Tag Archive | Oxford

The Other Place–Calling on Cambridge

Nov22

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Cambridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

House of Lords, Banqueting House and “Wicked” at the West End

Nov14

Friday, November 14, 2008
London

Prince Charles turned 60 today and in his official birthday portrait, I realized with a start how much he has aged. Another Charles was very much in our thoughts as Llew and I toured the Banqueting Hall this morning…but let’s begin at the beginning.

BBC’s Breakfast Show reminded us repeatedly that it was “an unseasonably mild day for this time of year” and not intending to waste a minute of it, we set out on a self-guided walk entitled “Wanderings In Westminster”–what would we do without Frommer’s 24 Great Walks in London? We fuelled up well on a carb-heavy breakfast (Waitrose’s Muesli, Walnut Bread and Sainsbury’s Three Fruits Marmalade) and set out, somewhat lightly clad, much to our regret, for the day turned progressively cooler and we were freezing by the time we got home at 4 pm.

Still, the day started out beautifully and on the Route 11 bus from Fleet Street, we enjoyed inching our way slowly to Westminster Underground Station from where we launched into our rambles. First stop, The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. We have, of course, admired those buildings often and from many angles–even on memorable landings into Heathrow airport at the crack of dawn. But never had we visited the interiors–simply because we always thought it involved a huge song and dance. Permission had to be obtained from local MPs, appointments had to be made, etc. etc. Well, we couldn’t have been more wrong. A jolly policeman at one of the security posts informed me quite simply that all I needed to do was walk a few meters ahead to a gate where entry to the House of Lords could easily be obtained.

Llew and I stared at each other in astonishment. Though a visit to Parliament was very much in my plans before I returned to the USA, neither one of us expected to tour the hallowed premises this morning. So, we couldn’t get over our good fortune when we were marched in through innumerable doors and heavy security gates that involved the taking of our pictures and the presentation of visitors passes, not to mention personal frisking and a surrender of our personal property, before we were permitted to enter. Since only the House of Lords was in session today, we were admitted into the ornate chamber that contained the even more ornate throne on which the monarch sits during her rare visits to the House. Immediately, we were struck by the similarity of these interiors with those of the Houses of Parliament in Budapest, Hungary, which had been modelled entirely on those of the UK and sits serenely upon the Danube. The elaborate decoration on walls and ceilings, floors and pillars that included gilding and sculpture and paintings left us unable to decide exactly on what we should focus. Best part of all was the long and somewhat forbidding Westminster Hall with its timbered ceiling and stone walls–the only part of the buildings that remained intact despite a catastrophic fire in the mid-1800s. It was here that we walked through the pages of funereal history, here that Thomas More appeared before the tribunals to plead his case before being sentenced to death, here where kings and queens have lain in state upon departing this life. It is hard to fathom how closely the stories of British Parliament are connected with the stories of royalty until one enters such august interiors and breathes the very air of solemnity that prevails.

We were seated in a queue until enough space was found in the galleries to accommodate us. When our turn finally arrived, we were ushered up a spiral staircase into the “Stranger’s Gallery” where antiquated notices on the wall informed that any form of participation would be considered “out of order”. Ha ha ha. As for the proceedings, there was a rather tedious presentation of an EU Committee Report on the increase of organ supply in the EU. A couple of people responded to the report, others shook their heads in a learned fashion and others looked plain bored as they sprawled in their seats in rather undignified a manner. I thought I recognized the Goan MP Keith Vaz who is somewhat unmistakable with his bald pate, glasses and cheerful smile–but I could be mistaken. He could well have been Swraj Paul for all I knew! Still, it was fascinating for us to watch the UK government at work and to see for ourselves the sort of scenes one has seen endlessly on TV over the years. What amused us was the sale of “House of Lords Apple and Raisin Chutney” in the gift shop together with more appropriate items such as 2009 pocket diaries and Christmas ornaments featuring the portcullis of the building.

Delighted at the unexpected opportunity to take in the experience of touring the Parliament Buildings together, Llew and I continued our walk. We passed by old and practically unknown parts of London tucked away behind the Parliament Buildings such as the home of T.E. Lawrence of Arabia and St. James’ Church on Smith Square before we arrived in Dean’s Yard and the school in which Ben Jonson, Christopher Wren and Sir John Gielgud was once pupils and from then on to the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms. We’d have liked to have toured those too but time and my feet did not permit us to wander around at leisure. I decided to save that treat for another day.

Instead we crossed Birdcage Walk to enter St. James’ Park which looks totally different in its autumn avatar. Though most of the leaves have fallen already, there was a golden glow reflected in the duck pond where we saw magnificent black swans with vivid red beaks and grey mallards with orange beaks fight for crumbs. Then, we were crossing the Horse Guards Parade to arrive at the Banqueting Hall where we spent the most fascinating hour with audio wands that took us in detail through the history of the building, its spectacular Hall decorated with the ceiling paintings by Peter Paul Reubens that reminded us of England’s troubled Civil War years, the victories of Oliver Cromwell and the tragic execution of Charles I.

Needless to say, we found Reubens’ work compelling and were able to study the panels carefully through mirrored tables on casters that allowed them to be wheeled across the vast room so that the tiniest details could be scrutinized. Depicting the glorious reign of James VI of Scotland who became James I of England (father of Charles I), and the union of two great nations through the crown that sat upon his uneasy head (he was fiercely Catholic in a nation that had become staunchly Protestant), Reubens used classical mythology to glorify the king–the Goddess of Learning Minerva features prominently in the design as do fat and cheeky putti–cheeky because they had bulging cheeks and rotund bottoms! I marveled at the thought that it was within this room that the elaborate masques of Ben Jonson of which I had learned so much during my History of Literature classes, were once performed with even the King and the Queen taking part. The audio guides gave us such a wealth of insight and perspective on the many ways in which this single room affected the annals of history. No wonder Llew and I were absorbed for over an hour as we listened intently and gazed in awe.

The building is no less renowned for the architectural genius of Inigo Jones who was deeply influenced by the grandeur of Italy following a visit to the country and upon returning to England was determined to include, for the first time ever, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns in his work–forever leaving his mark on London’s landscape. Prior to his time, only the half-timbered buildings of Elizabethan and Tudor architecture had prevailed. Jones’ desire to introduce the classical lines of Andrea Palladio to England paved the way for the magic of Christopher Wren who was to follow a century later. I was thrilled that we visited this grand mansion–something I have long been meaning to do–and that we indulged in the opportunity to see a part of the city that few tourists visit.

