios gained notoriety, of course, via the Beatles who recorded there at 3 Abbey Road for seven years; but the venue was significant long before their time. It had been in existence since 1927 when Captain Osmund “Ozzy” Williams decided to build a recording studio in North London. The Beatles were not the first major recording artists to use the premises: in the 1930s Sir Edward Elgar had conducted the London Symphony Orchestra in a recording of Land of Hope and Glory—there is a blue plaque to announce this fact at the entrance of the building. And in the 1940s, Glenn Miller had recorded there. The Beatles arrived there on June 2, 1962 (with Pete Best instead of Ringo) and the first song they recorded, the next year, was “Love Me Do” in Studio 2. The Abbey Road LP, the Beatles’ tenth and final album to be recorded, was released on September 26, 1969. The photo of Paul, shoeless on the crossing, led to rumors that he was really dead. 
            Don’t expect too much of the venue. The building is nondescript, low slung and seems to meld away into the grand Victorian and Edwardian apartment buildings that surround it—all red brick and ornamental white stucco. I felt a little deflated (although I was visiting the venue for the second time—Llew and I had actually posed in the crosswalk ourselves, four years ago after visiting my orthopedist who had a clinic not too far away and who had fitted me with orthotics when I had plantar fascittis). It reminded me of the disappointment I had felt when visiting Sun Studios in Memphis, Tennessee—such an unassuming building, I had thought, to have made such staggering talent known to the world. I had the exact same thought this time round as I surveyed the white structure. Tourists have brought some stature to the building if graffiti can be said to achieve that. On the walls and the pillars, there are tokens of visits in every language for at least 30 tourists come each day to the venue to leave marks of their visit upon the walls—I counted more than 30 in the fifteen minutes I spent there. They obviously come equipped with marker pens and spray paint cans to make the musical pilgrimage in much the same way that as fans of Jim Morrison, we had visited Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and as fans of Elvis, we had visited Graceland, his gaudy estate in Memphis. What is interesting is how these Beatles’ fans cut widely across age and racial lines: there were teenagers and baby boomers when I was there, taking pictures and posing enthusiastically with the Abbey Studios sign in the background. 
Meeting Chris and Getting Acquainted with my Next Digs:
            Then, I was across the street, wondering which bell to ring to get inside when Chris, coincidentally, walked to the front door and let me in! We spent the next half hour in their lovely sprawling Edwardian flat with its multiple bathrooms and closets and spacious corridors. He showed me the ropes, gave me the wifi password and instructed me in the use of TV and kitchen appliances. I took notes knowing I will never remember everything he showed me, ten days from now.
            Then, with directions from him, I hopped into a bus going to Finchley Road as I headed to Waitrose to pick up food provisions for the coming week. I had a blast buying all my favorite English things: Ox Tongue, Stilton Cheese with Ginger, Regular Stilton Cheese, Chipolata Sausages, Brocolli and Gruyere Cheese Quiche and Bacon, Leek and Cheddar Cheese Quiche, Warburton’s Multigrain Bread (as my favored Walnut Loaf was sold out), Romaine Lettuce Hearts and Balsamic Vinaigrette for Salad, Muesli and Greek Style Honey Yogurt for my breakfast cereal and lemon for my tea! And I was all set! Weighed down by my belongings, I took  the Tube from Finchley Road station and came back home at 10. 45. I was starving; so had a quiche and salad meal with tea before going to bed at 11.00 pm.
            So there you have it—a not very exciting day, made slightly less mundane by my visit to Abbey Road and the Beatles’ legendary stomping ground. For those who are reading this blog, I promise to make the rest of my month less banal. I am having issues loading material on to my blog site, though, so I hope the technical glitches will be sorted soon. 
     Thanks for returning to my blog and for accompanying me on my adventures in my second home–London! Please do pen me some comments as that I can feel more closely connected with you.
     Until tomorrow, cheerio!

 

@IKENCEO As I Will Remember Her

Apr17

Written from Southport, Connecticut, USA
Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Remembering Elizabeth:
“Thanks Rochelle XXX”—that was the last bit of communication I received from across the pond from my dear departed friend Elizabeth. It was her response to a link I had sent her to an uplifting hymn on YouTube that I had hoped would cheer her up in her illness. In point of fact, all I was doing was carrying on a custom that had developed between the two of us when, three years ago, I was dealing with cancer treatment myself. The removal of my malignant thyroid had led to the complete loss of my voice for three whole months as a result of paralyzed vocal cords—this mind you, while I was in the midst of a semester and continuing to teach at New York University where I am a professor.

