Liverpool at Leisure

Sep29

September 27, 2008
Liverpool, UK

The last time I had been to Liverpool was four years ago to present a paper at a Conference at Liverpool John Moores University. My exploration of the city had been a slapdash affair with the two churches covered–the towering, stupendous Anglican Cathedral that dominates the city’s skyline and the Metropolitan Catholic Cathedral, at the other end of the same street (Hope Street).

This time round, I took in the city at leisure and had an opportunity to explore its magnificent buildings, sample its world-class art and delve into its varied history. Of course, I also did the ‘touristy’ things such as taking the ferry across the Mersey (which never fails to bring to my lips that inane song from Gerry and the Pacemakers) and peaking into the men’s loo at the Philharmonic Pub, one of the UK’s most opulent and containing the only listed toilets in the entire country.

So, let’s start at the very beginning–which as Rogers and Hammerstein remind us in The Sound of Music is “A very good place to start”. We boarded our coaches at the NIDO student dorms and were outward bound at the crack of dawn (6. 30 am to be exact). Needless to say, the coach was like a graveyard with every passenger dead asleep as it inched through fog that was truly as thick as pea soup for miles and miles out of London and into the heart of the Midlands. It brought to mind the opening chapters of Dickens’ Bleak House and I wondered if all we would see in Liverpool was the Fog! We made a pit stop about three hours later for some welcome hot beverages and breakfast pastries and pressed on again, arriving in Liverpool in record time at about 12 noon. Since we were ‘free’ until 2 .15 pm when we were required to re-board the coach for our guided City Tour, I raced off to the waterfront at Albert Dock to visit the Merseyside Maritime Museum which Lonely Planet says “should not be missed”. (I must add that I spent some of the time in the coach reading up on what to see and do in Liverpool and am I glad I did!)

The day was gorgeous with golden sunshine pouring down upon me–such a relief from the overcast skies and the frequent drizzles we’ve dealt with for days on end. Walking towards the Museum through the portals of the wonderful Albert Dock with its quadrangular design and its solid rust-colored columns that form alleys now filled with shops and restaurants, I arrived at the Museum where free admission allowed me to spend two amazing hours.

On the third floor was a good deal of “Liverpool Pottery”, a collection of Delftware, porcelain and plainer china that passed through the docks in the city’s heyday. This took only a few minutes to survey before I descended to the second floor to see the Slavery Museum. This superb exhibit details the enormous role played by Liverpool in the “triangular trade” during the 17th and 18th centuries before England finally abolished the hideous practice. While my knowledge of American History has informed me about slavery in the USA, there was so little I knew about the role played by Great Britain in this regard and I was fully enlightened by the time I left the exhibit. Tracing the earliest origin of Blacks in the UK through the many slaves who were transported across the Atlantic on slaving ships that plied in West Africa and forcibly took the natives captive to the role played by Africans in contemporary life, this exhibit attempts to do two things: tell the horror stories so that history will never forget them and restore to this injured race some of the pride and dignity that has eluded them for centuries. I found it deeply absorbing and thought-provoking.

One floor below was the exhibit on the many famous ships that were made in Liverpool, a famous center for shipbuilding, including the Lusitania and the Titanic. In fact, these exhibits were so stirring that I walked through them in a blur, my tears filled with tears which spilled down several times, much to my embarrassment. I guess the movie Titanic has made so graphic so many of the concepts we only knew in the abstract, about the ship’s history, its famous passengers, its lifestyle, etc. Seeing mementos of the ship and its ill-fated voyage, reading the letters of its passengers, seeing pictures of the few survivors, filled me with such a deep sense of sadness that I cannot quite explain my despondency in words. Hearing also the hymn “Abide With Me” which the ship’s musicians played until the ship went down (taking every single one of them with it) was just too much for me to bear and I was crying rather copiously by this point.

On my way back, I toured the Piermaster’s House, a small two-storey bungalow that has been restored to reflect the interior of the home in the 1930s. Since I always love to poke around homes and since the 1930s are of particular interest to me, I was so glad I nipped in out of curiosity for the space was quite enchanting indeed and transported me back to the life of a man who spent his life clearing ships on their entry and exit from the Liverpool Docks at the time when business was brisk and global commerce was the city’s mainstay.

Of course, I could not possibly pass by the Liverpool Tate without taking a quick round of its three floors and browsing through its permanent collection. The Tate Liverpool contains a great deal of interesting works, including several Picassos and a whole room devoted to Andy Warhol especially his varied portraits of Marilyn Monroe and Chairman Mao. Upstairs, there were many significant pieces of sculptures by Giacometti, Henry Moore and Brancussi among others. If you are a fan of Abstract Art, the Liverpool Tate will not disappoint. The galleries were not too packed which allowed the art-lover to truly take in the work in a very unhurried, very relaxed environment.

Then, I was back at Albert Dock, and with Margaret, our superb English Guide in tow, we wound all around the city, taking in the various aspects of it from the astounding grandeur of such buildings as the George Concert Hall and the Central Library to the campus of its famous universities, from the main roads on which are located the well-known churches to the homes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Liverpool’s most famous sons who grew up on the outskirts in very pretty houses called Mendips and on Forthlin Road (both now owned and managed by the National Trust). There is so much to see in this place and with everything spruced up to support its selection as the Cultural Capital of Europe for the year 2008, every attraction is open to the public for free. What an amazing opportunity to browse into its wealth of cultural attractions!

We got off at Penny Lane to take pictures of the quiet road that The Beatles immortalized in their song. I was amazed at how empty and nondescript it was at the edge of Liverpool University and Sefton Place until Margaret had the coach drive around the junction of Penny Lane with Smithdown Road and explained that the song is all about the shops scattered at the roundabout. It was at this junction that Lennon and McCartney used to meet as kids to catch the bus into town. There are references to the barber at the roundabout who knew the names then displayed pictures of all the clients who passed through his doors (including Lennon, McCartney and George Harrison when they were kids), the circular bus shelter where people took refuge in the rain (this is in rather poor shape today), the bank and the fire station. “There”, as the song’s lyrics put it ” beneath the blue suburban skies”, I tried to imagine what it must have been like for these talented youngsters to go about their business little knowing how enormously they would change the world with their homespun lyrics and their childhood memories. Indeed, if you are a Beatles fan as I am or if you grew up to the sound of their lyrics ringing in your ears as I did, you will love Liverpool and will spend a great deal of your time on the tour recreating, if only in your imagination, a world filled with youngsters who swung to the Mersey Beat of the Swinging Sixties.

