Tag Archive | National Gallery

More National Gallery, A Jo Malone Facial and a Mayfair Walk

Jan14

Wednesday, January 14, 2009
London

I had a lovely day to remember. Despite the fact that the sun was nowhere in sight, it was mild enough to make walking pleasurable and I stashed a variety of experiences into my day. I haven’t yet gotten over jetlag and I did awake at 3. 30 am once again, tossed until 4, 30 am, then spent an hour in bed finishing up The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga. I have to admit that I find the book sorely disappointing and simply cannot understand why it received the Booker Prize. Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies was far more impressive in its sweep, its historical perspectives and its literary achievements, I think.

I lost internet connectivity this morning, so decided to make myself some breakfast before I had a shower and left at 9. 45 am for the National Gallery where I hoped to cover the six rooms that comprise works from the 16th centuries. The huge canvasses by Paolo Veronese and Titian were quite marvelous indeed and The Four Elements by the Belgian artist Joachim Beuckelaer featuring Earth, Air, Fire and Water were a revelation. Since I got there early in the morning, I found the galleries quite deserted–a fact that made my contemplation of them much more enjoyable.

Then, I took a bus to Brooke Street just off Old Bond Street where I had a 12 noon appointment for a Facial Workshop at Jo Malone. I was really looking forward to this session as I do love Jo Malone products very much and it is always interesting to discover her new lines and fragrances. I was offered a choice of champagne or tea and, of course, no marks for guessing that I chose the former.

As I settled down to my one hour session that included a complimentary facial and a hand massage, Ranjeeta, one of the Sales Associates introduced herself to me. Together with Caroline, her beautiful black colleague, I felt thoroughly pampered. It was no surprise to me that “Jo’s” Avocado Cleanser and Rosemary and Mint Toner would feel divine. I am quite familiar with her fragrance line, of course, my own favorites being Grapefruit, Pomegranate Noir and Orange Blossom. However, when Ranjeeta slathered my face with a luxurious White Nectarine and Honey Mask and gave me a relaxing massage, it felt quite blissful indeed.

While the mask did a deep nourishing job, she worked on my hands, massaging them with the exfoliating Vitamin E Scrub that contains sugar crystals and salts and almond oil and then treating them to the Vitamin E Gel for which Jo Malone is famous. When she was done, she sprayed a combination of Pomegranate Noir and Orange Blossom colognes all over my hands and then returned to my face.

When the mask was wiped off, she slathered on a small amount of the magical Vitamin E serum and a goodly amount of the Jojoba Cream and mixing them together, she applied them lovingly to the contours of my face. I have to say that my skin glowed and felt like a million quid!!! So heavenly! I noticed then that all the tiny black scabs that had formed after my face was cauterized in Bombay to remove a collection of minuscule skin tags and warts on it have entirely disappeared. After the beating it took during the cauterization, this was really the best time to pamper my complexion and nourish it and hopefully the little red spots that have clustered around my face in their wake will disappear completely with time. I am glad I had the courage to go ahead with the cauterization process in Bombay and I am glad that I chanced to come upon this promotion at the Jo Malone salon–indeed it could not have come at a more opportune time for the cauterization and the pollution in Bombay have done a number on my skin and it is time to get it back on the road towards healing. As if all this were not enough, I was presented with a small bag containing a sample of the Vitamin E gel and the newest fragrance, Sweet Lime and Cedar, in a small purse spray. As the treatments were being carried out on my face, I sipped my chilled champagne and felt as if I could not have asked for a more delightful treat.

Then, I browsed in a few stores in the swanky Mayfair area. Everything is the stores is heavily discounted and were I someone who enjoyed shopping, I guess I could have had a field day. As it is, I prefer to window shop. When a bus came along, I hopped into it as far as Marble Arch from where I intended to launch on another one of my self-guided walking tours. I am resuming them a long time after becoming diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, so I chose a rather easy one based on the heart of the Oxford Street area.

The walk is entitled “Hangings and Hoaxes” and when it left the bustle of Marble Arch behind–interestingly, the site was once known as Tyburn Street and was the venue of grizzly public hangings that attracted countless spectators–it took me into the quietest mews. I passed by the blue plaques that proclaimed the sites of former homes of famous authors–Wilkie Collins, author of The Moonstone and The Woman in White, the first detective crime fiction ever produced; T. S. Eliot; and American patriot Benedict Arnold. Passing by a couple of hotels in the vicinity, I learned about Victorian murders and subsequent hangings. There were a couple of interesting stories associated with parliamentary conspiracies as in the Cato Conspiracy and a hoax associated with Lady Tichborne’s family. I particularly enjoyed visiting a pub called The Windsor Castle on Crawford Place which was filled to the ceiling (quite literally) with royal commemorative memorabilia such as plates and mugs and bowls and busts that were piled in the windows and on the walls and in specially constructed niches on the ceiling. Indeed every inch of space inside is taken by this amazing collection and I was very glad that I asked the bartender’s permission to browse through the rooms and marvel at their treasures.

Then, quite by happenstance, I found myself on Portman Square passing right by the premises of Habibsons Bank, in which our family friend Bande Hasan is the CEO. On impulse, I decided to pop in and, if he were free to see me, to say Hello to him. As it turned out, he had just finished his lunch and insisted I have a cup of coffee and some biscuits before I set out once again on my tourist route. We caught up on the happenings of the past few weeks and I was particularly intrigued by his accounts of the many shoots he has undertaken. As someone who has recently taken to shooting, he talked about his success with stalking and shooting pheasants, partridges and pigeons and about the feasting that is a part of this very English tradition. After exchanging pleasantries for a good twenty minutes, I was on my way again arriving on Edgeware Road, at the end of the walk.

I hopped into buses that took me slowly back home. Indeed it was excruciatingly slow along Oxford Street and I couldn’t for the life of me see why the bus crawled the way it did as there wasn’t the sort of frenzied crowds that were in evidence prior to Christmas. By the time I arrived home, darkness was falling over the city (the sun now sets at about 4. 30 pm) and I was relieved to discover that I did recover internet connectivity and was able to retrieve my email. A couple of hours spent with my PC gave my feet a much-needed rest before I decided to do a bit of cooking–a Sausage and Feta Cheese Frittata and a Stir-Fry with Mixed Vegetables.

Then, it was time to eat my dinner while watching some innane commentary by the “Fashion Police” on th red carpets outfits worn at the Golden Globe Awards. By the time they were half way through it, I was nodding off on the couch.

It was that darn jetlag playing up again!

Tea with Blair, Post-Christmas Sales and Return to the National Gallery

Jan13

Tuesday, January 13, 2009
London

Being still jetlagged, I awoke at 3. 15 am, tossed and turned until 4. 15 am then gave up attempting to fall back to sleep. Since I am clearly still on Bombay Time it made sense to spend an hour reading The White Tiger, Aravind Adiga’s Booker Prize winning novel that my friend Firdaus Gandavia, aka Dr. G, gifted me in Bombay. While it is stylistically unusual and entertaining, it is hard to see what made it deserve so prestigious an award. But perhaps I should reserve my judgment until I finish the book.

A half hour devoted to my blog followed by a call to my parents in Bombay made me realize that I miss them sorely, every single one of my family members with whom I spent two recent weeks–Chriselle and Chris included. Dying to hear their voices again, I dialled eagerly and was delighted to catch up again with my parents whose new refrigerator has been delivered. All is well at Silverhome with geyser, water filter and lights all behaving as they should and a brand new fridge in the kitchen to boot. My mother is stress free for the moment, she says…

Breakfast (eggs and coffee) was followed by an exercise session (I am trying to be religious about getting in four sessions a day) as I continued to stretch my plantar fascia while watching Vikas Swarup, author of the novel Q&A appear on the Breakfast Show. He is the new Boy Wonder, now that his novel has become an international cinematic success with a new name–Slumdog Millionaire. Unlike most authors who have a stack of rejection slips and several unpublished manuscripts tucked away somewhere before they attain recognition, Swarup’s first novel, written within two months, found an agent in merely a few tries and a publisher soon after. Bravo!

More chores followed–the folding and putting away of laundry, the washing of dishes. Then a long and lovely shower and I felt prepared to face the day. First stop: The Leather Lane Street Market where I bought fresh fruit and vegetables. With the new year having dawned, I am trying to eat more salads and intend to end each meal with fresh fruit. I then disappeared down the Tube stairwell to buy myself a monthly bus pass. Back at home, I stacked my produce on the kitchen counter before I ran out to the bus stop to take the Number 8 to Marble Arch where I had made an 11 am appointment to meet my friend Blair Williams and his wife Ellen, visiting from New Jersey, in the basement cafe.

I stopped en route at the Jo Malone store on Brooke Street to make an appointment for a Facial Workshop for 12 noon tomorrow–a session that will be accompanied by a Champagne Tea! My, my, how special that made me feel! I intend to try a variety of their newest products as I am a huge Jo Malone fan. Then, I hurried off to M&S and found Blair and Ellen entering the same elevators that I took to get downstairs. How was that for timing? I was next enveloped in a warm bear hug as my friends reunited with me on British soil.

