Tag Archive | Shakespeare

Culture-Vulture Me! Twelfth Night with Derek Jacobi.

Feb3

Tuesday, February 3, 2009
London

After the worst snowstorm in two decades, London limped slowly back to normal today. Red buses were plying again and the ice on the sidewalks had started to melt. There actually were signs of life on the streets as I had my breakfast and finished captioning our Scotland album. Actually, it was rather an odd sort of day because Carol, the weather forecaster on BBC’s Breakfast show, kept saying that temperatures were be below the minus mark (which is a big deal here in London) but that the sun would shine all day!

I spent a while doing some preliminary research on my proposed Spring Trip with Llew and since Easyjet has a sale that ends at midnight tonight, I figured I would look at some possibilities. We have finally decided to go to Italy and Turkey for 9 days–essentially Rome (where Llew has never been) and Istanbul which so many of my friends have raved about and which I did want to see before I returned to the States. I also wanted to go to Egypt; but I find that airfares are really high right now and it might be best to go to Egypt and Jordan at the same time that Llew and I go to the Holy Land as that trip is very definitely on the cards for us sometime.

After I found us good fares, I dashed off an email to Llew telling him to get back to me and let me know if the dates I had in mind would work. Given the time difference between New York and London, I knew it would be a few hours before I heard from him, so I showered and set off to get myself a bunch of theater and opera tickets for the next few months as some marvelous shows have opened up in London for the winter season and I did not want to miss them.

It WAS a beautiful day–it is so rare to see the sun in these parts in winter that though it was very cold indeed, I did not feel the bleakness of winter surrounding me. I took the bus first to Shaftestury Avenue to the Apollo Theater where I got myself a single ticket to see Three Days of Rain starring James McEvoy (who played Robert in Ian McEwan’s Atonement). The show is filling up fast (McEvoy’s name is a huge draw) and I only managed to get a seat in my price range in April. Next, I took a bus to Trafalgar Square to the Trafalgar Studios to book a ticket to see Imelda Staunton (who played Vera Drake in the film Vera Drake) in Entertaining Mr. Sloan. This show has a very limited four week run and since I think Staunton is one of the finest female actresses working in the UK today, I simply did not want to miss it. How thrilled I was when I found a ticket for next Monday evening. Then, I simply walked across Trafalgar Square to the Coliseum where the English National Opera has two superb shows on in the next few months. I got myself a single ticket to see Puccini’s La Boheme in March and then bought two tickets for this Saturday evening’s show to see Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Stephanie will be spending the weekend with me in my flat and we decided to go to the opera and dinner on Saturday evening. Finally, I crossed the street (St. Martin’s Lane) and entered The Duke of York Theater to buy a ticket for Arthur Miller’s View from the Bridge which counts in its cast Hayley Atwell (I saw her recently in The Duchess and she also played the major role of Julia Flythe in the new version of Brideshead Revisited–which I have yet to see). She is one of the UK’s most up-and-coming actresses and I am delighted to be able to see her in person. So, with all these tickets in the bag, Culture-vulture Me then hopped next door into the National Gallery to complete the last six galleries I needed to study as part of my project to become closely acquainted with its collection.

I sat on a bench in the lobby and ate my quiche Lorraine and then began my perusal of galleries 41 to 46 which are the most popular rooms at the National since they contain works by the Impressionists. They were, therefore, far more crowded than the the other galleries I’ve studied. All the big names were here and all the most famous canvases in this genre (Monet’s Water Lilies, Van Gogh’s Armchair and Sunflowers, Degas’ Ballet Dancers, Renoir’s Umbrellas —I loved that work–Cezanne’s still lives, Seurat’s Bathers at Asnieres, etc. etc.) but for me, as always, the works that caught my attention were the least known–I particularly warmed to a view of Badminton by Corot and a wintry scene in Norwood by Camille Pissarro. So many of these Impressionists ‘escaped’ to London to avoid the (Crimean?) War that they ended up painting English landscapes in styles that pre-empted the Impressionist rage that would shortly sweep over France. And it was these works that I found most intriguing. I also loved the scenes of the Siene at Argenteuille and Pointoise that Monet, Manet and even Morissot painted. Somehow, it is these rural river scapes that are most charm my eye and take me into imaginary realms that make me feel me serene and contented.