Then, our coach was taking us towards Crosby Beach where another treat lay in store-a look at the unique life-size sculptures by Antony Gormley, one of the UK’s best-known contemporary sculptors and creator of the colossal Angel of the North sculpture that I had seen on the motorway while leaving Newcastle three weeks ago in Llew’s company. Gormley’s “Another Place” sculptures consist of 150 figures, apparently cast from his own body, staring out at the tide and watching the waves come in. At high tide, the waves swirl all around his toes and as I watched the sun set over the Atlantic, I was so moved by this sight–the sight of so many rusted statues of full-grown men looking across the horizon towards Another Place.

Back at Albert Dock, I had enough time to check into the Holiday Inn Hotel at the waterside and was delighted with the view from my window that overlooked the Dock and the outlines of the city’s three most famous buildings about which we would learn the next day on our ferry cruise across the Mersey.

After a quick shower and a much needed stretch on my bed, I was ready to go to dinner at the Youth Hostel where I enjoyed the chicken curry served over couscous and the first decent Chocolate Cake I have eaten in the UK–it was rich and creamy and chocolatey the way Chocolate Cake is meant to be.

While the night was still young, I was determined to return to the Philharmonic Pub, the best-known of Liverpool’s many watering-holes, to see the ornate male loos that are filled with dazzling ceramic tile, marble wash basins, stained glass detail on the walls, etc. As it turned out, our attempt to find a table in the “Gentleman’s Lounge” was successful and as I sat with James Weygood and David Crout, the administrative staff at NYU, I admired and took many pictures of the bas-relief on the walls, the beaten copperplate engravings, the solid mahogany fireplaces, etc. This elaborate pub stuns at every turn and in its Victoria excess it is certainly worth seeing.

I feel asleep that evening tired and very satisfied with what had been an extraordinary day and I looked forward to awaking on the morrow to another full and enlightening day.

Hello Dr. G!

Sep26

Friday, September 26, 2008
London

My friend, Dr. G, alias Firdaus Gandavia from Bombay, is here in London! I am so thrilled to see him! But for the fact that he was traveling from Brighton this morning and arrived at my place only at 12. 45, we could have taken the Oxford Tube and hotfoooted it to Oxford where we first spent a memorable summer 22 years ago.

Still, I had to be content with the one day he could spare with me in London in-between his travels in Portugal, Brighton and Hampstead. Felcy, my new maid, arrived this morning to clean my flat so it was quite spotless by the time Firdaus appeared. I had rustled up a salad in an attempt to finish up all the vegetables in my fridge since I am away for the weekend in Liverpool. So in went the lettuce and broccoli, blue cheese and walnuts in a mustard vinaigrette. I pulled out a Beef Lasagne from the freezer and two pots of stickey toffee pudding which I served with Sainsbury’s custard.

We caught up over appetisers–Waitrose fruit bread served with Gorgonzola cheese and hummus and Praline Spread from Le Pain Quotidien and glasses of red wine. Our meal was delicious and before long, we were off, intending to walk up to Hyde Park and to spend an afternoon on the Serpentine. Alas, that did not happen as our rambles were rather slow. I took Firdaus to campus to show him our NYU premises and my basement office and as we dodged the shoppers on Oxford Street and found the odd items he was seeking in Marks and Sparks, we realized that it was time time for him to return to his friends in Hampstead.

So we turned back and I said a goodbye to Firdaus, hoping to see him again in Bombay this coming January. After his departure, I sat on the phone with the helpdesk at Optimum Online and think that I have managed to synchronize my Outlook and webmail and, hopefully, now my online correspondence will go more smoothly. This took over an hour, after which I packed my backpack for my trip to Liverpool.

Rosemary called this morning to invite me to join her and a few friends for dinner at Malabar Junction this evening and I gladly accepted. And because I do not fancy the idea of waking up at 5 .15 am tomorrow to board the Liverpool coach at NIDO at 6 am, I requested my student Sarah Walsh to permit me to spend the night in her room as she has no roommate. She gladly agreed and Rosemary will drop me off to NIDO tonight. So glad that everything has been sorted out.

I am looking forward to a good time in Liverppool though my back pain is rather disabling and I am taking Crocin and applying Iodex to find relief. The weather promises to be fabulous all weekend long, so we should have a good time in Beatles Country!

Browsing around the British Museum

Sep26

Thursday, September 25, 2008
London

Another perfect day, weather-wise. I couldn’t resist the thought of conducting another class in the gardens at Bedford Square, so I marched my students out into the cheerful sunshine and settled down on the grass with them, Vince Libasci lending me his hoodie, a la Sir Walter Raleigh, to spread beneath me! Who said chivalry is dead?

The class went off so well. Earlier that day, Vince had made a presentation on my essay on “Piano and Other Lessons” from The Way We Were and he did a really competent job of it, not to mention the sensitive reading that the students brought to it in the form of interpreting symbols like the piano. I covered the Sepoy Mutiny and together with the information I am gleaning from Dalrymple’s White Moghuls, this course is proving to be so interesting to teach and, I hope, to take.

My Writing Class at Birkbeck in the afternoon plodded along a little bit and for the first time I felt that the three hour stretch was a bit much to fill. Still, I think I managed to keep it interesting till the end. The students seem to enjoy the workshopping session best of all as it gives them a chance to review each other’s work and comment on it as well as seek ways to improve their own writing through their peers.