Over a pot of lemon and ginger tea, we caught up. Blair and Ellen are on a long spate of travels around the world. Their next stop is India tomorrow and then on to Singapore and Hongkong, Vietnam and China. We talked about my research on Anglo-Indians as Blair had been my chief source of inspiration and encouragement as I had launched upon this inquiry. We were joined shortly by Hazel Egan, a college classmate of the Williams’. After about an hour, I left the group to their own nostalgic reminiscences and made my way out.

Having missed the post-Christmas sales for which the major department stores in London are noted, I decided that I simply must take a look even if it is rather late in the day. So, hear this, all your shopaholics out there, ALL of London is on sale! From the glitz of Harrods and the High Street to the smallest holes in the wall, retailers have slashed prices and massive signs proclaiming sales everywhere seem determined to entice the shopper. I took a bus to Knightsbridge, heading straight for Harrods, and found myself overwhelmed by the number of items piled high up in bins that are up for sale. After browsing through a few, I chose a few luxurious goodies in which to indulge–Woods of Windsor Soap Packs in Lily of the Valley and Lavender fragrances and silky body moisturizer from Floris in the … range, to which, believe it or not, I had become introduced on Air-India flights. The airline used to stock Floris’ moisturizer and cologne in its restrooms once upon a time!

In the food halls, I picked up a loaf of fresh Walnut Bread, an almond croissant and a chocolate scone and over a cup of free Java at Krispy Kreme donuts (courtesy of the new Obama Presidency), I had myself a carb-rich lunch–sigh…just when I made a resolution to cut them down. I could not resist strolling through Laduree, the upscale Parisian tea shop that has a branch at Harrods, but I did draw the line at indulging in their world famous macaroons–another time for sure when I am feeling less virtuous! Someone had once told me that you needed to spend a penny (or a pound, quite literally) to use the rest rooms at Harrods, but I discovered that this was far from true as the basement restrooms were not only free but well stocked with a variety of free cosmetics as well!!!

Another bus took me to Fortnum and Mason where I browsed around their Sale merchandise. I was disappopinted to discover that there wasn’t a fifty per cent sale there as everywhere else. I did walk out with a lovely perfumed candle in Pink Grapefruit though–I really do have a weakness for this aroma–one of the few items that was offered at half price. It felt wonderful to have been able to buy a few things at least at these satisfying prices and though all Harrods’ Christmas puddings had gone, I was glad I did buy two earlier in the year–one of which we ate in Southport at Christmas and the other at New Year in Bombay!

I then hopped into a bus again that took me to Trafalgar Square where I intended to spend a few good hours back in the galleries. ‘Back’ because after Plantar fascitis had hit me, I had given up my study of the paintings there and intended to resume them after my feet felt less strained. Having covered the Sainsbury Wing last semester, I started my perusal of the 16th century with Homan Potterton’s Guide to the National Gallery to help me along. Locating the most important canvasses through the catalogue in the basement, I then spent a while in the company of Leonardo da Vinci and Michaelangelo and Corregio, Lucus Cranach and Hans Holbein, Andrea del Sarto and Raphael. The galleries were largely empty and, in many cases, I had them entirely to myself. I realized that I have missed my solitary sessions in museums and that I am happiest when wrapped in lone contemplation of canvases by Old Masters.

Then, it was time to take the bus and return home to a quiet dinner and some TV. London is usually mild for this time of year and it was a pleasure to walk its streets and browse through its attractive shops. As the week goes by, I hope to fill my moments with many more such pleasurable activity.

Just before I switched my PC off for the day, I did make a booking to Oslo, Norway, for the end of February. At a pound per journey on Ryanair, it was irresistible and since the Youth Hostel in downtown Oslo was able to offer accommodation, my plans were made within minutes. It is just such offers as these that make my stay here in London so worthwhile and I look forward very much to many more such spontaneous trips of this kind as the semester moves on.

Looking Back Over Four Months in London

Dec17

Wednesday, December 17, 2008
London

I fell in love with London a long time ago–22 years ago to be precise–and I have never felt any differently. If anything, the past four months have deepened my attachment to this city. It is a funny feeling–to be a Londoner and a visitor at the same time. Despite the fact that I have worked here, the last four month have felt like an endless vacation.

Yet, so much water has flowed under the Thames since Llew and I hauled our eight suitcases out of the cab that balmy summer’s night in August. Even though I have scoured the furthest reaches of this city so thoroughly that I ended up with an inflammation of my plantar fasciia, I still feel as if I have only scratched the surface. Every night before I fall asleep, I think with wonder about all the things I will do the next day. As Robert Frost wrote, I literally feel as if I have miles to go before I sleep!!!

So what have I accomplished in nearly four months? Well, I have taken about 6 self-guided walking tours that introduced me to corners tucked far away from prying eyes and quarters whose cobbled streets are hoary with history. Clubs and pubs, churches and cathedrals, sprawling parks and secret gardens, museums and art galleries, colleges and libraries…I have been there, done that, and felt fiercely fulfilled. I started a systematic study of the collections in the National Gallery and, before my feet gave way, completed my perusal of the Sainsbury Wing. In the British Museum, which I visited often, I saw the remnant highlights of so many ancient cultures. I also ‘did’ the Tate London, the Geffrye Museum and the National Portrait Gallery and will keep the Tate Modern and the Victoria and Albert Museum for next semester.

Professionals entertained and delighted me everywhere I went through theater and opera. In the Globe Theater, I marvelled at the Shakespearean magic of the verse and the virtuosity of the players. I saw celebrity actors whose names have shone often in lights–Dame Aileen Atkins and Ian McDiarmid, Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders and Vanessa Redgrave. Not just were these thespians quite splendid on stage but the venues in which they performed were equally astonishing–from the Vaudeville Theater at the Strand to the historic Drury Lane Theater, each interior was a masterpiece of design and decoration hinting at the fact that, over the centuries, a visit to the theater was a glitzy occasion indeed.

As for cuisine, what a long way London has come. I have tasted Vietnamese pho and Turkish mezes, sampled the variety to be found on a thali and in the sleight of hand of Italian chefs who have a magical way with pasta. The foodie in me was deeply satisfied by the culinary offerings of every curve of the globe. I had thought that being alone in the city, I would probably never eat out at all. How pleasantly surprized I was to receive invitiations from new friends and generous neighbors who took me out to meals that were superlative as well as entertained me in their own domains with their own home-cooked signature dishes–not to mention the friendship provided by my colleague Karen and her husband Douglas, foodies both with a connoissuer’s palate to boot. I have eaten candy from a bygone era with names like honeycomb and eclairs and rum bonbons; as for my inner chocoholic, why, it was more than pleased by truffles flavored with honey and strawberries, lavender and coffee in Hope and Greenwood’s old fashioned shop as much as it was tantalized by the offerings of the more pricey French and Belgain chocolatiers.

Talking about cuisine, marketing has become for me the high point of my week. Never having shopped at street markets previously, I have become addicted to the one on Leather Lane where I buy my stock of Greek dolmas and mozzarella cheese, sun dried tomatoes and pesto. In the Food Halls at Harrods and Fortnum and Mason, I have been seduced by the novelty of steamed puddings with peculiar names: sticky toffee and spotted dick; by jams such as rhubarb and ginger and three fruit marmalade; fruity flapjack biscuits and ginger and orange cookies laced with chocolate have enticed me incessantly and become my ‘tea’ accompaniments; even the crisps have exotic flavorings such as Thai red chilli and roast beef with mustard, barbecued chicken and garlic with lemon grass; I have tasted elderflower wine and lavender honey, little tubs of potted shrimps and smoked salmon pate, artisinal cheeses from every farm in the country and Stiltons studded with apricot and ginger, dried dates and candied oranges. For breakfast, I have eaten sausages with strange names like chipolata and Cumberland and I can never decide which ones are tastier. And then Yuletide brought its own share of irresistible treats: mulled wine and mince pies, I discovered, are every bit as scrumptious as they sound. And when I have felt homesick for a curry, why, the likes of Marks and Spencer, Sainsbury and Tesco have been only to happy to oblige my native tastes with their offerings of Lamb Rogan Josh and Prawn Vindaloo, and Chicken every which way you can imagine–Makhanwalla, Jalfrezi, Korma and Tikka Masala! I am ashamed to say that I have almost stopped cooking, so eager have I been to sample local delicacies…and I have rarely been disappointed.

It is hard for me to believe that only a few miles within Greater London lie quaint villages that border the placid Thames, each characterized by snooty estates and picturesque ponds with trailing willows and hungry mallards. At Old Isleworth, I visited magnificent Syon House and Park. I gazed upon gold-fringed trees at Richmond Hill and enjoyed the view that Mick Jagger gazes on daily from his own bedroom window; while at Richmond Park I looked upon huge herds of deer roaming freely in the watery autumn sunshine. At Barnes, I crossed the sprawling haunted ‘Commons’ that gave me the creeps.