We left feeling deeply moved by the poignant fate of Charles I on a day when another Charles, the man who will be king, celebrated his diamond birthday while waiting to ascend the throne. I have been told that when he does become King, he plans to change his name as the Charleses who preceded him to the throne have met with such morbid fates.

We were out on the street then in a day that seemed to have turned suddenly frigid and as Llew spent the afternoon resting at home, I caught up with telephone calls and made some more bookings for theater tickets in the spring. I am thrilled to have found practically the last available tickets to see Judi Dench in Madame de Sade and Jude Law as Hamlet, both at the Wyndham Theater. While Llew took a nap, I also managed to get tickets for a traditional British Christmas pantomime, Peter Pan, which stars Simon Callow (one of my favorite British actors) as Captain Hook in a version that will be performed in Richmond. My friend Jenny-Lou Sequeira from New Jersey will be here to spend a few days with me just before Christmas with her daughter Kristen and we thought she would especially enjoy this children’s show.

It wasn’t long before Llew and I were on the bus again headed for the Apollo Victoria Theater to see the musical Wicked–finally! Chriselle had seen this show on Broadway years ago when it first opened and had not stopped raving about it. The title refers to The Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz and the story of this play precedes Dorothy’s arrival in Kansas and her meeting with her co-travelers on the yellow brick road in the famous ruby slippers. Those, Wicked inform us, happens to belong to the Wicked Witch’s crippled sister, Nessa.

Chriselle, of course, knows The Wizard of Oz rather well having acted in it as a Munchkin years ago while still in high school. Llew and I enjoyed it but were not unduly impressed. While the sets and costume were spectacular, the music did not appeal to either one of us. Amazingly, the theater was full with not a single seat available and though we were perched high up in the Stalls, the opera glasses for which we paid a very reasonable 50 p allowed us to see the actors up close and personal. Though poor Llew has been afflicted by a horrendous cough that has kept him awake at night and made the viewing of the show rather dismal for him, I did cheer him up at the interval with that most British of theater traditions–a cup of double chocolate ice-cream that comes in a cup with its own spoon cleverly attached to the cap! Far from annoying his throat even more, the ice-cream seemed to soothe it and he was spared a coughing fit for a good half hour after he enjoyed this treat.

We were out into the cool night air soon enough, looking for a bus that would take us back home to Holborn. Passing down Oxford Street, we realized that Yuletide has arrived in London as strings of lights hang in chandelier-fashion above the roofs as the buses pass under them and the department stores seem to be vying with each other in the dazzling spectacle of holiday lights that adorn their premises. It is a great time to be in London and we are soaking it all in.

Dallying on Sacred Delos

Nov12

Friday, November 7, 2006
Delos, Greece

To read this text with accompanying pictures, please click on the following link in my website: http://rochellesroost.googlepages.com/greece_delos

The day we spent in Delos was easily for me one of the highlights of our trip to Greece. In the morning, we ran into my student Vince Libasci again–a feat not improbable considering how few tourists were on the island. We had invited Vince to join us on the day trip to Delos and to share our breakfast–a rather good one based on delicious packaged chocolate croissants from the local ‘supermarket’, really not much more than a corner shop.

To our great good fortune, the local boat had decided to ply that day, but only at 11 am. This left us a good hour to explore Mykonnos some more–an island whose magic spell quite enchanted me. Llew, Vince and I rambled in the Chora (pronounced ‘hora’), the main village with its maze of narrow streets and vividly painted balconies–red, blue, green–that were filled with late season geraniums and giant cactii in pots. Bougainvillea climbed walls in lush profusion and the entire effect was just lovely. It was hard to stop taking pictures as I wanted to capture it all on celluloid.

At 11 am, we were back on the jetty looking for the “Delos Express” , a boat with a rather grandiose name, which we boarded with a handful of other visitors. The sea rocked somewhat disturbingly for me, but I closed my eyes and was grateful for the fact that Delos was only a half hour away. Soon, we were rounding its contours and taking in the stones and columns that were strewn all over its shores.

It is entirely thanks to my Oxford classmate and close friend Dr. Firdaus Gandavia, that we landed on Delos. When he had visited me in London from Bombay, about a month ago, he had recommended a trip to Delos which, he told me, “is archaeologically deeply significant”. And now I cannot thank him enough for making me aware of this island’s magic. Delos is the most sacred of the islands in the Cyclades and is surrounded by the other larger islands–Mykonnos, Tinos, Argos, Siros, Naxos, Paros. It is believed to be the birthpace of the Gods Apollo and Artemis and every attempt was made to preserve this island as a tribute to their powers. Hence, by decree, no one was allowed to be born or to die on Delos. The bones of those once buried on the island were dug up and transported to another site and from then on, no one was ever allowed to spend a night on the island. To date, the Greek government honors the ancient conventions and the island remains uninhabited. Every single passenger that disembarks from the ferry boats are carefully counted and the exact same number is returned at night fall to Mykonnos. It is somewhat eerie to imagine what the island of Delos must be like at night–what ghosts walk around its ruined homes and fallen columns, I wondered?

Once ashore, we purchased tickets (five euros each) to take a self-guided archeological tour of the island. By following the clearly-marked arrows, one could see the most important monuments–a perfectly semi-circular seat here, Naxian marble columns, there. A Temple to Apollo, another to Dionysus. All signs were in Greek and, for some inexplicable reason, in French. It was only later in the museum that I discovered that the excavations on Delos, at the turn of the 20th century (1901-1911 to be exact), were led by a French archoeologist belonging to the University of Athens. His findings led to the unearthing of an entire city that, like Pompeii, lay buried beneath the rubble. Hence, what the visitor really does on Delos, is walk in a former settlement that thrived and was once the most important port in Greece. In fact, it was only more recently that Pireaus in Athens upstaged Delos’ importance. Bankers, seamen, financiers, made their homes on one side of Delos and their ruined mansions can still be visited, complete with their mosaic flooring and frescoed walls.

Many of the treasures found in these homes have been moved to the National Archeological Museum in Athens, but a small museum can be visited on Delos itself. In it, one can see a vast number of archeological artifacts such as jewelery, statues, tables, urns, etc. It is a mind-blowing experience, especially since I had visited Pompeii only in March and been completely fascinated by this buried city that dates from 69 BC. Well, here I was on Delos, walking on the remains of a history that dates back over the last 3,000 years!

