Nursing a Cold and Haunting the British Museum

Jan26

Monday, January 26, 2009
London

Having a cold that has left my head weighty, my nose runny and my throat raspy is hardly the way I’d have wanted to start my week. But in addition to all the typical symptoms of a persistent cold, I also have a general sense of weakness that has made me lethargic. I decided not to cancel classes but because I could scarcely speak, I moved my classes to the British Museum–thank goodness for the fact that it is located just behind our campus building.

My students were delighted–as it turned out it was a spectacular day. Where was this kind of day yesterday when Stephanie and I would have been so grateful for great weather in Rochester?? Though I was rather shaky on my feet, I joined my class at the Museum but set them free to explore as they wished with the instruction that they should provide me with a two-page report when we next meet on their visit–on the galleries they covered and the items they sought.

I myself went to the Main Information Desk (the Museum was almost empty a little after 10 am when it first opened) and on the Map asked for the locations to the Museum’s Highlights–in a horrid whisper. The girl at the desk was extraordinarily helpful and guided me to the Treasures of Sutton Hoo (a medieval ship that had been buried with a king in a mound in Suffolk and was excavated to reveal a massive treasure), the Portland Vase (that inspired Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn, reportedly), The Treasures of Ur (in Babylon) and A Sri Lankan Buddha in the South Asian Gallery. I also passed through galleries that housed the most brilliant collection of clocks with their complicated mechanical workings that I found quite fascinating. Clearly, I need to turn my attention to the British Museum now that my study of the National Gallery is almost accomplished.

Then, I returned to my office to print out all the documents I need for my trip to Berlin and back. I am a little nervous as I am reaching the city at about 9 pm–I hate arriving in a new country after dark. And not speaking any German whatsoever, I am afraid of not finding my way to the apartment that has been arranged for me by Anja Brug, whom Llew and I met and got to know only very recently on our travels in Greece. At 2 pm, I made my way to Birkbeck College for my next class where I handed out the same assignment–a self-guided tour and report on the British Museum–to be brought in to our next class.

I myself decided to take a bus to the National Gallery to finish the last 6 galleries there but I hopped into the wrong bus and landed up at Piccadilly instead. A short walk took me to the British Tourism Information Center where I picked up a vast number of brochures, flyers and leaflets on the different regions of the UK that Stephanie and I are now planning to cover by road. Then, in the process of trying to find my way to Trafalgar Square, I got hopelessly lost and walked along Pall Mall and arrived at St. James’ Street and then hit Piccadilly which meant that I had merely walked around a block–or several blocks! And that with a heavy load in my hand. My doctors will not be too pleased at all! Clearly, my mind was not working today and you could tell that I was sick. Needless to say, I did not reach the National Gallery at all and shall try to finish the last 6 galleries tomorrow morning.

I did finally manage to get into a bus and got home rather early–by 5. 30 pm by which time I felt quite wiped out. I sat and drafted one of my monthly newsletters and began to study the maps of Berlin so that I could find my bearings once I arrived there. I used Google Earth to find the location of the apartment at which I will be staying and then dozing myself with loads of paracetemol, I curled up with dinner to watch Part 2 of Nicholas Nickleby which I had begun watching yesterday.

I had called my parents in the morning and found out about funeral arrangements for my Uncle Alex in Bombay (which I then conveyed to Chriselle and Llew) but they did the speaking and I listened. I will now call my cousins in Bombay to condole with them when my voice feels better. Meanwhile, I have heard that there will be a quiet private funeral for my friend, Prof. Sally Ledger in her family home in Herefortshire and a memorial service will be planned for a later date in London–which I shall be sure to attend if I am in town.

A Day Trip to Rochester in Kent

Jan25

Sunday, January 25, 2009
Rochester

Rochester, in my mind, has always been associated with Charles Dickens who spent a good part of his adult life and based the locations and scenes of many of his novels on this city on the River Medway. When Stephanie told me of her interest in exploring various parts of England, I thought of going to Rochester as neither one of us had been there before.

I managed to get quite a bit of work done before I left my flat this morning–laundry, ticket reservation for easybus online for my trip to Berlin and back on Tuesday, email correspondence, etc. By the time I finished a substantial breakfast and did my exercises, I left at 8. 50 am when I had meant to leave at 8. 30 am. I decided to take the Tube as the bus would take forever to get to Wimbledon where Stephanie’s flat is located. I reached there in 45 minutes, so that Stephanie was only waiting about 10 minutes in her spiffy navy blue Lexus when I arrived there. It was great to meet her and, as fate would have it, we clicked immediately. She made a quick stop at her flat to pick up her Blackberry which gave me the opportunity to check it out and to discover that it is very similar to my own. We both have one-bedroom flats that are sparsely but very comfortably furnished with state-of-the-art appliances, brand-new kitchens and bathrooms. However, as Stephanie has a very long commute to work, she has decided to move very soon.

We were off within five minutes and, horror of horrors, watched at the street corner before we got into our car as a huge Tesco truck backed right into a liquor store called Nicholas and tore off one of the spot lights that highlighted the name of the establishment. This made me more admiring that ever of Stephanie’s driving skills in this country and her ability to handle a stick shift car on the wrong side of the very narrow streets. She admitted that she was nervous for the first couple of weeks but now has the hang of the British road system and is coping as best she can, though she does have some hairy moments behind the wheel herself.

Using Stehanie’s GPS system, we arrived in Rochester a good hour and a half later passing by some of the southern suburbs of London such as Croyden and Selhurst before we got on to the highway and entered Kent, the Garden of England. Unfortunately, it was a totally miserable day with rain pouring down, not in sheets but in a persistent drizzle. This kept the temperatures very cold indeed and we were both grateful for the warm coats we had pulled on as well as our hats and gloves. The GPS mistakenly brought us to Wouldham, a small village close to Rochester, but we asked for directions and within ten minutes, we found a public car park where we tucked our car away and started our exploration of the town on foot.

Stephanie, who had only eaten fruit and yogurt for breakfast, was starving by the time we arrived in Rochester at noon and wanted to head straight for a meal. We decided to partake heartily of a traditional English Sunday Roast at a lovely pub called The King’s Head on the High Street. To get there, we had passed by the picturesque exterior of the Cathedral and decided to visit it for Evensong at 3. 15 later in the afternoon. We also found our way to the Visitors Center where we received a map of Rochester and some directions on what to see in a day.

The lunch was the highlight of our day! It was hearty to a fault and allowed us to pig out on roast lamb and roast pork served with Yorkshire puddings (that are like American popovers and nothing like the mousse-like creamy desserts we call ‘puddings’ in the States), roasted potatoes, delicious gravy and a variety of vegetables–boiled peas and corn, carrots, broccoli and cauliflower. We could not believe that we got a huge platter of food for under 6 pounds! The same meal would have cost us nothing less than 12 pounds in London. Stephanie and I dined well and with the mint sauce and horseradish sauce that accompanied the meats, the meal was fit for a king. The pub had a great deal of old world ambiance which we both found very charming.

Throughout our drive into Kent, I found that Stephanie and I have lots of interests in common, not the least of which is a great love for the English countryside and the delights to be found in such simple pleasures as visiting the local pubs. But while Stephanie has ventured alone into her ‘local’, I have yet to pluck up the courage to do that.

Lunch done, we walked to the ramparts of Rochester Castle, one of the best preserved Norman castles in England, dating from 1088. Stephanie also loves English history and was glad to learn from me about the Battle of Hastings in 1066 that brought William of Normandy (the Conqueror) to England and brought French rule and language to these Anglo-Saxon lands. We also walked to the edge of the castle’s ramparts that overlook the River Medway which was an unsightly shade of yellow! In fact, as a commercial waterway, it has been used since medieval times and it seems to be extremely sluggish at this point.