I spent an hour in my office (Office Hours) during which time I did internet research on Barcelona where I will be going next weekend. I miss having my local Westport Library at hand from which I used to borrow travel books each time I planned a trip. I haven’t even done anything yet with planning our trip in November to Greece, so next week, I will need to get cracking on that.

At 6 pm, on my way home, I decided that since the British Museum had late-evening hours on Thursday and Friday, I would nip in there to spend an hour browsing through some of the rooms. After all, I have been here in the UK for almost a month and I haven’t yet visited the British though I pass it regularly on my way to and from campus.

The Hadrian Special Exhibit is on: Conflict and Conquest, but it carries an expensive ticket and I haven’t yet purchased mine. I decided to start in Room 1, i.e. at the very beginning since the British is such an overwhelming space and I have seen its highlights many times–the Elgin Marbles, the Rosetta Stone, the Sutton Hoo Treasures, the Portland Vase, etc. This time, I crossed Rm 1 and went straight ahead to Rm. 2 which houses some of the most important treasures of the Museum that are being held downstairs until moved to a new location. I ended up seeing the oldest item in the museum–a handaxe dating back to 1.8 million years–can you imagine that? 1.8 million years!!! I also saw a carillon clock that tolled the hour with the ringing of musical bells and the movement of characters around it. European Medieval treasures included reliquaries, ivory carvings, and jewelry while Peruvian, Indonesian and New Zealand antiquities were also on display.

In Rm.,1 entitled The Enlightenment, I only had the chance to cover half of the displays as they were too numerous and too fascinating to see in haste. Sculpture from Pompeii (including a Farnese Apollo), a gigantic Hercules and a Venus were some of the items that caught my eye. I was also taken by the fossils, the shells, the lavers and urns all of which represented the personal collections of the museum’s earliest patrons who helped start the vast holding with their generous donations. I was sorry to see that many of the items were very dimly lit and I had a hard time reading the labels.

By 7. 30, I was headed out, a bit tired after what had been a long day. Got home to vegetate over dinner and a movie: What we Lost in the Fire with Halle Berry and Benicio del Toro. It was OK, I thought, not wonderful.

By 10.30, I hammered a bit of my blog and fell asleep irritated to find that my back has started aching on the left side–a sort of muscular strain that has me perplexed.

Feminism at the Strand’s Vaudeville

Sep25

Wednesday, September 24, 2008
London

My friend Margaret Loose, a Victorianist at UC San Diego, is here to examine Victorian periodicals at the British Library. What a joy to see her again after the great time we had in UC Santa Cruz last month at the Dickens Universe! We made plans to meet in the evening at the Vaudeville Theater at the Strand where I have been dying to see Dame Aileen Atkins in The Female of the Species.

I ran a couple of errands in the morning (post office, purchase of a small table-fan), then walked to the Half-Price Theater Ticket Booth at Leicester Square (my first time since I arrived here a month ago) with fingers crossed, hoping I would get two good seats to the show. And hallelujah! There they were. Mission Accomplished! Two Dress Circle seats in the bag and even at half-price, I paid the princely sum of 26. 50 pounds each, which at our awful exchange rate, makes it close to $50 per ticket.

The drizzle began around that time. I tried to find the shortest route to the National Gallery, little realizing that Leicester Square was right behind the National Portrait Gallery. I was so grateful to escape into the warm confines of the museum where my studies of the collection continued in the Renaissance section as I scrutinized the religious art and became introduced, for the first time in my life, to an Italian artist called Carlo Crivelli. I cannot recall seeing the work of this artist anywhere; not even in Italy. Yet, the National has a whole gallery devoted exclusively to his work–and was I struck! The minute detail that he captures in his compositions, the overall grandeur of the scale of his work, the lavish use of gilding and the finely-wrought faces of his human figures were so striking as to leave me contemplating each picture with rapt attention. Homan Patterson’s book is proving to be invaluable in achieving an in-depth understanding and appreciation of the works.

Because it was still raining, I did not turn to the steps of Trafalgar Square to find a spot to eat my homemade sandwiches–I sneaked into the cafe at the National instead and in its cheerful interior close to the self-service section munched on my lunch while giving my feet a well-deserved rest.

Then, it was time to walk through St. Matin’s Lane, past a lovely old rotary called Seven Dials, so-called because the rotary has at its center a tall obelisk around which are the dials of seven watches. I pressed on through the spritz before arriving at Bloomsbury Square and ensconcing myself in my office to get on with some paper work and make phone calls that were pending.

Before I knew it, it was almost 6 pm, and I was amazed and very pleased at the amount of work I managed to accomplish. I made so many phone calls and appointments to meet the respondents of my proposed survey on Anglo-Indians. Most of the folks I spoke to were the epitome of graciousness and hospitality and spontaneously invited me over to their homes “for a meal”. Most live on the outskirts of London, outside the Underground network. Getting to their homes to conduct interviews will involve taking commuter trains; but I would rather meet them in their own milieu. A few have gladly volunteered to meet me in London and I have gratefully taken them up on their offers. For the most part, they seem pleased to talk to me about their lives as immigrants in the UK. I thoroughly enjoyed listening to their cultured Indian accents on the phone, the clear intonation, the polished diction and the kindliness of their modulation. It reminded me very much of the many Anglo-Indian mothers of the many friends I had in school who spoke in such a polished manner. I know I will enjoy meeting these folks in the coming weeks. I also sent out email requesting more interviews and in the hope of connecting with other scholars working in the same general area of academic endeavor.

Then, I was home, freshening up and getting all dressed up for my night out with Margaret at the Strand after fixing myself a quick bite. I had intended to walk to the theater, but having left home late, I jumped into the Tube and within 15 minutes, I was at the Vaudeville. Margaret arrived just a minute later and we spent the rest of the evening catching up.