The second best part of being in London was discovering the bus system and the wallet-friendly Monthly Pass that took me to parts of the city that I never knew existed. I had always love the Tube but I have now developed an affection for those lumbering red double deckers as well. I went to Ealing and Greenford, Harrow and Acton, Shoreditch and Stratford and even to Essex in the course of my research–parts of the city that were distant yet cost me mere pennies per mile covered.

The best part of being in London, however, has been the new friends I have made who reached out their hands so warmly in friendship. For a country whose people (at least in the States) have a reputation for reserve that has been politely referred to as European sang-froid, I have found the English deeply welcoming and genuinely eager to share their homes and their hearts with me. My next-door neighbors, Tim and Barbara have been an incredible blessing as has Milan who lives down the hall. Janie Yang who introduced me to her artsy friends has always been there for me. Cynthia and Bishop Michael Colclough showed concern when I was laid up at home and then provided me with a stack of tickets to so many marvelous cultural evenings at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Chriselle’s colleague Ivana has been a fun conpanion on walks in Chelsea and Battersea. I find it impossible to believe that four months ago I did not know any of these folks at all. As for living alone in the city (a prospect that offered its own load of concerns), I need never have worried. Between my concierge Arben and our janitor Martha, I am waited on hand and foot and I feel throughly pampered by their care and attention.

Like Bill Bryson and Susan Allen Toth and other travel writers who fell under the spell of the city, I too am quite besotted by London and I can’t wait to resume my rambles come the new year.

Last Classes, British Museum, Handel’s Messiah and British Comfort Food

Dec5

Thursday, December 4, 2008
London

Hard to believe that we have reached the end of the semester. I arrived in class today with a heavy heart as it was the last time I would be meeting the students of the Fall semester 2008. This was my last class with them and in the Anglo-Indian seminar, I covered “Diasporic Anglo-Indians in the UK”. So many of my students have had personal encounters with Anglo-Indians through the ethnographic profile I had assigned. They were asked to make contact with a real-life Anglo-Indian (preferably in the UK) and ‘talk’ to him/her (preferably in person, but failing that, via email) and then prepare a profile based on the impact of the Anglo-Indianness in that person’s life (both in India and as an immigrant in Great Britain). So, as I lectured about Anglo-Indians in the UK (my observations, of course, based on my own real-life encounters with a number of them here in the London area), I found them nodding their heads in agreement with me or joining in with comments and observations of their own. It was a fun class.

They were so sorry to be leaving London. As Sophomores (or Upper Classmen, as they are called here–second year university undergraduates), they are only allowed one semester of ‘Study Abroad” and in less than two weeks time, their semester in London will be just a memory as they return to the States. I developed a great liking for these students in the course of this semester. Maybe because we were all in the same boat–attempting to discover London and our place in it–we bonded in a rather special way. I found them extraordinarily receptive to the information I shared, to the various assignments I gave them, to the uniqueness of taking a course about an ethnic minority in their own milieu. They were also a very mature group of students who were vocal and articulate and always impeccably behaved. So, I will be hosting a party for them at my flat, next Thursday, after they’ve taken their final exam. They will pool in, bringing appetisers and desserts. I will provide the space, the paper goods, drinks and Christmas pudding with brandy butter (as none of them have tasted it). We have many things to celebrate–one of my students has a birthday that day, another will be removing the plaster cast on the ankle she broke a few weeks ago, and all of them will be celebrating the successful completion of another semester in their eventful college lives. At a time when I did not have my family close to me, these students became my extended family and I have grown fond of them.

At lunch time, in my office, I met Karen’s husband Douglas and her mother who has arrived from the States to spend a week with her. Karen has very thoughtfully planned all kinds of interesting activities with her, not the least of which was dinner at the National Portrait Gallery that she invited me to join. I would have loved to, but had to bow out as I told her that I would be at St. Paul’s Cathedral, enjoying Handel’s oratorio, The Messiah. Then, I set off for Birkbeck College to teach my last afternoon class, the Writing one.

These Writing students are Freshmen, permitted to stay in London for a year. After Winter Break (when most of them will be returning to the States), they will come back to London for the Spring semester. Many of them have registered for my Writing II class so I shall be seeing them again in January. Because they do not have a final exam, this was the last time I would see them this year but I did not feel that same sadness in their class. After I issued all sort of instructions pertaining to their final assignments, we left Birkbeck and headed straight to the British Museum for our final ‘field trip’ of the semester.

It is still awfully cold (at least too cold, I think, for this time of year in London). So, it felt good to escape into the British Museum. I told them a little bit about the history of the British Museum and showed them a few Highlights: Antony Gorman’s marquette for The Angel of the North that stands in the lobby, the Millennium Rotunda, the Rosetta Stone and the Parthenon Marbles. My recent visit to Greece causes me to gaze upon them with newly enlightened eyes, as it were, and bring to my presentation new nuances.

When my tour concluded, we said our goodbyes and I headed home on the bus. I still had no internet connectivity at home and was disappointed. However, I had a chance to have a long chat with Llew on the phone before I caught the bus and headed for Amen Court where Michael and Cynthia Colclough live. They had presented me and my next door neighbor Tim with tickets to witness a performance of Handel’s Messiah in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Tim and I got to their home separately by 6pm and we started to make our way to the cathedral that is just across the road.

I was so excited. This was another first time for me. I mean, who hasn’t heard “The Hallelujah Chorus” and not been stunned? But I had never heard the entire oratorio and to be able to do so in such august surroundings was just too much of a privilege. Then, when we entered the cathedral, we found it packed to the rafters. Hundreds, if not thousands (I am awful at estimating audience numbers) were already in their seats and I hoped we could at least all sit together.

And then, to my astonishment, as Michael led us to the very front to the accompaniment of the ushers who knew him well, we were taken to the very first row and seated virtually at the feet of the musicians! It was just fabulous! The best seats in the house! Seats were actually reserved for us and Cynthia introduced me to the people she knew all around us.

And then the oratorio began. The City of London Sinfonia provided the musicians who sat in the front with large choirs of St. Paul’s Cathedral behind them–an adult choir and a Boy’s Choir. As the musicians and choir filled their seats and stands, a hush fell over the audience. One of the priests introduced the tradition of ‘staging’ The Messiah at St. Paul’s and informed us that we would be standing during “The Hallelujah Chorus” in a tradition, that Tim informed me, had begun in the reign of King George–he didn’t specify which one) who first stood up when he heard it. The priest added, in a humorous vein, that standing up would provide the opportunity to reach into our pockets and contribute generously to the collection baskets that would circulate at that point. Then, after they had tuned their instruments for the last time, the three male soloists arrived on stage together with the conductor and the music began.

The Cathedral had presented each of us a booklet with the words from the Bible that form the lyrics and I was able to follow the entire work. It was stirring, to say the very least, and I felt fully ‘in the moment’ as the phrase goes. Towards the end when the trumpeters and the drummer joined the musicians on stage, we found ourselves seated only a few feet from them and received the full blast of their prowess. There was a brief interval and then part Two began and, of course, at the end of Part Two, we stood for “The Hallelujah Chorus”. Right after this, a collection basket went around. And then the third and final section began. The very last chorister was outstanding. I had heard him at the Advent Service, a couple of days ago, and I had been so impressed by his virtuosity that I knew as soon as he arrived at the front of the stage that I was in for a treat. He truly has the voice of an angel and his clear, liquid notes floated up to the dome of St. Paul’s to the utter astonishment of the audience.

And then, it was over and we were thanking the Colcloughs and filing out and Tim and I were walking the short distance back home in the crisp night air. He had invited me to supper at his place right after the performance and informed me on our walk that he would be cooking Liver and Bacon, the cornerstone of traditional British comfort food. Barbara was home by the time we arrived at their flat next door. She had been unable to attend the Messiah performance as she had an important lecture to go to. Over a few nibbles and a glass of beer (and Merlot for them), Barbara and I caught up as Tim pottered around in the kitchen from which the most enticing aromas began to waft.

And then we were seated a table. In addition to the Liver and Bacon that looked superbly appetizing on this cold evening, there was a mound of mashed potatoes and steamed zucchini. And every morsel was just delicious. Tim, being a former chef, knew that some foods must be served straight off the pan and brought to the table and his Liver and Bacon and Mashed Potatoes fell in that category. I understood as I savored each bit why Seigfried in James Herriott’s All Creatures Great and Small had felt torn between keeping a hot date and staying at home for dinner as his housekeeper was cooking Liver and Bacon that evening! Though I am not, generally speaking, a lover of liver, I enjoyed Tim’s offering as did Barbara and while we showered him with compliments, he sat back and lapped them up!

Then, it as time for dessert–Lemon Ricotta Cheesecake served with tiny little glasses of Eiswein, a German dessert wine that was just fabulous. With chamomile tea to round off our meal, we’d had ourselves a memorable evening indeed and I felt so fortunate, once again, to be blessed by such incredibly friendly and generous neighbors here in London.

We joked about the fact that I had such a long way to get back home as I left their flat and turned my body around to place the key in my own keyhole! It had been another wonderful day for me in London filled with all the pleasures that I most enjoy in my life–enthusiastic and affectionate students, a visit to one of the greatest museums in the world, a once-in-a-lifetime performance of one of the world’s greatest musical compositions and a dinner to remember served by the most gracious and welcoming of hosts.

