Archive | July 2013

Puccini, a Picnic (at Vintage Car Rally) and a Posh Party!

Jul22


Sunday, July 21, 2013
London:

 

My friend Bishop Michael of St. Paul’s Cathedral told me that he thought my Blog post of today would be especially interesting—and he was not mistaken! I had a most extraordinary day during most of which my phone was shut off and Llew, trying hard to reach for me a long weekend chat, was much disappointed.
Snagging A Day Ticket at the Royal Opera House:
I awoke early (by 6.00 am) and did some editing work before I ate scrambled eggs and chipolata sausages for breakfast and jumped on to the Tube. Needless to say, Holborn and the Tube were empty at that unearthly hour on a Sunday but by 8. 30 am, I was at Covent Garden joining the other Early Birds in the Day Ticket line. I must say I was delighted to discover how well-heeled they were. Distinguished elderly men and women joined Asian youngsters—many had brought portable stools on which to perch as they whiled away the time. I took one of the chapters of my book to edit and since I was concentrating on it so deeply, time flew and before I knew it, the doors opened and five minutes later, I was the proud owner of a ticket to see Giacomo Puccini’s La Rondine at the 1.00 pm matinee show It was deeply thrilling, to say the least. So it was really worth the wait.
Sunday Church Service in a Royal Venue:
            I have waited for years to attend Sunday Service at the Queen’s Chapel at St. James’ Palace. The trouble is that they have very selected times during the year when services are held there—next week, the Royal Family goes on holiday to Balmoral in Scotland, for instance…so services will be suspended until September. During the winter, services are held in the Chapel Royal of St. James’ Palace. (I was very pleased to attend service there this past March with my friend Cynthia and her son Aidan). So, I was excited to be received by the verger Katherine who saw me to my seat at the Queen’s Chapel, a space that is breathtakingly beautiful. But then, I am not surprised. It is, after all, the work of the exceptional Inigo Jones who learned everything he knew from the legendary Andrea Palladio of Italy and brought his Classical principles to British architecture to create an aesthetic that, in time, influenced Christopher Wren and his pupil Nicholas Hawksmoor. Built in 1663 for Portuguese Queen Henrietta Maria, the wife of Charles II, it was a Roman Catholic place of worship for a Roman Catholic queen. In course of time, it was, of course, taken over by the Church of England.
            The chapel has large Palladian windows—named after Palladio, of course. The style is strictly balanced and symmetrical. The colors are those of the French tea room, Laduree: Wedgwood Green with Gold Accents. And what accents they were! There was gold lavished everywhere—but subtly, never gaudily. On the plaster ceiling, on the side walls, on the altar where the added bonus was the most magnificent wood carving (and gilding) by my favorite 18th century craftsman, the superbly-named Grindling Gibbons. There were twin arc angles high up on the altar holding a lavish garland of flowers and fruit and lower down the altar too framing the beautiful painted altarpiece. I have not been able to find out who painted this Nativity scene but it is a lovely image and suits the classic subtlety of the interior.
            The service was equally wonderful and I felt excited and privileged to discover that the angelic choristers were going to sing a Jubilate in English composed by none other than Prince Albert, consort of Queen Victoria, who was a talented and passionate musician—he often played the violin with his good friend Mendelsohn on the piano at Buckingham Palace. In fact, coincidentally enough, tomorrow night is the start of a four-part BBC TV series entitled “Monarchs and Music” moderated by David Starkey which will discuss in detail the contribution of royal family members to the grand British tradition of music.
            I always think it is marvelous that the Anglican Church has kept alive the stirring music that was composed for the Church by some of the world’s greatest composers—indeed it is only in the UK that I get to hear this kind of music (there was a lot of Tomas and also some Handel) and it never fails to move me deeply and convince me that the Anglican Church is a far better place to worship than the Catholic ones when one is in the UK. (Although, having said that, most of the London Catholic Churches also do a sung Latin Mass on Sundays during which I have heard the most amazing music and the most impressive choirs). In America, it is only very rarely (only on high holy days) that one gets to hear such music in a Catholic church. The preacher was a visiting chaplain from the Isles of Scilly (pronounced Silly) off the coast of Cornwall and he did a competent job likening his islands to Bethel, the holy city named in the day’s reading. Overall, I had a most moving Sunday church experience—exactly the sort that will bring me eagerly to church again next Sunday in another historic house of worship.               
Puccini at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden:        
            Just as the service ended, a No.9 (old Routemaster bus) came trundling down Pall Mall—I was so excited as I always try to ride a Routemaster once during each of my London stays. Although I was only taking it for one stop—up to the Tube Station at Green Park—it seemed worthwhile and I was excited. These rides never fail to remind me of my childhood in Bombay as we had double decker red buses there too and, as children, always clambered to the top deck hoping to get the front window seats for a bird’s eye view of the passing scene. These rides always bring out the kid in me and I love to return to my happy Indian childhood in this fashion.
            I reached Green Park station, hopped on to the Tube and got off at Covent Garden from where it was only a short stroll to the Royal Opera House. I was so excited to see an opera at the Royal Opera House that I could barely control myself. Doors had already opened, a half hour before the show began. This gave me the chance to stroll around the fabulous premises and to take in the glass and iron ceilinged bar-café where patrons were sipping pre-dinner drinks. I also went into the restaurant with its beautiful painted panels and its soft lighting. The entire effect is one of old-world opulence and class and I allowed all of it to sink in.
            Ten minutes before the show could begin, I found my seat—and what a great seat it was! The opera began and I gave myself up completely to the grand music of Puccini. What I love about opera in addition to the music are the lavish sets and costumes and this production had both. Set during the 1920 and early 30s, is the era of the flapper girl, the entire show reminded me a bit of the novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald (think The Great Gatsby) and Paris of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. La Rondine, which in Italian, means the swallow, centers on Magda (played brilliantly by soprano Angela Georghiou) who falls in love with Ruggero but despite his devotion finds herself unable to escape her past. The sets were strongly reminiscent of the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany particularly in the stained glass panels and the iridescent mosaic pillars of the first and second acts. The reproduction of Bullier’s, the Parisian jazz club of the Roaring Twenties, was also stunning. And the supporting cast did as good a job as possible to keep up with the demands of the plot and the score. Overall, it was a memorable afternoon at the opera and one that will stay in my own mind forever.    
Off to a Picnic and Vintage Car Show at Kensington Gardens:
            Back to the Tube station, I walked dodging the crowds that were thick and eager and found my way to Queensway station on the Central Line for the next appointment on my agenda: A Vintage Car Show at Kensington Gardens to see the 1936 vintage car owned by my friend John Harvey who had shipped it across the pond in order to participate in the Aston Martin Centenary Exhibition. There were over a hundred cars on display lining the Main Walk to create an avenue of cars just opposite the rear entrance of Kensington Palace.
           Needless to say, the cars that drew the most attention were in the section marked with a gigantic golden 007—they had been used in the James Bond films. Some of them were horribly battered from all the beating Bond took in trying to stay one step ahead of his enemies. Others featured the exciting gadgetry for which Bond is best known: skis attached to the sides, rifles that pop out of the headlights, etc. I joined my friends Cynthia and Michael at the venue and they, in turn, introduced me to a bunch of their friends—Susi and her mother Sabine and her husband Nicholas. We made a jolly lot, joined also by the younger members of the family, Edward and Aidan. Our friend’s green and black car got a great deal of attention from the public as he had just commissioned a local artist to paint it—and the painting was still drying upon an easel right by the car—which was the only one to sport New York state license plates.
            The Aston-Martin that also drew a lot of comments and was most photographed was the ink-blue one belonging to Prince Charles. He had loaned it to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and they had driven down The Mall in it to their honeymoon. It featured a small sterling silver dragon on its windshield. It occurred to me that here I was gazing upon their honeymoon vehicle while the world waits with bated breath for the birth of their first child. How time flies!      
              It was hot and it was humid and it was time for a Pimms—my first one of the summer. Nicholas bought us all a round of drinks: Pimms for most of us, beer for the boys, water for Cynthia! We cooled off under an umbrella at a wooden picnic table and shot the breeze for a while. It was a lovely afternoon and a great setting for a picnic in the park—the red-bricked rear façade of Kensington Palace looked down on us benignly. It occurred to me that I was thoroughly enjoying my time in London and that although I do love doing all sorts of things on my own in this city, it was my friends who were making it especially enjoyable for me.
Off to a Posh Party at the Belvedere:
            An hour later, when the car show ended at 5. 00 pm and the Aston Martins began to leave the park, we left the park too. Nicholas drove all the ladies to the next venue: the Belvedere Hotel at Holland Park (Michael and his sons gamely agreed to foot it out to the venue). We found the entrance that leads straight to the very posh environs of the Belvedere Restaurant where our American hosts, John and wife Kazie and daughters Kitty and Alex were waiting to greet us as we entered. The Harveys, who are Manhattan-based, invited a bunch of their London friends and business associates and a number of their NY friends who made the trip across the pond especially to attend the show. Passed hors’d’oeuvresfound their way into our fingers and our mouths as lovely cocktails were offered too: Watermelon martinis, Pimms, champagne, wines. We circulated, met new friends, said Hello to old ones, pecked many cheeks, made numerous trans-Atlantic contacts, exchanged contact details as we nibbled at the appetizers and then made our way to the many food stations. There was a variety of things to tickle the palate: from seafood served with delicious sauces to Thai curries, to Tex-Mex guacamole and chilli and tacos to a station named  “British Country Garden” which offered salads and quiches and scotch eggs and meat pies and Cornish pasties! How wonderful! For pudding, there were tiny strawberry tarts, even tinier ice-cream cones with rose-strawberry ice-cream and still tinier orange-polenta cakes. Everything was just delicious and I had a grand time. I never think that I am going to attend these posh parties in London but somehow I always do—and they are always fun because my friends always include me in them. I particularly enjoyed making friends with Manhattanites, the Anands: Vijay, a well-known ENT specialist is a good friend of my good friend, Cheri-Anne from Louisiana, also an ENT specialist, and his wife Nanda was friendly, warm and happy to meet a fellow-Indian from Connecticut in London. Of course, we have made plans to meet again when I get home. 
             The Belvedere overlooks the formal gardens of Holland Park–location of a famous scene from the BBC TV show As Time Goes By (one of my favorite shows of all time). It is the venue in which a young lieutenant Lionel Hardcastle (played by Geoffrey Palmer) meets the young nurse Jean Pargiter (played by Judi Dench) and comes up with the only pick-up line to enter his head: “Excuse me, but do you know the way to Curzon Street?” Not much has changed in the park: the red brick arches, the symmetrical flower beds, the sun dial in the middle, are still there and I feel stupid that I did not take a picture of the scene from the balcony of the restaurant which afforded a very pretty view of the setting. Holland Park is also the location of the Kyoto Garden or the Japanese Garden (filled with azaleas, cascading waterfalls and peacocks) which is one of my favorite parts of the city. I used to sit there and grade student papers when I was teaching in London.    
            At 11.00 pm, with everyone else having left, we who were having such a good time, were pretty much the last to leave. Michael and Cynthia hailed a cab and dropped me off at Holborn while Kitty, who was their house guest for the week, carried on with them. The boys again gamely decided to take public transport to get home! No, chivalry is not dead!
            It was about 11. 45 pm when I reached home and finally got to sleep on my last night in my Holborn flat. Tomorrow, I will awake and start packing for my move to Abbey Road where I will partake in Beatles’ history.
            Until tomorrow, Cheerio!   

