Tag Archive | France

Incredible Jude Law as Hamlet at the Wyndham and a Walk in Soho

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

London

Probably the strain of everything I have to do in these last few days is wearing me down because I am waking up too early again–today at 6. 30 am. Still, it gave me a chance to tidy up my room which now (with all my packing and discarding of unnecessary items) looks as if Hurricane Katrina has hit it. Also with Loulou and Paul here and with us having made plans for breakfast, I snuck into the kitchen to find out if they had awoken and got coffee going! They hadn’t and were still sound asleep. It is wonderful to have their comforting presence in this loft as it is vast and can get very lonely–so I am also glad that Llew will be here on Saturday to share this fabulous living space with me.

By 8. 30 am, however, Paul and Loulou had awoken. Loulou nipped down to Our Pantry (read M&S Simply Food) to buy coffee and croissants while I set the table–for four as we were also expecting their son Jack to join us. Well, a little later, he had arrived and we all sat down to crusty croissants with butter and jam and cereal with milk, coffee and grapefruit juice and chatted companionably as we reviewed our plans for the next couple of weeks. Hard to believe that I am down to the wire now and talking about what I will do when Llew gets here. We are planning a week in France with friends in Paris and Normandy, so I am also trying to set that part of our holiday up.

The carpet guy Dick came in to change the carpet in my wash room and I changed quickly and left him to it as I was headed off to NYU to do a few last minute things: I had to settle one last electricity bill, I had to print out a whole bunch of last interviews I had done and I had to photocopy something, not to mention chatting with the shipping guys about two more boxes that I need to deliver to their warehouse in North Acton. My friend Janie (who is currently with her mother in Yorkshire but who returns to London on Monday) has promised to help me out with that! Where would I be without all these friends who have sprung so amazingly to my rescue repeatedly during my stay here? They are truly incredible and I am truly grateful.

Errands at NYU:

At NYU, I did all the tasks I had to accomplish and then left my office knowing that I will return there for one last time next week when my Oxford Lecture is complete and I have to print it out. I said bye to Mimi, the security guard at Reception, and flew out the door (having lost a few precious minutes right as I was leaving in talking to Llew who called me. He is very excited about his return to London and we had to go over some last-minute details).

Lunch with Michelle:
My next appointment was at the office of my friend Michelle who is a lawyer working for Parliament. We had made plans to meet for lunch and I was delighted to see her. Michelle was in college with me at Elphinstone in Bombay where we had majored in English Literature and competed fiercely for every last mark! But, of course, we have remained close friends over the years despite her many international stints, first as a journalist in Hongkong and then as a lawyer here in London.

We had a really good lunch (their cafeteria is posh, the food very far from institutional)–a zucchini (0r courgette, as they call it here) quiche with a balsamic glaze and Brambly Apple compote–yummy! Needless to say, we talked nineteen to the dozen and before we knew it, I had to leave for my next appointment, but not before I hugged and thanked Michelle for the delicious lunch which was her treat. I am hoping to see her again on Tuesday at the little farewell get-together I am planning for a few friends.

Then, I was hopping into buses to get to Leicester Square for the 2. 30 pm matinee show of Hamlet starring none other than Jude Law himself at the Donmar Wyndham Theater. Because I was a bit early, I had a chance to browse through some of the antiques stores in the neighborhood and entered one selling old English coins. I was delighted to find a special gift for Chriselle. I had been looking for a while for something unique to buy her from London and when I did find it, I realized again that it is not the monetary value of the item you buy for someone but the singularity of it that matters and its connection with the person for whom it is intended. I hope very much that she will like it.

Then, I made my way to the theater to find a long line snaking out of it as people hoped to find tickets. I was thrilled that I had purchased my ticket online several months ago because with Jude Law playing Hamlet, the summer hordes that have descended upon this city (mainly star struck teenyboppers) are making a beeline for this theater hoping to find tickets. Well, they are going to need all the luck in the world as the house was full to bursting. I had fairly good seats and was so grateful for the opera glasses that I now carry with me every time I go to the theater as they are so useful.

Jude Law Plays Hamlet:

The play in general and Jude Law in particular have received such staggeringly good reviews that anything I say would be superfluous. Suffice it then to say that it was an extraordinary afternoon at the theater and that it is productions like these (it was directed by Michael Grandage who also directed the As You Like It production that I saw at The Globe last month) that make me realize why Shakespeare is so revered and why his work will live on forever. I have seen many versions of Hamlet in my lifetime (on stage and screen–I am most familiar with the Mel Gibson production but my favorite is the Kenneth Branagh version with Derek Jacobi playing Claudius) but I know that I will remember forever this anguished Hamlet played so vulnerably by Law. I have to say that I have never found him a heart throb myself, so I was able to watch the performance objectively and it was splendid.

But as has happened repeatedly since I started going to the theater here in London a year ago, what leaves me gob-smacked is the number of other cast members with whose work I am familiar through the small screen. So just imagine how pleased I was to discover that Claudius was played by Kevin McNally who was wonderful in a TV show from the 70s called Dad that I had seen on PBS screenings in the States…and best treat of all, that The Player Queen was played by Jenny Funnel whom I recognized immediately as the lovely lovely actress who plays Sandie in As Time Goes By! It is these unexpected treats that have made my stay in London so memorable and they just never stop coming.

At the end of the show, I inquired of the ushers as to where the Stage Door was located in order to try to catch a closer glimpse of these stars–I reiterate…I was more interested in McNally and Funnel than Law! Thankfully, we did not have to wait too long. Within fifteen minutes, the actors began trooping out and when McNally arrived, I requested a picture with me. He was very pleased indeed to pose with me (see left).

A few minutes later, Jenny Funnel appeared and I might have surprised her deeply when I asked if she would pose with me. I swear I felt as if I was fifteen again! Seems I might

have missed my calling as a groupie!!! She, too, was very gracious and willing and when I told her that I have watched her and loved her for years in As Time Goes By, she beamed, her beautiful large blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. So here is the picture I took with her. And let me tell you that these two close encounters of the Anglo Kind so made my day that I called Llew in great haste on the bus to tell him whom I had just met!

In fact, in a few minutes, one of the stage hands came around to tell us that Jude Law does not appear at the stage door between shows (there was another show at 8pm) and that he would only be available at the end of the evening’s performance. The poor star struck teens outside were devastated, while I quickly waltzed away with not a crack anywhere in my own heart!

A Walk in Soho:

And then I got on a bus that took me back to Oxford Street as I wanted to explore Soho on my feet. I mean how crazy is this? I have been in London for a whole year and have not yet explored its trendiest part? I mean, were I twenty, I guess that’s where I’d be every evening…but not being twenty anymore, well, I have different priorities!

I started off at Soho Square, the lovely little park with a Tudor house in its center and the sculpture of Charles II (he once frequented the area and built a home for his mistress Nell Gwynne on the Square). Today, the place was rather crowded and a corner of it was taken up by a group of idlers and drug addicts who, once-upon-a-time, when I used to see them hanging out at Union Square Garden in New York, used to make me feel very uncomfortable indeed. It seems that I have gotten over even that aversion for this time round they did not bother me at all!

It was from a history plaque in the garden that I realized from where the word “soho” came. It was a hunting term, used each time a prey (such as a fox) was spotted. The leader would yell, SO HO!” and the troupe would give chase. Needless to say, this part of London in the 17th century was hunting ground being covered thickly with woods! French Huguenots and Catholics congregated here and as time went by built two churches that stand upon the square–one a Catholic church in which I had once attended Sunday mass.

From there, I picked my way to the beginning of Dean Street to see a shelter for the homeless called The St. Barnabas House. My book informed me (and I am using a different book now as I have finished all 24 walks in Frommer’s Book) it has one of the most beautiful Rococco staircases in the city and it was for that reason that I visited the spot. Well, the nice gentleman who led me in, then gave me a special private tour taking me from one historic room to the next where the plasterwork on the walls and ceiling was truly stunning. In fact, in one of the rooms I saw the largest central ceiling medallion that I have seen anywhere–featuring playful fat cherubs. It was really lovely. The man also then took me to another staircase to show me the special iron balustrades that were constructed to protrude out into the stairwell so as to accommodate the enormous crinoline hoop skirts for which the 18th century was renowned. It was very nice of him to do this for me but clearly he sensed my vivid interest in such things and even permitted me to take photographs. He also said goodbye to me at the door and presented me with a color brochure that gives wonderful close up views of the plasterwork.

My walk in Soho continued as I wound my way in and out of the maze of streets each one lined with restaurants of every kind and cuisine. I saw the home in which the young Mozart had once stayed and composed and where the essayist William Hazlitt died. The drizzle which had been sporadic through the day turned into a heavy shower at this point and though I had my brolly, I sheltered under the lobby of a building until the worst of it passed.

Next I went out in search of Mezzo restaurant which Terence Conran has turned into the largest one in Europe–or so my book said. Well, it turned out that my book was five years outdated! The restaurant closed down five years ago but has been replaced by two others–Floradita and Meza–still owned by Conran–so a nice guy told me at a neighboring place. I took a peek into them and then continued on my rambles looking in particular for The Gay Hussar, a Hungarian restaurant that has been packing them in for fifty years on this street–clearly it was opened as a time when Gay meant something else altogether different!

The interior of the restaurant is similar to Lindy’s in Manhattan in that its walls are covered with cartoon representations of the many dignitaries who have supped within them. The Gay Hussar is best known for its wild cherry soup and I thought it would be the perfect pick-me-up and a great way to escape the rain. So in I went. It was still rather early in the evening (about 6. 30 pm) and the diners hadn’t yet started to arrive. I told the maitress d’ that I was there only for the soup and she seated me down graciously at a window corner and brought me a bowl. It was amazing! I mean there I was sipping a great big bowl of what might be described as cherry flavored milk with a few cooked cherries hidden at the bottom–the perfect summer soup. I am determined to experiment with a few concoctions to replicate this delight once I get home to Connecticut for it was fabulous! At 4. 75 pounds a bowl, it is a steal as the portion was huge making it very filling indeed. Replete with this treat inside of me, I resumed my rambles and arrived on Berwyck Road at which point, I began to feel fatigued.

I know the area that the rest of the walk covered really well (Cambridge Circus and Charing Cross), so I decided to cut it short and took another bus to come straight back home.

I spent the evening in my room downloading my pictures, checking my email, sending out a birthday message to my cousin Bonnie in Bombay and winding down for the day, thrilled at its outcome. I had a very late dinner (rice and salads) and fell asleep.