Then, we were walking along the High Street to Eastgate House, a lovely Tudor building built by Robert Puck in the 1500s and used by Dickens as the setting of scenes both in The Mystery of Edwin Drood and The Pickwick Papers. All the shops along the High Street bear names that are connected with Dickens’ world and it is clear that Rochester is indebted to Dickens for fans of the novelist, no doubt, come eagerly to walk in his footsteps–in better weather, of course.

We decided, then to drive off to nearly Chatham to see the historic High Street in that adjoining town as well as to take a look at the Historic Dockyards. The cold and the rain did not motivate either of us to get out of the car but we were grateful for the opportunity to see this little town though most of the shops were closed on this Sunday evening. Stephanie and I have now decided to do most of our day trips on a Saturday when there is more life on the streets and the shops are full of patrons.

Then, it was time for us to return to Rochester Cathedral (the Church of St. Andrew’s) for the Evensong service at 3. 15 pm. Inside, the cathedral is impressive though rather stark. Its ceiling towered above us but there wasn’t much decoration inside upon its gray walls. We made our way to the altar where the choir was rehearsing in preparation for the service and a little while later, there we were, taking our seats for the evening. We stayed for about half the service and enjoyed the singing of the choir very much.

Then, we were headed back to our car, but not before I managed to stop at a restaurant to request a cup of hot water so I could take my cold medication. My throat feels very sore indeed and my nose has been running continually. I am hoping that I will get over it soon. On the way back, Stephanie and I shared many interesting aspects of our lives so that we could get to know each other better and, before long, we were at Tower Hill and I was hopping into a bus that brought me back home within 20 minutes. Stephanie got home an hour later and called to inform me when she arrived safely.

I am so grateful to my friend Amy Tobin who has brought the two of us together. Stephanie is a marketing whiz. Despite her professional success, she has the time to enjoy her leisure to the utmost. Stephanie is such a fun person and is game to do anything interesting and new. She is a committed world traveler and has been to many exotic parts of the globe–which has given her exposure to many different cultures and she has absorbed them all while still wishing to reach out and discover some more. I know that she will make the ideal travel companion for me and we have made plans to spread our wings far and wide as the weather improves and spring arrives.

I spent my evening getting ready for my trip to Berlin, making a few phone calls to the US and watching Nicolas Nickelby through Love film.com (coincidentally, a film based on a Dicken’s novel).

I have had an amazing week and I have to put myself back into the work mindset as I return to teaching tomorrow after a whole week.

Another Death, Lunch with Rosa and Matt and Camden Lock Market

Jan24

Saturday, January 24, 2009
London

I love Saturdays–the very word conjures up for me the promise of long and lovely lazy hours of leisure. And Holborn takes its Saturdays seriously–in that it remains in a state of slumber until almost mid-day. The quietness of these weekend mornings gives me the chance to catch up on all sorts of pending chores and today I cleaned my bathroom and transcribed the interview I did with Frank Bradbury before I breakfasted, took a shower and left the house.

I had made noon plans with Matt and Rosa Fradley whom, if you can believe it, I had met in New York when they took my Highlights Tour at the Met. Because they liked my morning tour so much, they took my afternoon tour as well…and before we knew it, we were exchanging email information. Over the past year, we have been in touch in cyberspace and since my arrival in London, they have been very helpful indeed.

When Rosa informed me that they would be in London to see a show and wondered if I was free to join them for lunch,I jumped at the opportunity to see them again. We decided to meet at a pub called Ye Grapes in Shepherd’s Market, which is a tiny hidden square at Green Park. I bussed it there, arriving at my destination ten minutes later than I expected. Over sweet Strongbow cider, we hugged and kissed and exchanged news–not the least of which is their move to Singapore in August where Rosa has been posted for work (she is involved with a Japanese firm of pharmaceutical researchers in Cambridge) and Matt has actually found a job as a Physics High School teacher in the British school there. They are just delighted at the prospect of moving to Singapore which they both love and are eager to explore. I enjoyed their company very much and time flew as we chatted nineteen to the dozen,.

An hour later, we adjourned to a small sandwich bar nearby to have lunch-their treat–which was very kind and thoughtful of them indeed. Rosa and I chose the House Salad which was a very hearty platter combining roasted vegetables, roasted chicken, bacon, lettuce and a spicy dressing served with ciabata bread. Matt went for a chicken breast sandwich that also looked substantial. Because I am a slow eater, they said their goodbyes to me an hour later to make it in time for their 3 pm show of Cirque de Soleil at the Royal Albert Hall.

I lingered a little while longer at the eatery, then because it was such a gorgeous day, I decided to take the bus to go and see the Camden Lock Market. I figured that when you get a great day in London, you’ve got to grab it with both hands–and who knows when I will be in London again at the weekend, considering all the European travel I am doing.

The No. 24 bus took me straight there from Trafalgar Square but by the time I got to Camden Town, about 20 minutes later, I actually regretted the impulse that drove me there. The place was just teeming with visitors. From the upper deck of the bus, they looked like giant black ants all swarming together towards the same coveted prize. I had half a mind not to alight at all at the Market, but then I thought better of it. Having come that far, I decided to stay the course, take a look around the stalls and beat a hasty retreat. This place would then figure on my “Been There Done That” List!

The Camden Lock Market used to actually be located along the Camden Lock as the name implies. However, a few months ago, a devastating fire destroyed the area and the stall owners moved their kiosks to the current premises. I found all of the merchandise terribly unappealing–there was bohemian clothing and jewelry and tons of food stalls with Chinese, Mexican, Thai and Indian food…but after the delightful lunch I had just eaten, nothing took my fancy. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and as soon as I spied a Number 24 bus heading in the direction of home, I ran to the bus stop and jumped into it, so glad to put as much distance as I could between this market and myself.

When I was on the bus heading home, I got the sudden news from Llew of the death of my godfather in Bombay, my Uncle Alex, who had been ailing for a very long time and was in very poor shape when I last saw him two weeks ago. In fact, I had been praying hard that God would grant him a merciful release from his suffering and when I received the news, it was not without a substantial measure of relief. I called my parents in Bombay immediately and received more details about his passing. As the bus wound its way home, I recalled many incidents of our lives together from my childhood to the very last meeting I had with him.

I called my cousin Cheryl Crane in Kent as soon as I reached home and gave her the sad news and then made my way by bus to St. Anselm’s and St. Cecelia’s Church at Holborn for the 6 pm mass as I have made plans to visit Rochester tomorrow with my friend Stephanie and I know that I will, therefore, miss Sunday mass. The mass was short and quick–the shortest I can recall in this country–just 40 minutes long, and then I was out buying myself some cold medication from Boots across the road and some mint and lemon so I could fix myself some herb tea and comfort my hoarse throat and runny nose.

Back home, I curled up on the couch, after a long conversation with Llew, to watch The Break-Up with Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn as Love Film.com has resumed the delivery of my films again. It was a rather cute date-night chick flick and was good for a lark! I ate up the leftovers sitting in my refrigerator as I need to clear it all off before I leave for Berlin on Tuesday. I sipped my lemon medication slowly, then took all my other pills and went straight to bed.

Tomorrow I have a day trip to Rochester to anticipate and I need to awake early so that I can get to Wimbledon in time to meet Stephanie who will drive us there in her brand new Lexus. I just can’t wait…

A Shocking Loss, An Interview in Wimbledon, More National Gallery and Dinner with Gauri

Jan23

Friday, January 23, 2009
London

I awoke this morning to the most shocking news in the world. It was 6.10 am, I switched my laptop on and froze. I had just received an email message from my friend Margaret Loose, Professor of English at the University of California at San Diego, informing me that a very dear mutual friend of ours, Professor Sally Ledger, had died on Wednesday. I looked at the words on my screen but they failed to make any sense. How could that be possible? That very morning, I had received an email from Sally, who is the Director of Victorian Studies at London’s Royal Holloway College, inviting me to attend a seminar there. I had emailed her back suggesting that we get together for lunch and had been awaiting a response from her. Sally is usually very prompt in responding to her email, so when Thursday passed, I have to admit I actually wondered at her silence.