This is cearly evident at the Terrace of the Lions where about six life sized lions made of Naxian marble and presented to Delos by the islanders of Naxos give the area its name. These are large, fierce, commanding, their presence giving the island its own peculiar character. These lions were placed outside for a century after being excavated and the elements took their toll on their features so that their faces and manes are stripped of all detail. Today, they are placed inside the museum with plaster replicas adorning the terrace. I was so stunned by all these sights that I was often speechless, unable quite fully to take in the mysteries of the classical world that were being revealed to us as I trod those ruined pathways. Further down the hill, the amphitheater was in rather bad shape and will require a lot of reconstruction before it is restored to its former glory…but we were impressed by the underground cistern that ran below the amphitheater and supplied the island with water. Even as I tried to take it all in, I watched as workers strove to put together, stone upon stone, those crumbled walls. It was especially wonderful for me to be able to see the connection between Delos and Pompeii and it was especially moving for Llew to make the connection between Delos and Mohenjo-Daro and Harrappa in modern-day Pakistan, remnants of the cities of the Indus Valley Civilization that he had the good fortune of visiting many years ago.

At 2 pm, when I was quite tired from all our exploration and seeing our boat puff quietly in the port, I was reminded of Tennyson’s poem “Ulysses” in which the restless hero of the Odyssey decides to set sail once again after a short visit to his wife and son Telemachus, as he cannot rest from travel and must drink life to the lees. This has always been one of my favorite of poems from English Literatrue and to see the boat lying in the harbor against the background of the bright blue Aegean Sea was deeply evocative for me. Llew had resovled that we should return to the British Museum to see the Parthenon Marbles, having visited the monument while in Athens. I decided to review the poem once again having spent so much time on the inky waters of the Aegean.

By 3 pm, we were back in our hotel room for a long siesta. I spent time reading while Llew snoozed. At 7 pm, we stirred having made plans to join Vince for dinner. We chose a wayside restaurant called Madoupas on the waterfront which was filled with locals–always a good sign when one is traveling. In this place, we ate one of the most memorable of our Greek meals–The Mykonnian Salad was huge and consisted of rocket (mesclun greens), red louza sausage that is a speciality of Mykonnos, black eyed beans, tomatoes, olives and a Mykonnian cheese that was far more flavorful than feta cheese. The light dressing of olive oil and vinegar made for a totally filling meal with the Greek bread served alongside and it was with difficulty that Llew and I shared our second course–Mykonnian Sausage with Fries. The sausage was spicey and went well with the blandness of the fries. Portions were enormous and we had enough for our next day’s meal in the doggy bag we carried back with us.

By the time we returned to the beach, the few folk in the town had disappeared altogether and a ghostliness descended down upon the island. We wondered why the shops closed down, only to discover that Friday evenings are when business comes to a standstill for the weekend. Since the thick of the tourist season was over, Mykonnos was in farewell mode and the stores and hotels were preparing themselves for the long and quiet winter months ahead when no cruise loads of tourists would hurry along its shores.

Afternoon Tea at the Ritz

Nov2

Sunday, November 2. 2008
London

Our day began early even before the rest of Holborn was stirring. Llew and I decided to attend the 9 am Mass at St. Etheldreda’s Parish at Ely Place as I could not wait to introduce him to this gem of a medieval church in the heart of the city of London. The mass was said by Fr. Simon Giles, a visiting priest from Radcliff College, Leicestershire. Barbara was in church too and we said a quick hullo to her before she walked briskly off to pick up the Sunday paper.

Llew and I got back home for a swift cup of coffee before showering and getting all decked up for our big date with our friend Bande Hassan, CEO of Habib Bank who invited us to Afternoon Tea at the Ritz–one of London’s most celebrated traditions. It was, in fact, nine years ago, that we had all entered the Ritz together to take tea, only to be stopped by a maitre d’ who politely informed us that we were inappropriately dressed for the occasion in our sneakers. In all the years that we have kept visiting London, we could never get reservations the week we were in town. Finally, Mr. Hasan made this appointment nearly three months ago in preparation for Llew’s November return to the city.

On a day that was far milder than yesterday and with sunlight gilding the streets, we arrived at the lobby of the hotel–one of the world’s most famous. Within the superbly decorated space with its Aubusson carpet, marble columns and gilded plasterwork, we awaited our host’s arrival. I was struck by a charming arrangement of vivid pink roses in a tall mercury glass coupe that dominated the center table. The softness of pinks, greens and beige kept the space classy without becoming opulent.

Soon, Mr. Hasan arrived and we checked in our coats before proceeding to the Palm Court where tables were artfully arranged in classic style to allow us to partake of one of the country’s most beloved meals–Afternoon Tea. After we were seated politely and carefully–Llew and me on an intimate bench, our host opposite us–menus were presented to inform us about the variety of items we’d be served. A three tier cake stand arrived piled with finger sandwiches–ham, chicken, cucumber, smoked salmon, cheese, tomato and Egg Mayonnaise in small brioche rolls. The waiter then took our order for tea–I chose Earl Grey which I always enjoy with a squeeze of lemon while Llew and Mr. Hasan chose the Traditional Blend. In beautiful silver tea pots, the liquid was perfectly brewed. More sets of sandwiches were available if we wished for seconds. People around whispered quietly and I tried to, discreetly, spot any celebrities, but there was no one I could recognize among the beautiful people that filled the space.

Ten minutes later, the waiter returned with our scones–Apple and Raisin Scones with large pots filled with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Though the scones were nowhere as soft, crumbly and melt-in-the-mouth delicious as the ones we had eaten at the Willow Tea Rooms on Sauchihall Street in Glasgow, Scotland, only a few weeks ago, the strawberry jam was particularly flavorful and make each morsel memorable.

When we eventually turned our attention to the sweets, pastries and mini cakes on the top most platter, we were already stuffed. But they looked far too appetizing to be ignored and no arms needed to be twisted to reach an indulgent hand forward to move the macaroons, chocolate truffle cake, raspberry cream tarts and Mille Feuilles to our plates. Every little temptation was so beautifully made and so exquisitely presented. We were truly enchanted by the efforts made by the management to charm and delight during a two hour meal whose service was unhurried, polite and very polished.

We thanked Mr. Hasan profusely for his generosity in treating us to so fine a privilege and since he had some shopping to do on Oxford Street, we walked along with him along Old Bond and New Bond Streets with their million dollar merchandise throughout the length of the two streets until we arrived at Oxford Street. Once again, I sat down to rest my feet while the two friends whose friendship goes back several decades spent some quality time together.