I am lucky indeed!

A Taste of the Borough Market and Tate Britain

Nov28

Friday, November 28, 2008
London

More details of the carnage in Bombay continued to surface through the night. I called my folks first thing this morning to get an update and spoke to my Dad who kept me abreast with the situation. I cannot believe that Llew and I stayed at the Taj Mahal Hotel in January this year when I led 22 Americans on a study tour of India. Leopold Cafe has intimate family connections for us as it is the restaurant in which my father proposed marriage to my mother so many decades ago. On the occasion of their Golden Wedding anniversary in 2004, my parents returned there with children and grandchildren to commemorate that proposal and to celebrate half a century together. The management had been especially kind and generous and upon discovering that my parents’ were celebrating such a momentous occasion with their nearest and dearest family members, they provided a meal on the house to the entire party, much to my parents’ bafflement and embarrassment.

All these thoughts went through my mind as I watched the calamity unfold on television and on the internet. The pain that I felt on seeing the beloved city of my birth ravaged with this kind of hatred and violence is hard to describe. We don’t refer to the land of our birth as ‘Motherland’ for nothing. I have realized over the years that the longer one has been away from one’s native land, the stronger grows the pull towards it for we are connected, as if by some invisible umbilical cord, to the country in which we took our first breath and that nurtured us to adulthood under its maternal protection. For that reason, Bombay will always occupy a sacred place in my heart and seeing her so savagely harmed was too hard to bear.

But I had to get on with my day and after I finished transcribing another one of my Anglo-Indian interviews and made some professional appointments for next week, I decided to go out and do some sightseeing. I am beginning to believe that the reason London has so many excellent museums is because it has so many really awful days to contend with–weather-wise. Each morning, I pull up my blinds and gaze at the skies trying to read the minds of the Weather Gods. Today, for instance, we had what I call a ‘Black and White Day’–the kind of day on which the world looks like an image in a black and white photograph, i.e. robbed of all color by the absence of the sun. It is the perfect day to spend indoors and London has, fortunately, enough venues in which you can escape the cold and dampness and lose yourself in a world of happy contemplation and self-study.

I hopped into a bus going eastwards from Holborn and got off just outside the ‘Old Lady of Threadneedle Street’, aka The Bank of England. From there, I took Bus 133 which crossed London Bridge and took me to the Borough Market where I decided to browse around and taste food products offered by some of the country’s best purveyors of all things delicious. To my disappointment, I discovered that the dealers do not take credit cards. I used the last few pounds I had on me to buy Greek delicacies for which I developed a taste in Greece–dolmades (pickled vine leaves stuffed with rice flavored with oregano and pine nuts) and feta cheese.

Then, I sampled the wares on offer from a number of super friendly vendors and that formed quite a filling assortment of appetisers–thank you very much. I particularly loved the aged Gruyere and the mature Irish cheddar being offered at one stall but the preserves and chutneys at another were just as divine. Pear and Vanilla Butter was tempting as was the Red Onion Marmalade and the Apple and Damson Chutney. I sampled a load of Turkish Delight stuffed with pistachios and chocolate covered orange rind being passed out rather generously by the keepers of a sweets stall. There was also a chimichuri sauce that was to die for being offered in a stall that also sold a marvelous dulce de leche caramel sauce. What else did I sample? Cold meats and a variety of pates, hot mulled wine (boy, was that good on this freezing day!), superb basil pesto brimming over with parmesan cheese, olive tapenade and a variety of honey–such as orange blossom honey and heather honey. All these goodies sustained me until I took Bus 133 and sailed off once again to Kennington–a part of London’s South Bank which I have never before seen and arrived at the Oval Cricket Grounds. From here, I took Bus 88 that carried me across the Vauxhall bridge to Millbank, another part of the Thames Embankment, from where I walked a few blocks to the Tate Britain.

It has been a long time since I visited the Tate. When I was last there, 22 years ago, as a graduate student visiting London for the first time, I had spent a great deal of time contemplating the series of pastels by William Blake that had been his accompanying illustrations for his Songs of Innocence and Experience. That, and a handful of Turners was all I remembered of the museum. I was glad to have the opportunity to study the collection again. But it was cold and the drizzle had been continuous all day, so I headed straight to the large basement cafe for a hot pot of Earl Grey and a sultana scone which I enjoyed with clotted cream and strawberry jam. This is British comfort food, to be sure, and I relished every crumb and savored every drop.

If I have to look on the bright side of my foot affliction, it is to cherish the quiet contemplative moments I have on my own in-between sight seeing when I sit back to rest my feet. I no longer find myself tearing from one sight to the next as I have done over the years. I have slowed down considerably because my physical condition no longer allows me to rush. But, I have realised that as a result of going at a more leisurely pace, I now have the time to people-watch and to look over everything that I am seeing and doing without feeling pressured in any way to cover everything. And perhaps that is the one good thing that has come out of my ailment.

Anyway, after I had rested sufficiently, I began my perusal of the Tate’s permanent collection. Tate Britain is not as large or crowded as the National Gallery but it’s collection is no less impressive. True, its works are not as well known as those in the National either, but if the viewer is interested in seeing lesser-known canvasses by British Masters of the medium, this is the place to go. I started at the beginning with the Tudors and Stuarts and worked my way chronologically to Modernism. En route, I saw two truly stunning and rarely seen works: the 1898 canvas entitled The Sleep of Arthur in Avalon by Edward Burne-Jones and the exquisite Flaming June by fellow Pre-Raphaelite Frederick Leighton, both in a private collection in Puerto Rico and currently on loan to the Tate.

I also saw the Tate’s newest and proudest recent acquisition: the original sketch by Peter Paul Reubens of the main medallion entitled The Apotheosis of James I for the ceiling of the Banqueting Hall which Llew and I had visited just two weeks ago. Purchased at the cost of 7 million pounds, this small sketch, an early study in oil on canvas, is remarkable for it shows how clear was Reubens’ vision even at the very beginning when he first received the commission for what became the spectacular ceiling.

I was also delighted to see Millais’ Ophelia which has returned to the Tate after a very long time. On the other hand, I was disappointed to discover that The Lady of Shallott by John William Waterhouse has temporarily left the Tate and will only return next June–darn! It was also a treat to see so many variations on Willy Lott’s farmhouse on the River Stour in Suffolk in John Constables many paintings as well as a marvelous clutch of smaller canvasses by Turner. I felt so enlightened and edified by my visit and by the pace at which I was able to view the works on display. In fact, I only finished 17 of the 28 rooms and shall make a return visit to see the more contemporary of the works on another occasion.

Another lovely bus ride took me back home, still through streaming window panes on the upper deck. I am struck at the assurance with which I am able to get from one part of London to the next using the buses. It is only unfortunate that on a couple of occasions, I have taken the bus going in the opposite direction. But, hey, no harm no foul. With my bus pass, all I do is hop off and catch the same bus from the opposite side of the road and I’m back on track again.

I think that what is best about my time here in London is the fact that I have so much of it for myself. It’s so nice to know that I live in the heart of the city and never have to hurry back to the Tube for fear of having to make a long journey into the distant suburbs when the trains or the buses are empty–a matter that always inhibited me from staying out after nightfall on my visits in the past. It is comforting to know that I can get back home in less than a half hour no matter where I am. I am also pleased at the way I am juggling duty and pleasure so that each day is filled with productive professional activity while also including some of the more pleasurable things on my list of Things to See and Do.

The Borough Market and the Tate Britain fall in the latter category and I guess I can now tick those off my list and move on!

An Early Thanksgiving Celebration

Nov26

Tuesday, November 25, 2008
London

My day began with a visit to my physiotherapist who says that she is very pleased with my progress. What she says does not please her is my impatience at wanting to get “back to normal” again. She tells me that it will be a while before I am back to normal, whatever that means. As long as I am not in pain, can go about my day with no discomfort or alternations in schedule, she says that I should consider myself well. The occasional tightness in my feet is a result of many factors, she explained. My posture, primarily, even when I am seated might have an impact. The nerves are a strange entity, she says, and while inflammation is subsiding in the tendons, the nerves may play up and cause me to feel twinges of pain or a bit of discomfort or tightness. All of this, she tries to convince me, are positive signs and not all pain should be construed as a negative thing.

In keeping with her advice, I am trying to focus on my progress and not on all the strange symptoms that seem to change daily. Meanwhile, she has changed my exercises and wants to me to do all kinds of contortions that involve a loosening of the muscles in my knees, thighs and butt as all of these affect the nerves in the foot, she says. Meanwhile also, she informs me that she is leaving for a two month vacation in her native New Zealand and wants to put me on to another physiotherapist in her absence. When I suggested a podiatrist instead, she was not enthusiastic, though she did not dissuade me either. She told me that if I simply continue all the exercises she has recommended, I will definitely get better provided I am patient and stay positive. I have now decided to find a podiatrist within my medical insurance network.