It turns out that she was at her stove cooking dinner on Wednesday night when she had a sudden brain hemorrhage and dropped dead instantly. Just like that! Can you even believe it? Sally is my age–may even be younger–and a renowned Victorian scholar and a Dickensian whom I got to know at the Dickens Project at the University of California at Santa Cruz which I have attended for the past two summers. Though we have had regular email contact since I arrived here in London, we met only briefly and just by happenstance, at an Italian restaurant called Paradiso in Bloomsbury in October where we had hugged and kissed and promised to make plans to meet at the British Library over coffee or lunch. Alas! It was not to be and now poor dear Sally is gone and I will miss her warmth and her concern for me and the inspiration she provided as a scholar and as a teacher. I have been checking the website at Royal Holloway College because I do wish to attend her funeral since I am right here in London and, if it is scheduled before my departure for Berlin, I shall be there.

When I was over my shock and sadness, I got on with my work for the day. I actually put in a whole three hours of effective work on my laptop before I stirred and got out of bed. Ryanair’s offer of one-way five pounds fares meant that I was finally able to book my tickets to Venice and back for the March trip I was will be undertaking to Italy as my friend Annalisa Oboe, Professor in the English Department, has invited me to give a lecture at the University of Padua. I also needed to finalize accommodation arrangements in Berlin where I will be flying on Tuesday and, I have to say, I am a little concerned as my friend Anya Brug seems to be traveling again and hasn’t been checking her email. This means that I am not sure how to get from Schoenfeld airport to the flat in the city that she has arranged for me to occupy. If I do not hear from her over the weekend, I guess I will have to stay in the Youth Hostel where I’ve made alternative arrangements. I also emailed my friend Catherine Robson, Professor of English at the University of California at Davis, currently on a one-year research assignment in Berlin, to inform her about my arrival there and to make plans to meet. All of this took a good chunk of my early morning work hours and I was finally able to turn my thoughts to the interview I was scheduled to do in distant Wimbledon.

I could not have chosen a more miserable day to go out to interview Vivian Lawless and his wife Dorothy. Journey Planner instructed me on how to get there by bus, so I gritted my teeth against the awful weather and set out–wishing I had done the interview yesterday when I met him at the Norwood meeting. Anyway, a long journey and many bus changes later, there was Vivian waiting for me at the pub as promised and we walked the short distance to his home where I gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits.

The Lawlesses live in a old Edwardian House that has a lot of external charm and character. Like the typical terraced houses of that era, all the houses are identical on a street. They have handkerchief-sized front patches that open up to the main door. Inside, the rooms are very tiny (by American standards) and since most of the people I am interviewing for my study purchased these homes in the late 60s and early 70s and never moved out, most of them are in a decorating time warp with dark carpets, busy wallpaper and tons and tons of pictures of children, grand children ( and amazingly, in this case, even great grandchildren, for the Lawlesses too do not look their age at all). It must be the fact that these Anglo-Indians live in the cold, damp climate of England that has allowed them to preserve their youthfulness because their counterparts in India look old and haggard and have none of the vitality of body and spirit that these folks proclaim so heartily.

The interview went off well and I even had the chance to meet their only son, Gary, who popped in for a little while. I think it would have been nice to interview Gary as well but he did not say a word to me the entire time I was in his parents’ home, which led me to believe that he might not be interested in my project. At any rate, the Lawlesses were very nice to me and responded to my questions candidly and truthfully. I asked them if the famous tennis courts were anywhere near their place and they informed me that they were about two miles away but that they were probably closed at this time of year. By the time my interview wad done, the sun had started to shine down and dry up Mother Earth and the entire journey back was so much better. I was fascinated by the Little India that had developed along Tooting Broadway where sari shops and Indian sweetmeat stores, sub-Continental groceries and jewelry showrooms spoke of a vital ethnic community in the area.

Since the day was still young, I got off the bus at Trafalgar Square and returned to one of my favorite places in London–the National Gallery–where I decided to cover six more galleries. I have finally reached the oldest and most ornate part of the museum–the rooms surrounding the main dome that gives the building its solemn profile. These galleries are decorated to the hilt with lavish gilding on columns, elaborate plasterwork on the ceiling, thick moldings and damask covered walls that give the entire design a grand Baroque feel. These galleries house works by the French, Italian and British artists of the 19th centuries, some of whom happen to be my favorites–such as Jean-Baptiste Simeon Chardin (who is well represented here with many small canvases), Gainsborough, Turner, Constable and Canaletto whose Venetian landscapes with their minute detail leave me spellbound for hours. I was deeply taken by the series of river scapes of the Stour that Constable painted and I would like very much to get to Suffolk before I leave England so that I can see for myself the rural scenes he loved so well and look upon Willie Lott’s house which Constable has presented in scene after scene (and which still stands today). If this is true of Suffolk, the same is true of Canaletto’s Venice. As I looked upon the details of the Piazza San Marco and the views along the Grand Canal, I was struck by the fact that nothing seems to have changed at all since Canaletto made the depictions of the city his obsession in the late 19th century.

Realizing that I now have only six more galleries to study in detail before my perusal of the National Gallery is done, I took the bus home and had only a little while to check email and watch some TV before my friend Gauri Kasbekar-Shah was buzzing me downstairs. As in the case of Sally, I have been in email contact with Gauri since I arrived here in August to make plans to meet some evening, but it just did not happen. Eventually, we did settle on dinner and when I invited Gauri to have a drink at my place before we set out to eat, she agreed. Having come straight from work (she works at the Royal Bank of Scotland), she was starving and devoured the Stilton Cheese and Crackers that I laid out for her with our wine. I checked my book Cheap Eats in London and found a small seafood place, just behind my street on Farringdon, called Little Bay. We walked there and found the place located in a building in which Gauri says she almost bought a flat. The only thing that had prevented her from doing so was the presence of this restaurant on the ground floor! How coincidental was that??!!

We spent the next hour catching up over a really fabulous meal, which, was truly as the book said–cheap. We chose two different starters and split them: Garlic Mushrooms which were divine and Crab in Choux Buns–also very good. For a main dish, both Gauri and I opted for the Cod on a hot potato salad with a tomato coulis. It was melt-in-the-mouth good, but because I have a really tiny capacity, I carried half of it home in a doggy bag and I look forward to eating my leftovers soon. Unbelievably, it was past 11 pm when we finished our meal (we both decided against dessert as we were too full) and looked for buses to get us back to our respective homes–Gauri owns a flat in Islington where I have stayed twice on my previous visits to London. This place is not too far from mine at all and we have now made plans to get together again soon after I return from Berlin.

I was merely able to chat with Llew for a few minutes before I felt really tired and decided to call it a day.

Meeting Anglo-Indians in Norwood and my First Film in the UK

Jan22

Thursday, January 22, 2009
London

I left my flat early this morning to make my way by bus to Selhurst where I intended to interview Frank Bradbury for my Anglo-Indian study. When we had chatted on the phone several weeks ago, he had invited me to a meeting of the ‘South London Anglo-Indian Association’ which takes place in Norwood every Thursday. I was pleased to accept the invitation as I had hoped that this meeting would allow me to network with other Anglo-Indians whose life histories I might also examine as part of my research.

While I can use Britrail lines to these distant outposts of London, I prefer to use my monthly bus pass which allows me to travel anywhere within the bus network, in a sense, for free. Naturally, it proves to be much more economical for me to do my research this way–though it means an extraordinary amount of time has to be allotted to get to and from these places.