Then, I took the bus back home, glad that Llew had contacted me via cell phone while I was in the gallery and had greenlighted the dates I had picked for our travels. This meant that I could go ahead and book our Easyjet tickets online which I did immediately. So, Italy and Turkey…here we come! I now have to find us good fares from Rome to Istanbul but I do know that Swissair is doing some good offers at the moment. I organized all my theater tickets at home, changed a few plans to fit in with an invitation to drinks tomorrow that my friend Rosemary Massouras left me by email and tried to take a short nap before I left the house again.
You see, yesterday, just by chance, when we were standing outside NYU waiting for the campus doors to be opened, Ruth Smith Tucker, one of our administrative aides, had offered me a free ticket to see Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night at the Donmar Wyndham Theater on Charing Cross Road. I had jumped at the opportunity, of course, as I was aware that the role of Malvolio is being played by none other than Derek Jacobi, veteran Shakespearean actor (also star of Cadfael and I, Claudius). So, I pulled on warm clothes, took the bus to Charing Cross at 6. 30 pm, (after a small bite of more quiche Lorraine) and arrived at the theater to find David Hillel-Reuben, Director of NYU-London, in the lobby awaiting the arrival of his family. A little later, his wife and son joined us and still later, James Weygood arrived with my ticket.

Upstairs, in the Grand Circle, in one of the most beautiful theater interiors I have been so far, we settled down to watch a show that I have seen several times before and in several versions (the very first time being at the Royal Shakespeare Theater at Stratford-on-Avon twenty-two years ago when I was at Oxford). Yet, it never ever palls, this lovely amusing confusing heartwarming comedy that Shakespeare wrote so many centuries ago. I have seen so many Malvolios over the years and each of them has brought his own brand of humor and individuality to the interpretation of the role–but I know I will never forget Jacobi, who was simply masterful.

I was also thrilled to discover that Olivia was played by an Indian actress (Indira Varma who was in Bride and Prejudice among other shows). She is tall, slim, statuesque and very elegant indeed and when I saw her olive skin, so beautifully set off in the grand black mourning outfit she wore in the first scene, I knew she was an ‘ethnic’ actress. Yet another actor whose origin is undoubtedly the Indian sub-continent was Zubin Varla who played Feste, the Fool–he is not only from South Asia but a Parsi as well, as I can tell from his name. All of the cast were just superb and at the end of the show when I ran into Mick Hattaway who teaches Shakespeare at NYU and is considered one of the UK’s finest Shakespearean scholars, he said to me, “This is as good as it can get”. Indeed, it was brilliant, and I realized as I left the theater that I can see Twelfth Night again and again and never ever tire of it.

The show ended at 10 pm, I changed three buses to reach home and yet I was in the lobby of my building at 10. 25–this is the beauty of living in the Heart of London and of London’s buses–when they do run, they are reliable and convenient and, best of all, so cheap!!!

Back on my couch, I helped myself to some Carrot and Ginger Soup and the Strawberry Compote Trifle (courtesy of Marks and Spenser) and went straight to bed. It had been a day of art museums and quality theater and I was a happy camper as I fell asleep.

Looking Back Over Four Months in London

Dec17

Wednesday, December 17, 2008
London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry Potter’s Platform 9 3/4, Treasures of the British Library and Holiday Concert at St. Paul’s

Dec16

December 16, 2008
Tuesday

Antony Andrews is still as gorgeous as ever. Ask me how I know that Lord Sebastian Flyte in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited is still as cute as a button and I’ll tell you that I had the good fortune of seeing him today at a star-studded gala Holiday Concert at St. Paul’s Cathedral in aid of the Cancer Research Fund. I was a guest of Bishop Michael and Cynthia Colclough and in the line-up of celebrity readers were Dame Aileen Atkins whom I saw recently at the West End in The Female of the Species and John Sargent whom the entire UK is buzzing about after his success in Strictly Come Dancing. Apart from Atkins and Andrews, however, I have to admit that I did not recognize the names of any of the other local celebrities.