Right after my appointment with Megan, I took the bus to Trafalgar Square and spent an hour in the 20th century section of the National Portrait Gallery which I found the least interesting epoch in the gallery. Half of the section was closed anyway to accommodate the retrospective on the work of Annie Liebowitz for which the Gallery is charging a hefty entrance fee of 11 pounds. I decided to pass as I am bound to see her work in the States.

I got home instead to transcribe another interview I did with Doreen Samaroo and to rest before I started off on my evening’s jaunt.

When I told my English friends in Southport, Connecticut (John and Diana Thomson, William and Caroline Symington, for instance) that I was headed to London for a year, they put me on to their contacts in London to enable me to create a small circle of friends with whom I could socialize once I arrived here. The Thomsons’ contact, Janie Thomson Yang, and I have become good friends and have already done a few very exciting things together (the opening of a new art exhibition followed by dinner in Mayfair, dinner in Primrose Hill when Llew was here, Syon House and Park) and yesterday, I spent a lovely evening with the Symington’s contacts, Robert and Caroline Cummings.

Robert Cummings is, in fact, the Director of Boston University’s Study Abroad Program in London–a position he took on 4 years ago. He is himself an art historian (and, for my docent friends who are reading this), once taught Thomas Campbell who has just been appointed as Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the place of Phillipe de Montebello. Robert is exceedingly proud of his former student’s new appointment, by the way.

Anyway, Robert sent me an email, a couple of weeks ago, inviting me to a music recital at 43 Harrington Gardens, a lovely mansion that is called Boston House. Supper, he said, would follow “in someplace inexpensive”. I accepted the invitation immediately, thinking what a great idea it would be to mark Thanksgiving in some concrete fashion (though I do intend to accompany my students tomorrow to the special service at 11 am for Americans at St. Paul’s Cathedral. This will also allow us to take in the monument to the fallen Indians in the cathedral–including thousands of Anglo-Indians–who served in the British army in India.)

The bus ride was one of the most excruciating things I have ever taken and I have promised myself not to take them during peak hours and when I have to make an event at a fixed time. Also with night falling so rapidly and the freezing weather showing no signs of abatement, it is no fun looking for bus stops from which to take connecting buses, especially since I am unfamiliar with the routes. So, back to the Tube it will be for me in such circumstances.

I reached the concert late but managed to catch enough of the program to realize that these BU students are hugely talented. They presented a program of chamber music that included a variety of composers and instruments in a setting that was gorgeous. First of all, the interior of the building has been recently refurbished and glows with a colonial splendour. Secondly, the room in which the concert was held was recently wall-papered (was that a William Morris design I recognized?) and the old wooden panelling shone in the light from the brass chandeliers. The program of music ended with the community singing “Old B.U.”, a song that Robert found on Ebay when surfing the web. It is an old college ditty that was ‘lost’ to time until it surfaced on Ebay! He had a group of students rehearse it, distributed photocopied sheets and invited the audience to join in a stirring rendition. It was a load of fun.

Cheese and wine and tiny pumpkin cupcakes with cream cheese frosting were served in the hall during the intermission and at the end of the program during which time Robert introduced me to his guests, I met a number of lovely people (which was the whole point of my attendance–I really am eager to make friends) who immediately included me in their circle and told me they must meet me again! I was pleased to see that they joined us for supper when I got to know Robert’s wife, Caroline, a horticulturist by profession who designs residential gardens. I asked her if she was familiar with the English mystery series called Rosemary and Thyme and she said she had not, but would make an effort to see it. This series features two female landscape designers and gardeners who run their own business together and end up solving a murder mystery in each episode. Their knowledge of plants and gardens in some shape or form leads them to the main clue that helps them crack the murder. In addition to designing gardens, Caroline is also a independent movie buff and runs an indie film club close to her home in the country in Buckinghamshire. Needless to say, we had a LOT to talk about during dinner!

Dinner, by the way, was in a lovely restaurant (the “someplace inexpensive”) called the Langan Coq D’Or (which translates from the French into the Golden Rooster of Langan!). Apart from Robert and Caroline, there was the lovely Swiss lady from Geneva Marilyn Rixhon (with whom I clicked immediately) and her Belgian husband Phillipe with their 13 year old daughter, the truly delightful Emma-Louise. There was also Loulou Cooke and her mother Helen whom I only got to a know a little bit during our ride home on the Tube as we were seated too far away across the round dining table.

I enjoyed every bit of our dinner. A few of the folks at our table ordered ‘starters’–Caroline passed around her Beef Tartare with Celeriac Remoulade as a sort of amuse bouche–it was superb and according to Marilyn, flavored with truffle oil–ah, no wonder it was so good!). In keeping with the Thanksgiving theme and since I will not be eating turkey tomorrow, I decided to pick something from the menu that I thought came closest to American turkey–English partridge!! Indeed my dish was called Pan Roasted Partridge with Bacon and Chestnuts and it was superb–a sort of partridge au vin. It had been simmered in a rich gravy composed of red wine and roast drippings and the bacon gave it the richest flavor–throw bacon into anything, I always say, and it tastes fantastic!–and the whole chestnuts had a very unexpected texture indeed. Despite the fact that it was so delicious, my portion was so huge (somewhat unusual again for London, isn’t it?) that I could only eat half of it and, since I am told that requesting a doggie bag is not kosher in the UK, I did not. Well, there went half my partridge and it broke my heart that it would be consigned to the rubbish bin. But when in London, eh?

Before we left the restaurant, Robert presented me with the business cards of the restaurant that featured paintings by David Hockney–it turns out that he and the Langan who opened this series of restaurants scattered all over London, were very close friends. The cards are tremendously eye-catching and will make a nice addition to the memorabilia that I am collecting for my scrapbook based on all my doings in London this year.

On the Tube on the way back home, I got to know Loulou and her mother Helen a little more as we had little chance to chat during dinner. Loulou is involved in a number of charities. Her husband, she informed me, used to date Caroline during their years together in Cambridge and remained friends over the decades. She has a home in Farringdon, not far away from my flat at all, as well as a home in the country where she resides most of the time. Her mother Helen specially came down on the train from Labor, North Yorkshire, where she lives, for the concert and a bit of Christmas shopping and, of course, to spend a day with her daughter, Loulou. By the end of our Tube ride, before I hopped off at Holborn, Helen told me that if I ever re-visit the Yorkshire Dales which I told her I loved so much, I must come and see her! Loulou and I made plans to meet for coffee while Marilyn and I said we would definitely get together before I depart for the States for my own winter break.

It was a glorious evening and truly put me into the Thanksgiving spirit. Llew has informed me that close friends of ours from Toronto, Canada, Tony and Sylvia Pinto and Trevor and Loretta D’Silva will be visiting us in Southport, Connecticut, over the Thanksgiving weekend. Llew has decided to make his signature dish, “Turkey Indian-style” for them. Chriselle will be spending Thanksgiving weekend with Chris and his family, the Harrises, in the Hamptons. I, of course, will be here in London where there is no sign at all of any Thanksgiving festivity but I will be at the service at St. Paul’s, then will go out to dinner in the evening with my American colleague Karen and her husband Douglas who, I hope, is fully recovered from the annoying bug that the two of them picked up in Turkey. We should find a typically American restaurant that will serve us roast turkey and stuffing with gravy and cranberry sauce and corn bread and pumpkin pie but…I guess if we’re looking for something traditional tomorrow, we might have to settle for good ole’ English pub grub instead.

Ealing Interviews and Thoughts on the National Portrait Gallery

Nov24

Monday, November 24, 2008
Ealing, London

I’m becoming quite adept at messing around on buses! Today I spent about four hours on them! Two getting to Ealing and about an hour and half getting back to Central London. It is the easiest thing in the world to find out how to get from Point A to Point B on the buses using London Transport’s excellent website with the handy Journal Planner facility. You merely put in your starting and ending points and the instruction that you only wish to use buses (not the Tube or the River or the Docklands Light Railways–all of which fall within the network) and within seconds, you receive return instructions on how to map your route.

I also managed to review a series of first draft essays that my students had handed in to me…so my time on the bus was also rather productive on a day which was cold and wet and overcast and would have made walking on the streets rather unpleasant.

I am rapidly learning the bus routes and the easiest ways to make connections and, in the process, I am seeing London in a unique and very inexpensive way indeed. For example, today for the first time. I actually passed by Kensington Palace. I had no idea where this was located though I had heard of it following the death of Princess Diana as it was allotted to her as part of her divorce settlement from Prince Charles. Then, suddenly, there it was…a beautiful brown mansion set in a sea of expansive green lawn. I do intend to tour it before I leave England; but my To-See List is expanding in proportion to the diminishing days that I have at my disposal to accomplish it all!

I had scheduled two interviews today with Anglo-Indian sisters Doreen Samaroo and Cheryl Whittle. Since they live in Ealing and Southall respectively, Doreen preferred me to meet with her at Ealing. I did get to Doreen’s place at 11.30 am and spent almost two hours interviewing the sisters. They spoke to me so candidly and with so much emotion. It truly was a pleasure talking to them and I am grateful to all these individuals who are opening themselves to me, a total stranger, with so much warmth and ease. As is the case with the entire community, Doreen was warm and hospitable and offered me a selection of Indian snacks (samosas and pakoras) and her “homemade Anglo-Indian ribbon cake” and a comforting cup of coffee that sustained me through the long bus journey back.

