The Ordeal of Contemporary Flying

Dec10

Saturday, December 6, 2008
London

My cell phone alarm actually worked! I had only recently learned how to set it and I was thrilled when it woke me up on cue (I know this is not rocket science, but I am digitally challenged!). At 4. 30 am, I jumped out of bed, thrilled to be launching out on another new adventure. I had kept everything ready the previous evening. All I needed to do was add my sandwiches from the fridge into my backpack, wash, dress, slip a Thank You note for Tim and Barbara under their door and leave.

Just by chance, I glanced at my Easybus ticket that would take me to Stanstead airport from Victoria, when I discovered, to my horror, that my bus wasn’t leaving at 6 am as I had thought but at 5. 30! Panic set in big time, but I took a deep breathy, calmed myself down and figured I still had ample time to get there if I left right away. So, I flew into the kitchen, retrieved my sandwiches, dressed in no time flat, slipped the Thank You card under my neighbor’s door and was off.

The N8 (Night time) bus arrived almost as soon as I reached the bus stop. It was full of sleepy Friday might revelers or those just getting on for another day of work. With streets that were practically empty, we flew down them and I was at Victoria in less than 20 minutes. Another brisk walk took me to the Coach Station, five minutes later. I had worried that I would miss my bus only to discover that it hadn’t arrived yet! My relief was palpable. A few minutes later, the coach arrived and I settled down into my seat and calmed myself down.

We arrived in Stanstead by 6. 45 am and since my flight wasn’t leaving until 8. 15 am, you might think I had ample time to kill before I boarded, right? Wrong!

Ryanair personnel swooped down on me as soon as I entered and asked to see my ticket. You need to proceed to one of the self-service machines, they said. When I got there, the machine told me that I owed the airline 8 pounds for airport check-in. But I’m not even using a traffic assistant at a counter, I thought. Why am I paying 8 pounds? To use a self-service machine? Well, I had little choice in the matter. If I did not pay the airport check-in fee, I would not get a boarding card and without it, of course, I could not board the flight.

Now the reason I had to pay this 8 pounds at the airport was because I had opted for airport (instead of online) check-in when purchasing my ticket online. Only EU members are allowed to check in online. The rest of us need to use airport check-in facilities and, therefore, are charged this amount. It appears that we are entitled to a refund, but to obtain this, we need to write to Ryanair in Dublin providing them with our flight details. So the airline’s policy is ‘pay up first and request a refund later’. How idiotic is this? Isn’t this discriminatory? And how productive is it to have personnel at the Dublin office process these refund requests? Perhaps Ryanair hopes to collect and not have to refund because, let’s face it, how many passengers would go through the hassle of writing to the airline once their journey is done? Well, let me tell you, it made me more than determined to get every last pence of my 8 pounds back. I carefully preserved by receipt and the company will be hearing from me, you can be sure!!!

The lady then directed me to a Ticket Sales counter that had a queue of about 30 passengers waiting patiently in line. I joined in and made the awful discovery that there were only two elderly counter assistants, each of whom were taking about 15-20 minutes to process each passenger! At this rate, I thought, I am certain to miss my flight. When, eventually, I did get to the counter, a good 40 minutes later, the payment of my 4 pounds took just five minutes. I realized that the passengers before me had taken ages because they were actually purchasing tickets at the airport, a process that would take 15-20 minutes, I suppose.

So with my receipt in hand, I proceeded back to the check-in machines and got a boarding pass that informed me that boarding began at 7. 25 and closed at 7. 35! I had just ten minutes to board my aircraft! Yikkkez!

With no time to spare, I raced to the Security Lines and discovered that my recyclable, reusable water bottle (to which I happen to be deeply attached) was half full. I drank up all the water while waiting in line and placed the empty bottle back into my backpack. Still, my backpack beeped as it went through the X-ray machine. Oh darn, I thought, it’s my cosmetics in my little ‘train case’. Now having gone to Greece only two weeks ago and having carried the same cosmetics and not having had them beep when my bag passed through Security, I had not bothered to place my cosmetics in one of those plastic bags. This kept me open to the scrutiny of the most ferocious banshee I have ever seen.

She pulled me aside and started to go through every single item in my backpack. OK, I thought, there goes my flight. I will have to kiss goodbye right now to the thought of getting to Ireland! While these thoughts were going through my mind, she came upon my empty water bottle.

“You’re not allowed to carry water on the flight”, she informed me, brusquely.

“I’m not”, I retorted.”My bottle is empty”.

She shook it violently and discovered a few drops in it. “There’s still something in here”, she said. “I’m going to have to take this away from you”.

“Can I drink up the last two drops left in there?” I asked.

“NO, you cannot”, she said, and firmly took the bottle away from me. Well, if I wasn’t kissing my flight goodbye, I had just kissed my bottle away.

And then the ordeal began as she opened every item in my bag and shook it out and tested it with an instrument. She held my brolly away from her as if it were a bomb; she opened my camera case and tested the camera with a wand she held in her hand; she threw all of my cosmetics and toiletries into a small bag (including the ointment gell I was carrying as medication in case my feet caved in on me again). After she had left my bag in total disarray, she took my cosmetics and camera away and told me they had to be tested inside! What? Hadn’t she done enough testing in my presence with her magic wand?

Besides, I was now left to pack my things and I threw them into my bag any which how. All the appeals I had made to her to hurry as I would miss my flight had fallen on deaf ears as she took her own sweet time going through everything with a fine comb. I was sweating bullets as I stood there and thought to myself, never again, am I going to give myself less than three hours once I arrive at the airport to the time I actually board a flight.

In a few minutes she was back, brusque and curt as ever. The days of courteous personnel are long gone, I thought, as I snatched my things, gave her the dirtiest looks of which my face was capable and raced off to my gate, not in the least expecting to be able to board the flight.

When I arrived there, I found that boarding was indeed in progress and that I would actually make it inside! So imagine my delight when I discovered that the bulkhead seat was still available though I was one of the last to board! I got the window and the ample leg room I wished for and though the flight was only an hour long, I relished the thought of these little comforts after the extraordinary ordeal that I had just survived.

Truly, I can remember a time, not too long ago, when flying for me was actually a pleasure to which I eagerly looked forward for days on end before being airborne. Today, I dread the thought of getting to an airport. The horrible procedures one has to go through before being permitted to board a flight has almost taken the excitement out of travel for me.

Next time I get to the Continent, I’m taking the Eurostar train across the Chunnel!!