It had been at least two weeks since I had done any serious sightseeing (as I had been preoccupied with work at the libraries) and I realize that one of the highlights of my year in London has been the many walks I have taken and the secrets and hidden gems of the city to which they have introduced me. I know that I can return again and still find a year’s worth of places to explore and it is this thought that is making the withdrawal symptoms a bit easier to bear as the days and hours fly by.

A Relaxing Summer’s Afternoon at the Chelsea Physic Garden

Jun14

Sunday, June 14, 2009
London

I am making quick progress on Potter–hoping to finish the Half-Blood Prince in the next couple of days. I like it most of all the ones I have read so far and it is quickly marching to a conclusion. I read about fifty pages when I awoke this morning, after which I proofread my blog and left for the 9 am mass at St. Etheldreda’s Church. Yes, I was going back to a Catholic service after a long while and to his church after several weeks, but I really did not have the energy this morning to go scouting on the web for a new church to visit.

Right after Mass, I returned home to have my cereal breakfast. Then, I sat at my PC and made Eurostar bookings for the trip to France that I will be doing with Llew at the end of July. I was fortunate to get tickets for the dates I wanted because most of them seem to have sold already and my choices were slim. Then, I emailed our French friends to let them know about our plans and I am still awaiting their responses. Still, it feels good to know that I have taken care of that element of our July plans.

These past few weeks have been just gorgeous here and I feel grateful for these spectacular days. The perfect weather is all the more welcome as it appears as if the English had a lousy summer last year with endless rain and chilly temperatures. This summer is certainly making up for the last one. Droves of Londoners can be found all over the city’s parks and gardens. Indeed wherever there is a green patch, you can be sure to find a sunbather or a picnicer. We all know the English obsession with the sun and all I see everywhere I look are people soaking it in and let the cancer warnings be damned!

I met Barbara at church this morning and because she knows that I am always looking for sight- seeing ideas, she told me about the Open Garden Square Weekend. I googled it and discovered that all the private gardens (usually built around square residential terraced properties) that are usually accessible only with keys, are kept wide open this weekend for the perusing pleasure of anyone who cares to visit them. Since I am not going on my Houses and Gardens Tour this week, I figured this would be a good way to see a couple of London gardens–so I decided to start at the Chelsea Physic Garden which I have wanted to visit for a long while.

Soaking in Summer at the Chelsea Physic Garden:
Though Llew and I have wonderful memories of summer holidays we have spent in Chelsea when his brother was posted by his bank to London, about ten years ago, we had not visited these famed gardens. For one thing, they are only open to the public twice a week (on Wednesdays and Sundays) and for another, we always had more exciting things to do such as theater, museum and restaurant hopping.

So, I was pleased to have the chance to browse through this centuries-old garden on a day which seemed tailor-made for lazing in a green grove. I had spent a good part of the afternoon browsing in the thrift shops on the King’s Road in Chelsea and made a couple of good finds: a set of Coalport bone china place card holders and a pair of Louis Vuitton sunglasses. But, for the most part, the shops were closed or the prices were atrocious! When I was tired of traipsing from store to store, I took a bus to the garden and enjoyed walking through the beautiful Georgian terraced homes that make up this area before I arrived at the hidden garden gate.

Summer flowers are out everywhere–lavender scents the air softly, roses the size of quarter plates wave airily from towering stems, carnations appear sprinkled in flower beds like pink confetti, fox gloves sprout tall and stately and delphiniums add grace and stature to every herbaceous border. The Chelsea Physic Garden (so-called because it was created in the 18th century to grow plants that aided in the creation of remedies for the use of apothecaries) has a collection of plants with an emphasis on herbs and medicinal specimens from around the world, but there was enough color and interest in the beds to keep the home gardener happy.

Though rather small in terms of acreage, it is very well constructed to maximize use of space. Green pathways link the various sections together and landscaping is rare and unobtrusive. There is an ornamental pond or two and stone has been used sparingly in creating stepped tiers, but, overall, the space has been allowed to develop naturally. There is a stone sculpture of Sir Hans Sloan in the center of the garden–he, undoubtedly, was responsible for the development of horticultural interest in plants that were not native to the UK. Much of his botany collection is on display in the British Museum in the room entitled ‘The Enlightenment’. Indeed, we owe so much to the obsession that the Neo-Classical era had in learning and nowhere is this better illustrated than in a completely natural space such as the Chelsea Physic Garden.

When I had strolled through the beds and borders and taken a bunch of pictures, it was time for a cuppa in the tea garden where chairs and tables had been set out welcomingly to entice the weary. I had a pot of Darjeeling (I love the fact that tea is always served in pots in the UK–when, oh when, will we learn to do likewise in the States?) and a thick slice of fruit cake that was served with a luxurious dollop of creme fraiche and seated myself at a table where I sipped and nibbled and enjoyed the buzzing of bees and the distant chirping of birds. Indeed, it was blissful out there on this glorious afternoon and I felt blessed to be able to enjoy this much leisure.

I have often said that there is nothing more beautiful than a summer’s day in England and I know why Shakespeare once wrote:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate…

This is the essential difference between a summer’s day in England and one on the North Atlantic coast. If we are very lucky, it will be both lovely and temperate in Connecticut or in New York. In most cases, it is blazing hot and oppressive and after five minutes in the open air, one is rushing inside to find relief in the coolness of air conditioning! It is the extremes in Connecticut weather that I find so difficult to endure–the biting ruthlessness of those endless winters and then the humidity of the summer when sweat runs down my back and I feel at the end of a walk like a fried chip–and I mean a soggy one!

At 6 pm, when the garden closed, I found a seat on Bus Number 11 and returned home–still tired and with a restless tummy (perhaps from having overeaten last night). At any rate, email, blogging, transcribing an interview I did with Dorothy in Wembley and reading a bit more Potter kept me busy as did a call to Llew. I decided to stay light and skipped dinner and made a fairly early night of it.

Ah, I do LOVE summer in England!

Osterley Park and House–Another Adam Masterpiece!

Jun7

Sunday, June 7, 2009
Osterley Park, London

The Silence of English Rain:
It was only because I was awoken today by a series of thunderclaps that I realized how quiet really is English rain! I mean for all these months that I have lived in London and for all the dreary, drizzling, dull and dripping days I’ve dealt with, never have I ever woken to the sound of rain–unlike the din that the downpours make in Bombay or the drumming of the drops that come down in sheets outside my Connecticut windows. English rain is silent rain. You see it, you feel it, you taste it, you smell in—but you never never hear it! This fact came home to me this morning when I actually heard the thunder and realized how odd the sound felt and how long it had been since my ears had picked up those deafening decibels.

I turned over in bed, reached for Potter, read about fifty pages, then promptly turned over and fell asleep again–awaking this time about 8. 30. This left me just enough time for a fragrant shower but not time enough to linger over coffee. I fixed myself a breakfast to go (toast with raspberry jam), dressed in layers and a trifle too warmly (as we’ve had a few nippy days and I did not want to feel chilly on the Thames’ tow paths) and was off. I caught a bus from Charterhouse Street, then connected to the 8 on High Holborn, then to the 9 that got me to Hammersmith and then the 419 that took me to Richmond. See? I am becoming quite a pro at this bus route thing!

My friend John was awaiting my arrival at Richmond Station and, at my request, we checked out some of the thrift shops in the area (inspired by Mary Portas who has lent her expertise to a recent feature in Time Out in London magazine on the city’s best thrift shops). It seems the ones in the towns and villages along the Thames (Richmond, Barnes, Twickenham, Putney) are particularly good and since I was in the neighborhood–what the heck! It was worth a dekko, I thought.

Well, I was not disappointed. John knew them all. From Richmond to St. Margaret’s, the little village in which he has a very cute flat, he accompanied me like a trooper. And my sleuthing was not in vain. By the end of my foraging, I emerged with a virtually new pair of Prada shoes and two English bone china mugs that commemorated the wedding of Prince Charles with Camilla–in their original boxes! Needless to say, I got these enviable items at bargain prices but then we were too laden with my purchases and the drizzle continued intermittently.

We decided to abandon our plans to walk at leisure along the Thames; but instead crossed Richmond Bridge (I saw a lovely interpretation of it in Trevor Chamberlaine’s oil painting at the Guildhall Art Gallery recently) and took a bus to Osterley. Our aim was to tour the National Trust-run property that was designed by Robert Adam called Osterley Park and House.

Visiting Osterley Park and House:
Once we alighted from the bus, we had about a ten minute walk to the gate of the property, after which we had to walk another ten minutes to get to the entrance of the house. Once past the gate, the visitor soaks in the wide expansive property on both sides of the driveway–property in which cattle grazed placidly or chewed the cud for the weather kept changing every ten minutes and by the time we reached Adam’s imposing Neo-Classical portico, past the beautiful artificial lake, every raindrop had dried and the sun shone warmly upon us.

We released our coats and brollies and jackets to the safe keeping of the staff at the front door and launched on our discovery of the premises. The best thing we could have asked for was the audio wand that comes free with admission (normally 8. 50 pounds though it was free for me as I am a National Trust member) for this proved to be extraordinarily useful as we flitted from room to room.

But, first things first. Modern-day visitors (i.e. We) do not enter the house by Adam’s intended main door. We use a far more modest side entrance. Why this is so is beyond my comprehension. If the Trust wishes visitors to achieve as exact an idea as possible of what it might have been like to be invited as a guest of the family in the 18th century, they ought to have permitted us the holistic experience! Nevertheless, the entrance was impressive as we were carried up a wide staircase and on to the first floor landing from where we saw a superb ceiling medallion done by none other than Peter Paul Reubens in the early 1700s. Now the original was removed for safe keeping in the early 20th century (during World War II), rolled up and placed in a warehouse on the Channel Island of Jersey–which promptly caught fire so that Reuben’s original work was destroyed. What adorns the ceiling of Osterley House today is a reproduction but it carries none of the subtlety of Reubens’ coloring (as anyone who has seen the ceiling of the Banqueting House at Whitehall would tell immediately).

Be that as it may, the audio wand told us the story of the inhabitants of this house at this stage in the tour. The house was built by James Child in the 18th century to a design by Robert Adam who was recognized as the greatest architect of his era specializing in the creation of the English country estate. Child had inherited his fortune from his ancestors who were Directors of the East India Company and had made their money a century previously trading in tea, cotton, silks, spices and, yes–it must be said–slaves! In 1763, he married a woman named Sarah who gave him one child, a daughter named Sarah Anne. The family lived for at least 30 years in Osterley Park at the time when most of the interior decoration was undertaken by Adam.