Arriving in Central London, I hopped off at Trafalgar Square and headed straight to the National Portrait Gallery to continue my perusal of the portraits on display there. This time round, I started on the first floor with the 19th century and spent an hour and a half in the company of the Victorians, the men all mustachioed, the ladies in their high necks, stiff crinolines and ringlets. Victoria and Albert were, of course, well represented in portraits, sculpture and etchings, their love story providing the backdrop for some of the conventional and revolutionary relationships of the day–Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barret Browning for instance, George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) and the married George Henry Lewes, etc. I found the entire backdrop of history against which the literature, music, science and technology of the era was created deeply fascinating and I read the curator’s notes with the greatest interest. So many names from my own Indian heritage were there to be contemplated: Thomas Babington Macaulay (architect of English education on the Indian sub-continent), Clement Atlee and Ramsay McDonald (20th century Prince Ministers who thwarted Congress vision for Home Rule), Rudyard Kipling whose literary creativity took inspiration from the folk lore of Northern India.

As the 19th century gave way to the 20th, I was profoundly absorbed by the Bloomsbury Group in whose former stomping ground, I now teach and live and work. What a wonderfully rare synergy existed among all those deeply creative people in that one era and in that one spot!There was Virginia Woolf”s portrait by her sister Vanessa Ball, Lytton Strachey’s by Dora Carrington, Clive Bell by Roger Fry, Vanessa Bell by Duncan Grant. Having just returned from Cambridge where I learned about the Group’s beginnings at Trinity College, I scrutinized each portrait carefully trying to recapture in my mind the marvelously close affinity they enjoyed that began when they were undergrads and continued for the rest of their adult lives. From the Apostles’ Club at Cambridge to The Memoir Club at Bloomsbury (the Group met at the Bells’ home at 46 Gordon Square which I must now try to find on my map and then locate), they contributed such a wealth of artistic, intellectual and literary creativity to the last century! Yet so many of them were deeply troubled. Virginia Woolf and Carrington committed suicide, E.M. Forster and Lytton Strachey struggled with their homosexuality, Vanessa Bell had a long term relationship with Duncan Grant though she married Clive Bell. What, I wonder, precluded them from finding personal happiness? Was not their professional success adequate? Clearly their wealth and privilege, class and education did not enable them to find fulfillment. These were my thoughts as I perused those works–some oils on canvas, some pastels, some pen and inks, some photographs. They were all deeply moving and kept me enthralled.

I now have the 20th century to cover and I will be done with the National Portrait Gallery–perhaps later this week I will fit it in. Then, I can turn my attention to the Victoria and Albert Museum (whose Highlights I have seen before) and the Dulwich Picture Gallery which I have never seen.

By 5.15pm, having taken care to rest my feet in-between viewings and before leaving the Gallery, I caught the bus to Bloomsbury to attend a faculty meeting at NYU. We were felicitating Prof. Hagai Segal who won the award for Best teacher of the Year for the last year. Over beer and wine and a selection of sandwiches and pastries, we congratulated him, then turned our attention to a number of issues in a lively meeting that included many varying points of view.

My dinner having been eaten at the meeting, I took the bus and was home in ten minutes. Just a quick look at my email and then the writing of this blog was all that was left before I could chat with Llew for a few minute’s before retiring for the night.

The Other Place–Calling on Cambridge

Nov22

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Cambridge

For me, Cambridge is ‘The Other Place’, i.e. not Oxford. As my friend Annalisa says, “You can either be an Oxford Person or a Cambridge Person” and we are Oxford Persons! Still, having last been to Cambridge 22 years ago, on a brief day trip with some Oxford classmates, I warranted the town deserved another look. Besides, there was so little I remembered of it and, looking at the pictures I took then, I felt sorely tempted to revisit those parts of it upon which my youthful footsteps had once trod. So, when I discovered that National Express had a special funfare of just 3 pounds one way, I grabbed the opportunity and booked my ticket online.

It invariably happens that when I have to take a day trip some place, I do not sleep well the previous night–partly because I am terrified that I will oversleep and miss my bus (or ‘coach’ as they say here). So I tossed and turned all night, then fell asleep in the early hours and awoke, not at 6.30 am as I had intended but closer to seven. Tearing out of bed, I actually managed a shower (though not breakfast) and raced out of my building at 7.20 am–just five minutes behind schedule. I need not have worried. With everyone else curled up tightly in bed, the bus flew through the streets and dropped me off at Victoria Coach Station well in time for my coach.

I used the two hour journey to read up on the town and acquaint myself with its highlights so that I would use my day as productively as possible. Since I had a 7 pm return ticket, I would have about eight hours to spend in the town. While it was a bitterly cold day (it was 2 degrees–temperatures in Celsius always sound worse than the corresponding Fahrenheit figures), the sun shone bright and skies were clear and on the way into Cambridge, two things came to my mind: the nursery rhyme that goes “the sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn (that’s Little Boy Blue, I believe) for I saw little woolly dots speckle the stubbled fields and then my thoughts turned to Keats and his Ode to Autumn in which two lines go:

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue…

Before long, we were pulling into Cambridge, the approach as nice as the town itself, lined with lovely Tudor cottages and stone churches. The coach parked by a large field and the driver pointed out to me the route I could take to get to the main shops. I consulted my map and decided to head first to the Fitzwilliam Museum which I hadn’t seen before. This made a lot of sense since it was a frigid day, I was grateful to escape indoors, and most colleges open to visitors only after 1 pm anyway…leaving me with a few hours to see the collection.

Treasures of the Fitzwilliam:
Using the campus of Downing College as a short-cut, I arrived at the Fitzwilliam and gasped. Seriously, nothing had prepared me for the majesty of the building. I felt as if I were in Greece all over again. It is an impressive Neo-Classical building, complete with carved frieze on the pediment and Corinthian columns and it spreads itself out expansively across three blocks. But the exterior is only the least of it. Mount the main stairs, cross the grand threshold of the main entrance and you drop dead in your tracks. The foyer is straight out of a Robert Adam’s mansion. It is opulent with stone statues, shell topped niches, gorgeous plasterwork and gilding, more molding than you imagine and marble everywhere. It reminded me very much of the Baroque interior of the Kunthistorisches Museum in Vienna and I simply couldn’t tear myself away to see the collection. So right off, if one has to make a comparison between Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum with which, of course, I am very familiar, I would, at the risk of sounding disloyal, say that Cambridge wins on the museum-front.

The Fitzwilliam might be small by international standards, but I realized by the time I saw the first gallery, that it is a stupendous collection and would take me much more than the 2-3 hours I allotted to see it. So, as usual, I decided to look at everything cursorily, but carefully only at its ‘highlights’. The receptionist tried to turn me towards the ‘special’ exhibits, but I decided to see Hobbema’s Wooded Landscape, Titian’s Tarquin and Lucretia, Reuben’s The Death of Hippolyta, Monet’s Springtime, Renoir’s La Place Clichy (delightful indeed), the finest collection of works by George Stubbs that I have seen anywhere, Will Lott’s Stour-side farm seen from a different angle in a painting by Constable (as opposed to the famous one of it in The Haywain at the National), several stunners by Tintoretto including The Adoration of the Shepherds and some Picassos. I also feated my eyes upon Ford Madox Brown’s circular painting The Last of England which Marina Versey considers one of a hundred Masterpieces of Art in her book of the same name. I also realized that by focusing on the paintings, I was completely ignoring the amazing collection of antiques in the form of furniture, urns, sculpture, carpets, etc. that adorned the rooms–but to see all those I’d have to spend days. Also, with my feet still weak, there is only so much I can do…so.

Apart from these Old Master paintings, the Fitzwilliam has a magnificent bookcase that supposedly belonged to Handel. These contain 20 large leather-bound volumes, his own original manuscripts. It was astounding! Asking around, I discovered that my favorite poem of all time, Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale was not in its normal position, but tucked away in a room that contained manuscripts that had been acquired by Sidney Cockerell, the museum’s most illustrious director. There it was, the piece of work that Keats’ reportedly scribbled in the garden of his home in Hampstead upon hearing a nightingale sing its throat out on a tree by the backdoor. I have to admit that I teared up on looking at it and thinking of his short, sad, wasted life cut down in the prime of its youth and productivity by tuberculosis and his anguish and desire for the lovely Fanny Brawne next door, whom he would never wed. I had the same reaction while gazing upon this sepia-ed scrap of paper that I had seen at Keats’ House in Hampstead, several years ago, when I had actually stood upon the spot where my beloved poem was composed.