Those dreaded road works everywhere (starting with High Holborn itself) made me reach my destination a half hour later than I expected. Still, Frank took my tardiness in his stride, meeting me at the nearest bus stop in Selhurst and leading me to his place. Over a welcome cup of coffee, we spent a good hour talking about his personal history which I found fascinating and so different from that of most of the Anglo-Indians I have been interviewing. His attitudes, his views, his opinions, were also very thoughtfully expressed and it was easy to see that I was in the company of a rather different individual. This made for a very refreshing encounter indeed. I still stagger when I think that he is 72 years old, for he does not look a day over 60. It is not merely the matter of his looks which belie his age–it is his vigour and his zest for life (which can lead one to believe that he is 50) which really had me spell bound.

After we had spoken for about an hour, Frank drove me about five minutes away to St. Chad’s Catholic Church in Norwood where the South London Anglo-Indian Association rents space for a weekly meeting. I was astounded to find over a hundred people (if not more) in the large hall that includes a kitchen at the far end and a small stage at the other. The space was filled with what we would call ‘seniors’ in the States (I believe the word used in the UK is ‘pensioners’). They sat at long tables with their snacks and drinks spread out before them. Behind the kitchen counter, I spotted my friend Joy Riberio who told me she was in-charge of getting together the “tea”–which actually turned out to be what we, in the States, would call “lunch”! Frank did the disappearing act at this time but Joy was kind enough to introduce me to Gloria St. Romaine (don’t you just love her last name?) who, in turn, introduced me to Rita Lobo at whose table I found a seat.

In my role as observer, I took in the goings-on at the meeting but I did participate vigorously as well. There was a round of Bingo (6 tickets cost a pound). I have never played with more than one ticket at a time, so I had a hard time keeping track of the numbers I had scratched out on my tickets! Still, it was fun. The prize money was based on the number of tickets sold and they were rather handsome.

Lunch followed for 3. 50 pounds a piece. Not only did Frank not treat me to lunch (after having invited me to the meeting) but he had forgotten to inform the organizers that he was bringing a guest along. Joy again very kindly took me under her wing, but she too had to confess that she was afraid there would be no food left for me as the estimated amounts cooked were based on the number of individuals who signed up for the meal at the previous meeting. I felt like Oliver Twist as I hungrily awaited leftovers and the green signal that would enable me to obtain a meal as I was starving by this point. When I got the OK nod from Joy, I went up to the counter, paid my money and returned to my seat with a heaping plate of yellow rice and a Meatball Curry with a few bits of salad which was almost over by the time my turn arrived!

The rice and curry was delicious and every one seemed to enjoy it immensely. The announcement was made that Chicken Biryani would be on the menu next week and on hearing this, the participants decided whether or not to sign up for a meal. Lunch was followed by dessert which is part of the package–this afternoon, there was a fruit cocktail topped with whipped cream–but by the time I went to the counter to claim my dessert, it was all gone!!! Can you believe it? I was very disappointed as I had found the curry spicy and would have been grateful to end my meal with a sweet.

The calling of raffle prize numbers followed. Most of the participants had purchased these tickets when they entered. I believe the tickets cost a pound each. They donate all sorts of items as prizes–bottles of wine, packets of biscuits, boxes of chocolates…and these are distributed as prizes. The money collected from these raffle items are used to support Anglo-Indian charities in India–a lovely idea. While the privileged elderly Anglo-Indians in the UK enjoy a good time during their twilight years (Blair, are you reading this???), they spare a thought for so many of their less fortunate counterparts in India who are struggling through a harrowing old age.

Another round of Bingo followed (another pound a piece) and though I tried my luck again, I was not rewarded with Beginner’s Luck! Between the lunch, raffle and bingo, the members circulated amongst themselves, caught up on the joys and trials of each other’s Christmases and trips to India and generally cemented age-old friendships, many of which go back decades to their days in India. I found it very interesting to observe the customs and traditions of this community and I was heartened to see how happy their appear as first-generation immigrants in the UK.

Then, I was on the bus again headed home for a swift rest and to check my email. After a very short nap, I left my flat again, this time to take the Tube to Green Park to keep my appointment with my friend Rosemary Massouras to see Slumdog Millionnaire, the movie that has received so many Oscar nominations. We met at the Curzon cinema on Curzon Road right behind the quaint Shepherd Market off Piccadilly. I realized as I entered the gigantic theater that this was my first ever movie in the UK and the reason I have never seen movies in a theater here is because the tickets are so prohibitively high. I mean at 12 pounds which is 2o dollars, I have always rather paid double and seen a quality show at the West End instead. In the States, a movie costs me no more than 6 dollars, so I was astounded at the prices here. Still, for this movie I was willing to make an exception.

A few minutes later, we were joined by Rosemary’s friend Lizzie Rodgers who lives in Whitchurch, near Oxford. She turned out to be a truly delightful person–warm and thoughtful. She was also the most struck by the movie and throughout our dinner that followed at Sofra, a Turkish restaurant close by, she could not get the movie off her mind. Indeed, it was, for me at least, a deeply disturbing film. It is being advertised as a “feel-good film” and for the life of me I cannot see what a Bombayite can feel good about after watching this film. It is brilliantly made, no doubt, and Danny Boyle has captured with marvelous authenticity the vigour, color, energy and vibrance of Bombay which is a relentless assault on all one’ s senses. Indeed, the sights and sounds of Bombay have been so superbly captured and transferred to screen that I often winced at the naked realism of the shots. In that respect, the music by A.R. Rahman, which exhibited the complicity of many different traditions, including Middle Eastern, Islamic and Bollywood, ingeniously added to the mix.

However, I found the first half of the movie unbearably dark and intense and there were points at which I thought I would throw up because the stark inhumanity of the city has been portrayed so brutally that it made me feel physically ill. There is no way that anyone who lives in India can feel proud of the manner in which the country and its ethos has been depicted. The utter lack of human rights or dignity, the brutality of the police force that includes interrogation under torture, the filth and degradation of slum life, the ruthlessness of the villains and their treatment of women was so abjectly lacking in any kind of hope that I felt deeply ashamed of being an Indian which watching the movie. As other movies and literary works have done before this (Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay, for instance, Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance, Suketu Mehta’s Forbidden City), this movie lays bare the hidden underbelly of Bombay. Yet, it always saddens me that while such creative works bring international awareness to the conditions prevailing in Bombay, they never seem to achieve anything concrete or constructive. There is no reform, I mean, that emerges from these works, in the same way that, say, the novels of Charles Dickens actually led to the Reform Bills in Victorian England that eventually changed the face of Western society completed and led to the eradication of human rights’ abuses. The people of India do not seem to achieve anything from this repeated merciless exposure of their country’s ills other than the ability to cringe under such glaring spotlights. This is why watching such movies leaves me feeling far from good and instead deeply saddened and this was how I felt as I left the theater last night.

At dinner, at Sofra, we were joined by Lizzie’s young son, Dominic, a publisher, who turned out to be a very bright and articulate young man. We chose the ‘Healthy Dinner’ from the vast menu which consisted of eleven small nibbles–a sort of meze sampler–and a bottle of red Tuscan wine. It was a good meal but by the time the really delicious non-vegetarian kebabs made their appearance (the lamb and the chicken kebabs were really good), I was too full and could not do them justice.

A very interesting and unexpected encounter occurred while I was dining. A lovely blond girl standing near the door reached across our table and said to me, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Almeida”? I replied that I was indeed and, in a few minutes, I discovered that Sophia was one of my students at NYU who had taken my South Asian Civilisation class many years ago during her freshman year in New York. I was delighted that she recognized me in the dimly lit restaurant and she was delighted to renew acquaintance with me in London, of all places. It seems that she is now in London on business. I gave her my card and she promised to get in touch with me so that we can have lunch together sometime. My dinner companions were very impressed indeed that I ran into a former student so suddenly. I remember Sophia well. Her family hails from Greece and she had been fascinated by my course on South Asia. I still remember the lovely ‘Thank you’ note she had written me at the end of the course and the box of Godiva chocolates that she had gifted me at the time.

At the end of our meal and lively conversation, I took the bus home from Piccadilly and by 11.30, I was in bed and dropping off to sleep after what had been a very productive day indeed.