Applying the logic that although I was voiceless, I could certainly listen to hymns of praise and glory, Elizabeth had sent me a link to a hymn every single day for two whole months. I would listen to it and often shed a couple of grateful tears—for her hymns encouraged me to count my blessings, despite serious illness and my vocal disability, and rejoice in them. When I heard from Elizabeth, about three months ago, that she was seriously ill, I seized my opportunity to return the favor she had once done me. In responding to the hymns I sent her during her final weeks, Elizabeth continued to correspond with me. She never once complained about her ill health but accepted it bravely, writing: “I am calm and at peace with it all”.

And that indeed is the @Ikenceo I will remember. We made friends as Twitter followers when I was introduced to her through Barbara Cookson who had been my next-door neighbor in Holborn when I had lived and worked in London. From our very first exchange of tweets (way back in 2009), I sensed that I had found a like-minded soul: someone who shared my zest for life and my love for poetry, travel, correspondence and classical music. On my return to London, Barbara, who had brought us together, invited us to her home for one of her husband Tim’s legendary dinners—at which I had the pleasure also of meeting Andrew, Elizabeth’s husband. Our friendship was cemented at that dinner and it grew closer over the next few years despite my long distance from the UK.

A year later, after my regular tweeting with Elizabeth had led to contacts with many of her Twitter Followers (Dr. Lorraine Warren who shares my profession, Mike Briercliffe—perhaps Elizabeth’s oldest friend in our little group and a fellow choirister, Louise Binns who had once lived and worked in my town of Fairfield in Connecticut), Elizabeth suggested “a Tweet-Up in Bristol” where she lived to allow me to meet them. I had no idea what she meant, but she undertook the organization of what turned out to be a most memorable weekend for the lot of us, as well as Barbara and Tim who had driven me to Bristol. Knowing that I was a foreigner in the city with a huge appetite for discovering new places, Elizabeth suggested we meet at the River Café (a very special venue for her and Andrew as they often ate Friday dinners there) and then undertake a wonderfully loopy walk along the banks of the River Avon which meandered through quaint old parts of the city with interesting old ships and sculpture and newer yuppie areas with boutique apartments and swanky cars. Throughout Elizabeth kept up a lively commentary as she introduced us to the history of her city and its favorite nooks and crannies. Our rambles ended at the marvelous Clifton Suspension Bridge over whose towering height we strode, took pictures, joked and laughed as we became better acquainted with each other. (See picture below: from left, Rochelle, Lorraine, Elizabeth, Barbara, Tim and Mike).

That evening, it was a jolly lot that entered Elizabeth’s beautiful period home perched high up on a hill overlooking the city. Again, being a visitor from the States, I was treated to the highest room in her house that afforded views over Bristol and all the way across the Mendip Hills. Elizabeth and Andrew were the perfect hosts: I will never forget the delicious Moroccan Lamb Tagine she concocted and the wine that flowed copiously around the table. There was so much warmth, so much friendship, so much camaraderie—most unusual among folks who were meeting each other for the very first time. The next morning, after we spent an extremely comfortable night, she and Andrew provided a bountiful breakfast with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. And being the thoughtful, kindly soul she is, her thoughtfulness extended to our feathered friends—she presented us with bags of bread crumbs to feed the ducks in the town of Wells, where we were next headed on our brief tour of Somerset. Throughout she was a font of information about the county, its towns and villages that were clearly dear to her heart.

We met again, the following year, over another wonderful dinner at High Holborn, thanks again to the hospitality of Barbara and Tim. Thankfully, I took pictures on all those meetings, sporadic and infrequent through they were. I shall treasure them now together with the memories they instantly bring of a faithful friend, a sage adviser and a humorous correspondent. Over the years, we exchanged email about mothering (and grandmothering), about raising daughters, about helping and supporting elderly parents, about dementia. The coincidences and connections are remarkable:  my Mother developed dementia about a year before she passed away in Bombay–exactly a year before Elizabeth did. Meanwhile, Elizabeth’s mother is still  struggling with it–knowing how loyally Elizabeth had supported her over the past few years, my heart aches as I wonder how her mother will cope in Elizabeth’s absence. We also discussed the impact of books and music in our lives and, as women of faith, the differences between Catholicism and Anglicanism. I always found her insights acute and her gentle advice helpful.