Going in search of this treasure then brought me to another clutch of priceless works: a number of superbly illuminated medieval religious manuscripts–apart from the obvious Bibles and Psalters, there was Firdausi’s Shahnama in Persian (I gazed at it in awe), and a number of letters and poems from other famous poets–the Pre-Raphaelites, for instance, were very well represented though most of them were at Oxford (William Morris and Dante Gabriel Rossetii and Edward Burne-Jones) and a number of original first-editions from Morris’ reputed Kelmscott Press. And, then, of course, I was quite blown by the original manuscripts of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure–imagine, his own hand-written work, then the first page proofs, with Hardy’s notes in the margin and then the first edition of the book itself! How could I possibly leave these cases without drowning in emotion? Cockerell famously and justifiably declared, at the end of his tenure as Director, “I found it (the museum) a pigsty and turned it into a palace”. It was just too much for me and, naturally, I spent far more time than I had intended in this magnificent place.

I did have a look at the Special exhibit on “The Gold of the Golden Fleece”, an exhibit that displayed the gold jewelry and other artifacts that have been unearthed by the discovery of several graves on the shores of the Black Sea in modern-day Georgia, an area that Jason of the famous Greek epic, Jason and the Argonauts, is supposed to have reached in his quest for the Golden Fleece. Then, I was tired, very tired and hungry, and I found sustenance in the museum’s cafetaria over a lovely pot of golden Darjeeling that cheered me up no end and allowed me time for some people-watching and eavesdropping. A lady at the next table, apparently a Cambridge don, was complaining to her companion about a truant student who had stopped attending her seminar!

Exploring the Colleges:
The universities of Oxford and Cambridge are unique in that they are composed of a number of colleges, each of which boasts its own ‘campus’, most consisting of the following: a quadrangle or “Quad” around which the college is built–this, in turn, usually consists of a Chapel, a Dining ‘Hall’, the Master’s Lodge, narrow spiral stairways leading to the rooms occupied by the dons where tutorials are usually held (small very intimate intellectual exchanges between the professor and students) and students’ rooms. Beyond this main quad, lie a number of smaller quads or gardens, such as the Fellows Garden, the Junior and Senior Common Rooms with their gardens, etc. Depending on the time in history when these colleges were built (usually under royal patronage), their architecture differs. Each one is a gem and visiting them is always a delight for me. Not only do I feel steeped in intellectualism which always stirs me, but being built around the medieval principles of the monastic life (most of the earliest scholars were, in fact, monks who were preparing to serve the church through a curriculum that focused on Latin and Theology), they fill me with a sentiment of deep religiosity.

At about 1 pm, my exploration of the colleges began as I walked along Trumpington Road, my feet having rested adequately. This brought me first to the small and very charming Peterhouse College whose most famous alumnus is the poet Thomas Gray (Elegy in a Country Churchyard). A few weeks ago, one of my Anglo-Indian interviewees, Randall Evans, had informed me that the church and graveyard of St. Giles in Stoke Poges which inspired the poem was not too far from Slough where he lived. The best part of my exploration of Peterhouse was getting to see the 13th century restored Hall where, because it was term time, lunch was still being served to a lone student who sat in the semi-darkness and munched. This Hall and the one belonging to Clare College are the only two I was able to visit and since it is a long time since I did see the inside of a medieval college hall with its medieval portraits painted on wood and inserted into pockets on the walls, High Table with its chairs all askew, and the marvelous timbered ceiling, I was taken back in time to my own meals at Exeter College Hall in Oxford where I had lingered over lunch in similar fashion. I also went out into the gardens to explore the extensive grounds that border the Fitzwilliam.

Across the street, I entered the quad of Pembroke College with its lovely landscaped gardens, Big Ben-like Tower and the adorable Christopher Wren Chapel where a rehearsal was on for a recital to be performed later that day. Wren’s uncle, Matthew Wren, Bishop of Ely, had spent 18 years locked up in the Tower of London, courtesy of Oliver Cromwell, and had vowed that when released, he would build a chapel in his college. And build it his nephew did. Against the red-brick walls of a section of the college, the Baroque Chapel makes a fine architectural contrast.

Following my map, I then walked down Silver Lane, to arrive at the fabulous red brick gateway to Queens’ College, founded by two medieval queens and named after them: Margaret of Anjou (wife of Henry VI) and Elizabeth of Woodville (wife of Edward IV) in 1448 and 1465 respectively. Their heads, carved in stone and painted, are found on one of the gateways that link the many quads of this lovely college which is most notably associated with the Dutch scholar and reformer Erasmus, who lived in a tower here from 1510 to 1514. This college in whose unusual cloistered quad, I rested for a long time, is remarkable for the Tudor facade of the President’s (or Master’s) Lodge and the fact that you can walk across the River Cam on one of the oldest bridges built across it–Mathematical Bridge–that was originally constructed without any nuts or bolts. Naturally, I walked across it, and for a moment, thought I was back in Venice. I caught my first glimpse of the Cam then, of course, flowing serenely on this brilliant morning, with a few punts gliding by, their passengers, well wrapped in red blankets. On the opposing bank, autumn with its gilded foliage, allowed me to see a medieval corner of England bathed in its golden beauty as coppered leaves burnished the landscape.

Then, I was out on the King’s Parade following signs to the tourist office as I badly needed a better map. This took me past a fascinating clock embedded into the walls of Corpus Christi College which featured a colossal gold Pendulum, pushed along by a fierce-looking grasshopper. Entering that lane, I found myself in a warren of little streets and into Market Square where one of Cambridge’s famous Christmas Arts and Crafts markets was being held. I resisted the temptation to browse as I knew that the colleges were open for three hours only and I still wanted to see King’s and Trinity before the light faded following sunset.

King’s College, built by Henry VIII and full of memorials recalling his stormy reign, is famous for its Chapel, the one with the extraordinary facade, which when viewed across the River Cam, provides one of the most easily recognized scenes in the world. The college quad is larger than most, but it is towards the Chapel that most visitors are drawn. I decided to look at it from the outside only as I intended to attend Evensong at 5. 30 pm. when I would be able to see the famed interior. So I strolled towards The Backs–that manicured strip of grass so-called because the backs of the colleges can be viewed from this perspective, to the banks of the Cam where, while I would have loved to have been punted along, I would have chosen a warmer day for such a special excursion.

I hastened out of Kings’, past the impressive carved stone entrance to the Old Examination Hall and the back of Gonville and Caius (pronounced ‘keys’) College and eventually, I was at the entrance of Trinity College with the cheeky sculpture of Henry VIII adorning its main portal–cheeky because some former students took off the sword that he carried in his right hand and replaced it with the leg of a table which has, inexplicably, stayed there ever since! Once past the entrance, one can’t help but gasp because the Quad, a whole two acres of it, is so gigantic and so crammed with interest that you know not where to look. I hurried across it, to the next quad hoping to enter the Wren Library which contains the original manuscript of A.A. Milne’s Winnie The Pooh. Alas, the Wren Library is not open on weekends. I had to content myself with a picture of the front facade with its sculpture-crowned roof, and return to King’s Parade.

I had not yet seen the Bridge of Sighs and with the light fading quickly, I wanted to catch a glimpse of it before it was too late. I hurried off to St. John’s College and was enchanted by the mass of Tudor and Jacobean architecture that separates its various quads, each characterized by a towering red brick gatehouse. The clearly-marked ‘Tourist Route’ took me to the Chapel where another rehearsal was in progress, and then I was hurrying along to Kitchen Bridge which offers the best views of the Bridge of Sighs. I did shoot a few last pictures at the very same spot where I had posed 22 years ago and, of course, I was filled with nostalgia. By this point, my feet were sore again and I badly needed to rest and get out of the cold for a bit. A student directed me to a low modern building where I used a rest room and rested in a parlor and ate a few biscuits and then, to my delight, on leaving the College premises to make my way back to King’s College Chapel for Evensong, I actually walked over the Bridge of Sighs! It was so wonderful to be able to do that and to straddle the Cam over this lovely covered bridge that links two parts of the college together.

Evensong at King’s College Chapel:
Of course, though it wasn’t quite 5 pm yet, night had fallen and the festive lights were switched on all over Cambridge turning the town into a fairy land. Tracing my steps back to King’s College, I joined the line of visitors who were there early for the best seats. As always happens when I am in a queue, I got into conversation with the two ladies in front of me, visiting from Surrey and Australia respectively. They said they recognized me by the pompom on my hat from having taken my picture earlier near the Chapel!

Within ten minutes, on a night when the temperature went down to 2 degrees Celsius, we were inside the Chapel and, once again, I was struck speechless. There it was–the famous fan vaulting that Wren so admired. He is reputed to have said of King’s College Chapel that he could have built it if someone had told him where to place the first stone! The high ceiling towers above the narrow nave. To approach the main altar, you pass through the wooden carved choir screen that was donated by Henry VIII to the chapel. This church was built by his grandfather Henry VI but was embellished by his father Henry VII and himself when he was still the Pope’s Defender of the Faith and it remained a Catholic church until the Dissolution and its conversion to an Anglican chapel.

The chapel was lit only by candle light and its soft flickering glow gilded the stone walls. Inside, I was amazed to notice that each carved altar seat bore the signature of Henry VIII–HR–for Henry Rex, or in Latin, Henry the King. The altarpiece is famed for the painting The Adoration of the Magi by Peter Paul Reubens and I resolved to examine it closer at the end of the service.