After we said goodbye to Mr. Hasan, Llew and I went to Marks and Sparks on Oxford Street as I badly needed an undergarment fitting scheduled. This was done very well by a young assistant called Kimberly who did an excellent and very patient job fitting me and recommending the right style and size for my figure type. I was so glad of her expert advice and left the store with a few packets in my bags and the decision to order a few more upon my return from Greece.

By this time, my feet had started to feel tired and we hopped into a bus and arrived at Holborn before night blanketed all vestiges of light. We had so much to do as both of us have to pack for our early morning departure tomorrow for Gatwick airport and our flight to Athens, Greece. We’re looking forward to exploring ancient cultures and to cruising upon the Aegean Sea.

I will not be able to contribute to this blog for the next 10 days. So I should sign this installment off by saying, Au Revoir…

The Best Halloween Treat Of All!

Nov1

Friday, October 31, 2008
London

When Llew rang my doorbell on 9.30 this morning, he brought me the best Halloween treat of all time–Himself! Plus, a big bouquet of autumnal blooms in the color of the holiday–yellow and orange chrysanthemums all gathered together in red tissue! It was an entrance to remember!

After we’d brought each other up to speed on our six weeks apart, we had a bit of breakfast, then set off by bus for Leicester Square to meet Ian who had arrived there earlier to grab half-price tickets for Billy Elliott-The Musical. Alas, that was not to be and between the three of us, we’d seen most of the others. Since the day was so sunnily uplifting, we decided to get away from the bustle of the city and to return to it at sundown. So, we leaped on the Tube and got to Angel with the idea of checking out the Regent’s Canal of which I had heard so much.

A few minutes later, we found the stairs that led down to a quiet, serene strip of water that reflected the blazing leaves of yellowing maples that lay strewn like a carpet bordering both sides. We found a quiet bench and sat chatting as we watched people walk their dogs or jog by. House boats lay moored silently on the far side, their bright colors–navy blue and fire engine red–bringing visual exuberance to the scene. Ian and Llew left me in quiet contemplation of the season’s bounty to the fat squirrels who kept me company as they embarked on a walk along the Canal’s Tow Path.

But because the spot was far too quiet for Ian who wanted to be part of the London action, we took a bus to Euston Square passing by many interesting landmarks such as St. Pancras Station at King’s Cross and the new British Library building. Hopping off in search of Little India hidden behind on Drummond Street, we had a meal–” A Set Indian Lunch for 6.50″–at Masala Hut. There, over Lamb Bhuna and Chicken Tikka, Saag Aloo and Sabzi, Saffron Rice and Naans, we felt as if we were back home in the States at one of our many parties! But soon Ian wanted to get back into the thick of things, and we hopped on to a bus once more to alight at Marylebon High Street so that I could introduce them to one of my favorite shopping venues in London.

Far from the craziness of high street shopping chains such as TopShop and Russel and Bromley on Oxford and Regent’s Streets are the more exclusive “boutique” stores and restaurants of Marylebon High Street. Here, famous English designers such as Cath Kidson and Emma Bridgewater have set up their own retails stores selling everything delightful–vintage reproductions of flowery aprons and neat sewing sets at the former and striped and polka dotted dog bowls and pasta platters at the latter. There is Roccocco Chocolates, one of my favorite chocolatiers who do unusual flavor combinations, tucking chilli and powdered dried orange rind into their truffles. At Patiserie Valerie, the cakes and pastries that adorn the display window are so irresistible that I rarely walk by without selecting one of their goodies to carry home. I love The White Company with its luxurious cashmere throws and crisp bed linen and Daunt Books with its announcements of forthcoming author readings–on November 26, for instance, actor Julian Fellows whose novel Snobs I had enjoyed and whose performance as Killwillie was fun to watch in Monarch of the Glen, will be reading from his new novel Past Imperfect. He has the wacky sense of humor and ironic eye that in poking fun of his countrymen’s own eccentricities makes reading his work a lot of fun.

Then, we were out on Oxford Street where I chose to do something I rarely do but which my foot condition now forces me to indulge in–people-watching–as I made myself comfortable on a bench. Despite the fact that it was a freezing evening, armies of shoppers were raiding the stores or so it seemed if one went by the colorful bags hanging from their arms and proclaiming, “Selfridges”, “M&S” “Waterstones”, “Dorothy Perkins”, etc. Now whether these were tourists or local Londoners it was hard to say–but they seem none the worse for the credit crunch. As for us, Yankees, we couldn’t be more pleased that the pound has (finally!) taken a plummeting and the dollar is actually fetching us enough in exchange currency to not make us feel as if we are a Third World Country too! It is a great time for Llew to return to Old Blighty!

Not too long after that, we were in the cafe at Debenham’s, far from the madding Christmas crowd–yes, it would seem that it is Christmas already if one goes by the the display windows of the big department stores–and sank down into the roomy sofas with comforting pots of English tea. By the time we emerged on to the street again, night had fallen–yes at 5 pm. and it was time to go out in search of the city lights!

That’s when we had something of a memorable adventure. Having decided to take Bus 139 to Waterloo Bridge so Llew and Ian could sample the hi-jinks of the South Bank, we saw a bus cruise right by us. When the middle doors opened to disgorge a few passengers, I hopped right on assuming that Llew and Ian who were right behind me would hop on too. Well, it turned out that the stop wasn’t a scheduled one and as soon as I hopped on, the driver closed the doors leaving the two guys out on the road running madly after the bus and hoping to get on at the next bus-stop, leaving me trapped inside waving frantically to them! It was a bit like the climax scene of Doctor Zhivago with Yuri waving madly to an oblivious Lara on the snowy streets of Moscow! Except that the guys outside were not oblivious to me! Though the bus merely crawled through the traffic, at the intersection, it made a sudden right turn into Regent’s Street leaving me crestfallen. Soon enough, it came to a halt. I jumped off and set out in search of the two guys. They had abandoned the attempt to race after the bus and had chosen a spot on the corner to wait for me, where, despite the enveloping darkness, I spotted them and we had a hysterical reunion!