Grading Final Exams and Preparing for Ireland

Dec5

Friday, December 5, 2008
London

It was a relatively uneventful day. But for the fact that I waited all day for the TV repairman to show up, I was very relaxed. I meant to go and see the Cabinet War Rooms this morning but decided that I have too much grading to do. I have taken on additional grading work for students writing a paper on ‘Issues in Contemporary British Politics and Culture’ and since I attended so many of the Monday evening talks on these subjects at the Brunei Gallery at SOAS, I was keen to see how much our students took out of them.

As it turned out, the papers were very readable and brought up some relevant facts gleaned from the talks, newspaper articles and their own observations of London life. I enjoyed their perspectives and was amazed at how observant they are about their environment and how varied are their views, depending, of course, on whether they are themselves conservative or liberal in the own outlook.

I spent a while cleaning too–my bathroom and my kitchen. I also fixed myself some sandwiches for my breakfast tomorrow (I will be on a Ryanair flight on which no food is offered and I know I will be starving by 7 am.).I also spent a long while downloading pictures from my camera, editing and captioning them, making a backup CD and charging my camera for my trip to Ireland. All of that took an enormous amount of time, but I am delighted to see that my pictures have come very good indeed and capture rather well my last month in this country. I also started to pack for my trip to Ireland.

After lunch, I set a Final Exam paper for my Anglo-Indian course and having finished grading the British Issues papers, I set out for campus in order to hand them in as I will only be back on Wednesday, December 10 and these papers are due in on December 9. Since I was making the trip to campus, I decided to get my final exam papers printed out and photocopied as well as print out two of my Anglo-Indian interviews. Talk about multi-tasking! I made a To-Do List this morning as I wanted to stay organized and on track and make sure I did not leave anything unfinished.

So, despite my staying home all day, the TV man did not show up and when I called Virgin Media at almost 4 pm, they assured me that he had rung my bell at 12. 10 pm. I said that was impossible as I hadn’t stirred out of the house all day. Finally, after I insisted I speak to a supervisor, a lady called Carol came on the line, apologized and offered to send someone in tomorrow. When I told that I would be away for a few days, she apologized again, then set an appointment for me again with an engineer next Friday.

Then, just as I was leaving my building to get to campus, I ran into my concierge Arben. I asked him if a TV technician had come to my flat around noon. He said that he had seen no sign of anyone, but he volunteered to take a look at my TV himself. Ten minutes later, my TV was fixed and I had full reception again. It turned out that my cable box had frozen. When Arben disconnected a few wires at the back, it rebooted itself and, presto, everything was back to normal!

At campus, all went well. Having returned my papers, I did the printing and photocopying I wanted, then made my way to Lambs Conduit Street where Karen told me that a Christmas Fair was being held. The weather had turned surprisingly mild; but then just as I got to the venue, the drizzle began and it turned chilly again. So, I was delighted to find a stall selling fruity mulled wine for just 1. 50 pounds a glass. I bought some of it, sipped it gingerly (as it was rather hot) and found it to be absolutely delicious. It was richly spiced with loads of cinnamon and cloves and flavored marvelously with citrus. It was just what the doctor ordered on this weepy evening and I clasped the glass tightly allowing the heat to warm my fingers.

Back on the bus, I headed to the Tesco Express at Holborn Viaduct to pick up some goodies for my Christmas party for my students next Thursday. Since they have never eaten a Christmas Rich Fruit Cake and we had read an essay about it in class by Dolores Chew (from The Way We Were: Anglo-Indian Chronicles edited by Margaret and Glen Deefholts), I decided to buy one. I also bought a pack of Christmas crackers as I thought I should introduce my American students to a British tradition. With bottles of fizzy wine (mock champagne) and a box of Indian appetisers (samosas, bhaji and aloo tikki), I think I am set for my contribution to the party. I am sure we will have plenty of food and wine and a truly fun evening and as I am all ready for it now, I don’t have to stress about getting organized for it after I get back from Ireland.

I will be in Belfast for a few days where the weather is dreadfully cold and snow is threatening to make my trip a rather challenging one. But I am not allowing it to dampen my enthusiasm. I am expecting the worse but hoping for the best…and that is the only way to be!

My next contribution to this blog will be on Thursday, December 11, 2008.

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!

Thrice in Three Months! More Glimpses of the Queen!

Dec3

Wednesday, December 3, 2008
London & Harrow

There are a few lines of an English nursery rhyme that I learned as a kid and have never forgotten. They go:

Pussycat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to see the Queen…”

And that’s what I did. I became that feline this morning–I went to London to see the Queen. You see, BBC’s Breakfast Show informed me at 8 am that today was a critical day in the Royal Calendar—The State Opening of Parliament. In an interesting feature that explained the coalescence of historical events, tradition, pomp and circumstance, the reporter took us from Buckingham Palace at the point where the Queen leaves her residence and along the track known as the Royal Route to Parliament Square and the entrance to the House of Lords. The country pulls out all the stops in order to make this occasion special. Parliament is officially declared Open for the year and the Queen makes an annual speech, addressing the Members of Parliament and commenting on the affairs of state—a British version, if you like, of the American State of the Union Address.

I watched fascinated, the Anglophile in me surfacing immediately and I figured, since I am free today and Parliament Square is not twenty minutes away and I will probably never have an opportunity like this to rub shoulders with royalty, why not go and take a peek at the pageantry for which British tradition is so reputed? Every American loves a parade and I am no exception—so off I went to witness one of Great Britain’s most important annual parades!

So I showered, stepped briefly into my Holborn Public Library to pick up some Travel books on Ireland for my forthcoming weekend trip to Belfast, got on the Tube and sped off. I arrived at Westminster Embankment to find the entire area cordoned off with metal barriers, dozens of policemen and women in their spiffy uniforms (love those bobby helmets and those smart black and white checked pillbox hats!) and security personnel in those fluorescent green vests that have become a permanent feature of all public celebrations. I inquired of a policewoman as to the best vantage point for viewing the parade. She told me (duh!) to stand where the crowd was thickest!!! I decided to do no such thing. For one thing, I do not have height working to my advantage. For another, I had my trusty camera and intended to take pictures of items more interesting that a bunch of heads in front of me! Thirdly, while I did want to be a part of it, I didn’t intend to be right in the thick of it!