The tour wound us through the exquisite taste and grandeur of Adam’s aesthetic. If you have seen Syon House (or any one of the other stately homes for which he is responsible–see my blog on my visit to Syon House written last October), you will see a uniformity in his designs–his use, for instance, of symmetrically formal arrangements inspired by classical motifs in the Palladian style–such as urns and pilasters, columns and Greek key designs on moldings, the lavish use of white plaster of Paris embellishments contrasted against the matt backdrop of what has come to be called Wedgwood blue, green, teal and puce (because it was in the same era that Josiah Wedgwood was imitating the classicism of plaster of Paris interior decoration on his ‘Jasperware’ pottery in his factory in Stoke-on-Trent in the Midlands).

Apart from this, Adam’s most striking signature feature, there are paintings galore in the house, executed directly on ceilings or as panels on the walls of each room or as framed canvasses then used to decorate them. Collections of fine European and English porcelain, marquetry work on furniture. impressive sideboards and other occasional seating pieces (a Robert Adam-designed bed is the most stunning centerpiece in the master bedroom) and other accoutrements make up the bulk of the house. Special mention must be made of the Tapestry Room whose walls are lined by Tapestries whose four center medallions are woven interpretations of a series of paintings by Francois Boucher called The Seasons. This work is so finely executed that were the visitor not informed that it was tapestry on the wall, he would well have believed he was looking at paintings. These tapestries were made in France by the famous Gobelin factory and they must be among the most valuable things in the place. Downstairs, visitors walked through enormous kitchens in which prodigious amounts of food were cooked and conveyed by a stealthy series of staircases and concealed doors for the gastronomic pleasure of the family and their privileged guests. Overall, not too bad an ancestral pile at all!

The audio guides were superb in pointing attention to each of the features of the rooms as well as providing a wealth of historical, artistic and architectural information to further enhance enjoyment of the visual feast. What came home to me on this visit was that the Neo-Classical architect needed to combine the genius of three varied disciplines in the execution of his work: as builder, engineer and artist. Indeed, all these elements combined to make this one of the most enjoyable tours of a country estate that I have ever taken. Though Osterley lacks the ostentation of, say, Vanbrugh’s Castle Howard near York, it is a magnificent building and one that I was very glad John accompanied me in visiting.

Tea in the Stables:
Our visit had rendered us ravenous and we were glad that sustenance awaited not too far away–in the picturesque Tea Rooms that extended out into the Tea Garden–a brick-walled enclosed garden with wrought iron furniture and green canvas umbrellas. We settled down to cups of steaming Darjeeling and a cheese scone and how welcome was that treat! Truly, if it was the East (China and India) that bestowed the habit of tea-drinking upon the English, it was they who gave to the rest of the world that charming meal called Tea-time. I often wish it were not the issue of the tea tax that had led to the loss of the thirteen North American colonies. It was probably out of defiance that the American colonists rejected the delightful customs of tea-time–which explains why we do not pause for tea at 4 o clock in America while the people of every former British colony everywhere else in the world do!!! Or maybe Anna, the Duchess of Bedford, who is credited with having started the delightful custom of tea-drinking by surreptitiously calling for the drink with a snack in her boudoir had not yet initiated her habit by the time the colonists dumped that shipload of tea in Boston Harbor!

A quick look at a film in the former stables and a browse around the shop and it was already 5 pm and the park was closing down for the day. John and I walked past the lovely lake, took some pictures together to commemorate our visit and then were walking along the rural pastures that had made agriculture such a lucrative pursuit for the 18th century aristocracy–it was not for nothing that they were called the landed gentry! If you could only see the endless acres stretching all the way to the horizon that surround this house! It wasn’t long before we said our goodbyes, parted at the bus-stop and went our separate ways.

I have begun to master the routes to Charterhouse Street and in an hour and a half, I was home. I had almost an hour-long conversation with Llew on the phone before I stopped to eat my dinner (a rather light one of chicken noodle soup and toast with chocolate praline ice-cream for dessert) as that scone still stood me in good stead.

It was soon time to write this blog, get ready for bed and go to sleep, my appetite entirely whetted for the feast of country estates and gardens that await me on my proposed tour.

Bonjour France Encore! To Calais and Back…then Dinner at Sofra.

May30

Saturday, May 30, 2009
Calais, France

I awoke at 6 am to check my email as I had a couple of things to do (such as shower and eat brekky) before I left my house at 7. 50 to stroll down to Theobald’s Road where I met my friend Sushil for our trip to Calais. We started punctually and were all set to hit the coast when, less than three mintues into our drive, I realized that crossing the channel meant an international journey and I had left my passport at home! Oh no!!! I uttered a cry. Sushil looked at me and said, “What?” I responded, “Oh my God…I’ll need some form of indentification, won’t I?” as if I were speaking to myself. “Your passport!” he said…and next thing I knew, we were making a U-turn and a huge detour to get back to my place (which, fortunately, was only two minutes away). I ran upstairs, pulled it out from my bag and was down and in the car again in two ticks–but, boy, was that a close shave or what!!??!!

So back on the road again, this time heading east as Sushil hoped to beat traffic, the GPS insisted on taking us over every side street instead of putting us on the motorway, but a painful half hour later, we were entering Kent and heading on to Folkeston. Yes, we were going to make it after all, we thought.

But when we arrived at the boarding dock for the Euro Tunnel, we discovered that check-in for our 10. 32 train had closed five minutes before we arrived there. No harm, no foul. We were placed on the next train at 11. 32 which gave us enough time to use the facilities and wander around the duty free area. Within 10 minutes, we were going through the ticketing and immigration formalities (ah, thank goodness it was not at that point that I realized I had no passport with me!) and then we were entering the train.

Now, I had started this journey with the mistaken notion that our car was going to be loaded on to the ferry and that I would glimpse the white cliffs of Dover again! I was SO mistaken! In fact, Sushil had tickets for the Eurotunnel train that uses the same tracks as the Eurostar (which is a passenger service while this one is exclusively for vehicles). I have never seen a train like this one and it was a very exciting and very different experience indeed. Your car enters what looks like an endless goods train. It is basically a very long stainless steel box with very small windows. There are two tiers to the train which means that smaller vehicles can be loaded on two levels. Coaches can also board the train.

In a few mintues after the train started, prompt to the last second, it disappeared underground. It was time for a nap and both Sushil and I pushed our seats back and tried to sleep. Half an hour later, we were emerging into France, driving out of the train and using the GPS to find our way to the large supermarket called Auchan where Sushil intended to do his shopping. It was then that I realized I could do some shopping too. And when I saw the prices…boy, was I amazed and delighted! The food prices were so low (compared to London ones) that I thought I was back home in the States again!

Naturally, despite the fact that I have been trying to empty my fridge and freezer in time for my move, I ended up buying a number of French gourmet goodies that I know I will enjoy in the remaining few weeks of my stay here in London: rocquefort cheese, all sorts of pate, mackerels in mustard sauce, smoked ham and even tubs of chocolate praline ice-cream! Sushil dashed around madly with a purpose, making three trips, to fill his car.

By the end of an hour, when I had browsed enough over the rest of the supermarket, we sat down to have lunch at a bistro: a typical French meal of steak-frites with a glass of Stella Artois beer (as it was far warmer in France than it was on the other side of the Channel).

And then we were doing the reverse journey: boarding our train again for the return to England, passing through immigration and arriving at Folkestone, where we drove westwards towards Sevenoaks to the home of Owen, one of Sushil’s Anglo-Indian friends, who had agreed to be interviewed by me.

Interviewing another Anglo-Indian in Farmingham, Kent:
This is probably the furthest I have traveled to interview an Anglo-Indian and Owen is probably one of the most unusual Anglo-Indians I have interviewed so far for my study. He arrived in England at the age of 16, met and married his English wife Barbara in Sussex where he grew up on a farm, completed his A levels then went on to University to gain a Bachelors and a Masters Degree in Engineering and had a brilliant career with the American Ford Motor Company that posted him all over Europe for the next forty odd years. Owen’s English grandfather was a physician in the British army in India which brought the family a great deal of prestige and privilege–privilege that allowed him to have the best education money could buy at Cathedral School in Bombay where he grew up. His daughter is also a physician (the first second-generation Anglo-Indian with whom I have become acquianted in this country who has entered the medical profession as a doctor).

With his wife of nearly thirty years, Owen lives in a charmingly decorated English country home with the most enchanting garden at the back filled with roses and hanging baskets and a bird bath! As if to blend perfectly with this image of the English idyll, Barbara brought out a typical English tea: scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, chocolate biscuits and a large bowl of hulled strawberries and cups of English tea and there we sat in the garden enjoying this lovely afternoon meal while the birds twittered around us and the distant sounds of a race course reached our ears from over a hill that loomed high up right where their tiny garden ended.

More conversation followed about Owen’s interesting background and then we adjourned into the living room so that I could continue with the interview. Owen is expansive and voluble and tends to go off at a tangent very easily. Given that Sushil was in a hurry to get back to London, I had to reign him in frequently and bring him back to the main thrust of my questions. But I found him deeply reflective and highly articulate and he was a very interesting person to talk to. As I have said repeatedly, every single one of the Anglo-Indians I have spoken to has a different story to tell but with Owen I was definitely speaking to someone that I would describe as ‘elite’–though Owen doesn’t see himself in this guise at all.

Dinner with Tim and Barbara:
In less than an hour, we were back in Holborn with Sushil dropping me right outside my building.

My lovely neighbors Tim and Barabra had just returned from their travels in the States (Seattle and Yellowstone National Park). They received a raucous ‘Welcome Back’ hug from me and catching me in the elevator vestibule on the third floor, they asked me to join them for dinner to which they were headed. As I really wanted to spend some time with them before I left the building, I merely dashed inside my flat, left my food puchases in my freezer and fridge respectively and was off with them. En route, we stopped off at my new digs at Denmark House as I wanted Tim (who is an IT specialist) to see if he could set me up on the internet. When we arrived there, he noticed an ethernet box to which I could gain a connection and when we returned home after dinner, he gave me a really really long cable that would allow me to connect from the main desktop computer in the office there to my laptop computer in my room. I am hoping, however, that I will have wireless internet services in a day or two in the new place.