She shared my belief that life should be lived one day at a time but with so much passion as if each day were one’s last. That’s why she was so excited about turning 60 and celebrating it with her entire family in a windmill! Through our correspondence, I came to know her family members and shared her pride and joy in them. I look forward to continuing to stay in touch with all of them as a tribute to their mother whose friendship, concern and caring had meant so much to me at a time when I was at my most fragile.

Through her life, Elizabeth taught each of us how to live. And, at the end of it, she taught each of us how to die—with dignity and courage and grace.

Rest with the angels, my dear friend Elizabeth. I will miss you very much but you will always remain in my heart and in my prayers.

Off and Away–Goodbye Dear London

Mar29

Saturday, March 23, 2013:
Goodbye to London

I set my alarm from 5. 15 am with the idea of leaving the house by 5. 45 am to catch the 6. 03 am train from Holborn Tube station to get me to Heathrow airport. It was my idea to hail a cab from Amen Court to get to Holborn but when I was ready to leave, I found that Edward was awake and offering to drop me by car to Holborn station. Needless to say, I was deeply grateful as it had begun raining. Although I was very lightly packed, I knew I would have a hard time trying to find a cab in the rain. The lift to Holborn made things very easy indeed and off I went on the earlier train (the 5. 50 am) to arrive at Heathrow at 7. 15 am. I was well in time to get into the line to reclaim the VAT on my Burberry jacket although the line moved slowly and it took me about half an hour to get to the front. Still, it was worth it.

I checked in, got my boarding pass and then set out to enjoy all my favorite stores in lovely spanking new Terminal 5 which is like one huge shopping mall. It wasn’t long before I was airborne and looking forward to a reunion with Llew after two whole weeks (somehow it felt longer).

It was still raining when we left London and within seconds all visibility was obliterated as we climbed ever higher into the sodden skies en route to America.

Bye for now, London. I will see you again soon, God willing.

A Day Out in Kent

Mar29

Friday, March 22, 2013: Isle of Sheppey, Kent

A Visit to My Cousin in Kent:

As in the case of my visit to my Dad’s cousin, Sybil, so too today, Joel offered to drive me to Kent so that we could spend the morning with our cousin, Cherry who is married to a lovely man named David. I took the Tube to Clapham South as instructed by Joel. He met me there at 9, 00 am and off we went all the way to Kent where the Cranes live on the Isle of Sheppey. The long drive gave Joel and me the chance to catch up on the many years that have elapsed since we were closely in contact but we did reach our destination at 11. 00 am.

Cherry had prepared a lovely meal for us: Fish Cakes, Chips, Mushy Peas—a typically English lunch. It was delicious when accompanied by the white wine she served. For dessert, because she knows how fond of them I am, she served profiteroles with vanilla ice-cream. Indeed, we felt spoiled by their attention and before we knew it, it was time to leave.

Back to Parson’s Green:
I requested Joel to drop me off at Parsons Green as I made the decision to buy the sheepskin coat—and indeed that was what he did. In-between we lost our way but I was thrilled as we ended up in Greenwich where I had the pleasure of perusing Christopher Wren’s masterworks at the Royal Maritime College, abeit from a passing car. Eventually, of course, we did get to the shop where I bid goodbye to Joel, picked up my buy and hopped back on the bus to return to St. Paul’s.

I spent the evening sorting through my baggage and packing carefully. Cynthia made us a delicious dinner: Tuna Fish Pie topped with fluffy cheesy mashed potato, steamed carrots and peas and fat chipolata sausages that I had bought with the idea of enjoying them before I leave the UK. For dessert, she served mulberries from her own tree and stewed apple with ice-cream and honey—so yummy. It was fabulous to sit with the Colclough family for the last time and to enjoy a companionable meal with them. Indeed they had been deeply hospitable and I was thrilled to have enjoyed their home and their company for the entire week.

My Favorite London Bits and Bobs and Two Temple Place

Mar29

Thursday, March 21, 2013: London

Although I will be in London tomorrow, I really do consider today my last one in the city as I will be in Kent tomorrow with scarcely any time to do very much.