‘Tons of Money’ in Richmond, A Piano Recital at the National Gallery and ‘Oliver’ at the West End

Jan21

Wednesday, January 22, 2009
London

White I adore London for its long and colorful history, there is a downside to this aspect of its charm. Road works! Ever since I can remember taking possession of this flat at High Holborn, there have been ‘road works’ at some point or the other along its length from Chancery Lane Tube Station to High Holborn Tube station. This plays havoc with the smooth flow of traffic along one of London’s main arterial roads. This also means that you can never really time a journey by bus as it all depends on the vagaries of the road workers and their whims–they hold up buses while their construction vehicles are given priority and when one sits on the upper deck as I always do and have a view of all proceedings beneath me, it is often frustrating and infuriating. But then I have to remember that when you live in a city that has been a work-in-progress since the Medieval Age, you cannot complain.

I don’t know whether this is purely psychological, but after my visit to Paul, the specialist physiotherapist, at Euston Hospital (my name for the University of London’s Hospital at Euston), my legs feel much better. His exercises are more challenging and one of then requires me to lie down on a bed when performing it–which means that I cannot do it three times a day as I am invariably out and about in the afternoon–but they seem to be working already although he told me that I would not feel their effects for weeks. I have also resolved to be good and not walk for leisure anymore. If I take foot rest, the homeopathic treatment, perform the exercises and pray, I should hope to see a complete cure by May–when I hope to start walking the Jubilee Walkway in little spurts.

Awaking at 5 am, I spent an hour reading Bombay Tiger which has a completely different style from the rest of Kamala Markandaya’s novels–though the content bears similarity to The Coffer Dams. After doing my exercises, spending a while blogging, having breakfast and taking a shower, I headed out the door for a long bus ride to Richmond that involved changing three buses.

It was a most unusual winter’s days in London for it was bathed in golden sunlight under clear blue skies. I actually left the house today without an umbrella and just a small bag (though I did carry my camera) so as to avoid the load on my back. Changing buses wasn’t a problem at all and I was actually able to ride in one of the historic Number 9 buses from Piccadilly to the Royal Albert Hall. I now have the hang of changing buses at Hammersmith Broadway Bus Station (at which point you walk through a shopping mall which always makes me feel as if I am back in Connecticut!). I arrived in Richmond at 12. 15 pm, recognized the shops on The Quadrant just past the main railway station and hopped off.

I walked quickly to the Tesco Metro to buy what has become a favorite sandwich (The Cheddar Cheese and Onion) and though it costs a mere pound, it is truly delicious. I also found a pack of four chocolate eclairs for a pound and with this lunch in the bag, I started on a short self-guided walk in Richmond from my book 24 Great Walks in London with the promise to myself that I would take long and frequent breaks and stop as soon as my feet felt strained.

It was such a perfect days for walking. In fact it was a perfect day, period. This is the very first time that I saw Barnes Bridge on a sunlit day and while I recognized it immediately from the bus, I wish I could have gotten off and taken a few pictures of it as the ones I have taken before on rainy days make it look so dour and forbidding. Once in Richmond, I found myself walking along short Duke Street towards The Green which was once a sheep pasture but is used today for a variety of sporting activities including cricket. I could not believe that just a few yards ahead of me were the remains of Old Richmond Palace from which the Tudor King Henry VII had reigned, where his son Henry VIII had been born and where his grand-daughter Elizabeth I had died. Destroyed, but for a small portion of it, by Oliver Cromwell, the seal of Henry VII is still embedded in one of the Palace Gates that marks the entry into a lovely evocative old Tudor Yard that contains the Royal Wardrobe Building.

Enchanted by this hidden treasure and moved by the fact that the remaining shreds of this building have seen so much bloody history (before Henry moved his court to Hampton Court Palace which he seized from Cardinal Wolsey–I can understand now why the egotistical Henry would never tolerate the fact that his lowly prelate owned a dwelling that was so much more magnificent than his own!) I walked along a delightful street with old attached ‘cottages’ that took me to the Thames riverfront where twin bridges stood right in front of me. The promenade along the river was just delightful and many people were out walking despite the wind and the rather chilly temperatures. I read up on the history of the Old Deer Park (which has no deer in it), then ate a sandwich and an eclair on a bench overlooking the water.

A little later, I found myself walking under the beautiful Richmond Bridge which is made of Portland stone and climbing the steps into O’Higgins Square to start a short climb along Hill Rise towards what my book describes as the only protected view in the UK–protected by a 1906 Act of Parliament. Personalities from Turner to Reynolds to Walter Scott have described it as ‘the most unrivalled view in the country’ and William Byrd, the founder of Richmond, Virginia, is said to have named the new colony in the New World because the view of his territory across the Potomac reminded him of just this view of London across the Thames at this site. Be that as it may, one of the ‘owners’ of this unsullied view today is none other than rock idol, Mick Jagger, who owns a house in The Ashburton, a block of grand terraced housing that overlooks the bend in the Thames at this vantage point.

I decided to cut short my rambles at this point as my pedometer (that I am now wearing constantly) reminded me that I had already walked more than a mile. I took a bus back to the center of town and from there found my way to the famous Richmond Theater for my 2. 30 show–but not before I popped into the Cancer Research Charity shop and found myself a lovely English bone china cup and saucer to add to my collection at home. It caught my eye because it was so unusual–a matt black background suddenly opens up to a white glazed border on both cup and saucer that sports the Greek key design. It was these differences in texture that so fascinated me and at 3. 50 pounds, I could not go wrong.

The reason I was at Richmond Theater was to see Alan Ackybourne’s Tons of Money which stars Christopher Timothy whom I have grown to love so much in the TV series from the 70s and 80s called All Creatures Great and Small in which Timothy plays the role of Yorkshire vet James Herriott. I have to say that I was sorely disappointed, first of all, to discover that he had rather a small role (he played the Butler Spruze) and, second, that age has taken its toll on him so that he looks most unlike his younger self. He has filled out considerably, his hair has long abandoned him and his features too have changed. But for his voice (one can never change one’s voice), there is little resemblance to the actor of old who so stole my heart away.

One of the many surprises of this afternoon was the presence in the cast of Janet Henfrey (who plays Mrs. Bale in the BBC TV series As Time Goes By). This is the second time I have seen her on stage–she was present in The Importance of Being Ernest starring Penelope Keith that I saw at the Vaudeville Theater at the Strand last March with my friend Amy Tobin). The play was entertaining but not worth the long hike to Richmond unless one combines it with a walk as I did. At any rate, the theater was only half full, but I swear I was the youngest person in the audience! Everyone around me was silver haired and was no doubt there out of nostalgia for the good old days of the telly when Christopher Timothy made evening viewing special.

Then, I was on the bus again headed back to the city because, unwittingly, I had booked tickets for two plays on the same day (not having my calendar with me when I had booked a ticket for Tons of Money in December when I had gone to see Peter Pan, the Christmas pantomime at Richmond Theater). I knew that I would arrive in the city rather early–my next show (Oliver starring Rowan Atkinson in the role of Fagin) was not until 7. 30 pm at the Royal Theater on Drury Lane (this is the third show I am seeing there after French and Saunders Live and another one whose name I cannot now recall).

Having about an hour to kill, I hopped off at Trafalgar Square hoping that the National Gallery would have a late evening closing–and how right I was. A quick look at “Today’s Program” at the Sainsbury Entrance informed me that there was a free piano recital starting at 6 pm in Gallery 18. So off I went to take my place on a chair right in front of the baby grand piano that graced the gallery on a lovely Oriental carpet. The two performers of the evening were Kentaro Nagai and David Malusa, both from the Royal College of Music who kept me enthralled with an hour long program that included a fantastia and fugue by Bach, an unbelievable Ballad by Chopin, Iberian music from Spanish composes Mompou and Albeniz and a stunning work by Schumann. I could not have asked for a better way to spend an hour. This is what I most love about living in London. I come upon these cultural surprises in the most unexpected of ways and because I have so few commitments here, I can seize the opportunity to enjoy them as and when they present themselves.