A Walking Tour of Covent Garden and ‘Macbeth’ on Screen

Jul21


Saturday, July 20, 2013
London:
            I awoke about 6. 30 with a splitting headache and decided I needed to do something about it. Two hours and two Tylenols later, headache was history and I was able to get out of bed at 8.30 and start my day. Phew!
            Spent most of the morning doing errands—began packing for my move to my next lodgings at St. John’s Wood. This took about half an hour. Next, I made gift packs for all my friends here who have ‘lent’ me their homes in which to stay.  Then I got on the bus to St. Paul’s to my friend Cynthia’s home so that I could leave my large suitcase at her’s and travel about London from one week to the next with a much smaller case that she lent me last week. Unfortunately, she was in the shower, so I did not meet her. Left the suitcase outside her door and returned home on the bus. I caught up on email and did some steady work for a couple of hours. I breakfasted on the last of my muesli and honey yoghurt and then made a sandwich for lunch and got dressed. By the time I left the flat, it was close to 1.00 pm. I took the Tube to Covent Garden in order to start my walking tour of the area following the route in DK Eyewitness Guides.
A Walking Tour of Covent Garden:          
          Holborn, where I am currently based, is dead at the weekends—which is a good thing if you live here as it gives you some respite from the constant buzz of the area that is highly commercial and profoundly legal. (The Tube stop is called Chancery Lane which, if you are a fan of Charles Dickens, you will know was the setting for his novel Bleak Housefilled with lawyers and the case called ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce’ which went on endlessly).
          So when I hit Covent Garden, the contrast was startling. The area was jam-packed with tourists. There were thousands everywhere I turned. Streaming out of the Tube station in droves, they choked Long Acre Road and spilled into the Piazza at Covent Garden in such numbers, you’d think London was the only place in the world to which a visitor could go!
          I followed the route which took me into Neal Street to the charming little courtyard called Neal’s Yard. Here, buildings painted in bright and vivid colors are clustered around a small space filled with health food stores and restaurants. Everyone seemed to be doing a thriving trade with people eating on the pavements in café trottoir settings a la Paris. These were once warehouses that have been jazzed up to become exorbitant real estate in which only the fanciest shops and boutiques have their glass fronts.
            Just across the street was Thomas Neal’s—another warehouse building that has been converted into an indoor mall. It has a restaurant on the basement level and an interesting light fixture replicating giant light bulbs on the main level. I popped in, took a few pictures and walked out towards Seven Dials which was also packed. It is like a miniature Eros statue (I mean the one at Piccadilly) in the number of people that had congregated around its base. It stands at an important crossroads that is marked by a column on top of which are six sundials—the seventh is the point of the column itself. Although the original column dated back to the 17th century, this is a more contemporary replica.
            On through Monmouth Street I proceeded, to arrive at colorful St. Martin’s Court (previously Ching Court) also filled with eateries, the main one belonging to Jamie Oliver. Outside, there is Dishoom, the Indian restaurant with a difference—it serves Bombay street food and lots of chaat. It was packed with Indians having brunch. I stepped inside (as my friend Murali had blogged about it and I was keen to see it for myself) and found Bollywood posters from the 1960s as well as magazine pages from Eve’s Weekly and Feminawhich took me down Nostalgia Lane double quick! A really interesting restaurant that is worth a visit, I think.
            On I went towards Rose Street and Garrick Street to find The Lamb and Flag pub that has stood on this spot in a hidden corner since the 16th century. Parts of the interior have been untouched since that time. I was encouraged to try their own brew—New Frontier ale–and it was welcome on another hot morning—although I have to say being cloudy and overcast, it offered relief from the heat and humidity of the past few days. John Dryden was once seriously wounded in a brawl outside its doors in the alley because he had lampooned the Duchess of Portsmouth (one of the mistresses of Charles II) and there is a plaque to commemorate this shady event.
            As I walked towards Covent Garden, I spied Carluccio’s, an Italian restaurant chain that I absolutely love. It carries some of my favorite eats: their caponata and their lemon tarts are to die for and I never leave London without partaking of the genius of the chain’s founder, Antonio Carluccio. I popped in to look around and was rewarded with a few nibbles—sample olive oil served with focaccia bread and parmesan cheese and salami. Nice!
            By this time, I was close to Covent Garden’s lively Piazza that was fairly jumping with humanity. There were buskers galore all over the place entertaining the public with magic shows and musical offerings. I found Laduree, the French confectioner, has set up a tea room right on the piazza! How multi-culturall it is all becoming—Carluccio’sand Laduree only steps from each other. I love Laduree’s melange de maisontea (house blend tea) to which I had become introduced in Paris and I buy loads of it (now available in New York). I introduced my friends Michael and Cynthia to it when they were visiting me in Connecticut and now they are huge fans too! I stepped into Apple Market and into the many shops that line the market—once a famous flower market (setting for Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and its film version My Fair Lady), today it does a brisk trade in all sorts of crafts. In neighboring Jubilee Market, there were more arts and crafts although on some days of the week there is vintage bric a brac (no more antiques—for those one has to go to the posh shops at Notting Hill or on Church Street).
            Circling around, I came to the corner that was once a coffee shop called Boswell’s(today it houses Balthazar, a restaurant). Dr. Samuel Johnson met his biographer Boswell in this space in the 18th century and the fact is marked with a detailed plaque outside that tells the whole story. This area was well frequented by Dickens who was a dedicated theater buff and who spent most of his evenings watching dramatic performances in them. There was once a Theater Museum here but today it is a Film Museum. The Theater Royal is not too far away on Drury Lane (where the Muffin Man once did a roaring trade, according to the old nursery rhyme).
            Past Bow Lane I went and into Floral Lane (there was once a big flower market here, hence the name) to arrive at the Royal Opera House which, I am ashamed to say, after so many visits to London and after having lived here, I had never been inside! Of course, that had to be remedied, so in I went with the idea of taking a tour—only to discover that they had just closed tours down as the afternoon’s matinee performance was about to begin. I browsed around the crowded gift store before venturing to the Box Office myself to find out about Day Tickets. I discovered that they do sell those—so I will be back tomorrow to try and get one for Puccini’s La Rondine. However, what I did manage to get was Cultural Gold:  a ticket to see the Bolshoi Ballet later in August. Although it is not the best seat, it was one of the few remaining and I snagged it immediately. I might not have seen the Kirov Ballet at the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg in Russia, but here I was soon going to see the Bolshoi on at the ROH—it was just pure great luck!