When the next 139 arrived, knowing where the bus stop actually was, we caught it, found seats upstairs and continued laughing at our little adventure. The route was wonderful. taking us through the bright neon lights of Piccadilly Circus which has developed into an imitation of New York’s Times Square what with its gigantic bill boards and entertainment hoardings. Waterloo Bridge was rather dead until we took the stairs that led to the Thames Embankment where all the cyclists in London seemed to have assembled for what appeared to be a rally. Werewolves on bicycles reminded me that it was,in fact, Halloween, a holiday that is so huge in America but passes by almost unnoticed here in London. I did not see any little trick or treaters raiding the shops of all their candy nor did I see anyone in costume. In the restaurants that line the Thames’ Banks, the waiters were wearing horns and had blood streaming down their mouths, but that was their only concession to Halloween! We did, however, receive free candy bars from one vendor on Oxford Street, but whether that was a promotion or a Halloween giveaway was unclear.

I left Llew and Ian to explore the South Bank and its cultural offerings while I saw down on a bench and started a conversation with a cyclist. It seems that on the last Friday 0f every month, a bunch of London cyclists gather at the South Bank to embark on a free style pedal all over the city. Because it was Halloween, a few of them had carried along boom boxes and put on costumes and were partying! It was fun to be a part of this mad melee and I absorbed the atmosphere as best I could thinking of the trick or treaters who’d be at our Connecticut front door begging for goodies in their scary costumes and of the many years during which we devised costumes for Chriselle who went candy-hunting with her own pals.

The cold prevented us from spending more time outdoors–it had turned rather vicious by night–and as we awaited a bus to take us back to High Holborn, it felt as if winter had arrived with a vengeance. At Holborn, Ian and Llew hopped off near Sainsburys, so Ian could buy his stock of English chocolates to take home to New Jersey (his flight leaves early tomorrow) and to pick up some dinner–they returned with a Thai boxed meal contained spring rolls and steamed rice with red and green chicken curries! I have to wonder who has planned these boxed meals–why two curries and why both chicken? Why not one chicken curry and one salad or (as in the case of the Indian dinner), one lamb and one sabzi? Still, you can’t beat the convenience of the boxed meal. Over wine and stout and diet Coke, we made ourselves comfortable back home and had a very nice dinner, thank-you.

We called Chrissie a little later–Ian congratulated her on her engagement while she told him excitedly about her shooting stint last week with Keira Knightley in the film Last Night. I also described our day to her and she ended up sighing and saying to me, “And Mum, I suppose this was you trying to take it easy, right?”

Ian spent a while checking email on my laptop and then it was time to say goodbye to him and clear up the kitchen. Llew did a bit of unpacking–his suitcase was full of the things I had asked him to bring for me–and then we were too pooped to do anything else.

It promised to be a boooooo-ti-ful Halloween night!

A Cheerful Chinwag…then Pinter at the Playhouse

Oct22

Tuesday, October 21, 2008
London

Cabin Fever has set in seriously and I spent a good half hour on the phone booking tickets to a number of plays that I want to see at the West End. Since the actors in these productions are usually big stars of the stage and screen, they have a limited engagement and I do not want to miss the opportunity to see them. So I was very pleased to get tickets to three plays this week, figuring that all I had to do was take a bus to Leicester Square and stay put in my seat for three hours. How damaging could that be to my feet, right? Well, I’d find out at the end of the evening after I’d kept my date with Harold Pinter at the Duke of Yorks’ Theater.

When my friend Bina Samel Ullal arrived at a quarter past eleven, I greeted her warmly, thrilled at the knowledge that I’d be out in a little bit in her company. Bina arrived with magenta delphiniums and a bag with the Waitrose gourmet nibbles I had requested–the Fig and Walnut Bread, Stilton with Stem Ginger and Cold Pressed Tongue. The two of us go back a long long way–we were teenagers together in Bombay and high school chums and we spent our salad days exchanging romantic pulp fiction, drooling over Donny Osmond and Rajesh Khanna and swatting for our exams late into the night over her mother’s inimitable cups of steaming coffee.

So it was little wonder that we curled up with mugs of coffee at my flat and chinwagged about our old acquaintances and friends before we set out to Boots so I could buy the gel heel lifts that the doctor recommended I insert in my shoes. We also picked up coriander and ginger naan from Sainsburys, some batteries for my tape recorder and a Top-Up for my cell (sorry, mobile)phone SIM card. I cannot even begin to express how fabulous it felt to be out in the world again! The weather had taken a chilly turn and the rush of cold air against my face felt absurdly welcome as I crossed the street and headed for the Farmer’s Market to buy a few figs. I walked slowly and gingerly, still feeling the pull on my plantar (I cannot believe the ease with which I use this term when only one week ago, I had said, “Plantar, what?!?”) I know that my recovery will be very slow indeed but at least the worst of the pain seems to have passed and I am functional again.

A half hour later, having rustled up a salad, we were seated at my dining table sipping chilled white Muscadet, making a meal of Sainsburys’ Chicken Jalfrezi and Naans and gabbing nineteen to the dozen. Time always just floats away when we are together and we regress to our giggly youth as we recall our former years. Now, of course, we talk about our kids and their doings and we tsk, tsk, as all parents will inevitably do!

Bina had to leave before the peak hour rush began, having to make her way back to Harrow, a good hour away on the Tube. This left me time to start planning my Spring Syllabus and catch up on email. After I had designed my course on South Asian Civilization that I will be teaching next semester, I washed up and cleared away the remnants of our meal, found the time to do my exercises, massaged my feet with the ibuprofen gel and indulged in a few ice massages. The tip that my friend Amy Tobin sent me from New York–to freeze water in Dixie cups and then roll them on the arches of my feet–is so simple but so practical.

With the clock’s hands creeping towards 6.45 pm, I excitedly got dressed for my evening at the West End. Harold Pinter’s No Man’s Land features a galaxy of stars at the Duke of York Theater which is right near the Church of St. Martin’s-in-the-Field near Charing Cross. I was attracted by the name of Michael Gambon who plays Hirst, an alcoholic ageing scion, who is visited in his home in the country by a stranger named Spooner, played by David Bradley. As his reserves of whisky dwindle at his well-stocked bar, the pair are joined by two younger, menacing men, Foster (David Williams) and Briggs (Nick Dunning) apparently Hirst’s employees who guard him and his doings fiercely.

The two older men reminisce about their younger days in Oxford, realizing that they have a lot of friends in common and that they once hated each other. Though Spooner has evolved into a somewhat successful poet, he hopes to find patronage under Hirst’s influence. The two younger men are determined to keep the older two apart and the four of them fall into a ‘No Man’s Land’ in which the dialogue (in classic Pinter terms) takes strange, even poetic turns and seems to cast them almost in a dream or perhaps even a nightmare.