Then, off we went for dinner to Exmouth Market, off Farringdon Road, a part of London that I will now have to discover as it will become my new stomping ground. It is a lively, vibrant part of the city and was full of youngsters as there is a community center of sorts attached to the local Holy Redeemer Church (we coudd not figure out whether it is Catholic or Anglican though Barbara pointed out that it could become the church at which I will attend servcies). Of course, I have decided that tomororow, being Pentecost Sunday, I will attend service at the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields at Trafalgar Square as I have not been there for a service yet (though I have visited it and have actually attended a musical concert there, a few years ago, when my cousin’s son Sudarshan took me off to listen to Talvin Singh create fusion music that was very good indeed).

We settled down for dinner at Sofra Greek restaurant–whose Piccadilly branch I had been to a few months ago with my friend Rosemary and her friend Lizzie. There we ordered a variety of cold and hot mezzes (hummus, broad beans, imam bayildi and then chicken on wooden skewers, lamb kofte, battered squid) which was served with very tasty bread. We had started our evening with beer and ended it with desserts to share: marinated apricots stuffed with cream cheese and chopped pistachios and cherry cheese cake. Tim had a Turkish coffee which seemed to be made up entirely of a concentration of coffee grounds! Over dinner, we chatted about their most interesting travel experiences in America which, as usual, kept me laughing.

When we arrived home, they invited me to their flat to take a look at some of their pictures of Yellowstone and to see the video that Tim shoots from the most interesting angles. These he played with his TV set while Barbara showed me her shots of wild Alpine flowers and animal bones! Then the video of Old Faithful began to play and I saw the steaming hole in the ground from which boiling water periodically gushes up. What is wonderful about these videos is that you not only have the incredible sights of the geyser shooting up but you had the animated exclamations and cries of the onlookers that were more entertaining that the sight itself! I left them some of my books and asked them to keep the ones they wanted and return the rest to me–I will donate the unwanted ones to the nearest Oxfam in Bloomsbury.

Then, I was home, so heavy of heart because I would be spending my very last night in this darling flat that I have grown to love so deeply and which will always be tied in my mind with the happiest of memories. Far from being lonely here, I have been fully engaged and in this incredibly productive space, I have done SO much writing throughout this past year! Indeed, as I leave it, I know that I will be leaving a small part of my heart at High Holborn and I promise that no matter how often I return to London (as I hope to do frequently in the years to come), I will always visit this building again–as one would return to a beloved monument in a beloved city!

And on that nostalgic and very sentimental note, I dropped off to sleep.

The Amazing Roman Amphitheater in the Guildhall Art Gallery

May30

Friday, May 29, 2009
London

I am finally getting to the end of The Order of the Phoenix (which is turning out to be the most challenging book I have ever read!). After my morning laptop routine (checking email, proofreading my blog), I had my breakfast (croissants with the last of the preserves in my fridge as I am still in clear-out mode). I showered and headed off to my office at Bedford Square.

The paperwork goes on despite the fact that I am now officially done for the year. I had loads of papers to print out in connection with expense reimbursements. Next, I spent a good hour trying to get more Anglo-Indians to give me dates for interviews and succeeded with about six more. I badly need about ten more Anglo-Indians to make this research project valid, so if you are an Anglo-Indian and you are reading this blog, I need your help. Please try to get me some more folks who would be willing to speak with me in the next six weeks. I would be most obliged if you would email me and let me know where and how I could contact these people so that my study will become valid.

I had intended to spend one hour in my office but when I looked at my watch, two of them had passed! The corridors at our NYU campus are quiet, almost deserted with all our students having returned to the States. Life seems very different now on campus and the silence is somewhat deafening. I enjoyed working in my lovely basement office with the sun streaming in and watching the rest of the world (and the red buses) go by and I am pleased that I can continue to use this space all summer long.

Off to the Guildhall Art Gallery:
Then I was on the Number 8 bus headed to King Street and Cheapside where I hopped off; but not before I picked up a Meal Deal at Tesco (1 Prawn Sandwich, 1 packet of crackers plus 1 bottle of water at 2 pounds must be the cheapest deal in town!) and sat down to eat on a stone bench facing the ornate Guildhall with other office-goers and pigeons for company. As I gazed upon the Guildhall I realized how similar it is, architecturally speaking, to the guildhalls I had seen in Belgium–both in Brussels and in Bruges. It appears almost church-like but then you realize that there is no cross anywhere to denote any religious significance.

When I had finished eating, I walked into the Guildhall Art Gallery which is free to visitors every Friday. I went through security and then mounted the steps of a building that though built only in the early 1990s blends perfectly in design with the much older Guildhall in whose premises it is located. There is a certain austere grandeur about the Main Gallery which is lined with oil portraits of the Lord Mayors of London who functioned from this building before the new Thames-side one was designed and built by Sir Norman Foster–the oddly-shaped glass cone that feels as if it is collapsing on one side like a misshapen pud!

Anyway, these Lord Mayors are all dressed in their ceremonial robes which include ermine fur-lined cloaks and scepters–almost royalty! It is always great to walk through the centuries through these portraits and to see how fashion changed as time went by–the 18th century folks always distinguished by their elaborately powdered wigs,the 19th century guys with their luxuriant facial hair! There is a rather forbidding Carrara marble sculpture of Baroness Thatcher who looks for all the world like the ‘Iron Lady’ she was nicknamed. The Hall is dominated by a battle scene by John Singleton Copley entitled ‘The Deafeat of the Floating Batteries 1783-91′ featuring the Siege of Gibraltar–which is depicted in several canvasses all over the place. Among the ones I found more interesting than the others was the Diamond Jubilee celebration for Queen Victoria in 1903 in which Her Majesty, splendid in her widow’s weeds and seated in the golden carriage, arrives at the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral where the special service was conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury while all of Victoria’s “foreign’ (meaning European) relatives looked on.

When you descend to the lower floors of the Art Gallery, you come upon some really interesting art work that goes beyond portraiture. There are works by the Pre-Raphaelite School, for instance, and a particularly striking one is by Dante Gabriel Rosseti entitled La Ghirlandata painted in 1873 (of Jane Morris, wife of his friend and fellow Pre-Raphaelite William Morris, with whom he was secretly in love) and a number of really lovely oil paintings by English painters of whom I have never heard. One outstanding one entiteld The Music Lesson by Frederick, Lord Leighton (of whom I have heard, of course) portrayed womanhood in two of its most exquisite forms–through twin portraits of an extraordinarily beautiful woman and an unrealistically pretty child busy with a lute. Their clothing is ethereally Oriental and proof of the impact of the Middle East upon Leighton’s imagination. (I feel sorry that his home in the heart of London is under renovation and will be closed until October of this year. I shall have to visit it on a future encounter with this city!). The gallery is beautifully laid out with most of it constructed underground, so that you descend lower and lower into its depths as you progress into the 20th century. There are also some abstract works in the Modern section.

Making the Acquaintance of Trevor Chamberlaine:
Then, I found myself in a section of the museum where I made the acquaintance of a contemporary British artist of whom I never knew before–Trevor Chamberlaine. He has a retrospective special exhibition going on right now entitled ‘London and Beyond’ and it was quite the most heavenly part of my day. Considering that I have spent the best part of the last year combing every last secret corner of the city and traveling widely all over Europe, this exhibition seemed like the cherry on my sundae (and I said in the Visitors Book). Indeed, Chamberlaine’s unique talent has captured London in its many moods (yes, including times when it is shrouded by mist and sprayed by rain) from ‘Shopping on Old Brompton Road’ (in oils) to ‘Thames Towpath at Richmond’ (in watercolors). Having been to almost all these places, having personally treaded upon the cobbled stones of all these streets, having traversed her riverways and looked upon her infinite variety from a number of perspectives, I was in Paradise as I walked through this Must See exhibition. If you love London at all, if you relate instantly and warmly to realistic depictions of spaces, if you like your art plain, uncomplicated and immediately comprehensible, this exhibition is for you. All I can wish is that I had enough money to take home a little piece of Chamberlaine’s work with me to the States to always remind me of the most marvelous year I have had here.

And it is not just London or other parts of the UK that Chamberlaine has presenged. Indeed, in five rooms, he has taken us on a tour of the world, his subjects ranging from the bazaars of Old Tehran, Iran, to the smaller villages of Armenia; from the Ganges and her ghats at Udaipur to the curlicued wooden buildings of Prague and Krakow. While waterscapes are definitely his forte (and there are many beaches, lakes, ponds, even fountains), Chamberlaine’s perspective encompasses the globe and his curious mind is captured by people in a variety of garb (from burquas and colorful saris to pin striped suits). Get to this exhibition really quickly and take home a clutch of images that will always remain in your heart as I know they will remain in mine.

London’s Recently-Discovered Roman Amphitheater:
So I thought I was going to see some paintings themed around the administration of the city of London. Imagine my shock when I found myself entering the archeological remains of what was London’s long suspected Roman amphitheater–discovered only when the foundation for the Guildhall Art Gallery was being dug! Helllloooo!!!! I mean just imagine the excitement that might have ensued at the time (the early 1990s). A Roman amphitheater in the heart of London! Who Knew???? Here they are imagining they are in the process of building a new art gallery for our times when suddenly they come upon the sand and stones of two millennia ago–with so much of the original circular wall still standing. I bet they were stunned!

So to understand how significant this find is one ought to remember that the Romans conquered England in 43 AD and called their settlement on the rainy island Londinium. By 47 AD, they had established a base here and by 70 AD they had built an amphitheater exactly like the ones that are still standing in Rome (the Coliseum) and Arles (France) and Verona! It was long suspected that Londinium would have had an arena used for gladiatorial combat but nobody knew where this once was located! So this find, I would imagine, would be one of the most significant archaeological digs of the last century in London!

At any rate, the space is now fully protected by CCTV and there are dire warning everywhere that you are not to pick up a pebble if you do not wish to risk prosecution! As you walk deeper into the arena, sound effects automatically emerge (from sensors that detect your presence) and you are transported to an amphitheater complete with blood-thirsty thousands cheering on the gladiators (who, might very likely, have been battling wild animals given the Romans’ penchant for violent ‘sport’). For me, this is such a good example of the manner in which London reveals itself to me wondrously, one layer at a time, so that I often feel as if I am peeling away at the insides of an onion.

Success at the Post Office–At last!
I made it back to the Holborn Post Office at exactly 3 pm (having had Becky make me a few address labels in the morning) to attend to my boxes of books that were still sitting in their premises waiting for my arrival and the labels of which they had run out yesterday. Once again, the same Scots clerk (I LOVE her accent) helped me with the transaction which took all of half an hour!!! Can you imagine? I had to handwrite each address label (though I had fixed printed ones) and Customs declarations forms and then it was done–all 168 pounds of books and printed matter were sent back home to Southport, Connecticut, a total of 30 kilos. I have a lot of files which I have retained as my research will continue in my new flat when I shall spend a lot of time at the British Library (probably accumulating a lot more paper–darn!!!)