So, I found myself a spot right on the fringes of the crowd and there I stood awaiting the arrival of the Monarch and her entourage. It was 11. 10 am and the royal procession was expected to arrive at 11. 20 as the Queen’s speech to the House of Lords was scheduled for 11. 25. It wasn’t long before the pageantry began. Two tall riders wearing shiny gold helmets and breastplates and carrying sabers rode on black horses from Whitehall towards Parliament Square. A large cohort of about fifty riders, similarly uniformed, on black horses, followed them. Two more cohorts of fifty horses each followed. I had never seen so many black horses in my life and it was a rather strange sight–so many horses on tarred city streets. The carriages then followed—the first one, a closed carriage—black all over and lavishly decorated with gold. It was pulled by six white horses and in it, as clear as crystal, I saw the Queen wearing an off-white hat and an off-white coat, her well-coiffeured curls matching her outfit. Then, within five seconds, the carriage and the Queen disappeared from my view. I had, of course, readied my camera and my telephoto lens to get what I thought was the best shot with the towers of Westminster Abbey in the background. (Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the bells of Westminster seemed to have gone crazy. All morning, they rang out merrily and provided magnificent sound effects to accompany the glorious visuals.) Several other carriages followed, each one more striking than the next—some open, some closed. They carried people whom it was too difficult to recognize. Some were attired in what looked like military uniforms, others wore elaborate hats. More cohorts of horses followed, more orders were shouted, more pomp and ceremony followed though the crowd remained quiet and courteous. The Save Iraq, Save Iraqis Brigade of protestors were in their usual spot right opposite the Tower of Big Ben, but even they remained quiet as the Queen’s carriages passed by. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared out of sight. From the chinks in the railing that separate the street from the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament below, I could see the frenzied, if very organized movements of men and animals.

Most of the crowd had started to leave, by that point, but a thought suddenly struck me. If the procession had passed along the route at the beginning of the pageantry that marks the State Opening of Parliament, then surely it would have to go along the same route to return to Buckingham Palace, wouldn’t it? So there would yet another opportunity to see royalty pass before me.

I asked a policeman standing nearby what time the procession would return to the Palace. “By mid-day”, he said, glancing up at Big Ben. I wondered, for a few minutes, whether I wanted to stand for a half hour (could my feet take it?) braving the cold on what was another frigid day. Then, I decided, what the heck? I’m right here now and with the crowd diminishing, I found a spot far ahead of where I was, not fifty feet from the intersection where Whitehall meets Parliament Square. I decided to stand there and edit the pictures in my camera as I had only a few shots left.

During the waiting period, I began a conversation with a couple that had missed the first parade and hoped to catch a glimpse of the Queen on her way out. They turned out to be from Belfast on vacation in London for a few days. Of course, I then told them that I would be in Belfast this coming weekend and obtained wonderful insider tips from them on where to go and what to do (the Christmas fair in the City Hall is a must, they said, as is the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum). The Giant’s Causeway and the Coastal Route, they said, was also something I should not miss—but I had intended to make a trip there anyway.

And then it was close to noon and the first couple of horses passed us by, indicating that it would not be long before the procession of carriages would begin on its return journey. This time, I was so close to the front that I had a clear view and, of course, my excitement mounted. Who would have thought that in three months, I would see the Queen three times? Llew and I had been not more than three feet away from the entire Royal Family when we were at Balmoral in Scotland in the month of August. At that time, we had both thought it was a unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And now here I was, three months later, looking upon the royal visage of the Queen twice on the same day! It was truly unbelievable!

And while all these thoughts went through my mind, her carriage passed by again—a closed carriage, thankfully, for the cold would have frozen the most stoic of monarchs. Since the policeman had informed the crowd that she is always in the first carriage, they knew what to expect. There was their Queen, the longest reigning monarch in British history, sailing majestically by, seated besides her husband Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, to the accompaniment of carillon bells from Westminster, and a battalion of horses and riders, footmen and attendants. Before me appeared a scene, like an illustration in a fairy story, whose characters had names like Snow White and Cinderella. As each carriage passed by, the shutter clicked on my camera. Then followed the large troupes of bear-skin hatted guards, looking very different from the pictures one sees of them in tourist brochures—for they were all clad in gray overcoats to combat the cold and seemed to have arrived in London via the Kremlin! It was the stuff that television drama is made of and I was as excited as a kid in a candy shop as I took it all in. I could not resist calling Llew, despite the fact that it was only 8 am in New York, to tell him that I had been to Parliament to see the Queen. Of course, he exclaimed and I giggled and gushed, and then it was all over and I had another adventure to write home about.

The nursery rhyme continues:
“Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair”.

I did not, of course, frighten any mice under her chair, but I could visualize it clearly—the chair, I mean, which is, in fact, an opulent gilded throne, for Llew and I had visited the House of Lords only a couple of weeks ago and in the sanctum sanctorum of the British government, we had sat in the “Stranger’s Gallery” on the third floor and watched at local MPs debated the hottest issues of the day. Having been there, having done that, and now having seen the Queen three times in my life, I felt like a veteran Londoner to the core.

Then, I was on the Tube hastening off to Harrow to spend the afternoon with my classmate and dear friend Bina Samel Ullal. I had not visited her since I arrived in London in September and I was keen to see her kids Alisha and Dhiren and her husband Navin. I had told her that I would arrive there around 1. 30 pm and from the Circle line at Westminster, I changed to the Bakerloo line at Paddington, then took the 186 bus to her place from Harrow and Wealdstone Tube station (she had told me that her stop is called the Belmont Health Center and I am now so familiar with the use of buses that I can hop on and off them without batting an eyelid).

Within an hour, I was seated on the sofa in her living room watching events unfold in Bombay in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks as Bina gets NDTV coverage directly from India. Naturally, we spent a long time discussing the awful destruction of our beloved city and its people before we broke for lunch. Bina had cooked an Indian meal that morning—Chicken Curry with Peppers and Potatoes with Aubergine. With a delicious salad and naans, we had ourselves a delicious lunch with a mince pie to follow for dessert.

So there it was, another first for me–my first mince pie of the festive season. This is a British holiday delicacy of which Americans are unaware—tiny pies, each baked individually in a muffin pan. The pastry is almost like a cookie—it is sweet and crumbly and delicious and the inside is filled with a mixture of dried fruit soaked in rum and flavored with orange rind. Served with single cream, it was simply scrumptious and I enjoyed every crumb.

By 3. 30pm., we got into Bina’s car so that she could pick up her son, Dhiren, from school. I had the chance then to meet Sheila, one of Bina’s friends, who had visited me together with Bina, in Southport, Connecticut, a few years ago. We chatted for a while before Dhiren joined us and then drove back to her place at Beverley Gardens. Navin had left work early to keep a dentist’s appointment and I had a chance to greet him briefly before he left. A few minutes later, Alisha, her daughter, returned from junior college and we spent the next half hour in amiable conversation. It was a lovely evening and I was delighted to have seen the kids—all grown up now and fun to be with. Of course, I told them all about my encounter with royalty that morning and I know I will get a great deal of mileage out of this adventure as the week goes by.