The show was everything I expected it to be–first of all, it was hugely funny.Secondly, it was brilliantly written, being a fine spoof on feminism. The reviews I had read on the Internet alleged that the plot was based on a real-life incident that had occurred in the life of feminist Germaine Greer who was accosted in her own home by a frustrated conformist whose mother had grown up with Greer’s writing and had rejected feminism and her own daughter! While Atkins played feminist writer Margot Mason with a naturalness that is expected of her, it was Sophie Thomson who plays her daughter Tess who was the star of the show. What I loved most about the play, apart from the witty dialogue and superb acting was the fact that each time a new character appeared on stage, I was jumping in my seat because I had seen him/her on the many British TV shows I have watched for years on PBS. There was Sam Kelly, for instance, in a small cameo at the very end, playing Theo, Margot’s publisher. I did not recognize his name but his face was unmistakable as the German soldier on the show ‘Allo, ‘Allo and as the husband Ted on the TV series Barbara. He was also one of the chief writers on the long-playing show Are You Being Served. As for Molly Rivers, she was played by Anna Maxwell-Martin and I knew the moment she stepped on stage that I had seen her somewhere–only it drove me crazy as I simply couldn’t place her. It was only when the play ended that I sneaked a peak at the Playbill (or Program as they call it in the UK) for which one has to pay as they are not handed out upon presentation of a ticket, that she played Esther Summerson in the recent Masterpiece Theater version of Dickens’ Bleak House. Then, of course, I remembered how much I had admired her acting in that show.

Well, since the night was still young and Margaret and I hadn’t finished catching up, we went off to a pub called The Chandos on Chandos Street behind the National Gallery where I had a pint of stout. Margaret told me about her research and I told her about my new life in London and before we knew it, it was 11 pm and we had to call it a day!

I was delighted to see Aileen Atkins on stage after being completely taken by the role she plays in Robert Altman’s Gosford Park and after having seen her in the flesh for the first time 22 years ago when I first arrived in London and had gone to see a play called Let us Go Then, You and I…” based, of course, on T.S. Eliot’s poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock in which she had co-starred with none other than Edward Fox.

Did I say before that the reason I so love the theater in London is that you always get to see stars perform in the medium they themselves love best–the theater–when audience reaction is immediate and encouraging and eggs the artistes on to give of their very best?

Another Walk, Another Movie

Sep23

Tuesday, September 23, 2008
London

I decided to start my day off by preparing for my Thursday classes instead of keeping it all for Wednesday. After all, tomorrow I would like to get to the half-price ticket booth at Leicester square for tickets to see Dame Eileen Atkins in The Female of the Species. My course on Anglo-Indians is going well and with the prep that is involved in using Gloria Jean Moore’s book (The Anglo-Indian Vision) as text, reading the 500 page tome called White Moghuls by William Dalrymple and connecting with real-life Anglo-Indians through the email and interviewing them, I feel steeped in the culture and the ethos. Which is perfect–as I intend to start my research at the British Library soon.

With Chapter Four (The Sepoy Mutiny of 1857) in the bag, I took advantage of the mild weather and set out on one of my walks. I called Cynthia Colclough for company but she was off to the hairdressers today and took a rain check. So off I went with my book and my map and my sturdy walking shoes (or ‘trainers’ as they call them here) and headed for Fleet Street and the Blackfriars Underground Station where the walk commenced.

I was thrust immediately into the little bylanes behind bustling Blackfriars. In Blackfriars Yard is visible the last remains of the Blackfriars Theater with which Shakespeare was associated. Just a few feet ahead was one of London’s oldest cemeteries, now a garden attached to a monastery but bearing evidence of its use as a cemetery in the ancient gravestones dating from the 1700s. A few feet ahead was the Cockpit Pub, so-called because it was actually used in the Elizabethan Age as a cock-fighting den. The gallleries that encircle the pub “upstairs” bear evidence of this use. Just across the road is the picturesquely named Church of St. Andrews in the Wardrobe, so called because the church was right next door to the grand building that once contained the royal wardrobe. Alas, this burned down in the Great Fire of London of 1666 though the church remains. I am repeatedly struck by the serenity of these London churches and the suddenness with which they creep up on you in spaces where you least expect to see them! Soon I was passing by the Old Bailey, the famous Court House with the gilded statue crowning it that portrays the Goddess of Justice with the scales in her outstretched hands. Next door, is the church of St. Sebastian whose bells are a part of the ‘Oranges and Lemons’ poem of old–the Bells of Old Bailey!

Then, I was out on Carter Lane where the Youth Hostel in which I had stayed in
March with my friend Amy Tobin stands. I passed right by it and went through Dean’s Court on to Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, St. Paul’s Cathedral, with its dominating dome and the statue of Queen Anne in the forecourt. A quick visit into the interior, though not a full tour, and I was out again, walking through the Wren-designed gateway of Temple Bar which once stood on Fleet Street but was moved carefully, brick by brick, to its present location. Once past Paternoster Square, I walked out towards Amen Court (where, I believe, Cynthia lives in the quarters assigned to the Canon-Pastor) and saw the remains of what was once Newgate prison, one of London’s most notorious jails.

Then, I was out on Newgate Street heading towards the ruined church of Christchurch Greyfriars, which interestingly sits right next door to the ruined Merril Lynch! In the churchyard, I saw some more antiquated gravestones, admired some late-blooming roses (it is another mystery to me how these urban gardens flourish with seemingly no care at all producing the most abundant David Austin roses), then turned towards Postman Park where I admired the wall covered with ceramic tiles to commemorate those who gave their lives trying to save others–what a heart-warming and unique idea. Even their stories, fired forever on those ceramic tiles, made such interesting reading.

On the other side of Postman Park, I found myself on Aldgate Street where once the ancient Roman walls and gates of London stood. Indeed, the word Aldgate derives from the fact that a gate was actually at that spot and Samuel Pepys, the 18th century diarist, writes of the day he walked out and saw at least 5 heads impaled upon the walls–of prisoners who had been sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered! Yikkkes! At the Old Raglan Pub named for the Duke who was given to wearing a peculiar kind of sleeve that bears his name, I turned and arrived at the old Saddler’s Hall where the medieval guild of saddlers had their headquarters.