Back home, I tried to finish up all my packing as I am taking a joy ride to Calais, France, tomorrow, with my friend Sushil who is making a ferry crossing for some sizeable purchases in France. He has asked me to accompany him and so here finally is my chance to see the white cliffs of Dover once again, up close and personal. I had last seen them about 12 years ago when Llew and I had crossed the English Channel by ferry en route to Normandy where we had spent time with our friends there.

I am amazed at how much stuff I have accumulated in one year. I mean it is just never-ending. The boxes keep filling, my suitcases (all three of them) are full and I am wondering how I could possibly have accomplished this move if it were not for Chriselle’s friend Rahul who will be arriving at 7 pm tomorrow directly from a trip to Amsterdam to help me out and my friend Rosemary who will be lending me the services of her car!!! I mean, how could I possibly have done this? Truly, I have to be so grateful for all the help that has come pouring my way in the past year and I marvel, once more, at the hand of God that works in the strangest of ways. I mean I made contact with Rahul only two weeks ago when Chriselle was here and now I am relying on him to help me move!!!

I was really ready to do nothing more than write (my May newsletter) by the end of the evening and though I went into bed by 10 pm, I did not sleep until nearly midnight as I was still at work on my laptop writing away until the day ended.

Sunday Service at the Church of St. Bartholomew the Less

May24

Sunday, May 24, 2009
London

On a day that led to a crick in my neck from the hours I spent at my laptop, I only set out in the morning to get to Church spending the rest of the day catching up with my blog and French travelogue. A breakfast of skimmed milk and Waitrose cereal with berries got me started and from then on, I was basically handcuffed to my computer.

Checking John Betjeman’s City of London Churches, I found out that the Church of St. Bartholomew the Less had a service at 11 am and that was the one I decided to attend. I have visited this church before on one of my self-guided walks, so it was its proximity to home that made my decision for me–I did not want to venture far away on this rather busy day nor did I have a bus pass that would allow me to take a long ride somewhere.

At 10. 45, I left my flat and walked briskly on what turned out to be a rather warm morning towards the Church. I arrived just as service was about to begin and found myself in a rather small but very sweet church which had just 10 people in its congregation. The vicar, one Ben, was waiting at the front to start conducting the service with the assistance of a female priest. I was warmly welcomed by a very attractive lady (whom I later learned was called Rosemarie) who pressed a service sheet and hymnal into my hand.

Every church service is different but this was most unusual in that the congregation remains seated throughout. Being new, I took my cues from those around me. The interior had been newly painted and the gilded decoration on the ceiling seemed spanking new. This contrasted quite vividly with the old monuments on the wall.

The Church of St. Bartholomew the Less is located in the grounds of the great Hospital of St. Bartholomew that surrounds it and serves as its parish. Was it because it was a holiday weekend that so few people had made it to church? Or is this customary, I wondered, as service began with a hymn. The organ at the side of the church was played at hymn time by a lady who seemed to have trouble reading the music. Few people sang and responses were barely audible. Unlike the rather grand churches I have been visiting for the past several months, this one seemed very subdued indeed.

After Communion, we were invited to coffee at the back of the church. I had a chance to chat with the Vicar. People have always been very welcoming at theses churches and I am repeatedly struck by their warmth. I understand now why the best way to make friends when you are a stranger in a community in England is to make a beeline for the local church–someone or the other will befriend you there and before you know it, you will have worked your way into the community.

At coffee, I met a number of rather interesting people such as the young man who called himself Nicholas and then proceeded to tell me that he was a fellow academic who taught English as a Foreign Language to foreign Law students at Queen Mary College of the University of London. He also turned out to be a history buff and a great lover of art and next thing I knew he was recommending all sort of places that I could go and see–such as the Thames Barrier (which I had been planning to visit) and the Main Hall of the adjoining hospital building which has a large painted roof by William Hogarth. One of my self-guided walks will be taking me to Chiswick where Hogarth’s House is on the route; but I figured it would be best to start off by taking a look at this painted roof.

It turns out that Hogarth once used to live in the neighborhood and worshiped at this church. He donated his work in the Main Hall, not charging a penny for his pains. I later found out that though the Hall is not open to the public, a hospital volunteer such as Rosemarie could get me in with her badge. We exchanged telephone numbers and have made tentative plans to visit it together on Wednesday–an outing to which I am very much looking forward.

Nicholas’ Dad, who was also present, is also a Tube buff and we spent a while talking about the Hogarth collection in the John Soanes Museum–his series entitled The Rake’s Progress is quite the most interesting collection in that fascinating space. Nicholas told me the story about Soanes’ sons who made fun of him through an anonymous article they wrote in a contemporary newspaper. When Soanes found out that it was his sons who had written so derogatorily about him, he disowned them, passing on his entire collection of architectural fragments to the City of London instead of disbursing his wealth among his sons. Good job he did that–this museum is one of the most amazing I have ever seen (and what’s more, you get double value for money as you actually walk through the rooms of Soanes’ own home and get to see how the moneyed gentry lived in the Victorian Age–which, for me, at least is a matter of undying interest). Soanes, by the way, was the architect of the Bank of England whose museum has also been recommended to me by a reader of this blog–and which I hope to get to really soon.

Of course, all this conversation occured over coffee and a chocolate biscuit–how very civilized! Before I left, another member of the congregation who happened to be from New Zealand, suggested that I visit the Church of St. Cuthbert’s in the Barbican. This was the church in which John Milton, the poet, was married. I promised to look it up on the internet. I have also passed by it on the Jubilee Walk and I was curious about it–except that it was closed and I could not peek into it at the time. I know where I shall be going next Sunday for church service! What a great time I am having seeing these churches and talking to the local parishioners.

Back home, I returned to my PC and worked steadily all day at my writing. It was about 9 pm when I had everything I wanted to remember about my travels in France and my impressions of the Chelsea Flower Show uploaded on to my blog. Time for a relaxing shower, a bit of dinner, some TV (I really enjoyed a show called Coast on the Blighty channel which took us to the east coast of Yorkshire to such beach resorts as Scarborough and Whitby–places which I have not visited but have heard James Herriot rave about in the book he wrote about the attractions of Yorkshire). It was great to learn about Whitby Jet–a kind of shale that is harvested from the hidden caves and grottoes by the water and which has been made into jewelry since the age of Victoria when she took to wearing it after the death of her beloved Albert. This led to a huge demand for the jewelry–who said it was Diana who set trends first? It seems the avid public has always allowed its fashion tastes to be dictated by royalty!

It was after midnight when I finally fell asleep with that annoying crick in my neck–a result, I am told, of stress!

I am sorry that this will be my very last week in this flat. I have adored my time here in Holborn and every second of this coming week will be precious to me as I have a heightened consciousness of the fact that I will probably never again have this incredible experience of having a London flat all to myself right in the very heart of the city. I am now determined to spend the coming week living completely in the moment savoring every second so that I can call them all to mind when I am far away and whenever I wish to think happy thoughts.

Rubbing Shoulders with Ricky Gervais at the Chelsea Flower Show

May23

Saturday, May 23, 2009
Lyon-London

It was Genevieve who drove me to Lyon at 7. 45 for my 9. 45 am flight to Gatwick airport. When we were only about ten minutes from the airport, I remembered that I had left the charger of my camera at her place. Of course, it was much too late for us to turn back to pick it up but she did promise to mail it to off to me as soon as she returned home.

It was heart breaking to say goodbye to Amaury and Louis, and I was grateful that they managed to hold back their tears–though Louis did tell me in English in the car that he loved me and Amaury did give me a little cadeau (a going-away present) for my journey–a red candy lollipop heart–AWWWW!

All went well with my return to Gatwick though our departure was delayed by the fact that there was just one immigration officer for an entire planeload of passengers! Despite that hitch, the pilot made up for lost time as we crossed the English Channel and arrived at Gatwick airport. I had made a booking with the Easybus to take me to Fulham Broadway from Gatwick’s North Terminal. Since we had landed at the South Terminal, this involved taking a monorail train to the North Terminal, then rushing to the bus stand only to find that I would make my bus by the very skin of my teeth.

We left Gatwick at exactly 11 am, arrived at Fulham at 12 noon. It had been my intention to race off home on the Tube, leave my backpack at home, then take the Tube to get to Chelsea. I had, after all, in my possession, the hottest ticket in town–a ticket to the famed Chelsea Flower Show, which I had booked many months in advance. It had been a high priority item on my List of Things To-Do when I was in London and I had been thrilled to get a ticket for the very last day–even if this meant that I would have to return from France and rush off to the Show!

Adventures at The Chelsea Flower Show:
But, as happens so often at the weekends, there was some disturbance on the Tube lines and I had the worst time getting from Fulham to Holborn. Changing plans suddenly, I decided to go directly to Sloan Square and walk straight to the Flower Show, baggage and all. What a good thing I had the clairvoyance to carry my ticket with me to France!

All roads led to the Flower Show as I discovered when I got off at Sloan Square. It was a gorgeous spring day in London and I was blessed by perfect weather on which to see the best and most creative work of which British gardeners and horticulturists are capable. As I arrived at the Show grounds, I saw a large sign that said, “Chelsea Flower Show. Tickets All Sold Out”. Boy, did I feel privileged to have my ticket in my hand and to be able to participate in this great annual London event. Only ten minutes later, I was entering the Chelsea Hospital Grounds where the beloved Chelsea Flower Show is held annually and there I was looking for the Cloakroom so I could leave my bag and my coat behind. It was rather warm and I was relieved to get rid of the layers I had thrown on in France.

The Chelsea Flower Show is one of the most interesting experiences I have had in London thus far and certainly one of the Highlights of my Year. Being alone, I could go wherever I pleased but I was hard pressed to decide exactly where I should head as the show was spread over a massive area. It took me a while to figure out that there were loads, indeed scores, of dealers and businesses of every sort. Anything that was even remotely associated with the gardening industry in this country had a presence at this Show. I had arrived there at exactly 12. 45 and since the Show closed at 5.00pm that evening, I had about five hours in which to see everything. Never having visited this show previously, I had no idea how long it would take me to survey the exhibits and I decided, soon enough, that I would only look at the shops after I had seen the main attractions.