Then, I was on the Tube, headed home to Holborn. I spent the evening catching up on email as my server is playing up and I was unable to access the Web this morning. I spent a while on my blog before I called it a night, ready to awake tomorrow to teach my last two classes of the semester. Where, oh where, has the time gone?

Return to Oxford!

Dec2

Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Oxford

On another day on which I felt as if I was in the North Pole rather than in London, I headed at 7.15 am to catch the 8 am Megabus to Oxford. I was excited. I hadn’t returned to Oxford since I arrived here in September as I was waiting for some official meetings to fall into place before I made the trip. As it turned out, I discovered, on visiting the Oxford Tourism website, that the famed Ashmolean Museum was due to close for a year on December 23. This meant that if I didn’t grab a look-see while I could, I would not have the chance to review its collection at all. There was no time to be lost. I hastened to make the arrangements that would ensure that the people I wanted to meet were free to see me and then before you could say ‘Elias Ashmole’, I was booking a ticket to get going.

I was a little apprehensive about finding the Megabus terminus; but then when I stopped to ask the Oxford Tube driver where it was, he informed me that Megabus and Oxford Tube were partners in the Stagecoach company and I could hop into his bus with a Megabus ticket. Well, that took the stress off my mind and into the bus I went, climbing to the upper deck and making myself comfortable on the front seat while it wasn’t quite dawn yet outside that huge picture window.

I had the upper deck almost to myself for the length of the two hours it took us to get to Oxford. I cannot recall having made a visit in the autumn before and the farms and fields we passed en route looked almost forlorn in the watery sunshine. Because–thank God for little mercies–the sun was actually trying valiantly to poke through the clouds and often did succeed, the landscape was prevented from appearing completely desolate.

That same forlornness dogged me throughout the day for Oxford’s trees without their foliage are a rather sad sight indeed. The bus dropped me off at the High and without wasting any time at all, I walked through Radcliff Square to the Tourist Information Bureau on Broad Street to find out if there were any special activities in the town that day that I ought not to miss.

Then, I hastened to the Ashmolean Museum having just two and a half hours in which to take in the Highlights of its collection. Though it is an imposing Neo-Classical building, the Ashmolean has none of the grandeur of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge and when I walked past the doors, that lack of splendor became even more evident. For the lobby of the Fitzwilliam is jaw-droppingly opulent while the Ashmolean is far more subdued. The lower floor still holds the Greek and Roman works, but you need to climb a curving staircase to get to the first and second floors for the bulk of the collection.

It was with feelings of disappointment that I discovered that construction work had already begun, which placed the items in disarray. But rather quickly, that disappointment turned to relief for I made the discovery that the ‘Treasures of the Ashmolean’ had all been grouped together and were on display in just four rooms. This meant that instead of having to search through the vast expanses of the building for the highlights, all I needed to do was focus on those few rooms and I could see them all.

Of course, I started with the Alfred Jewel which inspired an entire episode in the Inspector Morse series entitled ‘The Wolverhampton Tongue’. This item, said to be at least a thousand years old, is smaller than my little finger. It is the ornament that would have adorned a small instrument used to point to letters on a manuscript when one was reading from it. It is truly exquisite in its detail, featuring the head of a man holding a few flowers in his hand. I was then taken by a mantle that once belonged to Powhatan, father of Pocahontas. How that item arrived from the New World to the Ashmolean is anyone’s guess…but there it was, made of deerskin and adorned all over with tiny white cowrie shells. In terms of paintings, there was Pietro di Cosimo’s The Forest Fire which Marina Vaizey enumerates among her 100 Masterpieces of Art and it is remarkable because in its depiction of animals, it is the first significant painting in the history of Western Art that does not make man the central figure of a canvas but places him in a rather minor role. Another very important work was Paolo Uccelo’s The Hunt, a rather detailed and very lovely painting on wood that was meant to adorn the side of a marriage or dowry chest. The portraits of Elias Ashmole (who donated his collection to the University to start the Museum in the 18th century) is placed in an elaborate frame that was carved by the great Grinling Gibbons himself whose work I have admired ever since I saw his mantle carvings at Hampton Court Palace a few years ago. There were several other exquisite pieces featuring textiles, glass, jewelry, sculpture, furniture, etc. and because they were all grouped together, it was so easy to view the collection. I felt extremely fortunate to have been able to see these works especially since I cannot recall having seen any of them even though my journal entries of 22 years ago tell me that I did spend one morning at the Ashmolean.

At 12.30 pm, having satisfied myself that I had seen everything of importance, I walked along Woodstock Road towards St. Antony’s College where I had a 1.oo pm appointment with Julie Irving who administers the Senior Associate Member Program at the college. I hadn’t met her before though we had been in email contact for a long while. She volunteered to introduce me to Dr. Nandini Gooptu, a historian at the college with whom I had recently made contact. We met at the Buttery and I spent an hour with Nandini over a beef casserole and pecan pie lunch talking about her work and my intended research project on Anglo-Indians on which I intend to work when I take on the position of Senior Associate Member at St. Antony’s next summer.

An hour later, I was taking a tour of the college in the company of Julie who introduced me to a number of the senior staff such as the Warden, Margaret McMillan and her assistant Penny. I also saw the Library, the dining hall, the computer facilities, the Porter’s Lodge where SAMs have their pigeon-holes for mail, and a lot of other places of interest. Though I will be working at St. Antony’s as an independent scholar next summer, I will be in contact with a lot of administrative staff and it was nice to get to know them.

When my work at St. Antony’s was done, I decided to seek out Norham Road where I would very likely be staying for a few weeks in a bed and breakfast while I am attached to St. Antony’s. The owner of the B&B, a lady by the name of Elizabeth Longrigg, had been in correspondence with me and I thought it made sense to check out her house while I had the opportunity. Norham Road looked particularly deserted on this freezing December afternoon and with rain having fallen while I was in the Ashmolean, the streets were slick and shiny.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth Longrigg who happens to be a retired Oxford academic, an expert in Anglo-Saxon, Old and Middle English, was giving me a tour of her home and showing me the two rooms I could have if I decided to stay at her place. It had the old world feel of a Victorian home, was filled with all sorts of family memorabilia, furniture that looked as if it had been in the house forever, a very large and spacious dining room where a Continental breakfast was served every morning and two small rooms–a tiny sun room with a delightful view overlooking the main street and a larger room on the second floor. Both rooms had lovely roll top desks and good reading lamps because, as Elizabeth informed me, she only takes on academics as lodgers–academics whose research interests bring them to Oxford on short or long stays. After I had taken a peak at the garden which looked extremely bleak on this sunless afternoon–for the sun had hidden itself away by then–I walked towards Wellington Square with the idea of looking up Lisa Denny, an old acquaintance I had known when I had attended an international graduate program at Oxford 22 years ago.