Then, I was off on the bus again heading towards Aldwych where at Drury Lane, I hopped off to get to the Theater Royal. I keep forgetting how gorgeous the interior of these theaters are. This one is splendid–with fat putti adorning its walls in the lavish plasterwork along the ceiling and outside the boxes. The only horrid thing about this theater is that the balcony is about seven floors high–you feel as if you have scaled Mount Everest by the time you get to your seat–and being a ‘graded’ building, they cannot install elevators inside.

The auditorium was packed to capacity (as the play won some terrific reviews when it opened a couple of weeks ago). All around me were American college students, one of whom informed me that they were from Long Island’s Hofstra University studying British Drama for a month during their winter break. They were fidgety and noisy (as American students usually are), made inane comments during the interval (“That scene with Bumble was so sexual. She wasn’t supposed to hit on him like that” and “We were sitting at the worst possible angle for that scene”–it happened to be one in which Beadle’s wife bared her cleavage in a seduction scene!). I enjoyed these comments but the very proper English lady sitting besides me was besides herself with outrage at the behavior of the sprightly Americans and at the fact that she had to “get up and down and up and down” to accommodate their frequent passage to and from their seats!

Oliver was superb. I did not realize that some of the songs I have known since my childhood (Oom-Pah-Pah, I’d Do Anything) are from this musical. Apart from the stars (Rowan Atkinson whom I first got to know as Mr. Bean is unforgettable as Fagin and he can sing!–as is Jodi Prenger as Nancy), the little guy who played the Artful Dodger was amazing. Sets were truly stunning and the recreation of Victorian England so appealing visually that for a while I seemed to have transported myself to a different world altogether. It was truly one of the finest shows I have seen since arriving in London in September and I could understand why the critics have been raving about it.

Two plays in the same day, a musical concert, a sunny walk in Richmond…truly it was a day packed with pleasurable activity and by the time I was riding the bus back home, I felt culturally saturated. I could only talk to Llew for a few minutes before I called it a night.

Historic Presidential Day Across the Pond and Lunch with Loulou!

Jan20

Tuesday, January 20, 2009
London

A new era has dawned! Change is here!!! Finally! There is a Black President in the White House. And not just any man! What a Man! Someone to look up to. At last there is someone of whom I can feel proud and supportive. It’s been a Loooonnnnng eight years and we have waited a Loooooonnng time for this moment. I awoke this morning to the awareness that this was going to be a day like no other. It is said that one will always remember where one was when Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States and for me the response will be “all alone at home in my flat at High Holborn”. In a way, it is great that my stay in London will be immortalized through this historic event and I could not have felt more proud to be an American in London as my eyes teared up frequently while watching the goings-on at Pennsylvania Avenue. Never in my lifetime did I ever imagine that I would see a Black President in America.

This is the culmination of a long journey–one that began on those infamous ships that traced the Middle Passage carrying human cargo. One that continued on those bloody plantations of Virginia and South Carolina. One that revolted on the non-violent streets of Alabama in the 1960s. One whose struggle was given voice in those stirring words, “I have a Dream”–a dream that became reality today as Black people can now claim their place in American History not as African-Americans but as Americans.

This is a man I can look up to because he does not come with an impressive pedigree preceded by a dynasty that allowed him to be raised in the lap of luxury. This is a man with whose background, in so many ways, I can truly identify: a man born of an immigrant father whose struggle in his early days in America led him to bus tables in a restaurant. A man whose very father abandoned him when he was six so that he grew up without the influence of this male role model. This is a man who did not allow that absence in his life to hold him down or tear him apart. This is a man who used no family connnections, no Godfathers…nothing but his determination to succeed–his audacity–to take him to Harvard and then on to Congress. This is a man who was rasied by a single parent–a mother who wished him to have nothing but the finest education (which led her to send him to live with his grandmother in Hawai’i to study at the fabulous Punahou High School in Honolulu) and by a grandmother for whom he was not a grandson but a son itself. As someone whose daughter was co-raised by a grandmother, my eyes swim when I think of how cruel fate was in not allowing the gracious Madeline to watch as her beloved grandson assumed the oath of Office of President of the United States of America.

Given the time lag, I began watching BBC coverage at 4 pm local London time which was 11 am in Washington DC. Of course, being the BBC they pulled no punches when commenting on America’s outgoing President and took a few good jabs at a man whom I will always remember with loathing. I could not wait to see the last of him and to know that he is being replaced by a man of such sterling quality is beyond heartening. I had considered joining my American students and even getting together with my American colleague Karen to watch the historic coverage. But Karen was busy and I figured that I’d really be most comfortable in my sweats and my slippers lounging around on my couch in my living room and taking it all in with total ease.

My day began with my 10 am Global Cultures Class which has a total enrollment of 2 students. They were delighted when I informed them that the course would be taught as an Independent Study Module and through Tutorials in true British style. I packed them off with a long reading list, tons of photocopied material to get them started on their research and a list of films to watch. I spent a while photocopying more material, then an hour later, I left for the British Museum where I had lunch plans with Loulou Cooke, a lovely English lady with whom I had made friends a few weeks ago. Since I was early, I spent an hour in Room I completing the exhibit on ‘The Enlightenment’ that I had started watching several months ago but had to abandon when plantar fasicitis hit me.

At 1.00 pm, I arrived at the main gate of the British Museum and was joined a few minutes later by Loulou. We adjourned to the Museum Tavern, a lovely historic pub that is located bang opposite the museum, a pub which Karl Marx once frequented. Over fish and chips and a half pint of Strongbow cider, Loulou and I got to know a little more about each other and discovered that we have a lot in common including daughters who both love acting and who are working in New York City.

Loulou and I walked back home after lunch. We parted company at the Holborn Library where I stopped to pick up paperback copies of Harry Potter as I am determined to read all the novels in the next few months. Fortunately for me, both the first and the second titles in the series were available and I was able to bring them home. Though I had read the first one a long time ago, I figured I would start at the beginning and go right through the series. Tim and Barabra have lent me three more of the books–all hardbound–so I have my reading cut out for me. Back at home, I decided to take a bit of rest as I still don’t feel too well. Crocin is suppressing my flu-like symptoms and after months–and probably for the first time since I arrived in London–I actually took a short afternoon nap.

Then, it was 4 pm and I became glued to the telly as I watched history being made. I sent an email to Llew, Chriselle and Chris in order to feel part of the jubilant spirit of the nation and of the American people on this day–and all three of them communicated back with me so that, across the pond, we were truly united on this red-letter day in America.

Spring Classes Begin and Seeing an NHS Physiotherapist

Jan20

Monday, January 19, 2009
London

Rain poured down at dawn on the first day of classes as I showered and breakfasted and left my flat early to take the bus to get to Bedford Square. The idea was to beat every other faculty member to the basement copy machines. I needn’t have worried. No one else had surfaced for a first class on a Monday and I had the premises entirely to myself. In fact, I had only 7 students in my Writing II class in the lovely ornate Room 12 with its brass chandeliers and its ornamental ceiling plasterwork and moulding.

Class One is devoted to going over the syllabus and explaining course requirements and getting to know new students. The way I did this was through an assignment entitled ‘Primary Sources’ in which I ask students to pick any 6 words or short phrases that best describe their journey through life. They then expand on these phrases by writing an accompanying paragraph that fleshes out the essentialist idea and helps create a mosaic that informs the reader about the writer’s past. They set to work cheerfully as sunlight flooded the room. I am looking forward to this course which includes field trips with accompanying assignments to Cornwall as well as Portsmouth and Winchester when the weather turns warmer.