As in all Pinter plays, the end remains inconclusive. The curtain came down on some riveting theatrical dialogue and some truly brilliant acting. Gambon, of course, has a magical stage presence that has endeared him to me in such films as Gosford Park and I can’t wait to see him as Lord Marchmain in the new version of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited (which will be out in the theaters any day now). Bradley (who has featured in all the Harry Potter films) made an equally impressive Spooner, his craggy features and his wiry gait working effortlessly to portray the slight seediness of his character despite the spit and polish of his lines. As for the two younger actors, Williams (whom I have seen in Little Britain) and Dunning (whom I have seen in a number of TV series, most recently The Inspector Lynley Mysteries), they played their roles to perfection, keeping the audience on edge throughout as we wondered what their next moves would be. This was contemporary drama at its best, Pinter at its most potent, and I was glad I braved the journey alone and witnessed the synergy that can result when truly brilliant dramatic writing meets the genius of a great performance.

I was still shaky on my feet when I got home and went straight to bed…but secretly pleased that I had not allowed my affliction to prevent me from enjoying one of London’s greatest offerings–world-class theater.

I am looking forward now to the next show… because despite my pesky plantar, the show/s must go on!

A Date at Thomas Carlyle’s

Oct10

Friday, October 10, 2008
London

Gorgeous, glorious, grand–no adjectives can quite do justice to the kind of weather we had today. The perfect autumnal day. I caught up quickly with some pending chores, then rushed out to meet the morning. Headed straight for the Senate House where the Conference on “Things Fall Apart at 50” is on. Ran straight into Elleke Boehmer while attempting to find Annalisa Oboe, my friend from the University of Padua in Italy. She is here for the conference and we have plans to meet.

When I cannot find her, I adjourn to my office at Bedford Square to get some photocopying done, only to find that the machine is on the blink. The errand takes longer than I expect and by 1 pm, I am back at Senate House trying to find Annalisa again. This time we do hook up and have an affectionate reunion. It is always so great to see her and over the years we have run into each other in various parts of the world–her home in Vicenza, in Oxford a few years ago, in Venice this past March and now here in London. I take her off to my office at the NYU campus and get the keys from Mimi, our security guard, to the private Bedford Gardens where I munch a sandwich and catch up with Annalisa. Time flies and she has to return to the conference for a meeting. We are meeting again tomorrow at a session that includes a conversation between Chinua Achebe and Simon Akandi presiding. She will then come over to my Holborn flat for dinner.

Then, I head off to Chelsea enjoying the warmth of the October sunshine on my back. I love my new leather backpack that allows me to stash a load of stuff without creating a burden. I walk to Trafalgar Square, hop into the No 11 bus going to Sloan Square, but, on impulse, I hop off at Elizabeth Street which my English Home magazine had informed me was a great place to shop.

They were right. I find the little street quite delightful. Offering a range of luxury goods (chocolate at The Chocolate Society Shop from where I buy nut-studded dark chocolate to munch on; Poilane, the French bakery, where I nibble on tiny round biscuit samples; Les Senteurs, a parfumerie where the salesgirl, Natalie, is a wonder who sends me home with three samples of fragrances that are so delicious they have me swooning with pleasure). I have not allowed myself this kind of indulgence–the sheer joy of window shopping and sampling wares in the speciality stores–and I am revelling in it.

Then, I crack on quickly towards Sloan Square and the King’s Road where I am determined to visit the home of Scottish writer Thomas Carlyle before it closes for the day. I love this part of Chelsea–the shoppers rushing by with their bulging bags, the enticements of the shops, the buses lumbering along at leisure. When I arrive at Cheyne Row, I find that Carlyle’s home looks very plain from the outside. But for his bust set into the wall outside his door, there is little indication that this Romantic writer lived here for almost 50 years.

The door is opened by a volunteer named David who checks the date on my National Trust membership card, finds it in order, realizes that since I have a Royal Oak Membership I am from America and launches into an introduction into the life and work of Carlyle. I am taken back to my graduate course at St. John’s University under Dr. Gregory Maertz who was passionate about Carlyle and had us read his Sartor Resartus (The Tailor Repatched), probably one of the most obscure books ever written.

For me, the pilgrimage to Carlyle’s house has more recent relevance. I have just finished reading William Dalrymple’s White Moghuls which I am also teaching in my course on Anglo-Indians. Dalrymple mentions Blumine, a female character in the book, who was said to have been inspired by Carlyle’s fascination for Kitty Kirkpatrick, the daughter of James Achilles Kirkpatrick, Resident of Hyderabad and Khair-u-Nissa, a Hyderabadi Muslim of Moghul descent. Dalrymple mentions that a portrait of Kitty hangs in Carlyle’s Chelsea home and I am keen to see it. I find it eventually on the third floor of the house where another volunteer named Lynne point it out and spends about a half hour discussing White Moghuls with me. She takes the pains to point out all kinds of interesting things to me such as the 80th birthday citation to the writer which contains the signatures of some of the leading intellectual lights of the time such as Tennyson, Browning, Leslie Stevens, John Morley (of India’s Morley-Minto Reforms), Charles Darwin and his brother Erasmus, Dickens, etc. I am enthralled.

The house is very dark but furnished in the way it was when Carlyle presided over it with his wife Jane. Their’s was a dysfunctional marriage, David informs me, but the couple stayed together nevertheless, remaining childless. In a part of Chelsea in which a house today would cost no less than 3 million pounds, the Carlyles lived in quiet modesty, the fields surrounding the home then making it seem almost rural and, therefore, undesirable. The fact that the Thames flows only a few feet away would have been considered a negative factor in those days(remember the Thames stank awfully at that time) and I daresay that sellers would not have boasted river views as they would do today. After 50 years of living in the home and becoming one of the most celebrated writers of his time, Carlyle never owned the house, renting it until his death. Funds were raised after his death to buy it and retain it as a memorial. Doors first opened to the public in 1895 and to date Carlyle fans troop in reverentially to pay their respects to a writer whose work is a challenge to read.