            Ten minutes later, I was on the Tube heading home to shower and get dressed to go to Battersea to my friend Rosemary’s home. She had invited me to dinner before we set off for Chelsea-Fulham to see the National Theater’s Live screening of the final show of Macbeth coming from the Manchester Theater Festival starring Kenneth Branagh in the lead role. Roz had put together a light Smoked Fish (Salmon and Mackerel) Salad which she served with buttered bread and beer for starters. We set out in her car and drove into Chelsea (which has a very interesting and different look at night—I must explore it after dark, I think), parked in a small side street and entered the theater. Seating was free and we had our pick.
MacBeth on Screen in Chelsea-Fulham with Roz:
            The production was staged in a deconsecrated church in Manchester and the shape of the building dictated the design of the performance—the audience sat in the choir stalls. It was hot (I could see the audience fanning themselves) and the production was designed to take place in a mud pit. During the opening battle, they had rain pouring down on the mud making it a churning, slippery mess. The cast were dressed in thickly padded costumes and I felt for them in the heat. The opening with the three witches was hideous—God knows what the director did to them. They looked awful and sounded worse. Some of their best lines were lost in the sing-song manner they affected. Lady Macbeth was also a bit unappealing but Branagh as Macbeth and the actor playing McDuff were especially good. I am not sure it was the most orthodox Macbeth I have seen (and I have seen many staged versions) but this was memorable for its innovation and experimentation.
            It was 10. 45 when it ended. Roz dropped me to South Kensington Tube station from where I took the train and got home at 11. 20 pm exhausted and ready to drop right into bed after what had been a busy but very interesting day. 
          Until tomorrow, Cheerio!

Revisiting Trafalgar Square and The Wallace Collection

Jul20


Friday, July 19, 2013
London
Today turned out to be a not-so-exciting one. I woke early, did substantial work at my computer before eating my muesli breakfast. But by the time I managed to get out of the house it was about 9. 45 am—perhaps already a tad too late to try to snag a 10 pound “Day Ticket”.
I took the Tube to Leicester Square and then walked to Shaftesbury Lane to the theater playing The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. No such luck today! The clerk told me that all tickets were gone in ten minutes as the play is proving very popular (possibly a result of the popularity of the novel). He said people had queued up since 6. 45 am!!! If I want a Day Ticket, it seems I must get there by at least 8.00 am. Oh well! Perhaps I shall try on another day.  
Since I was in the West End area, I figured I would try to get Day Tickets for another play on my Must-See List: it turned out that One Man, Two Gov’nors was on at the Theater Royal Haymarket, not too far away. I walked there and got one ticket for 12 pounds—but it turned out to be high up in the Gallery. I took it anyway figuring that my field glasses would prove helpful. Then off I went to start my rambles in Soho and Trafalgar Square.
Traipsing around Trafalgar:
            There was not much I saw for the first time today, save for Chinatown. I have walked through Gerard Streetbefore (which is the heart of London’s Chinatown) but rarely have I observed the place minutely. This morning, I was right in the midst of the unloading going on at every supermarket and restaurant that lines Gerard Street—and it was both unpleasant and dangerous as there were mechanized dollies doing their thing—with me in the middle.
            I quickly scuttled off and entered Leicester Square (going past the interesting Exchange and Bullion Center building on the right that dates from the late 1800s). As always, Leicester Square was alive with tourists looking for discounted theater tickets. I realized that the TKTS booth that used to be the hub of the area is now almost forlorn—very few discounted seats were available and although they were half price, they were still expensive. It seems that people now prefer to queue up outside individual theaters for the Day Tickets which are a real bargain, if you can get them.
            The sculpture of Shakespeare is shrouded by scaffolding as it is under refurbishment and Charlie Chaplin in no longer there either. Looping around Orange Street, I arrived at the Sainsbury Wing of the National Theater and looping around the grand old fountains there, I took a few pictures before going up close and personal to peruse Edwin Landseer’s magnificent quartet of bronze lions. There was actually a queue of people waiting patiently to climb atop them to have their pictures taken.
            I lopped around and entered the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, so named because it once stood in the fields and pastures in which sheep grazed. The inside is known for its superb ornamental plaster ceiling although its altar is rather plain. Once upon a time, I had attended a brilliant fusion concert inside with my nephew Sudarshan. I will never forget the acoustics of that lovely venue. This morning, I was present for the rehearsal of another lunch time concert: clarinet and piano—and I cannot tell you how awful it sounded. The program centered around the kind of atonal music I detest—it was all sound and fury signifying nothing. I scuttled out again as quickly as I could and made my way down into the Cryptwhich has perhaps the nicest gift store in London. It carries the most unusual merchandise and I always wish I had a bigger baggage allowance when I am in a place like this. As it turned out, all I could do was some window shopping before I left and resurfaced at the top.
An Errand and a Viewing at the National Portrait Gallery:
            I crossed the street and entered the National Portrait Gallery where I had an errand associated with identifying an image that I intend to use as the cover of my book. Since the image does not belong to the Museum but is in a private collection, I need the help of an archivist and the staff of the Exhibitions Department to assist me. I did get the names, telephone numbers and email addresses of the persons to contact and then I went out to see the portrait that everyone was talking about a few months ago: the Portrait of Catherine Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge by Paul Emsley that critics either like or hate. No one seems to have loved it so far, so I was prepared not to be impressed. As it turned out, I thought it was an admirable likeness of the sitter (done with just two sittings granted to the artist whom Catherine chose personally) without any attempt made to glamorize her. Yes, the overall effect is grey, dull and somber but perhaps that was how the artist saw his subject. Nothing wrong with it, I thought. The eyes are magnetic—beautifully done in shades of hazel with a strange light shining out of them—so hard to achieve in a portrait.
            I spent a while looking at some of the other newer, more contemporary portraits that have been added since I was last there (actor Timothy Spall, actress Maggie Smith) and then I made my way out and walked towards Charing Cross Road. It hadn’t turned out to be much of a morning, so I decided to take the Tube to Oxford Street for a peep into the Wallace Collection, another wonderful private collection of art.
Lunch in Starbucks at Selfridges:
            Thanks to the current soap opera I have been watching in the States, Mr. Selfridge, I simply couldn’t resist the impulse to go to Selfridges and browse around. My first stop was the Jo Malone counter where, as a regular buyer, I was presented with a sample pot of Nectarine and Honey Body Cream. Then up I went to the café as I was hungry and wanted to eat my Stilton Cheese sandwich and to buy a drink to wash it down. It turned out that Starbucks has a location on the fourth floor which is the Food Hall. Unfortunately, it did not have wifi—standard in all Starbucks’ around the world—but I did buy a Strawberry and Cream Milkshake—and so good it was too on a morning that was muggy and sticky. Lunch break gave me a chance to regroup and decide what to do next and to rest my feet. I am walking an average of 6 miles a day and it is taking its toll on my feet though not apparently doing anything to bring down my weight! Well, it’s the milkshakes that have a lot to answer for, I guess!
           