During my hour long lunch break, I caught up on email, did some more photocopying and noticed that life had returned to the campus’ academic building, former home of Lord Eldon, Chancellor of London. Other professors started to descend down to the copy machine. I had a chat with Llew who was headed to Manhattan to meet Chrissie to pick up the stuff my parents and I’d sent through her for him from India. We decided to speak again later in the day.

At 2pm, I left for my second class which is located in the University of London’s Birkbeck College. This Writing II class had a larger enrollment–16 to be precise. Several were returning students who’d taken my Writing I class last semester but several were new faces, three of whom are from Turkey. It is like a mini-United Nations in this classroom with students from India, China, Korea, France and the United States and, no doubt, they will bring a great deal of their own background and heritage to bear upon our study of London’s multi-cultural and multi-racial quarters as well as the ethnographic profile that I have asked them to create based on individual research and personal interviews. It promises to be an exciting semester and I am looking forward to it.

I left this class early at 3. 30 pm (instead of 5 pm) as I had an appointment with the specialist physiotherapist that the NHS has finally allotted me. Imagine… I had to wait for three whole months to be granted an interview with a specialist physiotherapist. This, I guess, is the down side of socialized health care. In the United States, I’d be able to see any specialist of my choice within 24 hours. Here, I had to wait for three whole months! On the other hand, in the United States, the visit would have cost no less than $400–of which I’d have to pay a co-pay of $30 per visit, my medical insurance covering the rest. In this country, I was not required to spend a penny but imagine if I hadnt seen a private physiotherapist as I did in October itself since my Aetna Global Insurance covered it, I’d have been writing in agony for 3 months before I could find relief from pain! It is truly hard to imagine such a situation and it explains why the United States is so reluctant to go the socialized medicine route. The wealthy would never tolerate this sort of time lag even while the poor would finally have access to quality health care. It is an impossible dilemma to resolve and today, the day on which the first African-American President of the United States is sworn in as the leader of the First World, I have to wonder whether we Americans will ever be able to settle this impasse.

Paul was very professional indeed as he started from scratch. I had to go through the plethora of questions–where, when, how did the affliction (Plantar Fascittis) assault me. What have I done so far to relieve my condition? What sort of exercises have I been prescribed? etc. etc. He started from Square One, asking me to walk across the room so he could assess my gait. I was pronounced to have a right foot that is flatter than the left (hence the persistent pain in its arch), a right foot that flares out slightly when I walk, weak hip and knee muscles (that are probably responsible for the pain in my knee every time I have done a bit too much walking). Paul recommended a series of exercises (I will be retaining two of the old ones and adding two newer ones) as well as an exercise that involves the use of an elastic rubber band to strengthen the muscles on my right ankle. He too (like my homeopath Alpana Nabar of Bombay) has suggested that I avoid all unnecessary walking for the next two months at least to allow the muscles and tendons to relax completely. This means that I will have to scrap all self-guided walks though I can still do the museum visits in short spurts. I have to admit that I was rather “naughty” (as my friend Cynthia Colclough puts it) and as soon as the pain in the knee disappeared over the two weeks that I stayed in Bombay (where the warmer weather also helped), I was out and about again…hey, you can’t keep a good gal down! Now I know better and shall follow doctor’s orders walking no more than for 20 minutes at a stretch and carrying as light a load as possible. The very thoughtful gift that Chriselle gave me for Christmas (a pedometer) will prove very useful as it measures the number of steps I’ve taken, the number of miles covered as well as the number of calories that have been expended with each step that I take.

On the way home, I felt the beginnings of a cold. My throat felt raspy and dry and I became aware of a strange weakness descend upon me. I took a Crocin immediately and had an early dinner and got into bed with the idea of turning in early. Then the phone began ringing off the hook–first it was Cynthia catching up with me after my return to London, then Stephanie Provost called. She is a close friend of my close friend Amy Tobin and has also been posted in the UK for a year from the States. She is a marketing whiz and works for Twinning Tea Company and will be launching this product line in Europe. Her work involves a great deal of international travel but she is certainly up for doing anything cultural or artsy as well as taking daytrips with me on the weekends. The good news is that the company has given her a spiffy car–a Lexus–and pays her gas bills! This will allow us to take daytrips at the weekend once the spring thaw arrives. The bad news is that she doesn’t work in London but in Andover and, therefore, lives right now in Wimbledon (on the outskirts of London) and will likely be moving shortly to Richmond. We have made plans to meet on Sunday, January 25, to take a day trip to Oxfordshire to see Blenheim Plaace and Klemscott Manor (home of William Morris) and will synchronize our respective calendars at that point and try to find weekend slots during which we can take in a few new plays and go to the opera. So many wonderful plays have recently opened in the city starring some really big names (James McEvoy, Imelda Staunton, Hayley Atwell, Patrick Stewart, Ian McKellen, Edward Fox, Christopher Timothy, Steven Tomkinson, etc.) and I am keen to see them all.

Just then Llew called and we had a long chat and caught up with everything that had happened that day. He had the day off (Martin Luther King Day) and with the USA gearing up for Obama’s big inauguration tomorrow, it promises to be an exciting and very historic day in the country.

I was asleep by 9. 30 and awoke at 5. 30 am (which I guess is better than awaking at 3.30am!) but I still keep hoping that I will sleep until at least 6 am each morning. I guess I am slowly getting there.

Westminster Cathedral, National Gallery and Lunch at Carlucci’s

Jan18

Sunday, January 18, 2009
London

Since I had resolved when I first arrived here, that I would go for service to a different historic church every Sunday, I did some research last night and discovered that Westminster Cathedral (not to be confused with Westminster Abbey which is Anglican) is the largest as well as principal Catholic Church in the UK and, therefore, well worth a visit. I awoke again at 5 am and continued reading Bombay Tiger in bed before I stirred, took a shower, had my breakfast sandwich (purchased from Waitrose yesterday) and set off.

There wasn’t a soul on Fleet Street as I awaited the bus at 8. 30 am. London is lazy on a Sunday morning and but for the fact that it was bright and sunny, I might have felt a little uneasy waiting at the bus stop while entirely alone on “Grub Street”. Bus Number 11 arrived about ten minutes later and deposited me at the Cathedral within 15 minutes while the 8 am mass was concluding. This allowed me to admire the vast exterior of the cathedral which resembles streaky bacon and is matched by the other streaky bacon buildings in the vicinity which is to say that they are all striped horizontally in red and white! The cathedral is a fanciful Byzantine structure complete with massive dome and towering campanile or spire. It has a grand semi-circular mosaic panel at the entrance which is echoed by a similar one behind the main altar.

Inside, I spent a few moments in prayer at the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament before I was able to admire the grandeur of the main sanctuary that has an impressive baldachino or altar canopy made of eight columns of yellow Veronese marble. The domes are darkened and the cathedral is in the process of being refurbished as was evident from the metal scaffolding that mars the back of it. It is the sheer size of the structure that is most striking but I have to say that it was freezing cold as there was no heating in evidence at all. I shivered throughout the service and wondered why anyone would attend mass in such a cold and uninviting space. The mass itself was short and sweet. There was no choir and no hymns at all (something I sorely missed and which would have added a great deal to the ambiance). Three new altar servers were inducted into the Guild of St. Steven and they received an ovation from the congregation.

I left the church and walked right into a freezing winter wind that whipped all around me as I stood at the bus stop to wait for the bus to take me back to Trafalgar Square. I intended to return to the National Gallery to finish the last 7 rooms comprising the 17th century painters and when I got there at 10.15, I found the Gallery quite empty. As I was saying, Londoners start slowly on a Sunday!

The rooms I saw this time round comprised the work of the Flemish Masters especially Peter Paul Reubens whose canvasses are most awesome in their size and scale and variety of subject matter. I also saw wonderful work by Zurbaran, Velasquez and Anthony Van Dyke including the famous equestrian portrait of Charles I. I will now begin my examination and study of the paintings from the 18th to the early 20th century before I turn my attention to the Tate Modern where the collection continues. What a marvelous journey this is turning out to be! I feel so fortunate that I have the time to study these works in such detail. I am also indebted to the policy that keeps the museums in London free of charge because I know I would not be able to afford to pay a fee each time I entered to view the collection.