Liza Denny is still attached to the Department of External Studies which now calls itself the Department of Continuing Education. I had found her name and telephone extension through the Oxford University Directory and though she did not remember me, she was warm and welcoming and introduced me to her colleague in the department. She also gave me information about next summer’s program at Exeter College and suggested I get in touch with the current director. When I told her that I would be resident at St. Antony’s, Oxford, next summer, she invited me to get involved in the program as a participant perhaps by giving a lecture. I was quite delighted and told her that I would follow up with her suggestion.

By the time I got out of Rewley House, semi-darkness had wrapped itself around the city. Since the colleges are open to visitors between 2 and 5 pm, I decided, for old times sake, to go to Exeter to tour the college. I don’t know whether it was nostalgia, the dreadful weather or the fact that I do not feel like a student any longer…but suddenly, I was gripped by the most fervent longing for my Oxford friends Firdaus, Annalisa and Josephine and, as I strolled through the Fellow’s Garden, for Brigita Hower with whom I have completely lost touch.

As I walked through the Margary Quadrangle and saw the room I once occupied bathed in light , I felt such an aching for those unforgettably beautiful Oxford days of my youth. It certainly did not made me feel any better, when I passed through a room on the ground floor, and actually saw Jeri Johnson who used to be a Tutor to both Annalisa and Firdaus. She was seated in the midst of a meeting with another lady and a gentleman whom I did not recognize.They were all clothed in the academic garb of Oxford dons and were deep in conversation. There she was, looking for all the world as if I had just turned the clock back 22 years. But for the fact that her hair has silvered entirely all over her head, she does not look a jot different from the way she did more than two decades ago.

It was very difficult for me to meet up with these ghosts from the past–first Lisa Denny, then Jeri Johnson. Because she was in a meeting, I could not, of course, make contact with Jeri, but I did step instead into the chapel where an organ rehearsal was on and as I allowed the deep sonorous tones to wash over me, I recalled those days when I had sat there enthralled by a concert that had been put on by so many talented young American musicians so many years ago. Where were they all, I wondered? How had the years treated them? Had they become academics as Annalisa and I had done or had they strayed into varied fields as Firdaus and Jo had?

With my friends in my thoughts, I stepped out into the quad and sat for a while on a bench, overlooking the lawn upon which I had once sprawled, taking in the familiar sights of the steeple of the chapel, the clock on the walls of the Dining Hall, the doors leading to the Undercroft and the Junior Common Room. Then, while I was in the midst of my reverie, darkness descended upon the medieval city and the occasional high pitched cries of modern-day undergrads reached my ears from afar.

But the cold made it impossible for me to tarry much longer with my memories. Though it was only 5 pm, I decided to try to catch the earlier bus back to London. It would have been impossible to see anything else by that point. There was no evensong service at St. Mary The Virgin Church that I could have attended. I had intended to browse through Blackwell’s Bookstore for some literature on the shooting of the Inspector Morse mysteries. But, by then, my feet were aching and I’d had enough. When, coincidentally, the same driver from my morning’s ride, pulled up and agreed to take me on the earlier bus, I sank into the same upper deck front seats rather gratefully and tried to doze off on the ride back.

Something was missing about my visit to Oxford and for the longest time I wasn’t sure what it was. And then it dawned on me–it was the presence of my friends that I missed so much. For all of us, those days at Exeter had been some of the most memorable ones of our lives and it is impossible for me to return to Oxford without dwelling on those precious moments of our youth. How marvelous, I thought, that the one thing we gifted each other all those years ago has lasted unbroken over the miles and over the years–the gift of our friendship.

A Touch of Frost at Somerset House & St. Paul’s

Dec2

Monday, December 1, 2008
London

Jack Frost nipped at my nose all day today as London slipped down to a numbing 1 degree–that’s Celsius, of course, in which scale the figures always sound scarier than they are even to North Americans accustomed to more frigid winters. However, it was with a twinge of jealousy that I noticed that it was 11 degrees Celsius in New York and Fairfield today–December 1, 2008, Chriselle’s Birthday. I can only hope that we will be released from this Freezer Box soon and return to more seasonal English temperatures.

Still, I cannot complain because when I awoke, the sun–that elusive thing–was out, shining gloriously upon the city. The pull towards the outdoors is so strong especially when this happens after three straight days of slickness and gloom. I finished grading a batch of essays, showered and left my flat. I bussed it to Bedford Square and arrived at my office, rather unusually on a Monday, in order to print out a bunch of things on which I had worked through the weekend–not the least of which were my Megabus tickets for my trip to Oxford tomorrow. Karen even remarked about how strange it seemed to see me on a Monday.

Then, all work accomplished for the day, I set off to have some festive fun, catching the bus to Trafalgar Square from where I caught another one to Aldwych to see Somerset House which wears a dressed-up air at Christmastime. The grand Neo-Classical mansion is the backdrop for holiday festivity sponsored, this year, by Tiffany and Co. There was a small snack bar all painted in the signature robin’s egg blue and tied with a bow to resemble a typical Tiffany present–it called itself the Tiffany Tuck Shop and sold cup cakes decorated with robin’s egg blue icing and a tiny white bow, blue and white candy canes and gingerbread cookie men wearing robin’s egg blue scarves. All very cute but all very pricey!

On the skating rink, dozens of merrymakers slid around, some proficient, others obvious beginners. The Christmas tree that stood in another ‘Tiffany present’ stand sported ice-skates in blue, huge silver snowflakes and strings of blue lights. In the adjoining cafe, hot mulled cider and hot chocolate were being sold in robin’s egg blue Tiffany paper cups. So there you had it–a crassly commerical American Christmas exported to London, courtesy of Tiffany, in these days of global credit crunches and economic downturns. I had hoped to see a festival market all set up on the sidelines, but was sorely disappointed. A look in the Somerset House Shop was equally disappointing, for there was really nothing that shouted out my name.