Window Shopping on Marylebone High Street:
            Lunch done, I walked along St. James’ Street towards Marylebone High Street to get to the Wallace Collection which is sandwiched in Mansfield Square between Oxford Street and Marylebone High Street—while the former is known for its chain stores (M&S, Selfridges, Zara, Monsoon, H&M, etc), the latter has the boutique stores (The White Company, Daunt Books) and many charity shops—a particular fancy of mine. I was thrilled to find a loaf of Walnut Bread at Waitrose (I do not often find it and when I do, I always buy one) and then it was in the many charity shops that I browsed (Oxfam, St. Bernard’s, Cancer Care, etc.). Alas, I found nothing to grab my fancy so I walked towards the Wallace Collection.              
Saying Hullo to Masterpieces in the Wallace Collection:
            The Wallace Collection is based in an 18th century mansion that belonged to the Dukes of Hertford and is filled with their collection of art and objects d’art—mainly from the 18th century, although there are significant pieces from other eras as well. It is a grand space that is beautifully maintained and, best of all, free to the public. It is also still very much a residence and I think it wonderful that the public is allowed to glimpse these marvels without needing to pay handsomely for them.
            The reception desk provides a floor plan which allows folks to leave footprints around the spacious rooms in which royalty were once entertained. Notice the interior design and decoration as much as the art objects. Notice, for instance, the grand marble staircase with its exquisite metalwork railing. Notice the outdoor café space—under a great glass ceiling amid potted palms, one can sip a soothing cuppa.
            Then notice the masterpieces that, according to the bequest can be moved around the house but never out of it. So if you want to see Fragonard’s The Swing or Franz Hals’ The Laughing Cavalier or Nicolas Poussin’s Dance to the Music of Time or Peter Paul Reuben’s Landscape with Rainbow or Velasquez’s Lady with a Fan—you can only see them here with no expectation whatsoever that they will come to a museum near you. For The Swing alone, it is worth making the pilgrimage to the Wallace. It is a darling painting—oil on wood—that tells a little story. The 18th century lady, complete with voluminous skirts and powdered wig, is being swung by her father—a white haired man in the background. But unbeknownst to him, her lover is concealed in the hedges waiting for a glimpse of his beloved. She, well knowing of his presence, flirts outrageously with him, even tossing her little pink sandal into the hedge for him to catch! It is twilight—there is little light except what shines on the lady’s face. I love this painting and I was thrilled to see it again.
I also adore another painting in this collection: Miss Bowles and her Dog by Joshua Reynolds. It is so evocative of innocence and of child-like beautiy that it always takes my breath away. Indeed in a collection that has masses of large-scale canvasses by Charles Oudry, Sargent, Reubens, it is the littlest ones that are most striking and I love them dearly.
            I also love the arrogant expression on the face of the Hals’ Laughing Cavalier. There are also any number of Francois Bouchers—with his fat cherubic angels and their skeins and garlands of fruits and flowers. There are loads, simply loads, of Sevres porcelain, so you would be wise to see them here for free (rather than at Buckingham Palace where you will have to pay a bundle to see the Queen’s collection—she is a passionate collector of Sevres).
            Yes, to read the label of every one of the paintings and to admire every item of Boule furniture, it would take all day—but if you want to see just the masterpieces, you can see the collection in a couple of hours—which is what I did.
            I then walked up to Portman Square and jumped into the 139 bus going to St. John’s Wood so that I could water the plants on the balcony of my friend Raquel’s flat. This took me no more than a half hour’s detour. I was back on the bus again and took the Tube from Oxford Circus to get back home for a shower and a nap. Alas, I did not have the time for a cup of tea today.
Off to the Theater to see One Man, Two Gov’nors:
            At 7.00 pm, I left the house to take the Tube to Piccadilly Circus from where I walked to the Theater Royal Haymarket to see  One Man, Two Gov’nors. My seat was awful—way way too high with the gold bar coming right in the center and distorting the view. I realized quickly enough that it would be torture to sit there and I also discovered that the play, while really hilarious, contained too much slapstick for my liking. I got the idea pretty quickly: a series of mix-ups would occur as one man juggled the orders of his two employers (‘governors’ in Cockney slang). By the intermission, I decided that I had had enough and I left—it has been ages since I have left the theater half way through the play, but it was clearly not up my alley.  
      On the bus I arrived at Aldwych, from where I took another bus along Kingsway to Holborn and then I was inside Sainsburys’ buying two Indian ready meals as I had a sudden desire to eat Indian food! I bought Chicken Tikka Masala and Jal Frezi with Pullao and a tub of Carte D’Or Chocolate Explosion ice-cream (as it is still terribly hot) and some profiteroles (which I love) and then I was on the Tube at Holborn getting home for a fairly early night.
            I heated up an Indian meal, ate a big dessert and then went off to sleep thinking that it hadn’t been much of a day after all.

More St. James, Hard Rock Café ‘Vault’ and Strange Interlude

Jul19

Thursday, July 18, 2013:

London

       It was another productive and very exciting day! Oh and really hot too! I was up by 5. 30 am and by 8. 30 am, had already put in three full hours of work at my computer. As I was on a roll, I decided not to go to Mass. Instead, I washed, dressed, breakfasted on my soaked muesli and set out to meet my day.

First item on my agenda was the bus (521 from across the street) to Waterloo Bridge to get to the National Theater. I was keen to see Anne-Marie Duff—an actress I have grown to love ever since I saw her play Elizabeth I in The Virgin Queen. The National does not sell 10 pound tickets—but they do have Day Tickets for 12 pounds and I was delighted to snag one for the 7.00 pm show. Armed with my buy, I took the bus from across the road to Bloomsbury and went directly to my NYU office at Bedford Square.

At NYU at Bedford Square:
        Both weekday porters who happen to know me well and still remember my name—Mo, short for Mohammed and Mark North, were at the desk and how delighted they were to see me! They put me immediately on to my colleague Ruth who came downstairs to meet me and took me to meet Eric, our Associate Director, who joined after my time in London. We spent a little while together. It was so great to see Ruth again especially since there has been a massive change of guard and many new faces have been added to the staff roster at NYU-London. Our program has also expanded exponentially with two new adjoining houses being added to the original premises. Then I went down to the basement Computer Labs to print out some more material for editing in the next few days and about half an hour later, I was off.