The most interesting item on display in the house is the only surviving scrap of the original manuscript of Volume One of The French Revolution, which Carlyle had given to John Stewart Mill to read. Mill’s maid found the manuscript lying in the grate and assumed it was meant to be used for kindling. When Mill came downstairs the next morning he found the charred remains of his friend’s tour de force–one which was written in long hand with no copies retained nor any notes preserved. A mortified Mill offered Carlyle 200 pounds for the manuscript he had destroyed. Carlyle accepted 100 pounds and set to work again, re-writing the entire thing in three months! A few months later, the book was published to wide acclaim and sealed his reputation as a sterling historian of the Romantic school. A fragment of the original manuscript is to be found in a small vitrine in a home that is filled with portraits, paintings, pictures, etchings, the original furniture including the piano that Chopin once played in the house (his mistress George Sand being a good friend of Carlyle’s Welsh wife, Jane Carlyle).

Poking around this home was a revelation to me and I enjoyed the visit as I do all visits to the homes of the famous dear departed. However, it was the garden that I found most enchanting–perhaps a part of the home that is rarely visited. A typical Chelsea garden–one of those long narrow affairs with high brick walls, it is perfectly landscaped with stone steps, gravel pathways, a small strip of lawn, two wrought iron benches placed strategically under the shade of trees–charmingly one bore pears, the other figs. Within this serene spot in the midst of the city of London, the man poured out his great works becoming one of the most prominent figures of his time.

Then, I was on the bus again making my way to the top and sitting on the front seats. These rides never fail to take me back to my girlhood in Bombay when I rode similar double decker red buses in the company of my parents and brothers on long outings into Mahim from Bombay Central where we’d attend the weekly Novena at St. Michael’s Church on Wednesday evenings. On the way back, in the bus on the top deck, my mother would fish out her home made sandwiches (sometimes ham, sometimes cheese) from a bag and we’d have our dinner as the driver trundled through the dimly-lit streets past traffic lights and late night revellers. I loved those rides and eagerly anticipated those late Wednesday outings,. Time stands frozen for me on these London bus journeys which might explain why I grab a bus whenever I can and make for the upper deck.

I returned home to cook myself a small dinner–cauliflower mash and Cumberland sausages and a salad. My neighbor Tim rang my doorbell at 8. 30pm to suggest an outing to Wapping tomorrow morning. I am delighted. The day promises to be just as splendid and I will make the acquaintance of my neighbors while getting to know a part of London to which I have never been.

I am very excited indeed.

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!

Feeding the Homeless at Lincoln Inn Fields

Sep15

Monday, September 15, 2008
London

I woke up to the realization that I have spent exactly one month in the United Kingdom–certainly one of the happiest and most exciting months I have ever spent. My entire life at this point seems like an endless vacation and I am reveling in it.

It still feels strange to wake up alone in the eerie silence of my flat and not have Llew’s quiet presence surrounding me. But most days we speak on the phone just when his day is beginning in New York and mine has reached its middle and then it seems as if he is right here besides me. He too seems to be going from one vacation to the next–we’re already talking about a possible trip to Greece in November when he comes back here.

Today I got down to planning logistics for my Anglo-Indian research project. Worked on the PC all morning, drafting introductory letters and making arrangements for my research position at St. Antony’s College, Oxford, next summer. Before I knew it, it was time for lunch, then more email correspondence.

At 4pm, I left for my excursion to Marble Arch to get my cell phone fitted with a new Lebara SIM card which is far more economical than the one I am currently using . But the sweet Indian girl Pooja who attempted to fit the card in, found that my phone was ‘locked’. Her attempt to unlock it failed and the guys to whom she sent me told me that it would take them 2 hours to reformat and reprogram my phone. I did not have that kind of time so declined their offer and left.

Pooja then suggested that I go to T-Mobile and have them unlock it for me. The trek to Oxford Street from where I had purchased the phone drew a blank as the sales assistant told me that they do not have the authority to unlock phones. However, she sent me across the street to a really smart guy called Sajjid who was able to do it in exactly five minutes! He was also able to give me a Lebara SIM card for free except that he did not have one that would allow me to fill it with any money as he had run out of them. He has called me back tomorrow but the earliest I can get there is Friday and I shall make sure I return to him and have this Lebara SIM card fitted.

Then I was at Bedford Square for our first faculty meeting of the year. Had a chance to meet a few of my London colleagues and over a few tea sandwiches and delicious cake, the meeting got under way, chaired by David Hillel-Ruben. Things moved along swiftly indeed and in less than an hour and a half, we were out.

I walked as quickly as I could to Lincoln Inn Fields to meet Subita Mahtani to whom I had a phone introduction a few months ago through a mutual acquaintance named Leslie Mahtani in Connecticut. Subita, an NYU alumnus who has lived as an American ex-pat in London for several years, is involved with a social service operation that provides food to the homeless three times a week. Because she takes charge of the Monday operation at a location close to my flat, she told me to meet her there. In-between doling out ladles of dal and rice, she hugged me, welcomed me to London and exchanged phone numbers with me, assuring me that we would meet again at length to get acquainted.

I was stunned at how many homeless men turned up for a free meal. One of the guys even complimented Nitu, one of the volunteers, telling her that “the curry is very nice”. There was tea and coffee and soda at another station and Mars bars, donated every week by a man who gave up smoking and spends the same money on Mars bars that he would have spent on cigarettes which he then distributes to the poor and needy. Subita informed me that this operation has gone on for years and word of mouth has brought over a hundred homeless people to the corner of Lincoln Inn Fields where, in the shadow of the courts and legal chambers, some of London’s poorest people are fed by immigrant Indians whose generosity and compassion knows no bounds.

Thanks to Subita, I saw a side of London that would otherwise have passed me by. I am grateful to her and inspired by her dedication as well as that of my fellow-Indians in this city. Each time she handed out a plate of food or answered a question, Subita said, “God Bless You”. This caused one of the recipients of her caring to remark, “You speak like an American”. Perceptive guy, that one!

Stonehenge and The Golden Georgian City of Bath

Sep14

Friday and Saturday, September 12 and 13, 2008
Stonehenge and Bath

In all my travels in the UK, I have never been to Stonehenge. Avebury many years ago, yes, Stonehenge never. So, it was with anticipation that I arrived at this ancient site of mammoth sarcen and blue stone hoping to grasp at some of the mysteries of its creation and its significance. I left disappointed–in that I was able to understand neither. However, the aura of the place, the fact that so many centuries after it was created, so many tourists stopped there to encircle the wide grassy path and make something of the structure intrigued me and by the time I was halfway through the circle, I was awed too.