By then it was 3 pm in London (10 am in New York), a good time to call Chriselle who would have arrived at her office desk. We ended up having the nicest chinwag. She had received the yellow roses I sent her via Llew and was looking forward to dinner that evening at a Thai restaurant with Llew and Chris and, somewhat unexpectedly but very pleasantly for her, the presence of my brother Roger, who happens to be in New York on a flight.

I then hightailed it back home on the bus, but not before I passed by India House at India Place which intersects Montague Street (he, I suppose, of the Montague-Chelmsford Reforms) and was attracted to a sculpture of India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru perched on a pedestal in the alley where visitors to India queue for visas at the adjoining consulate offices. I took a few pictures but with the light fading fast, I’m not optimistic about the results.

On the way back, I tried so hard to find one of the old red Bombay-style double deckers but though I just missed one that sailed off majestically as I arrived at the bus-stop, my resolve was shattered in the freezing cold and I caught the first bus that came my way and dropped me off on Fleet Street from where I walked home. I did spent a few moments in Waterstones browsing through the new coffee table books being offered this season, including Steven Fry’s Tour Across America and Nigella’s Christmas. It’s funny to see how one can become a vicitim of one’s own success. Indeed, success has completely changed Nigella’s natural persona. I was warching some of the episodes from her earliest TV series shot at the time when her first husband was still alive and her kids were still kids (and not the pre-teens they are now) and I found her so natural in front of the camera. In the newer series, she behaves like a sex kitten, flashing come-hither bedroom smiles into the camera and keenly playing up her sex appeal. I have to admit that at times I find the current series’ almost embarrassing.

I had enough time at home to get myself a quick slice of pizza and a coffee before I left again and took the bus to St. Paul’s Cathedral to Amen Court, the home of my new friends the Colcloughs, Cynthia and Michael. Bishop Michael is Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s Cathedral and has invited me to a bunch of Advent and Christmas services at the Cathedral. The service was by invitation or pass only but the place was packed. For the next one hour and a half, I lost myself in the prayerful interior as I listened to a number of readings, superbly articulated by several different Anglican prelates and a couple of choirs, including a Boy’s choir that was simply outstanding. Their angelic voices rose to the towering domed ceiling and made me feel as if I were in Heaven in the midst of the hosts of angels all singing their hearts out. It was idyllically beautiful. Since it was Chriselle’s birthday and I like to attend Mass on her birthday when I am far away from her, this was the ideal service to dedicate to her and she was closely in my prayers all through the evening. I made the discovery that very day that Chriselle shares a birthday with my friend Mary-Jo Smith from Connecticut and, so MJ was in my prayers too. I am looking forward now to Handel’s Messiah this coming Thursday in the same venue.

I continued watching Far From the Madding Crowd over dinner when I got home. I did not realize what a lengthy movie it is, but I was relieved that it did have a happy ending unlike most of Hardy’s novels that are lachrymose and dripping with tragedy. Gabriel did win Bathsheba’s hand in marriage, at the very end, though there were some rather morbid scenes that I was afraid would keep me awake at night. As it turned out, I was ready to drop by the time I cleared and washed up and went to bed.

Tomorrow, I will be catching the 8 am Megabus from Victoria to Oxford where I have a couple of meetings at St. Antony’s College, so I set my cell phone alarm to 6.30 am and fell asleep. Since I am using the cell phone as an alarm clock for the first time, it is my fervent hope that it will ring on schedule!

Just Another Soggy Sunday!

Dec1

Sunday, November 30, 2008
London

Winter has arrived with a vengeance. It is cold and it is soggy. And that’s the thing about English rain…it’s never really a proper downpour. It’s always just a light spritz, a gentle drizzle, sometimes just the finest spray! Like Hawaii, in many ways, except that in Hawaii that spray lasts precisely five minutes and then the sun–and the rainbows!–come out again and the day goes on as if that shower had never happened at all.

Here, the spray continues all day–just enough to ensure that your umbrella is raised and the streets are wet and the populace stays indoors sipping hot chocolate, or, in this season that’s merry and bright, hot mulled wine. Yes, that’s a very English thing indeed and all weekend long I’ve been seeing hot mulled wine offered everywhere at 3 pounds a glass–from Borough Market to Covent Garden, jaded shoppers are sipping these potent potations in a Dickensian tradition that lives on in the 21 st century. Oh, and also hot roasted chestnuts have been appearing on carts everywhere in keeping with the carol,
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

Thanks to my resolution to attend Mass each Sunday in a different historic church in London, I resisted the temptation to go to the 9 am service at my parish church,St. Etheldreda’s, and instead kept myself busy till about 11 am. I had Breakfast in Bed–uuummmm!–hot toasted buttered croissants (I have developed such a love for Lurpak) and steaming coffee. Now that’s Sunday comfort food for you! I hammered out my November newsletter, then did my exercises and showered and at 11 .30 am, I was out of the house and in a bus and headed to Church. I decided to go to Berkeley (pronounced Barkley in this country, in the same way that Derby is Darby, I suppose) Square to attend the 12. 30 mass at Immaculate Conception Church.This is usually referred to as ‘Farm Church’ as it is on Farm Street in Mayfair and sits at one end of Mount Street Gardens (the same one in which KGB spies left secret notes for each other in the slats on the many benches that pepper the pathways).

As I said before, it was cold and it was soggy, so I was surprised to see how packed the church was. It’s Gothic interior is quite breathtaking with its high ceiling and tons of decorative details including Byzantine mosaics, innumerable carvings around the altar and pulpit, paintings on the walls). It turned out that the congregation was composed largely of ‘pilgrims’, devotees of the Jesuit martyr St. Edmund Campion. They’d been on the road since September, having started out at Oxford where Campion was a student at St. John’s College, and making their way to London where he was condemned to death by hanging for converting to Catholicism, joining the Jesuits and preaching secretly when his ministry began. His Feast Day is celebrated on December 1 (Chriselle’s Birthday) which is why the pilgrimage ended today in London where he was martyred.

Of course, I obtained all this information from the web only after I got home and decided to read up on him. While his name sounded familiar to me, I could not quite place him. I remember now that he is revered in Oxford and that might have been where I first heard his name. I also realize how dangerous it might have been to continue to profess allegiance to the Vatican in the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. Campion lived and preached and ministered to Catholics while in hiding and while being continually hounded. He was finally exposed by a spy, taken to the Tower where at his Trial, he presented a stirring defence of his faith, but was condemned to Death. He was hung, drawn and quartered in 1581 and was canonized a saint in 1980.