Continuing Explorations at St. James’ and Piccadilly:
      Leaving Bedford Square behind me, I walked to Bloomsbury to take a bus to continue my explorations of St. James’ and Piccadilly. I arrived again at the Statue of Eros at Piccadilly Circus, went into Nespresso for another reviving espresso and crossed Air Street and Regent Street to get back to Piccadilly where I returned to Fortnum and Mason to pick out a few more of their goodies to give away as gifts as I have already been receiving invitations to dinner from local London friends, who, I know would love some of their specialty foods. I discovered that on the Lower Ground floor, it is possible to stash buys in storage for later retrieval.

      On to Jermyn Street I went. Here, I discovered a specialty fromagier—Paxton and Whitfield is a cheese shop that I have heard great things about from Nigella Lawson’s show and Twitterfeed. Inside, I sampled many of their wares and picked up one of their readymade “Picnic Bags” as I was running out of cheese myself: it contained 2 chunks of English Stilton, 1 nice round of goat cheese and a hunk of Gruyere—nice!

      Then, I was turning into the Duke of Gloucester Street to enter St. James’ Park with its equestrian sculpture of William IV in the center. On another sizzling London day, it was filled with office-goers eating picnic lunches on the lawn. I sat myself down for a bit, then resumed my walking tour in search of the famous London Library. Although entry is strictly for members only (and a very pricey membership it is too of 465 pounds a year), I did get into the Reception area and glanced around before picking up a leaflet outlining the history of the place and its illustrious members over the years. Founded by Thomas Carlyle, it numbers both famous Victorian Charles-es—Darwin and Dickens—among its members as well as Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, E.M. Forster, Winston Churchill, Agatha Christie, Vita Sackville-West. John Betjeman, Kingsley Amis, Tom Stoppard, both Simons—Callow and Schama–and Bruce Chatwin (and this is only a selection) among its members. Stories associated with this library are rife.

      I had no time to linger and off I went towards Green Park to make a detour on to Duke’s Hotel which is the location of the famous Duke’s Bar whose bartender Gilberto once mixed the best martinis in the world (according to City Secrets London). Alas, Gilberto is no longer there but the current bartender permitted me to poke around, admire the signed photograph of Sean Connery (forever associated with James Bond who famously liked his martinins “shaken not stirred” although purists know that maritinis are neither shaken nor stirred!) on the wall. I ate my ham and Stilton sandwich lunch in the shade on lawn chairs provided by the hotel, used their facilities and then off I went again towards St. James’ Street.

       Here, I paused to see two things: The famous wine merchant, the oldest one in the world, called Berry Brothers and Rudd, whose interior is worth a visit for two reasons: it is extremely old-world and atmospheric and it contains a gigantic weighing scale, once used to weigh merchandise but, by the 18th century, used to weigh the area’s well-heeled residents. I was treated to a taste of a fine liqueur called King’s Ginger (it was amazing: plainly gingerly with a hint of lemon and similar to Drambuie) and given several recipe cards contained cocktails on the back. I saw a letter from the offices that owned the Titanic informing the company that the disaster had taken a case of their wine down into the ink-black waters that night. The displays are stirring and any history buff will have a fine time browsing the walls for memorabilia, not to mention a connoisseur of fine wines. I had the time of my life

     Then, following advice in City Secrets London, I entered adjoining Pickering Place, a tiny residential enclave surrounded by black brick buildings and crowned by a large sun dial in the center. It is Dickensian in the extreme and filled with scarlet geraniums spilling from window boxes which was truly lovely.

      I walked on then to St. James’ Palace. Its famous twin-towered Tudor gates were closed and had no guards outside them—they were further up the road. Into Marlborough House I went, once a grand 18th century private mansion, but was told that it was not open to the public—I distinctly remember sauntering inside, a few years ago, with my friend Loreen from Wilton, Connecticut, and admiring the thick skeins of wisteria that festoon its walls and using the loo in what is today the Commonwealth offices. Next door, the Queen’s Chapel, designed by Inigo Jones, was also closed: I have plans to return to it this coming Sunday for 8. 30 am Eucharistic services. A short loop around Spencer House—childhood London home of Princess Dina and now owned by her brother the current Earl Spencer–which I had visited in March with my former student (now a London banker) Kent Lui, brought me to Green Park through which I strolled briefly at the end of a long and humid afternoon which was crammed with sun-bathers.

      St. James’ area is always a joy to peruse: it has history, brilliant architecture, enticing upscale stores (some of my favorites) for unique shopping in an atmosphere in which you are made to feel like a Queen, fine parks, grand hotels—indeed it is London at its most genteel and I have always felt entitled to enjoys its amusements if only for a while.

Off to the ‘Vault’ at the Hard Rock Café:
      One of the things I am doing during my stay this time round is see as many of the Fifty Unusual Museums of London (that I downloaded from the Visit Britain website) as I can. One of them mentioned the Vault at the Hard Rock Café which was in the vicinity—at the end of Piccadilly near Hyde Park. I jumped into a bus going in that direction, got off at the end of the road near the Wellington Arch and walked through crazy traffic circles and the taxis emerging out of The Mall towards the Hard Rock Café.

      It is amazing but despite all our travels, the only Hard Rock Café that I have ever visited and eaten in is in New York. I had never been to the London one—which explains why I had never seen or even heard of The Vault: this is an underground treasury of musical memorabilia associated with the world of rock music. Guided tours are given every 20 minutes and I joined a couple waiting their turn before being taken downstairs at 3.00 pm by a young man.

       We found ourselves in a very well-lit underground cavern (we had taken a flight of narrow stairs to get down there) into a real vault: there were thick and heavy doors through which we went past. The guide explained that these premises once belong to Coutts Bank, bankers to the royal family and that Diana’s wedding dress had once lain in this space for safe-keeping. In 1991, when the bank went out of business, and the Hard Rock Café bought the premises, it inherited the Vault—and, therefore, decided to make a true showpiece of it by acquiring, at auction, items of clothing as well as letters and musical instruments belonging to stars. It is a tiny space but crammed with all sorts of items to thrill music buffs: I spied Bob Dylan’s guitar, Madonna’s bustier (worn at one of her ‘shocking’ concerts) and her credit card (on which her name is given as Madonna Circonne), John Lennon’s army outfit, one of Jimi Hendrix’s many guitars, letters from and to The Temptations and The Beach Boys—and on and on it went. It does not take longer than 15 minutes to poke around as well as see the bevy of photographs outside featuring musical giants who have performed at the Hard Rock Café. I would say that if one is not really interested in buying souvenir merchandise sold by the café, then a visit to this Vault would be fun. I had a good time.

       But I was also ready to get back to F&M to pick up my buys and then hop on to the buses to get home. I needed to rest, and to shower and dress for my evening out and indeed that was exactly what I did—I even managed to fit in a short half hour nap.

Off to the National Theater to see Strange Interlude:
      My evenings at London’s theaters are getting better daily. Tonight I was spellbound by the acting talent of Anne-Marie Duff playing Nina in Eugene O’Neil’s Strange Interlude. Now this is a play I had never seen in performance; indeed it is a play with which I am unfamiliar. And what a brilliant play it turned out to be with such an unusual story and a plot that was so unpredictable because it could go anywhere. I had chosen to see this play because, as one of her long-time admirers, I could not wait to see Duff in the flesh and I was not disappointed. She was simply riveting as Nina and in the support she received from such consummate actors as Charles Edwards who played Good Old Charlie Marsden (he is familiar to fans of Downton Abbey as the married editor to whom Lady Edith is attracted and for whose newspaper she starts to contribute articles), she was superb. Indeed every one of the characters did a grand job and given the fact that I had front row seats (for 12 pounds, did I mention?) which allowed me to watch every single expression on every single actor’s face, I was in Theater Heaven. Not surprisingly, the play has received superlative reviews and I felt privileged to be able to see it for myself.