In and of itself, the ring of Stonehenge can seem like nothing more than just that–a ring of stones. But when you consider the massive effort it took to get those stones there from faraway Wales, the end-product is breathtaking in the same way that the Pyramids of Egypt are. By the way, the story about Druids creating the ring and coming there each year for ritualistic worship of the elements has been disproved. However, there is enough astronomical precision in the way the stones have been placed and the way the shadows of the earth and the sun lengthen and criss cross one again at strategic points for us to know that this was not a spot chosen at random nor was the placement of the stones a mere whim. There is enough scientific evidence to suggest that ancient man had a method to his madness and this is what makes the site enthralling.

On a humorous note, it was fun to see more teenagers take pictures of the sheep that went about their business, i.e. grazing on the pasture that surrounds the spot, than of the monument itself! But, as they say, there is no accounting for taste… or interest!

Then, we were driving on the wide and picturesque Salisbury Plains past the Weston Horse, a great engraving on a white chalk cliff, to arrive in the golden Georgian city of Bath that is, like Rome, perched on seven hills. No wonder the Romans embraced it and built a splendid city here over 2000 years ago. As if the location were inadequate, the Romans who came from a balmy and sunny clime to invade this cold and rainy little island, felt rewarded by the warm and abundant waters gushing from the earth and promptly named their new settlement Acqua Sulis dedicating the resort to the goddess Minerva. Given their penchant for communal bathing, the town became a spa especially as its muddy waters were said to have cured King Bladud (father of Shakespeare’s King Lear) of leprosy. Well, the rest, as they say, is history, and Bath has a fair share of that stuff.

On the many occasions that I have been to Bath, I have always gone on horseback–well, not literally, but what I mean is, in a hurry. I’ve combed the main sights–the spectacular fan vaulting of the Abbey, the romance of the Roman Baths, the elegance of the Pump Room with its Jane Austen and Beau Brummel associations and have posed by Pulteney Bridge…and then I was off.

This was the first time, I stayed in the city long enough to be able to embrace it as the Romans did. And I left with an affection for the city that I had never felt before. Walking through its golden streets–golden because the entire city is constructed of the famous warm honey-colored Cotswold stone with which the city of Oxford is also built–I felt a rare delight in the sheer uniformity of the color and the style of the buildings.

The entire city was designed and constructed by the father-son duo of John Nash–since they both had the same name, they are distinguished as The Elder and The Younger. Their love of classical architecture and clean Roman lines is evident everywhere you turn, from the Royal Theater which Jane Austen frequented (where I felt so fortunate to get a seat unexpectedly to watch Vanessa Redgrave play Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, an account of Didion’s grief-management when her husband John died while her daughter Quintana lay in a coma), to the Crescent (a semi-circle of plush mansions) to the Circle, a perfect circle of colonnaded homes built around a park, to the Assembly Rooms where the rich and famous gathered to dance, discuss community affairs, gossip and make matches, to the fashionable Pump Room where they basically did the same thing while sipping the medicinal waters of the hot spring–which I did too and found to be foul-tasting but warm.

On a past occasion when we had arrived as a family in Bath, Llew and I had attended a cocktail party in the Roman Baths, lit by giant fire torches at night, and had supped to the accompaniment of a classical quartet in the candlelit Pump Room–this was part of the recreation provided by the organizers of a conference at the famous University of Bath where I had presented a paper. This time, I was a tourist, with map and camera in hand, clicking away at the many centuries of history and architecture that lay ensconced in that one space–the Baths–and at the many lovely arches, crescents, bylanes, towers, steeples, bridges (I actually walked on Pulteney Bridge, this time, only one of two bridges that is lined with shops–the other being Florence’s Ponte Vecchio).

I also visited the Jane Austen Center (I mean how can you escape from old Janie when you are in Bath?) and saw costumes from a range of films in which her novels and her own uncomplicated life have been portrayed. I went to the Assembly Rooms and saw the Costume Museum, a wonderful receptacle of clothing through the ages. I also visited No. 1 Royal Crescent, a home that has been turned into a museum created to look exactly the way an interior of a privileged home night have looked when Bath was at the height of its popularity and appeal.

I strolled in the same gardens that Jane Austen and her family loved, saw her homes on Gay Street and Queen Square, window shopped in Milsum Street (reportedly the favorite shopping venue of Princess Diana) and in the covered Guildhall Market whose heyday had been the time of the Regency. I had looked forward to browsing through Bath’s many antiques shops but alas, the recession in America and the fallen dollar has affected the UK’s antiques market so badly that dozens of the shops along Antiques Row have closed down. However, I did my share of poking around a few multi-dealer locations and saw nothing to catch my fancy.

I could not leave Bath without doing two things: tasting the famous Bath Bun, a roll studded with raisins and stuffed with sugar cubes and visiting Sally Lunn’s establishment which also happens to be the oldest house in Bath, dating from Roman Times–or so they say. Inside, you listen to the story of a French Huguenot woman, escaping from persecution in the 1600s who arrived in Bath and set up her bakery. She began to bake a bun that was unlike anything the English had ever eaten–brioche-like, this soft confection stole their hearts away and the Sally Lunn Bun was born. Today, you can eat in or take out–a bun costs a pound and a half–and was the best little souvenir I took out of the city. Oh, but I forgot…my favorite souvenirs of the city were the genuine old coins I bought at the shop run at the Roman Baths. These coins from a bygone Britain included florins and half-crowns, farthings and shillings and a whole set of genuine copper pennies, one each from the reigns of all the monarchs that have ruled England in the 20th century, i.e.Victoria, Edward VII, George V, George VI and Elizabeth II. I intend to set these in silver and create an exquisite bracelet and necklace for myself.

I could not leave Bath without attending a rugby match, for Bath’s team is famous and superior to most, and I was able to catch a match in progress while standing on the lovely Pulteney Bridge and watching the teams as they moved in and out of my line of vision.

At night today, especially on weekend nights, Bath buzzes with a plethora of young people from all over the world who frequent its many pubs, clubs and restaurants, then get home sozzled and swaying along its uneven cobbled streets. The low lighting reminds me of the gaslit days when equally sozzled young dandies returned home from the gaming tables and fell drunk in their beds, attended, the next morning by their long-suffering servants. I caught a glimpse of this side of modern-day Bath as well on the late night stroll I took through the city and I was grateful to return to the comfort of my bed at the Travelodge just off Broad Street, where I awoke the next morning to streaming sunlight and the start of one of the first truly sunny days I have had in England since my arrival here.