Now who would have guessed that all these interesting tidbits of information were to be gleaned around the precincts of St. Paul’s? Most visitors only see the cathedral and move on to the next site. How fortunate I felt that my year-long stay allows me to browse at leisure through these hidden niches of the city and to encounter first-hand the history that has soaked into these streets.

Home for lunch and some more work (I needed to transcribe my first interview before I forget the nuances of our conversation) and then I was headed out to NYU’s campus at Bedford Square where I had made plans to have coffee with Prof. Mick Hattaway who teaches British Writers. He took me to the coffee shop attached to the London Review of Books in a lane right in front of the British Museum. We had a very interesting conversation in which Mick shared with me his recent discoveries surrounding his family genealogy. Then, I rushed off to the 6 pm screening of Stephen Frears The Queen starring Helen Mirren on campus as part of Phillip Drummond’s course on Contemporary British Cinema which I am auditing. I had seen and enjoyed the film before but, of course, it was so special to see the Royal Family on screen in light of our recent encounter with all of them outside Balmoral in Scotland.

Come to think of it, this too was my kind of day–I accomplished a good amount of work, took a self-guided enlightening tour and saw a good movie. What better way to spend a fine day in London?

My Kind of Day

Sep22

Monday, September 22, 2008
London

I had the kind of day that can only be described as perfect. Did a batch of laundry and cleaned my flat–still can’t believe how quickly I can finish that. Have finally mastered the brain behind the washer-cum-dryer concept and now my smalls are no longer getting fried and my clothes are emerging bone dry and do not need to get to an ironing board before they can be placed back in the closet.Yyeess!

Spent a few hours of the morning networking with my Anglo-Indian contacts and organizing the many names and addresses, telephone numbers and email addresses that are now pouring into my possession from all over the UK as people are helping me make connections. I will be spending at least one morning at my office this week sitting on the phone and making follow-up calls to set up interview appointments. I’m so glad that I had a breakthrough with Marina Stubbs in Brighton yesterday as that seems to have set the ball rolling.

Then, I made myself a sandwich lunch with everything that was in my fridge–multi-grain bread, hummus, olives, tomatoes, Stilton Cheese and Gorgonzola Cheese–and walked out into a very sunny afternoon. I headed straight for one of my favorite places in London, the National Gallery. Of course, I decided to take the scenic path there, past Covent Garden which had attracted only a few visitors until I arrived at the Jubilee Market which I discovered to be a covered antiques market. Of course, I could not resist spending a half hour browsing among the vintage jewelry and china bric-a-brac before I pressed on towards the Museum.

Part of my museum musing was also work as I need to identify the ten or fifteen paintings I will place on my own tour when I teach my Writing class at the Gallery on October 9. So heading straight for the research computers down in the basement, I spent the next half hour identifying the exact locations of a bunch of them based on the book I am using to study the works–The Guide to the National Gallery by Homan Potterton. It is my aim to go over every single one of the paintings in the Gallery in the next one year and I intended to study two or three rooms at a time. Well, I started at the Medieval and Renaissance Galleries and finished five of them, feasting my eyes upon the fabulous Piero della Francescas, the Giovanni Bellinis and the Andrea Mategnas in the Gallery’s collection while also studying some of the Albrect Durers.

Then, I sat on a bench and watched a few fat pigeons forage for food among the tourists as I munched my sandwich and took the shortest route I could to Green Park Tube station to embark upon one of the guided walks entitled “Spies and Spooks in Mayfair” from my book entitled 24 Great Walks in London. I discovered a place called Shepherd Market, the heart of the ‘village’ of Mayfair, Crewe House, one of Mayfair’s last existing mansions (today the Embassy of Saudi Arabia), two beautiful churches (Grosvenor Chapel where “coffee and cakes are served in the garden on the first Tuesday of each month”) and the Jesuit-run Church of the Immaculate Conception with its ornate Gothic interior and magnificent statuary, a wonderfully tucked-away park called the Mount Street Gardens where, during the Cold War, KGB spies are said to have congregated and left notes for each other on the park benches, the Claremont Club in Berkeley Square which sits cheek by jowl to the homes once occupied by writer Somerset Maugham, soldier and administrator Clive of India and Prime Minister Anthony Eden.

The terraced house occupied today by Maggs Bros Antiquarian Booksellers at Berkeley Square is reputed to be the most haunted house in London. There are many stories about the many apparitions that have been sighted here and the awful fate that has befallen those who did sight them. I also passed the Red Lion at 1 Waverton Mews, which, the book says, is singer Tom Jones’ favorite pub. At South Audley Raod, I passed by my very favorite shop in all of London–Thomas Goode and Co. that stocks the most fabulous china, porcelain and silverware that I have ever seen. The store is like a museum and every time I am in London, I love to spend an afternoon just feasting my eyes on the works of art represented by the painted porcelain on display for those with heavy wallets to purchase. I feel so indebted to this book for taking me into the secret niches of London that I would never have encountered on my own and, as always, these walks leave me with renewed appreciation and affection for this city.

Then, I hopped onto the Tube at Green Park and headed for the School of Oriental and African Studies where, in the Brunei Gallery, public intellectual, critic and journalist Clive Bloom who teaches Political Science and Culture at New York University was giving a public lecture on “The Idea of Britishness”. The auditorium was packed with NYU students taking the seminar on contemporary British culture and I was pleased to join them as part of the audience. Bloom’s lecture was jocular and serious in turn as he spelled out the uncertainties of identity that have plagued Britons in recent years as the influx of immigrants have increased and cultural polarities have grown. He did make jokes about the British penchant of pin-up girls in their tabloids, their obsession with Victoria ‘Posh Spice’ Beckham, their new vocabulary (chavs –a working class person with Burberry togs and bling, gingas–red-heads), and their idiosyncrasies–the English see the wearing of baseballs caps indoors as terribly disrespectful and consider curry their national dish. He was intensely proud of the fact that Chicken Tikka Masala was created in the British Isles and is unheard of in India.