      I am thrilled by these Day Tickets and hope to pick up one tomorrow for The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. On Monday, I shall try for Othello, also at the National but the ticket clerk has warned me to queue really early for that one.

       As it was a very long play, it finished at 10. 30. I was home by 11.00 pm and by the time I had dinner (scrambled eggs, Cumberland sausages, salad), it was almost midnight and I was ready to call it a day. My days seems to be divided nicely between editing work, a walking tour, a museum and a play! In fact, it is London as its most varied and most entertaining. What’s not to love???

      Until tomorrow, cheerio!

London for Walkers: Central and Ethnic (Piccadilly and Brixton)

Jul17
Wednesday, July 17, 2013:
London
Exploring Central and Ethnic London:
Live and Learn. If that’s what Life is all about, I am glad I learned about “Ten at Ten”. For I was at the Noel Coward Theater at 9.3 0 am (having woken at 6.00 am, done some editing work on my computer, washed, dressed, attended Mass at 8.00 am at St. Paul’s, breakfasted and taken the Tube to Leicestter Square). There were about 15 early birds in the queue ahead of me to pick up Ten Pound “Day” Tickets—and the wait turned out to be longer than expected as the Box Office only opened at 10. 30 am; but the final reward was sweet for I snagged a ticket to see Daniel (Harry Potter) Radcliffe in The Cripple of Innishmaan for 10 pounds. I mean where could I possibly see world-class drama for $15 in The Big Apple? Not even Off  Off  Off  Broadway! Thrilled with my buy, I took the Tube again to Piccadilly Circle to begin a Walking Tour of Piccadilly and St. James. And by the way, by the time I reached the end of the day, I had walked 14,600 steps or 6.8 miles (a record even for me).
In the Court of St. James at Piccadilly:
            The reason why each of these DK Eye Witness Walks is taking me two and even three installments to complete is because there are too many distractions everywhere to cause me to get side-tracked. I began at Piccadilly Circus (as recommended) at the Sculpture of Eros that dominates the crazy traffic circle that, at the best of times, is always choked with tourists and, in the night, is a gaudy, vivid, ever-changing neon show of lights. In the daytime, it is less lurid but just as crazy. Crossing towards Air Street whose giant arches have been recommended as architectural features to note in City Secrets London, I chanced upon the Nespresso flagship store on Regent Street—so I could not resist going in to find out about their seriously upscale coffee. What I did find were freshly-brewed samples doled out at a Tasting Table in tiny Alice In Wonderland glass cups complete with biscuits! I requested a Mocha Macchiato—and how good it tasted although hot–I could have done better with an iced coffee on a morning that was already sizzling. But just across the street, Whittards was doling out White Chocolate Milk Shake samples, so very welcome on a gruesomely hot morning.
            Across the street, I entered Piccadilly and turned into Jermyn Street to peruse the colorful old windows of male clothiers—there were shoe makers and shirt makers and every sort of shop a man might consider entering to outfit himself adequately for a corporate career in London.
      I could not resist entering Waterstone’s at Piccadilly, a book store that City Secrets London recommends every one should visit. It is a wonderfully huge space–it was once the location of Simpson’s, the famed restaurant that has moved close to the Savoy Hotel and is now called Simpsons-In-The-Strand. I browsed through the London travel book section and was alwasy astounded by the new ones that come out each year. Downstairs in the basement cafe, I was able to retrieve email through the free wifi and upstairs, after I  took the lift (with its Smarties-like buttons to the fifth floor), I entered the famed bar–with its rooftop views over London. Alas, too much construction in recent years has all but obligterated the views of the spires of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben; but it is still a fairly decent space in which to pass an hour or two with a cocktail and a fine companion. 
           Then I was entering the lovely church yard of St. James’—the exquisite church that Christopher Wren picked out as his own best work in London. Its spire stands like a sentinel in the midst of Mammon’s world—for Piccadilly boasts some of the smartest store fronts with merchandize in which only the heavily-walleted can indulge. I ought to have gone straight inside; but, as I explained, London presents distractions at every turn and since I am here for a month (and not just a day as I was while on our Baltic Cruise), I can afford to linger. So, I set the grand stores behind and poked about in the impromptu market that springs up frequently in front of the church entrance featuring everything from London pub signs and football insignia to vintage cufflinks, ear-rinks and porcelain bric a brac. Thankfully nothing caught my fancy, so I moved on.   
            Inside St. James’ Church I stepped, into the cool interiors punctuated by the work of one of my favorite 18th century artisans, the lyrically named Grindling Gibbons—I have become adroit at recognizing his work at all the prestigious venues: Hampton Court, for instance, where a three-year old boy once enthusiastically described his work as “Rich Carvings, Daddy, Rich Carvings”. At St. James’ Church, Gibbons’ work is evident in two very different media: in wood (his forte) behind the altar where a thick skein of fruits, flowers, bows and garlands are an exuberant example of his vision (and above the grand organ where twin angels sit brooding over the congregation) and in stone: the Baptismal font at which no less a luminary than William Blake was baptized, is in stone featuring a circular frieze of Adam and Eve.
          Unfortunately, I missed the free concert that would be beginning in half an hour (piano and vocals–I would have loved it), and people had already begun to take their places in front of the grand piano placed at the altar; but I had a lunch date with my colleague and friend and I did not want  to keep her waiting.
            With half an hour on my hands, I popped inside Fortnum and Mason, purveyor of fine British food and drink. It is a place with a long and antiquated history having been founded in the 1700s by one of the footmen of Queen Anne—what an enterprising fellow! It is the best place in the world to buy typically English food such as lemon curd and Major Grey’s piquant mango chutney, crispy shortbread fingers, teas from around the planet and confections such as Turkish Delight. Over the years, I have bought a fair share of unusual trinkets that are regular conversation pieces chez Almeida: cheese markers, individual mug tea strainers that look like top hats, tea infusers in the shape of houses, tea cozies featuring the twin clock logos of the shop. I covet, right now, a little silver plated tea scoop with which to transfer loose tea leaves into the infuser and perhaps I shall pick up one before I leave. At any rate, I was there on a mission: to find some gifts for the many hosts who have so willingly and generously lent me their lodgings for my London stay. Since I was arriving in London from a long cruise, I could not carry gifts for them from the US—so F&M will fit the bill. I browsed around, long and hard, and came up with a bunch of nice buys. The nice assistant at the counter told me that they do not have a Waiting Service Area like John Lewis but he would make an exception and stash my stuff for a couple of hours. I was very grateful.         
            Then off I went to Green Park station to take the Victoria line to Brixton to meet my colleague Ifeona.
Browsing Around Brixton:
            I had long known that Brixton was a West Indian stronghold; so what better an escort to show me around the place that a West Indian herself. For my colleague Ifeona who teaches with me at NYU-New York, was born in Jamaica and arrived in London at the age of three. She grew up around Finchley but knows Brixton well from having accompanied her folks on many marketing visits to the area while growing up. Having also done some research on the area and having led her students on a walking tour herself, a few years ago, she was the perfect companion with which to take such a tour. And since I am a sucker for walking tours with a knowledgeable guide, I knew I would enjoy it thoroughly.
Ifeona was waiting for me outside the station when I arrived on the stroke on 1. 30 pm as decided. We started our walk and decided to have lunch upon its conclusion—she, of course, knew the perfect place. We started on the High Street, Brixton Road, where all the major clothing department stores might be found—M&S, Zara, Monsoon, etc. Taking in the splendor of the Victorian buildings that occupy the most strategic spots on the High Street (the Town Hall with its ubiquitous Clock Tower–an important amenity in a time when most people could not afford their own time piece), the “Free Public Library”, the Church–we arrived at the Metropolitan Police Station, scene of so much violence, over the years, between the inhabitants of the area and the police—for Brixton had always been multi-racial, so although race-relations were not much of an issue, encounters with the police always were. Memorials to those killed by the police over the years sit outside the police station around a tree where plastic flowers, candles, poems, etc. have been left to the departed—mostly young black men gunned down in confrontations with the law.
Into a side street we went, past the typical Victorian terraced housing that sprang up like mushrooms to accommodate the then white servants of London’s wealthy neighborhoods—they were double-storied and, after World War II, attracted the black West Indian immigrants who poured in from the Caribbean Islands. Although initially they rented these premises, in course of time, these immigrants bought up these homes—only to sell them by the 1980s when white Britons discovered the proximity of the area to the city center—Brixton is only 20 minutes on the Tube to Piccadilly! In doing so, they moved further into the suburbs and disinherited their children. Today, young blacks could never dream of buying property in Brixton where even the most modest single family homes would cost nothing less than 750,000 pounds.
   On the next road (Effra Road), we passed by a notorious family housing estate—Council owned—that looked almost prison-like to me with its high walls and small windows. Ifeona explained that Councils are trying hard to raze such properties to the ground—which often means displacement of the residents who are driven far away into the suburbs. Cake shops carried custom-made cakes featuring Snow White and her Castle and Cinderella’s glass slipper—an indication perhaps of white fairly-tale dreams?
Further on we went to take in the sight of a gigantic mural on a building wall, Crated in 1981 as a protest against nuclear armament, it is called Nuclear Dreams—it presents London before the construction of the London Eye, so the skyline is different. We pressed on to the corner to what used to be the famed Atlantic Pub—re-named today to the One Star Pub. Atlantic had a better ring to it and more significance for it was the watering hole of the working class who had made their diasporic way to the UK across the Atlantic Ocean. It sits opposite butchers that sell goat meat and grocery stores stocked with spices and herbs that form an essential part of Caribbean cuisine. There were also a few clothing boutiques with the accent on Africa-inspired clothing complete with sequins and strong colors.
We then entered a far more upscale part of the township—sporting million pound plus homes that were better maintained with nicer front gardens and facades. These were always white lodgings, Ifeona explained, and they continue to be. At the end of this short street, we made a right to loop around the high street and return to the Church—once an important congregating point for the community. Then the Rastafarians came along—and I spotted a couple of men in dreadlocks who remain rooted to the area—and the Christian influence diminished.
Our final stop was Brixton Market that once bristled with the West Indian housewife doing her daily shopping for fish and fruit and spices. Today, it is multi-ethnic and we chose to lunch in a creperie—since the owner and the ethos were Martinique—for St. Martin, a former French colony, is also a significant part of the Caribbean. My crepe, filled with Gorgonzola cheese, red peppers and “king prawns” was tasty and Ifeona’s sweet crepe served traditionally with lemon and powdered sugar was just as good. The heat was awful because the humidity had started up too. It was not very comfortable sitting in public spaces that did not even boast a fan! I remember the first purchase I had made from Argos when I had lived in London was a small table fan that I had placed on my bedside table. God knows how I would have survived these days without “aircon” here in Holborn and I wonder what I will do when I move to St. John’s Wood next week if it continues to be this tropical here in London.
Lunch done, Ifeona and I got back on the Tube and returned to the city. I went back to F&M to pick up my heavy bags, Ifeona went off to run her own errands. I entered the beautiful Burlington Arcade en route to peruse the pricey merchandise (cashmere cardigans and stoles, antique and vintage jewelery, Faberge eggs) before I crossed the street and picked up my goodies. Then, fairly weighted down by my purchases, I jumped into the bus just across the road, changed into another at Tottenham Court Road and reached home by 6.00 pm—just enough time to take a quick nap and a shower before I was out of the house again at 7.00 pm.
Seeing Daniel (Harry Potter) Radcliffe  at the West End:
            One of the great things that Michael Grandage Productions has been doing in recent years is bring really great British stars of stage and screen on the theater floor each year in a season of plays that are top-class. Over the years, I have seen Jude Law, Dame Judi Dench, Derek Jacobi, Kevin McNally, etc. on stage in his productions. Today, I was going to see one of the hottest stars of our times—Daniel Radcliffe who has made a successful transition to stage after his phenomenal success in the Harry Potter films, to see The Cripple of Inishmann. I hadn’t heard much about it or found the time to read the reviews—but it was enough for me to know that Radcliffe was in it to try to get a seat.
            And what a great theatrical experience it was! Set in Ireland in the mid-1950s, the play by Martin McDonaugh and directed by Grandage produced some fine acting, not least from Radcliffe himself who played the lead character. Supported by actors of whom I had never heard but who clearly have acting chops, he did a marvelous job keeping the audience riveted to his sad story of physical deformity and sexual challenge. The Aran Islands, so wonderfully popularized by J.M. Synge, were the setting again for the intrigues that the colorful people who populate these parts get themselves into when a film-crew come calling from Hollywood looking for local extras for the movie. “Cripple Billy” does not allow his physical afflictions to limit his filmic aspirations—and therein lies a tale. His ‘Aunties’ and other incidental characters bring much humor and pathos to the plot and for the two hours that I was in the theater, I was just thrilled, despite the heat that got nearly unbearable at times.
            The play finished exactly at 10. 00 am and I was home at 10. 20 (on the Tube). Since I have run out of quiche, I decided to cook scrambled eggs and Cumberland sausages for dinner—and having made a lot of them, I will have the same thing for dinner for the next couple of days!—the travails of living alone, I guess.       
            By midnight, I had glanced at my email and was ready for bed after what had been another sizzling but very fulfilling day. Tomorrow, I shall try to snag “Ten At Ten Tickets” for Strange Interlude at the National Theater starring Anne-Marie Duff, one of my favorite British actresses (and wife of the super sexy James McAvoy!)
Until tomorrow, cheerio!  