Then, it was time to take a bus again and get to Sainsburys to do some grocery shopping for the week. With some cold cuts and cheese, I have ingredients to fix myself a few sandwiches as classes begin tomorrow and I will need to carry lunch. I also bought a couple of quiches as I find it so much easier to eat simple dinners of this kind rather than to cook myself.

Back home, I had time to start writing a letter to my parents before I rang the doorbell of my next door neighbors Tim and Barbara to see if they were ready for our 1 pm lunch appointment at Carlucci’s. This wonderful Italian chain to which they introduced me is extremely popular in London and has a location just a ten minute walk from our place close to the Smithfield Meat Market. We have been here before and it is now starting to feel rather homey! All three of us went for the Lunch Special which included either a Mixed Salad or a Bread Basket, a Pasta of our choice and a coffee for 8.50 pounds. Tim chose the Ravioli, Barbara had the Tortellini and I had a Linguine with Seafood. With beers to go around and coffee and ‘pudding’ (Tim had a Key Lime Tart while Barbara had a Crepe stuffed with Vanilla Ice Cream and a Raspberry Sauce) which I passed on as they ran out of the Tuscan Sponge Cake soaked in rum and served with toasted almonds and chocolate shavings which I had absolutely adored the last time I was there, we had ourselves a really great meal.

Best of all, we caught up on so many things that have happened since Christmas which they spent at Eastbourne. It is always fun in their company and by now they have grown to feel like old friends. I was sorry that I had to turn down Tim’s invitation to join them for a kedgeree dinner on Thursday evening when his nephew will be visiting as I have made plans to see Slumdog Millionnaire with my friend Rosemary Massouras.

The evening passed by as I caught up on some grooming chores, made my sandwiches and a TV dinner. I finished the letter to my parents and emailed it to my brother Roger in Bombay, then made myself comfy on the couch watching an Inspector Lynley Mystery. One long conversation with Llew later, my day came to an end.

Tomorrow starts a new semester. I can hardly wait to meet my students and get back into the swing of an academic routine.

Spectres and Super Sleuths from Mayfair to Marylebon

Jan17

Saturday, January 17, 2oo9
London

I am still having difficulty sleeping through the night. Today, I awoke at 4 am and spent an hour or so cleaning up my Inbox. As soon as my Inbox messages exceed 1000, I get rid of them by the hundreds. I also began reading Kamala Markandaya’s posthumous novel Bombay Tiger, published only in India and gifted to me by my friend Firdaus Gandavia in Bombay last week. It is a heavy tome comprising hundreds of pages, so will take me until the end of the month to complete, no doubt. The interesting introduction by Charles Larson, a personal friend of the author for over thirty years, has brought to light many little-known facts about this very reclusive author and though I was one of those rare scholars who had the privilege to meet her 22 years ago in London and was given the opportunity to work with her while doing doctoral research at Oxford, there are so many facts about her life that remained unknown even to me.

Over a carb-heavy breakfast (I am afraid I simply cannot resist the croissants and pains au chocolat that call my name so insistently from the bakery aisle), I watched the Alibi channel that features only murder mysteries and detective stories. I have become familiar through it with the Hamish Macbeth series starring Robert Carlyle (of The Full Monty fame) that is set in picturesque Scotland and with the Father Dowling Mysteries which is an American series set in Chicago! Then, I had a little nap on the couch before I forced myself to wake up, take a shower and head out for my lunch appointment with Rosa and Matt Fradley.

Only I made such a blunder. It was not today that I was supposed to meet them but next Saturday! When I arrived at our appointed spot at noon, they were nowhere to be seen. A short call on my cell phone cleared up the confusion. But no harm, no foul. I had carried my book 24 Great Walks in London with me, so I simply selected a walk in Mayfair and off I went. I will now see them next week at Shepherd’s Market, a tiny tucked-away cobbled square right behind Piccadilly which is full of old pubs and small neighborly shops.

This walk was by far the least interesting of the many self-guided walks I have taken so far–in fact, it was positively dull. The walk on New Bond Street took me past some of the fanciest designer shops and I did stray into a couple to try on merchandise that at the discounts being offered seem too good to be true–Cartier and Burberry’s, for instance. Then, I arrived at the Old Bond Street Underground Station where the walk officially began.

I passed by the house of composer Handel (now the Handel House Museum) but did not go inside. It is a rather nondescript brick building right besides the Jo Malone salon where I had my unforgettable facial the other day–and it is said to be haunted by the ghost of a perfumed woman who could be one of the two sopranos who vied for roles in Handel’s operas. Right next door, for a while lived the famous guitarist Jimi Hendrix, and he too is reported to have seen a female ghost there.

On Vere Street, I stopped to see the inside of pretty St. Peter’s Church which is rather ornate. The streets behind Oxford Street are basically residential–lined with Georgian terraced houses punctuated with the occasional mews. These lanes that once hid stables in which the horses of the owners of these fancy homes were kept have been converted rather ingeniously into expensive contemporary housing, the ground floor stables being used as garages today while the upper rooms that once housed the syces and grooms are now occupied by yuppies who enjoy the proximity to their places of work in London that such housing offers.

In one of the mews is concealed the home of a Dr. Steven Ward, an osteopath, who in the 1960s, obtained a lucrative second income by introducing influential society men to young and attractive girls. One of these was a 17-year old named Christine Keeler who moved in with Ward and was visited here by two men–a Russian diplomat named Eugene Ivanov and an Englishman named John Profumo who just happened to be the English War Minister at the time. This liaison posed a potential security threat and resulted in the infamous Profumo Scandal.

A few streets ahead, I arrived at No. 2 Wimpole Street where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle leased a consulting room in 1861 as an ophthalmologist and awaited his patients’ arrival. When none turned up, he began to spend his time writing short stories about a dapper detective named Sherlock Holmes which he sold to the local publications. These caught the public imagination and made Holmes a household name in Victorian England and Doyle one of the most successful writers of the time.

From this point, my rambles became rather pointless. I passed by a garden called the Paddington Street Gardens where I stopped to eat a sandwich lunch (I had picked up a sandwich earlier from the Waitrose on Marylebon High Street). This was once a burial ground and 80,000 people are buried under the well manicured lawns (though you would never guess this) and mature trees–now, of course, devoid of their foliage. On Manchester Street, I passed by the home of a Joanna Southcott who in 1814 fooled the world into believing that she was going to deliver the Messiah though she was 64 years old. 22 doctors pronounced her pregnant but when 9 months passed and she did not deliver her child, the medics continued their vigil by her bed side until she died three months later. The false pregnancy turned out to be internal flatulence and a glandular enlargement of her breasts! Thank God for modern-day sonograms!!!

Soon I was crossing into busy Baker Street and arriving at the home of the world’s most famous detective–Sherlock Holmes– at 221 B. This is the only location in London that actually has a blue plaque depicting the home of a fictitious character. So many readers kept arriving at 221 B Baker Street looking for the famous home, then occupied by the Abbey Bank that it was necessary to mark the location in some way. The bank even had to employ a full-time secretary to deal with the correspondence that flooded its premises from faithful fans. Today, the venue has been converted into The Sherlock Homes Museum complete with interiors and a great deal of memorabilia from the Age of Victoria. There is no charge for browsing through the very interesting souvenir shop and I did just that.

By then, my feet were almost caving in under me and I made my way to a bus stop and got back home as soon as I could so that I could rest my weary feet and indulge in a foot massage. I intended to do nothing more strenuous than watch TV for the rest of the evening as I had enough exertion for one day.

In fact, I think that I shall also take it easy tomorrow and but for lunch with my next door neighbors, Tim and Barbara, I’m glad that I have nothing lined up.