So I suppose I used today to do the things I always do when I am in London. My day flew as I flew from one venue to the next on a day when the rain abated but only slightly to enable me to get around. Here’s how I spent my last whole day in London:

1. 8.00 am Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral

2. Twinnings Tea Company for a Tea Tasting:
This was a very unique experience conducted by a tea specialist who brewed three different teas for me (including a white tea). She explained the quality and compositional differences of the different leaves and their brews and then treated me to a cup of any favorite tea of my choice. I chose Darjeeling which was very soothing on another grey and chilly morning.

3. Cornish Artists Exhibition at Two Temple Place:
It was my friend Barbara who told me about this unique exhibition. I entered an extraordinary private home that was constructed for the Astors, the American millionaire family with British business interests, right off the Embankment. The exhibition featured the work of artists based in Cornwall in small seaside towns that have become synonymous with painters and their work. On a past visit to Cornwall, I had visited the Tate St. Ives (Art Gallery) as well as the sculptor Barbara Hepworth’s House and Museum and had passed through the fishing town of Newlyn where the quality of the light is so special that many artists congregated there. Well, this exhibition featured all of their work in styles that were comfortingly realistic, representative of the fishing, sailing and mining lifestyles of this seafaring folk and reminiscent of their simple country pleasures. Indeed it made a charming collection and I was very pleased to have seen it.

But, most of it, I was absolutely thrilled by the house—Two Temple Place—in which the exhibition was held. It was the last word in splendor, especially designed and constructed for a man who wished to have a grand London city home filled with reminders of the books and the music that he loved. So, one ascends to the higher floor on a fabulous wooden staircase punctuated with finely-carved figures representing characters from Astor’s favorite novel of all time, Alexander Dumas’ The Three Musketeers. Gigantc stained glass windows, embellished marble fireplaces, stunning mantelpieces, gloriously decorated pendant ceilings, intricate parquet flooring contribute to making this house an absolute wonder and one every visitor to London should see. Guided tours are available if one becomes a member but an art exhibition such as the one I attended is the perfect excuse to wander around these grand enivrons.

4. Bus No. 11 Ride to Victoria from Fleet Street.
I have told every visitor to London what a great deal the No. 11 bus route is. If you can find a seat on the upper deck at the very front, the picture windows will provide a sightseeing jaunt that no tour bus can beat for the red buses glide slowly through the streets, stopping frequently and providing unending opportunities for photography. I caught the bus on Fleet Street, passed by The Strand, got to Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, entered Whitehall where I spotted the Banqueting Hall, saw the Horse Guards at the Horse Guards Parade, The Cenotaph commemorating the Glorious Dead, glimpsed No. 10 Downing Street, Home of Britain’s Prime Minister, arrived at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, saw Westminster Abbey, St. Margaret’s Church and Dean’s Yard, then sailed down Victoria Road passing Scotland Yard to arrive at Victoria Station.

I then got off and rode the bus in the opposite direction to return to Fitzrovia where I had a lunch date with my friend and colleague Mahnaz.

5. Lunch with Mahnaz at Brasserie Blanc:
Although my NYU colleague Mahnaz and I had decided to meet at the Fitzroy Tavern which is a landmark in Fitzrovia (it was the haunt of a number of literary lights in the early to mid-20th century), once she arrived there, we decided to find someplace more lively to eat as the bar was half-closed when we got there.

Having spotted Brasserie Blanc, one of the restaurants owned by Raymond Blanc, a legendary French chef who has made the UK his home (his star creation is Le Manoir Des Quatre Saisons in Oxfordshire which I have yet to visit), I suggested we try out his offerings. Mahnaz was game and we settled down to non-stop chatter as we went for the Selection Varies—a platter of assorted nibbles for two people served with crusty bread and butter. Everything was delicious from the Celery Remoulade to the Carrot Salad, from the wedge of lightly sautéed salmon to the peppery cold cuts, from the chunky potato salad with its note of Dijon mustard to the smoked fish relish. It was the perfect choice and we ate well. Mahnaz, however, had just over an hour before she rushed off for her next appointment, so I said goodbye and moved on.

6. A Visit to Pollock’s Toy Museum:
I had read about Pollock’s Toy Museum in the English Home magazine and expected it to be a prominent structure. It turned out to be a small shop in Bloomsbury, just off Charlotte Street, which sold old-fashioned toys. To actually see the museum which contained antique toys one had to enter a cordoned area by paying 6 pounds. I have to say that I contented myself merely looking at the toys in the shop and left.