I found a seat on a back bench, then had to pinch myself to believe that I was actually here in King’s College, Cambridge, listening to its internationally-renowned choir sing a service in the great chapel itself. When he built the chapel, Henry VI stipulated that a choir consisting of 6 lay clerks and 16 boy choristers–educated at the college school–should sing daily at service. This custom continues at term time. Hence, I was lucky enough to catch one such service. Seating was done in an extremely orderly fashion and it was very easy to follow the service with the books placed at each pew. Then, the clergy and the choir streamed in and took their places and worship began through word and music and in that candle-bathed ambiance, there is only one word by which to describe it–magical! This is the same choir that sells tickets to its shows all over the world, that presents TV performances that everyone in England has seen, and here I was listening to them in an atmosphere that was transforming and intensely prayerful.

One of the things that struck, about the service were the two Readings from Scripture. I have never in my life heard anything read like this. The Lectors weren’t reading, they were dramatizing. I thought they were on stage and I in an audience listening to an Elocution performance. Word by word, they presented the Scripture with such high drama and much modulation of voice and tone. As a Lector in my own parish church in the States, I have to say that this was over-the-top and certainly not something to which I am accustomed. But then perhaps the high dramatic space within which the Word was being read accounted for this elaborate manner of presentation.

At any rate, I was absolutely thrilled that I was able to crown what had been an extraordinary day with this extraordinary service and when it was over, and I filed out of the church (having taken a closer look at the altarpiece), I wished I could linger longer amidst the enchanted Christmassy world of Cambridge. There was one more thing I’d have liked to see: Magdalen (pronounced ‘maudlin’) College whose library contains the collection of 18th century diaries penned by Samuel Pepys, of whom I happen to be a latter-day disciple; but lack of time didn’t allow for that. Besides, there is always one thing they say you should leave unfinished, to ensure that you will return.

So instead I paid a visit to the loo at the deluxe University Arms Hotel before crossing the Green and boarding the coach at 7 pm. that took me back to London. I hopped off at Stratford from where I decided to take Bus 25 home to Holborn, but had to wait for almost half an hour before a bus condescended to show up and then it took me 40 minutes on the bus. I had no idea how far away Stratford was from Central London, but this bus pass is allowing me to see and learn about parts of London into which I would never have ventured.

Despite a supremely busy day, surprisingly, I did not feel physically tired though my feet were very sore indeed. A good soak and a massage and a few exercises and a bit of Moov applied to them and, on a wing and a prayer, I got into bed, looking for an early night but chatting with Llew for a bit before I finally hit the sack.

The Other Place was a revelation and I realize that as I see places with the more mature eyes of my advanced years, I am appreciating and enjoying them far more than I ever did during my gawky youthful ones.

Face to Face with an Auto-Icon

Nov21

Friday, November 21, 2008
London

NYU-London has the rather unusual custom of ‘making up’ days lost to holidays. Because we recently had a week’s long Fall Break which caused my students to miss one class, we had a ‘make-up’ class today. This meant that I taught for 2 straight days in a row, something of a change for me–though I better get used to this as I have a Monday and Tuesday schedule for next semester.

So, it was something of a ho-hum kind of day–nothing very exciting happened. I taught my classes and but for the fact that I used my lunch break to go out in search of a true oddity at University College, London, there’s not much to report.

But the oddity was horribly odd indeed. I went to see the “auto-icon” of Jeremy Bentham whose name you might recognize as the 19th century philosopher/economist who came up with the theory that the greatest happiness of the greatest number would make for the greatest harmony in society. He was one of the founders of University College, London, and since he wanted to remain a part of the institution long after he passed away, he decreed in his will that his body (read skeleton) should be placed in a prominent part of the university where all could see it and that he should be dressed in one of the suits he usually wore. The Dean of our program, the newly re-christened Liberal Studies Program at New York University, Fred Schwarzbach, who earned his Ph.D. from the University of London, told me about Bentham’s bizarre will way back in September and I had been promising myself that I would take a stroll there to see it for myself.

I had to ask around to find my way to the right spot. I stopped one of the UCL undergrads walking by me andd said, “Excuse me…can you tell me where the auto-icon of Jeremy Bentham is?” She responded in all seriousness, “Well, I don’t know where that is…I know where HE is”. Oh well!

I expected to see a body lying in a coffin or, at any rate, in a horizontal position. Imagine my shock when I found Bentham’s skeleton, all fleshed out, of course, clothed in one of the stipulated suits, sitting in the foyer of the college’s grand Neo-Classical building complete with dome and quadrangle, in what looks like a telephone booth with a small tea table by his side. Apparently, the head which for some reason, was detachable, used to be used by students as a football and the governors of the college finally thought it fit to place it in a safe in the college. The head that now sits on Bentham’s body in the booth is a wax replica–the kind of thing that you see at Madame Tussaud’s. At any rate, I only stayed there for a couple of minutes, read the extract from Bentham’s will and the explanatory note put up by UCL and fled because it gave me the creeps. Between the day I spent in Barnes and this afternoon, I seem to have had too many close encounters with ghosts, dead bodies, coffins and graveyards.

After teaching my two classes today, I took the bus and went to the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square where I spent an hour and a half completing my perusal of the portraits on the second floor. In a museum in which art works are arranged chronologically, I have now gone as far as the 19th century and shall start with the contemporary sections on my visits in the next couple of weeks. It is hugely enlightening to read the curator’s notes that provide wonderful information on the sitters and the painters. My Writing students are working on an assignment that requires them to research and respond to three portraits in the museum and my visits have allowed me to study the ones on which they have chosen to focus.

I also realized, after having looked at them more closely that the Annie Liebovitz portraits of the Queen are not in black and white (as first appeared to me) but in faint color–they look as if they are in black and white because her expressions are so forbidding, so lacking in any color (pun intended!). There is a special retrospective on Liebovitz’s portraits at the Museum at the moment and I intend to spend an evening studying them carefully.

It is expected to turn bitterly cold overnight–of course, that would have to happen on the eve of the day I have chosen to visit Cambridge. Still, I refuse to allow this to chill my enthusiasm. I shall bundle up and be gone at the crack of dawn in time to catch my 8.30 am coach at Victoria. I intend to use the journey to read up on Cambridge from the pages that I have photocopied from many guide books and if the weather promises to be as biting as the forecasters have predicted,I shall probably spend a great deal of time in the Fitzwilliam Museum rather than on the banks of the River Cam! This will not be half bad as the last time I was in Cambridge, 22 years ago, I did not have the opportunity to visit the Fitzwilliam because I had dallied too long in the Backs! Well, even if I had to wait for 22 years, I am sure the contents of the museum will make it seem worth the long wait.

My Ideal London Day

Nov18

Tuesday, November 18, 2008
London

Now that my feet are capable of carrying me once again wherever my heart desires, my thoughts turn to my idea of an ideal London Day.

I’d saunter down High Holborn, turn left at Kingsway, dodging the frenzied commuters at the Tube station . I’d make my way to Covent Garden and spend a goodly hour browsing in the antiques shops of the Jubilee Market. Pausing to examine a Bakelite bracelet in ivory from the 1930s, I’d strain my ears to listen, then decipher the Cockney twang on the tongues of the dealers hustling in old watches, chipped china mugs, rusted medals and vintage necklaces. Then, because I know better than to part easily with hard-earned pounds, I’d beat a hasty retreat and walk along the cobbled by lanes in which Victorian horses once pranced towards the imposing columns of the Neo-Classical National Gallery.

I’d spend the better part of the next two hours studying Old Masters’ works in their carved and gilded frames forcing myself to decide whether I prefer the Medieval landscapes to the waterscapes of Monet. I’d take a break on the benches by the stone lions of Trafalgar Square to eat my homemade sandwiches stuffed with such proper British ingredients as Stilton Cheese and watercress or better yet Scottish Smoked Salmon.

Then, I’d pull out my book 24 Great Walks in London and pick out a particularly hidden corner of the city in which to lose myself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, smoky pubs, Anglican churches and square gardens whose flower-beds incredibly bloom with giant David Austin roses though seemingly neglected by all. I’d take pictures spontaneously of flowers spilling out of wrought-iron window boxes and fat pigeons foraging for crumbs in deserted alleys. Reading every blue plaque I pass by, I’d thrill in the knowledge that Dickens once strolled these streets or that Virginia Woolf dallied with her literary pals in a fragrant tea room.

At sundown, I’d get to the West End to pick out a drama by an easily recognizable name–perhaps Shaw or Shakespeare or David Mamet. When the curtain rises, I’d gasp because I can recognize each of the actors from the PBS TV series I watch in the States and I’d play a little game with myself to see how quickly I can recall which shows they were in and which roles they played.

Then, I would emerge on a darkened London evening under starry skies and disappear again into a historic old pub to down a swift half of their best draft beer while watching drunken lawyers in loosened ties play at darts against the backdrop of varnished mahogany bars.

Too exhausted to do much else, I’d lollop around my living room while catching the BBC’s last newscast for the night.

Come to think of it, before my feet protested, this was often my kind of London day.