But first I needed a floor plan. That’s when I discovered that there was one, no many, to be had–but for a price! One of the most irritating things about Great Britain is that in addition to making you pay a small fortune for a ticket, you are also then expected to PAY for a program–this is as much true of theater shows as it is of exhibitions of this sort. Nothing comes free! I refused to part with 5 pounds for a hefty book that I would need to lug around in my hand for the rest of the afternoon when all I needed was a single page to help me navigate through the vast maze– so I passed on that treat! Call me cheap, but I decided instead to ask for directions to the main exhibits–the show gardens that I was keen to see–because I hoped to pick up some ideas for our own gardens at Holly Berry House.

This quest took me past some of the most aggressive salesmen in the industry to a large tent where talks and demonstrations were in progress. Since I was keen to have a little sit-down, I took my place in the tent at the start of a talk and demonstration by one of the UK’s most up-and-coming gardeners, one Robert Meyers, who that morning had won the People’s Choice Award for the Cancer Research Show Garden that he had created at the Show. He used slides to showcase his gardens on the Amalfi Coast and after a while, I thought it would make better sense to see the gardens themselves rather than to look at a bunch of slides.

So I left the tent and found myself in a large area surrounded by white tents that beckoned, one of which had a long queue snaking out of it. You know, of course, what they say about the English: When they see a queue, they join it! Well, I have to say that I did the same–maybe I have been living in England too long!!

I did not know exactly what lay inside this enticing tent but in about ten minutes I found out and how delighted I was! This was the tent that showcased the flower arrangements of a bunch of the country’s most astute hands. The arrangements made with fresh cut flowers towered around us on all sides. So many brides-to-be were taking pictures of the prize-winning exhibits and, of course, I sorely missed the use of my camera. Since I had no time to go home to download my Lyon pictures, I had no memory space left and could only treat myself to two or three pictures at most at the flower show.

It was not long before I realized that the show is overwhelming and that after a point your eyes take things in but you do not really ‘see’ them anymore–quite the way your mind behaves, for instance, in a museum. Oh, everything was spectacular and I certainly received my money’s worth in that one tent, but there was still SO much more to see!

But then I was hungry and I desperately needed to find lunch. I headed off in the direction of the Food Court and after checking out all my choices, I decided I would opt for a large baguette filled with gourmet sausages: I had a Roast Pork and Apple one and a Venison one and I have to say that they were both outstanding. Served with fresh tomatoes and an onion relish which was delicious (featuring caramelized onions), it made a very satisfying and very reasonably priced lunch in a place in which EVERYTHING was overpriced! Knowing this, apparently, a lot of people had the good sense to carry picnic lunches and they sprawled on the lawns wherever they could find a spot to land their behinds…and they they opened their sandwiches and their cakes, their strawberries and their cheeses, their quiches and their scotch eggs and how great a time they seemed to have as they munched and sipped thier Pimms.

But for the exhibits which were very reasonably priced and would begin to be sold off at 5 pm, I found the place just insanely expensive. I mean I would not mind walking out with a colossal bunch of stargazer lilies for ten pounds…but I had my backpack that I had to drag along and I had another errand to run at Marks and Spenser (lingerie that I had ordered last week) that needed to be picked up…so, of course, I had to pass up on the opportunity to purchase something memorable at the flower show.

I have to say that I completely enjoyed people-watching as I found a chair on which to eat my baguette and sausage lunch. Everyone was very suitably dressed for a warm summer’s afternoon in London. There was many a straw hat around, adorned with large bows and ribbons. There was a lot of quiet pearl jewelry and some showy silver pieces, but most folks wore very casual khaki pants and loose cotton blouses or tank tops. Yes, they made purchases as was obvious from the loads they were dragging along: a new support for their tomato plants; a new wire basket for their flower arrangements, a new ornament in copper for their gardens. What a joy it would have been for me to pick up something small if I hadn’t to think about carting it back to the States with me.

Then, I found the really large tent that was filled with every imaginable flower under the sun. As people ogled the vast arrangements of cut flowers in their deep baths of fresh cool water, they could choose their next lot of plants and flowers to place in their beds at home. Of course, being a lover of orchids I spent the longest time in the section devoted to these magnificent blooms and I did see some rather unusual grafted specimens in the most vivid colors. There was also the Rose Bower, so beautifully constructed, and so pleasingly perfumed. I did spend quite a long time there admiring the soft pink David Austin roses (my favorite kind) and was surprised to see that this was the only part of the flower tent that did not have any of the plants for sale. I wondered why!

It was while I was at the show gardens, the most popular part of the show, that I had my brush with celebrity–and I mean that literally. There I was looking at some unusual garden sculptures when I found myself rubbing shoulders with the person standing next to me. I turned around, said “I’m so sorry” and found myself looking straight at Ricky Gervais! Of course, for a few moments, I thought I was seeing things, but no, there he was, large as life, wearing a prominent pair of shades (as were most of the people at the show including myself as the sun was strong and the glare was annoying). So he couldn’t have been wearing them for anonymity. In fact, he smiled and moved quietly away and I realized that while he would not wish to be recognized, he wasn’t trying to walk around incognito. And yes, I soon realized that quite a lot of people recognized him too but they all respected his need for space and left him alone.

I did consider–and in all fairness I have to admit this–asking if I could take a picture with him because as everyone who knows me well knows that I am a huge fan, not so much of him as of the show–the BBC version of The Office which I have watched in the States on our local PBS channels long before the apology of the show which is the American version with Steve Carell (whom I rarely find funny) ever came into existence. But to actually see the writer and creator of the show standing right next to me, literally rubbing shoulders with me, was just too much!

Deciding that I had to behave myself, I did not request him to take a picture with me. However, I have to admit that I could not resist the temptation to take his picture, discreetly, so that he would not feel as if he were being hounded by the paparazzi. While he stood to admire some of the exhibits, I walked several feet away and took his picture as my brush with this comedian had simply made my evening!

Gervais walked around in a casual black hoodie with a casual pair of off-white Bermuda shorts and an outsize pair of sneakers. He has had a rather trendy haircut, the sort of layered kind that creates a distinct ridge at the back, and his hair was an unusual nut brown. He walked around very casually, not attempting to attract attention in the least. With him was a blond woman, equally casually dressed and not indicating any consciousness of her celebrity companion. She wore a black hoodie too and not a scrap of make up. Certainly it was clear to me that neither one of them wished to stop traffic–all they wanted to do was survey the exhibits just like any one of us. Occasionally, they exchanged a few words at a stall, then moved on. Yes, there were people who looked at them as they stopped to pet the black Labradors at one end of the open arena–were these guide dogs for the blind? I wasn’t sure. While they patted the dogs, a few people gaped at Gervais with wondrous smiles on their faces but he seemed oblivious to their attention and moved on.

I have to say that I was both greatly impressed by his composure as well as moved by his humility. Here is a man, one of the world’s most famous and most successful comedians, in the midst of one of the busiest exhibitions in the world (the show was fully sold out, by the way). And yet, he could go about his life just like any other human being. This is the kind of success that I believe all show biz folks most wish they could have–strong, satisfying careers in entertainment but the ability to live normal lives without being stalked by the public.

I spent the rest of the afternoon examining more of the show gardens and they were wonderful. Of course, for most of us, these will remain fantasies as we neither have the time, the money or the sweat equity to pour into the creation of gardens as lavish as these. But it was great fun to imagine myself in some of the more traditional gardens–the cottage garden kind. There was one red, white and blue garden, for instance, with which I fell completely in love. This was sponsored in part by The English Garden magazine as well as a couple of French companies and it featured the facade of a French cottage with Provence-blue shutters surrounded by a cottage garden with plants in the colors of the French flag. Set in front near the main door was a wrought iron table and two chairs with a porcelain tea service that strongly urged me to get out there and have a cuppa! Needless to say, this garden was mobbed by women who sighed all over it and took pictures back home that they will, no doubt, drool over all summer long.

Posing for a Picture with a Chelsea Pensioner:

Just when I thought I could not have had more fun, along came a Chelsea Pensioner. These are war veterans who have served their country well in military combat. The few I saw at the Show were decorated with impressive medals. They have reisdence rights in the quarters adjoining the Royal Chelsea Hospital and it is not unusual to see them hovering around in their uniform scarlet coats with their medals tinkling on their chests. The pensioner smiled at me and wanted to know where I was from. I smiled back and we spent a few minutes chatting together. Now while I had exercised enough restraint not to have requested a picture with Ricky Gervais, I was not going to stop myself from enjoying the rare privilege of being seen in the company of one of these venerable old men.

“Would you mind posing for a picture with me? I asked nervously.

“Not at all”, he responded. “Where would you like me to stand?”

“How about right here?” I said, selecting a small raised garden complete with stone sculpture and white Easter lilies.

And so I had my souvenir of my visit to the Chelsea Flower Show–one I will alway cherish.

By that point in the evening, it was 4 pm and I had seen the most significant of the exhibits, had rubbed shoulders with a celebrity, heard part of a lecture by a renowned landscape designer and had chatted with a military veteran. I was tired and the thought of getting home to relax was tempting. Leaving the activity of the Show behind me, I found a bus heading towards Marble Arch where I alighted. I went straight to Marks and Sparks, picked up my order and was back home on the Tube and in my flat not too long after.

On opening my door, I realized how much this flat has come to seem like home in the nine months that I have spent here. The blinds were down and the cool darkness into which I entered was very soothing indeed. Though I was drooping with fatigue, I could not relax as I had two more important things to do: I had to make two calls–to Llew and to my brother Roger, both of whom share a birthday on May 23! But, then I discovered, to my disappointment, that I had no calling credit left on my cell phone. I had no option but to trudge down to Sainsburys to buy myself a voucher so I could make those calls and so, off I went to the supermarket.

A few minutes later, I was back home and on the phone making trans-Atlantic calls to Roger holidaying in South Carolina with his son, and then to Llew, of course, who was in Southport expecting the arrival of Chris and Chriselle later that evening for dinner. Two lovely long chats later, I was ready to spend a while soaking in a scented bath…but I still had to unpackand do laundry. So with those tasks accomplished, I finally treated myself to a shower and a bite of dinner and a bit of TV.

Overall, I have to say that I had the afternoon of my life! The Chelsea Flower Show, an event which I had long anticipated with the greatest excitement, had been just marvelous and I can only say how grateful I am that I was able to see it despite my crazy travel schedule and everything else that I have tried to fit within this year.

A Taste of France’s Beaujolais Countryside

May23

Friday, May 22, 2009
Beaujolais Country, Oingt and Perrouges, France

As the Bank Holiday weekend continued in France, Genevieve suggested a family trip to the Beaujolais countryside that surrounds the city of Lyon. Though it is here that the famous red wine is produced, Genevieve had not toured this area herself. Frederic, however, had some cousins who lived in the region and, it was on their advice, that we made our way after breakfast to the rather strangely named town of Oingt, in the heart of Beaujolais country.