7. Visit to Mary Portas’ Living and Giving Shop in Parsons Green:
From Bloomsbury, I took a bus and rode all the way through Chelsea and into Parsons Green. Indeed Chelsea is one of my favorite parts of London. I love its chic stores and the Sloan Ranger look of its inhabitants. I hopped off at the Oxfam charity stores that stud the area where I always end up finding interesting vintage jewelry or old silk scarves. No such luck this time round. However, I caught the 22 bus and sailed all the way to Parsons Green, an area unknown to me, to see the charity shop of Mary Portas, a woman labelled Mary, Queen of Shops. She had a brilliant TV show when I lived in London that taught women how to shop the charity shops and create million dollar looks for pennies. The success of her show led her to create her own chain of Mary Portas shops, the flagship of which was in Parsons Green. I have to admit that the contents of her shop were really exciting. Although very well priced, it was still more expensive than rates in US thrift shops and I did not really find any jewelry worth having. Still, a really fine sheepskin coat caught my eye and I wondered how I would possibly haul such a great coat back to the States. Best to sleep on it, I thought.

8. Bus to Harrods at Knightsbridge:
Of course, I cannot leave London without visiting Harrods, so there I was, hopping a bus to get to Knightsbridge and then charging through the Food Halls and the souvenir stands looking for bargains. Sadly, there were none to be had, so I made a right about turn and walked out.

9. Bus to Piccadilly to Fortnum and Mason:
Since my other favorite food shopping venue is Fortnum and Mason, off I went on the next bus to Piccadilly to browse around the offerings there. Once again, I found that lack of sales made shopping expensive and after having a poke around and finding nothing new, I left.

10. Back home to Amen Court for my last meal:
I returned to Amen Court with the idea of sharing a meal with my friends when they included me in another dinner invitation issued by another one of their house guests from New York, John. We debated many possibilities and finally settled on The Hare and the Tortoise, a pan-Oriental chain of restaurant that offers a gigantic soup known as a Curry Laksa which I had enjoyed in Singapore and which I always order from this chain. John ate Sashimi (Fresh raw fish) while Cynthia went for Beef in Black Bean Sauce. The entire meal was superb but I left my friends to linger over dessert and coffee as I rushed off once again.

11. Tea with Tim and Barbara in Holborn:
For old times’ old, I wanted to visit my former building in Holborn and since I needed to deliver a bottle of Port wine that I had carried from Portugal to Tim and Barbara, I was offered the perfect excuse to get to there after dinner to enjoy a nice cup of lemon-ginger tea. I spent about an hour with my friends just gabbing until it was clear we were all ready to hit the sack. So I took my leave, left and got on to a bus back to Amen Court.

And thus ended another lovely day in London

Meeting Friends–Old and New–Mercers Hall and More Theater

Mar29

Wednesday, March 20: London

Today was devoted to meeting up with old London friends who either go back a long way with me or are recent but very firm buddies. After 8.00 am mass, I took a bus to Holborn to eat my very favorite breakfast while in England—which is not English at all! It is an almond croissant and a hot chocolate at Paul’s Patisserie. This is a Belgian chain that has no presence yet in the USA—hence, whenever I get the chance to enjoy one of its treats, I go for it. It makes baked goods that are second to none and this was precisely the first breakfast that Llew and I had eaten the very first morning that I had arrived to live in London, four years ago. So as I nursed my croissant and my hot chocolate, my mind went back to that morning which had proven to be the harbinger of such an incredible year in my life.

Off to Euston to Meet Emma:
With about 45 minutes at my disposal, I took a bus from Kingsway to Euston for my first appointment of the day—a meeting at the concealed Café Rouge to meet Emmy Sweeney, my colleague at NYU-London, whom I had gotten to know and grew fond of when I had lived in London. Emma arrived just a few minutes after I did and, as you might guess, we spent the next hour and a half simply catching up on all the exciting things that have happened in our lives. We discovered, in the process, that we have so much in common. But before we knew it, it was time for me to say goodbye, after making the great discovery that being in Euston, I could easily get to Harrow and Wealdstone on a superfast train instead of taking the Tube. Emma directed me to the platforms and left.