I was surprised to see that the congregation comprised multiple ethnicities. Of course, the majority were white English but I saw South Asians, East Asians and Blacks among the pilgrims. Fr. Hugh Duffy, S.J. said Mass and preached a sermon that was inspiring and particularly designed for his faithful congregation of pilgrims. I realized that he was a Scotsman when he referred, at one point, to St. Andrew, who, he said, was “the patron saint of the greatest country in the world”. This drew a hearty laugh from the congregation and I became aware, once again, of the healthy Anglo-Scots rivalry that continues to exist all over the British Isles. I sat for a few minutes, in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks on Bombay, thinking that perhaps a reunification of Pakistan and India might be the solution to the continued bitterness that shrouds relations between these two countries. Perhaps if they are united politically, once again, the rivalry can continue, but on a more humorous level and without the threat of war or terrorism marring such a union. But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Back on the bus, I spoke to Llew and our Canadian guests who were at breakfast in Southport preparing for their long drive back to Toronto. I had intended to stay on the bus to Old Spitalfields Antiques Market but the weather strongly deterred me. Instead, I got off at my home stop and treated myself to a huge Italian lunch as I was starving by the time mass ended. I had mushroom soup for starters, garlic bread with cannelloni and salad (all courtesy of Sainsburys) and lemon tart for dessert. Then, replete with my large meal, I caught up on email correspondence and felt drowsy enough to take a short nap.

At 5 pm, I left my flat again, got on the bus and joined the throng of holiday shoppers at Oxford Street. At Marks and Spencer, I found some presents to take back home to India–prices are rapidly coming down and with the dollar so strong again, it is a great time to buy. Up in the lingerie section, I sought underwear but as I was getting ready to pay, the store made the announcement that it was closing in five minutes. That’s when I realised that they close at 6 pm on Sundays–even during the holiday season! Now that would never happen in the Land of Mamon, aka the United States. So I quickly paid for my purchases and was out and on the bus again, weighed down with gifts.

I spent a rather quiet evening with the telly, watching Far from the Madding Crowd with Julie Christie and Alan Bates. I realised in the first five minutes that I had seen this version before in Bombay, aeons ago, in the private British Council auditorium. Some scenes remained burned in my memory–the ones, in the beginning, with the sheep tumbling down the cliffs, another of the house on fire and Gabriel’s attempts to quell the flames. I ate another lovely dinner as I watched until I grew too sleepy and almost fell asleep on the couch.

It was the soggiest weekend in my memory but apart from the fact that today was rather unproductive, I really did use my time effectively and did not allow the rain to deter my plans ovet the past three days.

A Black and White Weekend

Nov29

Saturday, November 29, 2008
London

It is shaping into a Black and White Weekend with a steady drizzle continuing to drench the city. I broke from routine today, waking up quite unexpectedly at 3. 30 am and thinking it was 6 am. I tried futilely to return to sleep but when it eluded me, I said, what the heck, I might as well get up and do some writing. When I did feel sleepy again, it was 7am and I succumbed to the temptation to slide back in to bed, waking only at 9 am. This threw my routine out of balance completely. But then that’s one of the joys of living on your own. I am mistress of my day and I choose to live exactly as the whim takes me.

Everything was subsequently delayed. I ate breakfast at about 10am, called my Dad and Mum in India to get another update on the situation in Bombay which, thankfully, is finally under control, though the death toll, at almost 200 people, is horrendous. The dullness of the day and the complete lack of sunshine did nothing to alleviate the gloom I felt all day. Rather despondently, I sat down to transcribe three of the interviews I carried out at Greenford the other day and went in for my shower only about noon. That, and a quick lunch later, I was finally ready to leave my flat for a bit of sight seeing.

I chose to return to the Tate Britain to finish seeing the rest of the permanent collection. This portion of it went rather quickly. But for a few Henry Moores and Barbara Hepworths and some Victor Pasmores, I was left quite untouched by British Modern Art. There was a special exhibit on Francis Bacon and I caught a glimpse of a few of his large canvasses as well as a video on his life and work. I don’t believe that I found anything I saw today compelling.

Deciding not to spend any more time in the Tate, I caught the bus back to Covent Garden as I found the Christmas lights there rather enticing and believed that there might be a Christmas market on. Well, when I got there, I found that I was rather mistaken. It is the regular market that is on, but the place is festive as several holiday lights do festoon the area. I heard a busker provide a good rendition of Nessun Dorma before I peeked at the Arts and Crafts in the Jubilee Market. Those too did not engage me in any way and deciding not to waste any more time, I walked towards Tesco to buy a few groceries.

After a very long time, I bought a pizza which I popped into my oven and ate on my couch while watching TV. I also bought a bottle of cider which I found wonderfully sweet and refreshing and when I spied Mrs. Beeton’s Rum and Raisin Ice-Cream, I could not resist picking up a tub for dessert.

Just when I finished eating my dinner, my doorbell rang and Tim Freeman, my next door neighbor, inquired about whether I had already eaten my supper. He had come in to invite me to join him and Barbara at a kedgeree dinner which I am sure I would have found scrumptious. I had to take a rain check, however, as I had finished my ice-cream too, by that stage, and felt quite stuffed indeed. I know it would have been a rare treat to taste kedgeree as the English make it as I have heard about this dish that combines rice and fish for years (but have never eaten it). It was an invention of the English in India during the British Raj and is based loosely on the Indian dish called Kichdee which contains rice and dal. Oh well, I hope there will be another time. On Thanksgiving evening, Tim had invited me over for Liver and Bacon, another traditional English dish of which I have heard so much (most recently in All Creatures Great and Small, the TV series, when Seigried feels miserable because he had plans to be away from home on the evening that his housekeeper intended to serve Liver and Bacon). Unfortunately, I could not accept that invitation either as I had plans for dinner that evening with Karen and Douglas.

I saw three really good programs on BBC TV before falling off to sleep. Steven Fry’s Tour Across America took him to California, Oregon, Alaska and Hawaii today and it was wonderful to relive the drama of watching the live volcanoes on the Big Island by which Llew and I had been bowled over a few summers ago. Chriselle called in the middle of my program and I spent a few pleasant moments speaking to her. This was followed by Boris Johnson talking about the clash of civilizations–Islam and Christianity. Yes, this is the same Boris Johnson that they call BoJo–today’s Mayor of London. I had no idea that he was an expert in Medieval History and I realize that I should read his biography and get to know a little bit about this flamboyant blondie! And then there was a feature called France on a Plate–an attempt to understand why, for the French, food is not just something that sustains them physically but a cultural, political and ideological aspect of their lives.