So as I walked home briskly at 7. 15, I told myself that this was the kind of day I visualized when I was first told that I would be spending a year in London. It had all the ingredients that for me, at least, spell bliss–antiquing, studying Masterpieces in oil, discovering the hidden corners of a city on foot, and feeling intellectually stimulated at a public lecture given by an extraordinary speaker.

Brighton Beach Memoirs

Sep22

Sunday, September 21, 2008
Brighton

I would imagine that no matter how often one has seen the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, the experience till astounds. It certainly awed me all over again. Driving with my students in a huge “coach” (British for ‘bus’) across Surrey and Sussex to the “coast”, I revelled in the English spirit of “going to the sea-side”. We were blessed by a gorgeous day, certainly one of the best I’ve seen since my arrival in the UK. It started with a crisp bite in the air that warmed comfortably as the sun climbed higher in the cloudless blue skies.

On Brighton’s pebbly beach-front, spades and pails were conspicuously absent as the beach is devoid of sand. Fat pebbles in shades of yellow and orange cover the beach punctuated by those ubiquitous appendages of British beaches–the striped deck chair in pink and blue! Early morning joggers and dog-walkers were still about when we arrived there to be met by Wilf, one of the blue badge guides who then took us on a walking tour of the city.

A very proper, very dapper “Grandad” (as he described himself), Wilf (short for Wilfred?)explained the history of the famous Brighton Pier whose amusements have grown more high-tech with every passing year. Today, the entrance is crowded with food stalls (“slush puppies”, ice-cream, fish and chips and as a concession to multi-culturalism, hot dogs from the States and crepes from their “neighbors across the Channel”). Once on the pier,there is every kind of arcade game to keep kids and teenagers amused, in case the beach fails to appeal.

We crossed the street with Wilf and walked towards The Lanes, a maze of charming narrow streets lined with one-of-a-kind boutiques and shops. The sidewalks were completely taken over by craft stalls as Brighton celebrated “Streets for People Day” that kept all traffic off and made the maze a pedestrian plaza. Freebies galore delighted passers-by (bike light, the Body Shop’s Soothing Mint Foot Cream (did you know that Anita Roddick who founded The Body Shop was a Brighton gal whose experiments were carried out in her home kitchen?), pens, pencils, recyclable water bottles. Wilf continued with our troupe in an untidy crocodile across North Road to the North Lanes where we saw edgier shops (‘Vegetarian Shoes’ carried footwear made sans leather or other animal products) and more creative eateries before arriving at Jubilee Square. The festive fair-like atmosphere gripped us all when we arrived at the modern Library building, surprisingly open on a Sunday, and arrived finally at the Brighton Dome, the enclosure that once coralled King George IV stables of horses. Finally, we arrived in the Pavilion Gardens with their many elephant topiary to which so many fascinated children clung.

The elephants were, of course, appropriate, as the onion domes, minarets and finials that decorate the confection that is the Royal Pavilion came into view. Everyone knows the history of Brighton but it bears repeating because it is so fanciful. When George IV was the Prince Regent (because his father George III was still alive but had been pronounced “insane”), he escaped the prying court of London to buy himself a small farmhouse in which he could dally with his mistress Maria Fitzherbert as he loved the tang of Brighton’s salt-air. Eventually, when his father died and he became king, he was able to hire the services of London’s best known architect John Nash who was instructed to turn the modest farmhouse into an Oriental zenana. Taking his cue from pictures he had seen of the Taj Mahal and other Islamic buildings, Nash obliged creating a completely incongruous building in the midst of the sedate beach settlement that under the King’s patronage became one of the most fashionable beach resorts of the day (robbing Bath of its former glory and clientele!)

As if the exterior is inadequately exotic, the visitor is struck dumb by the interior design and decoration that is indescribably OTT (Over The Top) in every respect. Because his love for the exotic did not stop with the Middle East and India but extended to China, the inside has been conceived in the design of the Far East. Bamboo is everywhere–on the banister up the stairs, edging the pictures moldings, etc. But, mind you, none of this is real. For this is a Palace of Illusion and all the bamboo you see is wrought iron painted to look like bamboo, all the marble you see is wood faux-painted to look like marble. It becomes a game, after the while, to figure out how much is real and how much is an affectation.

When we passed into the Banqueting Hall, the Saloon, the Music Room, The Long Gallery, the interiors were so lavish and so overwhelmingly gorgeous in the paintings, chandeliers hung over with ferocious dragons and coiled around with fierce snakes, in the candelabra, in the gilded dishes and the porcelain and the silverware and finally arrived in the kitchen from which 100 dishes emanated each day, we were well and truly speechless. We had a very good guide who lovingly explained every detail and made our tour special.

By this point, I was starving and went out in search of a bite, but looking at my watch, I realized that I had just enough time to look for the meeting place called Bills on North Street where I had made plans to meet with Marina Stubbs who would become the first Anglo-Indian I would interview for my proposed study on immigrants in the UK. I had such a hard time trying to find Bills and her that I was ready for a beer in the nearest bar by the time we did touch base. My interview went off really well and we ended up walking to her home where I was able to take her picture and meet her young son Samuel. Away from all the tourist traps, Brighton is an unpretentious little city with very modest homes. The interior of Marina’s home, very tiny by American standards, featured a very narrow hallway that led to a living-cum-family room. Up a narrow stairway were the bedrooms, but, of course, these I did not see. I was happy to get a glimpse into her domestic life which added an extra dimension to the impressions of growing of Anglo-Indian in the UK which she shared with me during our interview. She is also a writer and I was pleased to meet someone else who shares my love for writing. Best of all, I was happy that
my research has finally taken off and that I was able to combine work with a day of pleasure.

Then, I was galloping off to meet our coach at the water front and spent the next three hours stuck in traffic so that we arrived in London all worn out. Back home, it was all I could do to vegetate in front of the “telly” watching the second part of Thomas Hardy’s “Tess of the D’Urberbilles” that is on BBC One. As always, watching Tess’ plight in those horrible Victorian times is heart-breaking. I spent the next fifteen minutes chatting with Llew before calling it a night.