Meeting Bash in Harrow:
I had about an hour to spend with my friend Bash whom I had gotten to know four years ago in London. Over the years, Bash has stayed friends with me and sportingly driven me to spots of interest around London on memorable daytrips that have introduced both of us to wonderfully charming venues. This time, all we could afford was an hour together at Café Nero in South Harrow which Bash often uses as an ad hoc office. Once again, I downed a coffee with the intention of saving my appetite for lunch later on. And once again, Bash and I chatted nineteen to the dozen knowing that was all the time at our disposal.

Lunch with Bina in Harrow:
Bash drove me back to Harrow and Wealdstone station for my next appointment with my childhood friend Bina who lives nearby. We had grown up together and go back a long long way to our school days in Bombay and to nights spent studying together for our high school board exams. Bina and her husband Navin are now empty nesters and their home in which I have stayed on many past visits to London seemed different without the presence of their kids, now both at “uni”.

Still, when Bina arrived at the station to pick me up and drive me to her house, it gave us the opportunity to catch up on so much. A great chef, she had created a simple but delicious home-cooked meal for me with rice, chapattis, dal, spinach with cottage cheese and a chicken curry. How good it felt to have a genuine Indian meal after such a long time! Much as I would have liked to stay on, I was on horseback, for I had more appointments to keep later that evening. Bina dropped me back at the station, I jumped into the superfast train and was delighted to reach Euston in under 10 minutes. It was simply incredible!

Exploring Fitzrovia:
Since I had an hour to spare before my next appointment, I wandered to Fitzrovia to continue the last bits of Karen’s Bohemian Ink Walk. At Fitzroy Square, I discovered the neighborhood in which one of my favorite novelists, Ian McEwan lives and had a chance to visit the Indian YMCA, in which Mahatma Gandhi had lived while he was a student in London. The hostel is still impeccably maintained for essentially Indian students and I thought it was a good place to keep in mind for future long stays in London.

Lenten Sermon at the Mercer’s Hall:
Then, I was on a bus again making my way to Bank for a rather interesting interlude with a Benedictine monk who would be preaching a Lenten sermon in the imposing and quite gorgeous Mercer’s Hall on Ironmonger’s Lane at Cheapside. My friend Michael is a Chaplain to the Mercers who, he explained, were wool merchants. The Worshipful Company of Mercers has their London headquarters at Cheapside and are among the rare companies whose premises actually contains a chapel inside it.

It was just before the service that I met my dear friend Loulou who was also invited to join the service by the Colcloughs. How happy I was to see Loulou again! I introduced her to Cynthia who had saved three seats for us and for the next hour or so I gave myself up to the wonderful choir, the stirring readings, the excellent sermon preached by a Catholic clergyman in an Anglican chapel and to the pomp and pageantry that characterize such events in a setting that was little short of sumptuous.

The hour long service was followed by a wine and snack reception during which I introduced Michael to Loulou. He pulled me aside to show me a wonderful sculpture of the Dead Christ that had recently been discovered deep in the bowels of the building and which probably precedes the Reformation when it might have been concealed underground. It will be at the Tate Museum for a little while before finding a permanent place in the Mercer’s Hall. Meanwhile, drinks did the rounds—I opted for a glass of sherry as the sandwiches and “things on sticks” were offered by wait staff. We had to leave before the desserts appeared, however, as Loulou and I had theater plans and we did not wish to be late.

The Judas Kiss at the West End with Loulou:
So off we went on the Tube to the Duke of York Theater in the West End to see yet another drama—The Judas Kiss by David Hare, based on the life of Oscar Wilde and his clandestine homosexual relationship with the very young Lord Alfred Douglas known as Bosie. I had chosen to see this play as I have a soft corner for Rupert Everet who played Wilde. I had seen Everet on stage before, several years ago, in The Importance of Being Ernest also by Oscar Wilde, so it was great to actually see him play Wilde. Having said that, I must also state that I had difficulty recognizing him—he was made to put on enormous weight for the role. The play is a sad commentary on the hypocrisy that surrounded homosexuality in the 19th century in the UK and the terrible discrimination to which Wilde was subjected simply because he did not possess a peerage in the way that Bosie did. What I did not expect, however, was the stark male nudity on stage that would probably not be acceptable in the States. Young gorgeous bodies cavorted about without the slightest self-consciousness and yet it appeared perfectly natural within the context of the script.

As in the case of Rosemary, so too with Loulou—we simply had to get somewhere after the play to sit and chat. We chose Café La Rocha, another little French café right opposite the theater and there we enjoyed a cappuccino as we brought the curtain down on a lovely evening with similar promises to get together again soon.