Something Old, Something New!

Jul16
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
London 
Something Old, Something New!    
One thing’s for sure: Five years after I lived in London, I have returned to discover that I do not have the same energy levels I used to or the ability to go on sans sleep the way I once did. I awoke at 5 .15 am and spent the first two hours of the day working on editing my essay. By 7. 30 am, I got out of bed, washed, dressed and left for 8.00 am Mass at St. Paul’s where I met my friends Cynthia and Michael briefly. Although Cynthia insisted I return to their place for breakfast, I declined as my muesli was soaking in milk and yogurt and I was keen to return home to consume it—indeed I have grown to enjoy this breakfast so much that I actually look forward to it. Simple pleasures! I ate it while watching BBC’s Breakfast Show and a bit of Lorraine and then I was getting ready to leave the house—which I did at 10. 30 am—for my long bus ride to the Horniman Museum
Finally Hitting the Horniman Museum:
There is a reason I had never been to the Horniman Museum—and I discovered that reason today! It is located in the midst of nowhere, somewhere between London and Lewisham! This meant a long ride on the Number 63 bus from Gray’s Inn heading towards Honor Oak. Thanks to Journey Planner, I figured that I needed to get off at Peckham Rye station to change to the 197 bus to Lewisham. By the time I reached, it was almost 12 noon and the place was packed solid with school kids on field trips from various schools as far away as Surrey! I was under the mistaken impression that this museum had a whole section on Tea and its accoutrements—and having become a huge tea afficionado, I figured it would be up my alley. Well, I was sadly mistaken. The Tea connection is limited to the fact that Mr. Horniman was a Victorian tea merchant who marketed a product known as Horniman Tea (still sold in the gift shop). The tea museum used to be the Bramah Tea and Coffee Museum in Southwark (which closed a few months before I got there, a year ago, to check it out). So, no, there was no tea stuff to be found at the Horniman. It is, in fact, a Natural History Museum–and not a very impressive one at that. The London Natural History Museum at Kensington is miles better. Its layout might be the Horniman’s most interesting feature—there is a vast gallery that runs the length of the museum which provides a sort of bird’s-eye view of the glass cases below. I mean its centerpiece is a stuffed giraffe–as in stuffed toy, not taxidermied! No further comment necessary. There is also an aquarium and an Amazon section (but these require a payment of 3 pounds—the rest of the museum is free). I browsed about a bit but was not very taken by anything.
            What really struck my fancy were the gardens—apparently recently refurbished in 2012 and a grand sight they are too. There is a splendid conservatory (glass house, reminiscent of the one at Syon House on the Thames) and a nice bandstand with lovely faraway views of London—you can easily distinguish the Gherkin and the Shard, the newest addition to London’s skyline. There is also a nice Musical Garden with giant installations of musical instruments such as xylophones which kids and adults can try their hands at playing. Beautiful beds of marigold in vivid shades of orange brightened up a central reflecting pool. There are perennial flower beds and a medicinal/herb garden. There is a berry patch—I feasted on delicious strawberries picked straight from the vines—what a treat!—small, sweet, red, juicy, flavorful. I don’t believe I could ever eat a genetically-engineered giant American strawberry again. When I had taken a few pictures, I left, and hopped on the bus again; but I did not return home as intended. Instead, as often happens spontaneously when I am in London, I made a detour because I realized that I was not far from the Dulwich Picture Gallery—and so that was my next port of call!
Dallying in Dulwich Picture Gallery:
            Dulwich Picture Gallery is one of London’s art gems: unfortunately, not too many people make the long hike into Dulwich, one of the pretty ‘villages’ of London to go out and see it. Because I have visited it on previous occasions and because the building is the handiwork of Sir John Soane, one of my great Victorian heroes, and because its small collection is so striking and significant, I decided to visit it again. And what a great decision that turned out to be!
            Dulwich Picture Gallery (don’t you even just love the name?) was founded in the strangest of circumstances. Here is an explanation on how the collection came to be: “Stanislaus Augustus, the last King of Poland, commissioned Noël Desenfans and Sir Francis Bourgeois RA, two successful London art dealers, to build a Royal Collection for Poland. In 1795, before they could complete the deal, Poland was partitioned by its powerful neighbour, Catherine the Great of Russia, his ex-lover. The King was forced into exile, and the dealers were left with a Royal Collection on their hands. Unable to sell it, they left the collection to Dulwich College in 1811 under the terms of Bourgeois’ will, stating that it should be available for the ‘inspection of the public’. Bourgeois left another condition in his will: that the architect for the new gallery should be his friend, Sir John Soane (1754-1837). The brief was not just to build a gallery for the pictures, but also almshouses for six old ladies (now exhibition rooms) and a mausoleum for its founders. The challenge was irresistible. Soane turned up at Dulwich the very day after Bourgeois’ death. The building has influenced the design of art galleries ever since”.
      A walk through the galleries brings one to the mausoleum where the remains of the  museum’s founders are enshrined in stone tombs—a most unusual addition in an art gallery. But once you get past this oddity, you will be dumb-struck by the canvases, each one of which is more mesmerizing than the next. Old Masters will be coming out of your ears—as you feast your eyes on Rembrandt’s Girl at the Window (so realistic you will want to reach out and touch her); Murillo’s Madonna of the Rosary and a wealth of other large portraiture, several Gainsborough portraits (including one of Mrs. Elizabeth Moody and her sons Thomas and Samuel both of whom are in dresses). I was told that pre-potty trained kids in the 18th century often wore dresses as it made it easier to take care of their toilet needs! There are amazing Guido Renis and Claude Lorraines, several Poussins, loads of Annibal Carraci and Canaletto’s famed views of the canals of Venice. This collection would make an excellent miniature introduction to the history of western art as it can easily be seen in a single morning—and, I repeat, what a breathtaking collection it is! 
     At any given time, a stroll through the permanent collection is rewarding but what makes a visit to Dulwich Picture Gallery really worthwhile are the special exhibitions that are held regularly and I was particularly fortunate to catch one today on the Bloomsbury artists who had belonged to the Slade School of Art—among whom were names that went on to fashion British Art in the early 20th century and greatly influence it: names like Dora Carrington, CRW Nevinson, Stanley Spencer, Mark Gertler and David Bomberg. Their work was wonderful and showed the impact of the Great War and the tragedy of the Somme on their vision, the manner in which they became influenced eventually by Abstract Art especially Cubism and the ways in which their friendship led to intense personal relationships. I was enthralled as were so many of the viewers who could not tear themselves away from the display. 
     It was another sizzling afternoon; so I was grateful to sit in the shade of the café umbrellas to eat my ham and Stilton cheese sandwich as the mercury climbed ever higher. Then just before I left, I spotted the Alleyn Chapel that was open and I could not resist a quick visit inside. It is a gem of a place—a bequest to the Gallery by Edward Alleyn (pronounced “al-ayn”) who was a gigantic Shakespearean actor in his time (16th century) and who left a chapel and enough money to cover the care of 12 widows whose homes are converted to galleries today. He lies buried in the chapel—a tombstone indicates the spot in front of the altar whose altarpiece is the work of a 19th century sculptor named Carew. The chapel is particularly known for the fine craftsmanship of the wooden pew carvings that feature animals, birds and people in gestures of prayer. It was worth going inside to peruse the kind of artistry that one rarely sees in contemporary places of worship.
            I hopped on the bus to get back home but by the late afternoon the heat sapped my strength and made me long for a break. I needed to get away from the humidity which was stifling. Buses and Tube trains do not have air conditioning here in London and they can get unbearable when the temperatures get this high. It was gratefully that I returned to my air conditioned Holborn apartment and sank into bed expecting to take my habitual 20 minute cat nap—and amazed to find that I did not wake up for 45 minutes! As I said, I do not have the same energy of five years previously! At 5. 15 pm, I jumped up to have a cup of tea and some cake and to take a shower and get ready for my next appointment.
Off to Alexander’s Art Opening:
     By 5. 30 pm, I was out of the house and on the Tube again, heading to Westbourne Park Tube station to meet my friend Rosemary (Roz) whose son Alexander (Alex) had the opening of his first major solo art show at a gallery known as The Tabernacle. Roz was at the station waiting for me when I got there, ten minutes behind schedule as the Tube ride took longer than I expected. Ten minutes later, we were at the venue and I was shaking the hands of the handsome young artist, Roz’s son, whom I have known for several years. He has recently completed his Ph.D. after having done his B.A. and M.A. from Cambridge University with a double major in Law and Art History! All those brains and great looks too! Alex received the good wishes of a large bunch of his friends who turned out to support his work and a bevy of relatives—aunts, uncles—and family friends. Roz introduced me to a number of folks—some of whom were American. I enjoyed perusing Alex’s work in mixed media: oils, water colors, engravings. His work shows confidence and an originality of vision that I found very refreshing and very impressive. I know that he will get better and better with time and experience and I have little doubt that these works which are still very affordable will one day be worth much more than their current value.
        I said goodbye to Roz and her family members and jumped on a bus to Queensway from where I took the Tube home to Chancery Lane, happy at the thought of a fairly early night. I cobbled together a halfway decent dinner (quiche, soup, salad, cherries) and ate it while watching a new TV series called Family Tree with the comedian Chris O’Dowd whom I rather like. At 10. 30 pm with my eyes fairly closing, I hammered out this blog and fell asleep.
     It was an arty-farty day. It involved something old (Dulwich Picture Gallery) and something new (Horniman Museum). But mainly it was enervating as the heat in public transport is no laughing matter! Tomorrow, if it gets this torrid, I shall spent it in an air-conditioned space. 

       Until tomorrow, cheerio!               

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.