Thankfully, the blind man (pun intended!) arrived on Friday and fixed the blinds in my flat, so that I no longer need to fall asleep with an eye mask on! The darkened interior of my flat now make it feel so much more warm and cozy and offers privacy from the office building just across the street.

Pani-Puri and Paan at Southall

Sep21

Saturday, September 20, 2008
Hounslow and Southall

My day began on the Piccadilly line headed for Hounslow East to see my Dad’s cousin, Sybil, whom I remember with great affection as having given me a memorable time when I arrived in London for the very first time 22 years ago. She lived then in a sprawling home called ‘Wheelspin’ in Guildford, Surrey. Alas, asthma, lack of exercise and dependence on a nebulizer has reduced her to a couch potato who spends her days staring at a TV screen and swallowing the soap operas (though, not necessarily, digesting them) and the competitive reality shows. Some things never change–she still watches Coronation Street and it was deja-vu for me all over again watching her watch the goings-on on the UK’s longest-running soap. Craving now for company, she kept worrying me to spend a weekend with her but I had, regretfully, to inform her that my weekends are all spoken for. Tomorrow I head for Brighton, the weekend after for Liverpool, the weekend following that to Barcelona, so I was glad I made the time to see her today.

Her ex-husband Joel picked me up at the Tube station and drove me, first to a gigantic Tesco from where I ended up purchasing some desserts as the prices were so laughably cheap compared to the the arm and leg prices I’ve been paying for all groceries at Marks and Spenser Simply Food and Sainsburys. And to my astonishment, I discovered that they sell packets of idli-sambar-chutney and masala dosa in the Tesco Freezer section! And at very reasonable prices too for Hounslow is London’s Little India! Joel picked up two packets and I feasted that afternoon on lunch in their 3-bedroom flat.

When we had caught up with family news on both sides–Sybil inquired after my family members in Bombay and I learned about all my distant relatives here in the US–she returned to her soaps while Joel followed the horse-racing at Eyre in Scotland, placing long-distance bets on horses that did not bring him any moolah at all. It seems he spends his days playing the horses and his nights at the poker table where he is quite an ace. The many poker trophies he has won at competitions attest to his expertise as a card sharp.

In the evening, after he had served me a mean upkari–studded with dal and mustard seeds and flavored with green chilli–Joel drove me to Southall, the Punjabi stronghold of London since the 1950s and allowed me to soak in the ethnic atmosphere of this colorful quarter. Rhinestone studded salwar-khameez suits, gold bridal jewelery, spices and condiments in the grocery stores, sweetmeats galore (fresh jalebis being fried on the streets were soaked in concentrated sugar syrup and sold straight off the boiling vat to salivating customers) and street food in the form of North Indian chaat was everywhere. I felt as if I was on the streets of Bandra, Bombay, as we stood and relished plates of pani puri made with just the right sweet-sour-spicy-salt combination, then soothed our burning tongues with the jalebis. I nipped into the grocery store (Tutu Cash and Carry) and bought some spices at prices that would put the English grocery stores out of business and some sauces (chilli sauce, soy sauce). Then, just when we were headed back to our car, Joel spied the paanwalla and wanted to treat me to a mouthful of betel nuts wrapped in two betel leaves. Having never acquired a taste for paan, I declined, but he got himself a sweet paan for a pound, then drove me back to Hounslow from where I jumped into a train that was full of new arrivals from Heathrow headed into London–some jetlagged and travel-weary, others chattering nineteen to the dozen obviously excited to be in London.

I recalled the feeling I had one month ago while on the same train and thought to myself–so much has happened since I arrived and yet, it is so hard to believe that a month has passed already! Time has certainly flown and I have done nothing substantial yet.

Got home exactly an hour later to find that my Anglo-Indian contacts are slowly responding to my initial queries. I have begun to set appointments to see them and tomorrow shall be meeting Marina Stubbs in Brighton.

Bloomsbury’s Aptly-Named ‘Hare and the Tortoise’ Restaurant

Sep19

Karen, her husband Douglas and I discovered that the Asian restaurant called The Hare and the Tortoise in the Brunswick Center in Bloomsbury is very aptly named indeed. We decided to meet there for our weekly Thursday evening rendez-vous. The long line snaking outside the door confirmed our suspicions that this was a very good restaurant indeed. Having eaten out almost every evening this week, I wasn’t ready to part with more than a fiver for dinner, so I was glad the menu presented some skinny-wallet options.

The line crept along like a tortoise on a leisurely vacation. Just when our legs were ready to give way beneath us, we were seated. Made to wait for ages while we studied the menu, Karen had to practically drag a waitress to our table to take our order. More examples of the tortoise-like qualities of the place. Karen and Douglas settled on sake and sushi and were a little depressed at the tiny little bottle they were presented. Their sushi platter was attractive enough but, Karen opined that she had “had better”. As for me, my Curry Laksa was delicious and reminiscent of all that marvelous street food I had eaten from off the carts in Singapore–seriously spicy, with the thin rice noodles that I love, chunky slices of chicken and prawn and a huge mound of them too–so much that I took two containers home for which I was made to pay an additional 20p!

That’s when the hare-like qualities of the restaurant became evident, When it came time for us to pay our bill, not one but three waitresses materialized like magic and hovered officiously around our table as we divvied up our expenses. Oh, they were swift indeed when it came to collecting our cash. Pity they didn’t exhibit the same speed and enthusiasm when seating us and serving up our orders.

Still I shouldn’t complain, at least not too much. For I ended up paying just 6 pounds for that deliciously warming bowlful. And at London prices, that’s a steal!

Today was special for me because I made one of my fondest fantasies come true–I taught my class in the lovely gardens of Bedford Square as it was such a fine day. Ever since I first visited our London campus, three years ago, and had spent some time dozing in the garden on a beautifully sunny day, I had said to myself, “Wouldn’t it be just lovely to teach a class here?” The setting is perfect as the private garden is full of mature trees, has a decidedly solid wrought-iron railing that encircles it and is punctuated with occasional wooden benches. It is also unbelieveably quiet and serene considering that we are in the heart of commercial London.