The Golden Stones of Oingt:
All wines owe their flavor and their reputation to the soils that produce them and Beaujolais receives its unique flavor from the land on which the grapes vines flourish—a land that is composed of the yellow stone that is referred to in French as the pierres d’ores, i.e. the golden stone of Beaujolais.

Indeed, long before we arrived in the region, not too long after we left the urban environs of Lyon behind us, we were in the most beautiful, unspoiled country where the small villages seemed to exist in a previous century and where development is non-existent. The gentle slopes of these mountains are covered with vineyards, most of which were still rather young this early in the year. From time to time, our car took us past story-book villages with cobbled streets and a prominent church square, but, for the most part, we hugged the edges of gentle escarpments that slumbered in the strong sunshine. The bucolic quality of the lives of these people is indeed enviable and I was not surprised to discover that some of France’s best-known inns and hotels are to be found in the old chateaux that have been converted into five-star deluxe accommodations.

When we arrived at Oingt, we parked our car and made our way towards the village square where we passed by a farmhouse that beckoned us strongly inside. This place, apart from producing the lovely wine known well in the area, also hid a museum of sorts—one that is devoted to vintage vehicles of every kind but mainly farmyard ones. There was a bunch of old Peugots and Reynauds and Citroens, and a number of smaller kids’ cars, all of which were interesting, if dust-ridden. A few visitors had joined us in surveying the collection but, before long, we made our way out towards the honey-colored stone cottages that glowed softly in the morning light. So many of them were draped with fragrant pink roses and I could not stop taking pictures of these charming and very unique street corners that seemed to belong to a bygone era.

No, there is not much to do at all in this village which was recently voted as one of the prettiest in France, but if your travels take you through the Beaujolais region, I would strongly recommend a visit to this village. Other American tourists seemed to be in accord with me on this score as we spied a large group with a French guide who then spent the rest of the morning at leisure in the maze of narrow lanes and traipsed through the vineyards. I was grateful indeed that the Ducotes had chosen to bring me to this unspoiled hamlet and I was loathe to leave it, except that the rest of the day promised similar delights.

On to Moinnay, Frederic’s Ancestral Village:
To arrive in Perouges, the medieval French village that is not too far away, we had to drive through an area known as the Dommes—an area that was once covered with marshy lakes known as etangs. These mud swamps became so notorious as carriers of the malaria mosquito that they were soon filled up with earth. The hollows of previous lakes are today paradises for bird life and continue to attract a rich variety of species.

Frederic informed me at this point that his grandparents had once owned vast stretches of this land bordering a town called Moinnay and it was he who suggested to Genevieve that she drive us through this area to show us the land upon which his ancestors had farmed for centuries. Indeed, it was not long before we arrived in Moinnay, a very small rural settlement that boasted its own railway station. For miles on end, all the eye could see were plantations and fields, most sown with wheat today. Though Frederic still owns vast stretches of this land, the chateau that is part of this property, called the Chateau de Poilltanes, is no longer in his family’s ownership having been placed on the market and being snapped up by a buyer a few years ago. Frederic knows the current owners well and after parking our car, in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, we set out to find the family etang, which now belongs to the current owner of the chateau.

It was peaceful indeed out there and though in the nearby fields we could see horses in pasture, no other life seemed to stir in the stillness of the afternoon air. We took a few pictures on the property, then returned to the car.

By this point, most of us were hungry, so it was welcome news to discover that we would soon be in Perouges where we decided to stop first for lunch.

Exploring Perouges–A Medieval Town:
Because Frederic had kept telling me that he disliked Perouges because it was too “commercial”, I had expected to walk into a mini Disneyworld…so I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it wasn’t like that at all. In fact, but for the occasional souvenir store and family-run restaurant, there was really no other commercial activity that anyone could dislike.

On parking our car, I discovered that we were in a medieval village that unlike the golden stone of Beaujolais, is composed entirely of a grey stone that covers the walls of its ancient structures. Much like the many Suffolk towns and villages I have seen in England with their exposed timber beams, Perouges also boasts houses with exposed timbers that give it a very distinct ambience, the result of so many years of build-up of natural dust and other organic materials. It is on a cobbled street that the modern visitor walks to arrive at the grand entrance to the Gothic inspired church which I visited briefly and found to be very dark, yet very atmospheric.

But our bellies beckoned strongly and we found sustenance at the Ostellerie Ancienne de Perouges where I settled on a totally satisfying and very delicious smoked salmon salad that was served with a delicious lemon vinaigrette. We did order a bottle of sweet cider from Bretagne that was perfectly welcome on the warm afternoon and after we had slaked our thirst and satisfied our hunger, we turned to the serious business of choosing a dessert. All of us went for the Galette de Perouges, the traditional flat tart that is baked in wood ovens in the little cottages of the local residents. Indeed, it was quite delicious and made a very fitting last course to our meal, studded as it was with large grains of sugar.

Our rambles around the village then took us to other parts where we admired the quaintness of the structures, all of which have been beautifully preserved. So many of these were the residences of the local people who are governed by strict conservation laws that dictate exactly how the exterior of their homes must look. Again, there isn’t very much to amuse youngsters in this place and it was not long before the Ducote boys showed signs of boredom. Besides, with the sun having advanced in the skies and the afternoon having turned warm, it was time to think of returning home to sink into the inviting pool and while the rest of the afternoon away.

Afternoon by the Poolside:
And that was exactly what we did. We left Perouges behind us, drove along the winding country roads past the quietly slumbering villages, all of which were empty on this holiday weekend and headed back to St. Didier.

The boys promptly got into their swimsuits and jumped into the water and spent the afternoon frolicking around at leisure. While Genevieve sat reading poolside, I sat on a swing in the Ducote garden and enjoyed the cool mountain air.

About an hour later, Genevieve took me to the local Auchan, a massive supermarket to buy some of the French gourmet goodies I wanted to take back to England such as mackerels in mustard sauce, good quality Rocqueford cheese and some really ripe chevre (goat’s cheese). The boys accompanied us on this outing and upon our return, we got ready for our last evening together. I had announced to the family that on the eve of my departure, I would like to take them all out for dinner. This announcement brought many whoops of joy from the boys who are, as Genevieve describes them, “gourmands”, and at her suggestion, we decided to drive to Lyon to the riverbanks to find a suitable place.

Last Evening in Lyon:
Since the Ducotes did not have any particular place in mind, we drove into the city hoping to find a wayside restaurant perhaps on the banks of a river. As it turned out, we arrived at the Place des Jacobins, which was beautifully lit later on in the evening, where we found a street devoted entirely to restaurants (similar to the Rue des Bouchers in Brussels in Belgium). There we found a place called Hippopotamus which did a fixed price menu for 15 euros and seated at a table on the pavement, we intended to spend our last evening in harmony together.

Genevieve, Frederic and I all chose the steak which was superbly marinated in a sauce and grilled just right. The Rocqueford sauce that accompanied it was quite the most delicious thing I ate on this trip to France and it went beautifully with the Potatoes Dauphinois (gratinated) that I chose as my accompaniment. That’s when Amaury began to weep all over his hamburger and insisted that he could not longer eat it as he was not hungry. He was desolate that I would be leaving the next morning and I did recall that more than 20 years ago, when Genevieve had visited me in Bombay, Chriselle too had begun to weep the evening before the Tougne sisters had left for France. Indeed, I was struck by the repetitiveness of this occurrence and I realized that children are the same around the world.

It was dessert that cheered the boys up somewhat—their choice, two scoops of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream which both adore. I opted for a Chocolate Mousse which has to be the largest helping of Chocolate Mousse I have ever eaten in my life! Oh, it was quite heavenly, but just too much! I never thought I would ever say that about Chocolate Mousse, but in quantity this one was seriously over the top.

It was late, after 10 pm, when we left the restaurant to return to the Ducote home for my last evening in France. I had just spent some of the most blissful days of my European year and I am sure it had to do with the company more than anything else. After all, though Lyon is an interesting city, it did not sweep me off my feet. Yes, it definitely had to do with the people I was seeing in this city and the reiteration of my strong friendship with them over so many years.

I was going to have an early departure from their home, but both boys insisted on accompanying Genevieve in the car as she dropped me off to the airport. Though I tried to say my goodbye to them and dissuaded them, they made us promise that we would wake them up early enough to join us on the ride to the airport.

And it was on that happy note that I went off to sleep.

Rambles in the Haute Savoie with Old Friends

May23

Thursday, May 21. 2009
Rumilly, Annecy and St. Felix in the Haute Savoie

Thursday dawned on what was Ascension Day—a long weekend in Catholic France. With the kids and Genevieve at home, it was the perfect day for us to go on a long drive to the Haute Savoie region which sits at the base of the French Alps. It was here that Genevieve was born and raised in a small village called Rumilly and it was here that I had spent several weeks one summer, about 23 years ago with her lovely family members. Though her dad Raymond passed away about 12 years ago, her lovely mum Lisette still lives in the village and it was her with whom I have often corresponded through the years that Genevieve was too busy raising her family.

On the Road to Rumilly:
Genevieve and I chatted non-stop all the way to Rumilly as she drove. There was so much with which we had to catch up—she wanted to know all about my family members, my past Indian students some of whom she remembered well from our tours of North India and my neighbors in Bandra, Bombay. I wanted to know about her family members and the many friends to whom she had introduced me when I had traveled with her in France (both in the Haute Savoie and then in Paris and Lyon). Before we knew it, we were in the lovely green clad foothills of the Alps passing by the picturesque villages that dot the landscape all the way across the border into neighboring Switzerland. Indeed, this drive took my mind back to so many years ago when Genevieve had driven me through so many parts of France from the south where we had visited her cousins in Provence and then the South of France where in the chic cities of Nice and Cannes and St. Tropez, I had spent time with her sister Chantal.

When we did arrive in Rumilly on Rue du Stade, I received a lovely warm welcome from her mother Lisette. No doubt the years have taken their toll on her. The bustling busy person I remembered has been replaced by a frail and rather slow woman whose voice has changed very much but who exuded the same hospitality and generosity of spirit that I remembered so well. Both of us hugged warmly, delighted to be seeing each other again.

I am most impressed by Lisette’s computer skills, the fact that she regularly visits my website, reads this blog daily in its French translation and is the one who gives Genevieve my annual family news that she receives through my annual holiday newsletter! She very proudly took me into her office to show me the space she has set up for herself with her computer and her printer. It is here, at the age of 80 plus that she communicates with her grand child in far away Ireland. How marvelous it was to share this aspect of her life with her!