And on that salivating note, I called it a day as I was exhausted,
for some reason, and ready to drop.

Ten Things I Most Miss About Home

Nov29

Saturday, November 29, 2008
London

So after more than three months in London, I guess I can sit back and think of everything that I miss about home. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE London and I LOVE every experience with which I have been confronted. But there are still some things I miss that will preclude me from ever thinking of London as Home. So, in the manner of David Letterman’s Lists, here are the Ten Things I Most Miss about Home:

10. American Prices:
I miss the fact that everything is SO much cheaper in America. And it doesn’t just have to do with the exchange rate. In fact, in recent weeks, with the pound plunging, the dollar is holding court magnificently and I am no longer concerned every time I make a purchase. It’s just that EVERYTHING costs so much more in the UK. We don’t realise how fortunate we are in America (where our salaries are so much higher and our taxes are so much lower) until we live overseas. Maybe the low cost of most commodities is what has made us such a rabidly consumerist nation. But I do look forward to the day I can return to the States, fill my shopping cart till it is overflowing, then get to the cashier and wonder how on earth so much stuff can cost so little!

9. American Ice-Cream:
I miss the multitude of flavors and the size of the tubs in which we purchase ice-cream in America. In particular, I miss Friendly’s Forbidden Chocolate Explosion–that triple whammy containing chocolate fudge and bitter chocolate chunks swathed in a profoundly chocolatey ice-cream. I also miss the two-flavor sundaes Llew and I fixed for dessert most nights–Forbidden Chocolate Explosion and Breyer’s Snickers sprinkled over with toasted almonds and pistachios–yummy!

8. Watching TV in Bed:
I dearly miss not being able to lie in bed and watch TV. With only one TV set here that is fixed in my living room, I miss the convenience of reaching for the remote first thing in the morning to get the news and the weather forecast. This has meant that I do much more reading in bed than I ever did at home, but it is a nuisance to have to get out to the living room to find out what is going on in the world or how I should dress for the day. Yes, a TV set in my bedroom would have been blissful.

7. Our Garden:
I don’t think that I miss my house too much. In fact, now that I have become accustomed to this minimalist, compact apartment lifestyle, I am beginning to believe that we don’t really need three floors and 3, 500 square feet of living space. However, I do miss our garden. I do miss sprawling on the chaise-longes on our deck and watching the drama of the changing seasons and the antics of the squirrels. I miss awaking to birdsong. And I never thought I would say this considering how much damage they do to our flower beds, but I do miss the deer.

6. Westport Public Library:
I so miss the large stack of audio visual material I took out each week ABSOLUTELY FOR FREE from my beloved Westport Public Library. The more I travel, the more I believe it is simply the best neighborhood library in the world with the most enviable resources and facilities. I mean think about this: in a country in which I am asked to pay 3 pounds for each video that I take out of the public library, I feel blessed to have been able to use the Westport Library for over ten years now. Almost every movie and TV series I have seen in the past decade has been through the library and I miss it dearly. I also miss the incredibly helpful staff there especially Suki and Christine and the ease with which I could just call them to renew my material or use their Elf services and go online to place titles on hold for me–again for free (here I was told to pay 40p to place a hold on a book I wanted to read through my Holborn Public Library). This, to me, is the miracle of American taxation at work and I appreciate it so much now that I live away from the country.

5. Driving:
London has an amazing transport system and I absolutely adore the fact that I live in the heart of the city and don’t feel the need for a car at all but I do miss driving. I realise how much I love to drive now that I am here. I miss the seaside route I always took from my home in Southport to the Westport Library along Connecticut’s Gold Coast, past the homes of the rich and famous (Phil Donahue, Martha Stewart, Rajat Gupta of McKinsey). I miss Bronson Road and the drive along the Mill River. I guess I just miss the ease with which I could go whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted…

4. My Kitchen and Cooking:
I absolutely miss my kitchen and cooking. Everyone knows that I find cooking therapeutic. While I did start out rather ambitiously cooking up a storm and freezing most of it for future use, my friend Amy Tobin was right in her prediction that I would barely cook when I lived alone in a flat in London. I find the convenience of ready prepared foods quite irresistible here and have been buying shepherd’s pie and cottage pie, lasagne and moussaka, chicken jal farezi and lamb korma, fish pie and fish cakes from Sainsburys and Marks and Waitrose and tucking in. They are incredibly inexpensive (by British standards) and incredibly good and by the time I went to purchase all the ingredients I would need for one dish, I would probably spend more than I currently do buying these foods right off the shelf. So I miss pottering around in my lovely large kitchen with its mutiplicity of utensils and implements, pots and pans, appliances and gadgets. I miss printing out recipes that I have just watched being prepared on TV from off the internet and then trying them out in my kitchen. Amd I miss talking about food with my foodie friends.

3. American Public Television and the TV Food Network:
Despite having such a wealth of cable TV channels here in my London flat, I miss my American PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) channels. In particular, I miss CPTV (Connecticut’s Channel 12), WLIW (Long Island’s Channel 21) and New York’s Public Television on Channel 10. Oh, and I also miss the TV Food Channel and all the great stuff I learned from it–in particular during this holiday season, I miss watching the turkeys being trussed and stuffed and the great wealth of American cookies emerging from those magical ovens as the season grew merrier and brighter. I have been watching the British Food Channel with someone called Gary Rhodes who does a program called Food Heroes and Market Kitchen which I quite enjoy and there is the occasional Nigella Lawson show that I still catch, but I miss The Barefoot Contessa and Tyler’s Ultimate.

2. Curling Up on the Couch with Llew and watching TV:
This is one of the greatest pleasures of my life. While I miss Llew in general, it is the evenings, after we both got back from the gym, had showered and were eating one of our TV dinners to the accompaniment of a good British murder mystery on video, that I miss most about our togetherness.

And talking of it…I also miss my gym and my daily workouts and the trashy magazines I read while on the exercise bike.

1. Being a Mom:
I realise how much I miss chatting and giggling with Chriselle. In her company, I always feel like a 16 year old. The nuttiness we share, the private jokes, the mixture when I am interacting with Chriselle of the maternal concern and the teenage buoyancy that only she can bring out in me–I miss that the most. And now that she is engaged and looking forward to her Big Day, I miss the girlie chatter in which we would have indulged.

And omigawd, writing this has made me feel seriously homesick, so I better sign off right now.

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!