Well, my students were delighted when I suggested we hold class outside. But, as happens so often and unexpectedly in London, it turned chilly and we were grateful for our cardigans and jackets. Then, even more unexpectedly, a din began right behind the bench on which I was seated to lecture to my class, and when I turned around I discovered that a young chap was doing some welding as part of the incessant construction and refurbishment acitivity that is taking place all over the city, probably in preparation or the Olympics. Anyway, I sent to find out how long he would be and when he said, “Five minutes more”, I continued teaching my class there until our break when we decided to move back indoors.

It is amazing how much pleasure I take in these little things–the ability to finally find a pleasant enough day to allow me the luxury of teaching a London class in a private London garden in a Georgian Square.

Udon At Wagamama…Finally! And some London-based Free-Writes…

Sep19

So, I finally got to Wagamama and had myself a dinner there. When my friend Amy and I had arrived in London in March, we’d wanted to check it out. Didn’t happen. Then when Llew was here, two weeks ago, I wanted to eat there. Other happenings cancelled out those plans.

So when my old Elphinstone College buddy Michelle from back home in Bombay decided to meet up with me for dinner today, I suggested Wagamama and was amazed to find that she had never eaten there. So there we were strolling along the South Bank after a lovely bus ride along Waterloo Bridge. The entire area had a mela-like atmosphere about it. People were out in droves, crowding the South Bank, and allowing me to glimpse the vital cultural life of this city. There was the British Film Institute with its catalogue as thick as a phone book announcing its forthcoming Film Festival titles. Just next door was the National Theater with its enticements. And then we were at the South Bank Center where Music and Dance performances were announced through their handouts. Just to go through those offerings will take ages and I plan to scan them on the Tube tomorrow as I head out to Hounslow to spend the day with my Dad’s cousin Sybil and her ex-husband Joel. I must get down to seeing some serious shows and if I get down there early enough I might even get tickets to some of them.

Wagamama was not as great as I had expected. I had a great big bowl of thick rice noodles with a variety of meats–chicken and prawns and something called a ‘fishroll’. Michelle was in a hurry to return home to Islington to her elderly parents, so we did leave at 8pm, but it was great to see her again and to catch up with her. So much has happened in her life in recent times and it was good to have the evening together.

Thus ended a rather busy day for me. After a 9 am meeting, I was still unable to fix the Address Book on my Optonline webmail which has crashed. The technician has promised to fix it as soon as possible. I spent the morning getting a lot of work accomplished at my computer in my office at Bedford Square as well as obtain membership at the Senate House Library at the University of London with a brand new ID card. The place reminded me very much of the bureaucratic offices at the University of Bombay. Karen hates the look of the building which she finds “depressing”, but I guess I just felt at home there! She informed me that the building was George Orwell’s model for the Ministry buildings in 1984! Creeppieee! She also informed me that the only reason the Senate House was saved during the blitzkreig was that Hitler intended to use it as British SS Headquarters after he had conquered Great Britain! It is these aspects of London that fascinate me–the fact that so much history and literature is cemented into the very bricks of each building.

Talking of London’s Buildings, I set my Writing Class a five minute free-write assignment which I then set to tackling myself. Complete the sentence: London Is…with one word, then write a paragraph about it. Here’s what I came up with:

LONDON IS…
Historic. Centuries of happenings condensed into a few hundred square miles. Rogues and Royalty, paupers and the pompous, natives and novices—the human detritus of all ages crowd its streets, clog its river and scale its towers and turrets. What the world doesn’t know about London’s doings, it doesn’t need to find out. But carved in stone on its imposing facades, embedded in walls clad in ivy and concealed within the secure receptacles of its many museums and libraries is a wealth of secrets only manuscripts can reveal, only books can divulge. Trust me, London is historic.

Then, I set them the task of writing their impressions of the area “Around the British Library” (taking their cue from Donald Goddard’s book Blimey! Another Book About London. And these were my impressions:

AROUND THE BRITISH
The solid Neo-Classical façade of the British Museum stands like a sentinel guarding a cohort of minor structures. In the warren of streets that radiate from its antique nucleus are shops to satisfy every whim, filled with things no one needs—a lambswool beret at the Scotch Shop, pencil ornaments shaped like London bobbies and beefeaters, a bunch of coriander and a bottle of kimchi at the Korean grocery. The local color conjured by these cheap commodities contrasts effectively with the priceless antiquities mirroring the same cultures in the museum’s hallowed cases: an artifact from the Scottish Highlands, medieval treasures from Sutton Hoo, a Tang dynasty horse in gaudy ceramic.

When you leave the precincts of the Museum behind, you are in the many squares that characterize London’s layout: neat parcels of grass that sit like green handkerchiefs in the pockets of Georgian suits of brick and mortar—those uniform three-storey townhouses whose windows, curiously, grow smaller as one’s eyes travel ever higher to the attics, roofs and terracotta-topper chimney pots.–indicating that glass was expensive rendering windows a luxury to be affixed only in the show-off sections of a home.

Punctuated by the embracing branches of mature oaks and elms, these imposing buildings strike, their basement gardens spilling over with hanging annuals and plastered with coppery ivy that provide the sort of eye-candy that makes me ache with longing for a similar garret of my own.

But when you leave the serenity of these private enclaves and join the throngs of shoppers on busy Tottenham Court Road whose daily errands involve topping up their mobile accounts, selecting bangers to go with that evening’s mash or picking up laundry that’s been commercially scrubbed and spun, you enter commonplace London–the London of common folk, the hoi polloi, who beyond the pockets of privilege, keep the city operating. They never glimpse Hadrian’s grim profile at the British or seek the blue plaque that announces the residence of Ms. Woolf who made near-by Bloomsbury legendary as they go about the performance of just one more mundane chore far from the gawking eyes of visitors for whom every square inch of the city is endlessly fascinating.