We moved then into the kitchen for an aperitif, a rosé wine, as Lisette got ready for lunch. It was her immense generosity that had led her to invite me to lunch at a nearby restaurant and them to include her children (the ones who could make it), so that they could meet me. She had made reservations in the village of St. Felix at a lovely wayside place called Le Pot au Feu and it was there that I met the other Tougnes—Henri (Genevieve’s brother) and his daughter Julie, Brigitte (Genevieve’s sister) and her husband Jean-Claude.

We were a merry party indeed as we settled ourselves down to a marvelous typically French meal that included deep fried frog legs served in a lemon and parsley sauce (delicious) and a dessert of raspberry tart with a tasty custard center. Red wine flowed as did bread and the conversation was scintillating as we had so much to say to each other. They wanted to know about my assignment in London, the attitude and impressions of Americans towards the French and about my family in India and the US. It was lovely indeed and I was pleased that Lisette was able to join us fully in the happy conversation. When we had spent several hours eating and drinking at one of those French meals that always seem to go on forever, we finally stood up to leave.

On to Annecy:
Genevieve and I said our goodbyes to the rest of the company as we were headed to the beautiful Alpine town of Annecy where Lisette had taken me so many years ago by train from Rumilly and which I remembered with deep affection. It was great to be able to visit this place again and I was pleased that it was only a fifteen-minute ride away. Genevieve found parking easily and we walked a few meters on to the Old Town where the atmosphere has been well preserved to reflect the quaintness of an earlier era.

We spent a lovely two hours together in this beautiful town. Genevieve had not been to Annecy in a very long time while I remembered so many parts of it—from its island prison, its lake (le Lac d’Annecy), its Bridge of Lovers (Pont des Amants) and the medieval quality of its wrought-iron bridges as well as its hill-top fortress.

What I did not remember were the crowds for the long Bank Holiday weekend had attracted hordes of tourists and holidaymakers all of whom brought a lively energy to the place. In fact, Lake Annecy was full of boats and paddle craft and in the warm sunshine of a summer-like afternoon, so many folks had taken to the water. But like all such resorts, whether seaside or mountainside, Annecy is expensive and a small piece of handmade soap weighing no more than 100 grams cost almost 10 euros as I discovered to my great surprise!

Back to Rumilly:
On our way back to her mother’s place, Genevieve gave me a driving tour of Rumilly, the little village I remembered so well. Not much seems to have changed in this little sleepy place and on this holiday weekend, it appeared particularly deserted. Both Genevieve’s mother and brother live here and with her sister not too far, you can say that the family has stayed very close to its roots. I did recall its church, its lively market square with its weekly market from which Genevieve’s mother had once purchased strawberries (the first ones I had ever tasted) and some wonderful goat cheese and it was these memories that stayed with me as we drove around.

We were soon back at Genevieve’s mother’s place where we were able to say our final goodbyes. I do not know when I will see Lisette Tougne again and I was grateful that it was through her diligent correspondence with me that I have been able to stay in touch with Genevieve for so many years of our lives.

We took many pictures in Lisette’s lovely garden with its lavender irises and its blood red roses that climbed on a trellis all along one side of the house. Behind, in the back garden, Lisette has created a small hen coup where two beautiful hens were strutting around. They provide the eggs she eats as well as fruitful occupation through which she passes her days.

Dinner at Flunch:
The Ducote boys and Frederic eagerly awaited our arrival for we returned to St. Didier far later than we had expected. It had been decided that we would go out to dinner (much to the delight of the boys who love to eat out) and the Ducotes chose a self-service place called Flunch—a chain that is usually found near large supermarkets.

Driving past St. Didier, I was able to see its center square that surrounds its pretty church—it is always the church that creates the meeting point for folks in European villages in France as well as Italy. At Flunch, where we arrived just a few minutes later, we chose a variety of foods from salads to cold cuts to entrees, grilled foods (no marks for guessing that the boys went for hamburgers as they seem to be deeply enamored with American food–the grass is always greener on the other side, isn’t it?) and a number of desserts. Since both Genevieve and I were still full with the lunch we had eaten, we chose a selection of salads and vegetables, all of which were very tasty indeed.

Once again, I did not go off to sleep for a very long while. But I stopped letting it bother me, focusing instead of the marvelous opportunity I had been presented to spend a day with my old French friends with whom I go back so many years and to savor the experience of having spent such wonderful quality time with them. I know it will provide me with memories that I will carry with me into the next twenty-odd years.

Lyon At Leisure

May23

Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Lyon, France

On Wednesday morning, I woke up feeling sleep-deprived. My body clock wakes me up by 7 am, no matter how much or how little sleep it has awarded me. Still, I felt confident about finding my way into the city independently and after a shower in their beautiful old-fashioned bathroom up on the third floor of the chateau-like Ducote home, I descended to the stillness of the kitchen in search of breakfast. Genevieve and sons had started their day long before me; Frederic was out by the pool working on the landscaping. I found myself a bit of baguette and with Frederic making a magical appearance to fix my café au lait, I was all set to start my adventures for the day.

On the Metro to Lyon:
I went out in search of a completely different part of Lyon today taking the metro to Saxe-Gambetta to look for the French couturiers who apparently sell their wares for a fraction of the prices in the big stores on this shop-lined street. I could not have been more disappointed. There was absolutely nothing to be found and using the same metro ticket (that is valid for one hour in the same direction), I took a bus to the northern part of the city called Croix-Rousse where the canuts (silk-weavers) once used to live in a labyrinth of narrow streets that today house a multitude of small shops and street markets that sell fresh produce and artisinal cheeses. Though I was pleased to be in the midst of a completely ignored part of the city, a particular store I sought called Braderie de Chariot d’Or (on Rue du Chariot d’Or) turned out to be another damp squib and with little choice, I took the metro once again to arrive at the Hotel de Ville stop so that I could explore the Musee de Beaux-Arts.

The Musee de Beaux-Arts:
Perhaps the best part of Lyon’s Musee de Beaux-Arts is its spectacular building. Once a monastery, it has been reconfigured to display a collection of wonderful paintings that are considered to be among the best outside of Paris. However, to anyone who has visited and knows the work of such marvelous places as the Louvre in Paris, the National Gallery in London or the Metropolitan Museum in New York, the really stunning part of this museum is its building. In fact, the best part of the building is a long room called the Refectory where the monks once used to dine. This has been recently restored and the end result is a receptacle of astounding bas relief sculptures in Plaster of Paris that are so detailed and so deep as to be almost three-dimensional. They portray the lives of a number of saints and do so with such lavish detail in a purely Renaissance style that they stun the viewer.

I was rather hungry by this point and decided to find sustenance, first and foremost, in the very cool interior of the museum’s restaurant. There I ordered the Chef’s Tea Time Special which was a combination of four tiny desserts and a drink of my choice—I chose a tall glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice as the day had been warm and I had started to feel parched. The desserts were fresh fruit served with Chantilly cream, a cinnamon mousse, a sweet yogurt served with a raspberry coulis and a tiny rum baba—all of which were perfect little morsels that made me feel very sophisticated and very French indeed as I sat and nibbled at them.

They also provided the pep-up I badly needed after my rather disappointing morning, so it was with renewed enthusiasm that I went in search of the Highlights of the museum’s collection, very helpfully detailed on its map. The ground floor housed a number of marble and bronze sculptures, many of which were outside in the Sculpture Gardens. Works by August Rodin are the star attractions as is a large painting of the Ascension of Christ by the Italian Perugino. The first floor is notable for its antiquities which include an Egyptian sarcophagus, the Gates of Medamud from the reign of Ptolemy, a fifth century bas relief sculpture from Persia and a Greek female Kouros. The Italian section had some wonderful wooden sculptures from Tuscany while the French section had a Renaissance bust of a 15th century Frenchwoman that was very lovely indeed. Of special note was the Art Nouveau bedroom designed by Hector Guimard for his wife that belongs to the 1909-1912 phase of his work.

The second floor of the museum was notable for paintings by rather well-known names such as Lucius Cranach and Veronese (indeed these works were superb) as well as a number of really great ones by Rubens and Rembrandt. It could easily take a whole day to see the entire collection at leisure and I am pleased to say that most of the galleries were completely empty when I was there (which would have made their contemplation even more pleasurable); but I decided to focus only on the highlights in the leaflet, though I did often stop to inspect a painting and the curator’s note if another one caught my eye.

It was the Modern Art in the extension that was also very interesting such as the works by Picasso and Fernand Leger and a number of really enchanting works by the Impressionists especially Renoir who was very well represented in the museum.

Almost three hours later, I made my way out of the museum and crossed the Pont de Lafayette to arrive in the third section of the city—the most modern part where the roads are wide and lined with beautiful buildings in a warm color palette—ochre and sand and yellow and pink. It was from a metro station in this area that I took the underground back to Gare de Vaise but not before I purchased a cranberry and almond tart. It was also at this time that I realized that the stores were closing up for the long Ascension Day Weekend which is a bank holiday in Catholic France. I made sure then that I bought a magnet and a post card of the city and then hopped into a train that took me to Garde de Vaise from where I caught the bus that took me back to Genevieve’s home.

Another Companionable Evening:
Later that evening, I sat down to dinner with the Ducotes. It was a lovely Rice Salad that Genevieve fixed us with Chicken Cordon Blue (which is one of my favorite French dishes—gruyere cheese and a thin slice of ham sandwiched in a chicken breast that is then shallow fried). These meal times with the family were always great fun and I fully enjoyed interacting with them at the end of the day and telling them about my adventures.

I went to bed, sans coffee, hoping to catch up on my sleep, but I had no such luck. Sleep continued to elude me and again it was only in the early hours of the morning that I finally fell asleep.

Rochelle's Roost

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Tag Archive | France

Incredible Jude Law as Hamlet at the Wyndham and a Walk in Soho

A Relaxing Summer’s Afternoon at the Chelsea Physic Garden

Osterley Park and House–Another Adam Masterpiece!

Bonjour France Encore! To Calais and Back…then Dinner at Sofra.

The Amazing Roman Amphitheater in the Guildhall Art Gallery

Sunday Service at the Church of St. Bartholomew the Less

Rubbing Shoulders with Ricky Gervais at the Chelsea Flower Show

A Taste of France’s Beaujolais Countryside

Rambles in the Haute Savoie with Old Friends

Lyon At Leisure