This evening crowned for me the series of fabulous Advent and pre-Christmas events in the Cathedral that have truly put me in the festive spirit and allowed me to meet so many interesting folks–all guests of the Colcloughs. Tonight was extra-special because in the audience was Princess Alexandra, the Hon. Lady Ogilvy, a cousin-in-law of the Queen and a patron of the Cancer Research Foundation who swished out of the cathedral just a few feet in front of me in a resplendent gold brocade coat and fabulous glittering necklace. There was also Connie Fisher who is currently playing Maria in the London stage version of The Sound of Music and Rupert Penry Jones who read Sir John Betjeman’s poem Advent 1955. The best readings were by Atkins who did a hysterically funny version of Shirley Valentine by Willy Russel and Andrews’ extraordinarily moving reading of Captain R.J. Armes’ account of an encounter between British and German forces at the trenches during World War I in a piece entitled Christmas Truce. Punctuated by carols performed by the Vicars’ and Boys’ choirs and a number of sing-a-long songs in which the audience joined, the evening made for a fine concert indeed.

Outside on the steps of St. Paul’s, you’ d think you’d regressed to the Victorian Age for suddenly a number of characters stood before us–each seemingly had walked out from a different page of Dickens’ novels. A Beadle grandly announced the distribution of mince pies to all who cared for one. More Victorian characters on stilts entertained the crowd as they dribbled out of the cathedral, a Victorian policeman did the rounds on his Penny Farthing bicycle while blowing frantically on his antiquated whistle and Victorian vendors bearing large trays of mince pies and baskets full of chocolates distributed them around generously acquiring more supplies from a Victorian fruit cart that was parked nearby. It was all thoroughly jolly indeed and did actually make me feel as if Christmas is around the corner–which, of course it is! In keeping with the coming holiday, I made my way to the side of the Cathedral and the pathway that leads to what my neighbor Barbara calls the “Wobbly Bridge” (it’s actually the Millennium Bridge that began to wobble dangerously the day it was inaugurated!). There I took pictures in front of a towering tree strung over with aquamarine lights.

This event brought the curtain down on an eventful and busy day. After I drafted our Almeida Family Christmas 2008 letter while it was still dark outside my window, I took the bus to King’s Cross Station with the objective of seeking out Platform 9 3/4 which features in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books. This is the station from which Harry and his classmates board the train that takes them to Hogwart’s School for Wizards. Though I have read only the first book and seen the first movie in the series–Harry Potter and the Scorcerer’s Stone–my students are passionate devotees of the series and it was at their behest that I went pottering about King’s Cross Station as so many fans have done before me. In fact, now that my students have enthused me, I have decided to spend the next semester reading the rest of the series. Because so many readers have poured into the station looking for this platform, the City authorities decided to create one. I followed signs to Platforms 9, 10, and 11 and lo and behold! There was Platform 9 3/4 and a luggage cart that was in the very process of disappearing into the wall–in exactly the same way that Harry Potter and his friends find their way to the train. Of course, I had to take a picture pushing the luggage cart at this charming site. Only in London, kids, only in London…

Next, I walked along the fabulous red exterior of Sir John Betjeman’s beloved St. Pancras Station (now almost covered with scaffolding as construction to refurbish it into a five star hotel continues). It was my intention to get to the British Library to renew my Reader’s ID Card which recently expired. I had thought that producing the expired card would do the trick, but it turns out that I have to produce documents all over again proving my place of residence. Oh well, I guess I will just have to go back there tomorrow. It’s a good thing the British Library is so easy to get to on the bus.

Being at the British Library, I decided to do something I have been wanting to do for a long while–pour over the special manuscripts contained in the exhibition Ritblat Gallery under the rubric “Treasures of the British Library”. I had last perused these treasures 22 years ago when they were located in the British Museum–in the marvelous domed Reading Room in which Karl Marx scribbled his Das Kapital! In these new premises at King’s Cross, the manuscripts are exhibited in extremely dim cases in order to prevent the ink from fading completely by exposure to light. I spent an hour and a half looking at old maps drawn by cartographers in the 1300s, an excellent Shakespeare section which contained his First Folio of 1623 and a number of works by his contemporaries. There was even a leaf from a play that was jointly authored by a number of Elizabethan playwrights that is actually believed to be in Shakespeare’s own handwriting! How cool is that!!!

In the Music section, I was delighted to see scraps of original paper on which The Beatles scribbled so many of the lyrics of their most famous songs. One of them was by John Lennon who actually used the back of his son Julian’s 1st birthday card! The best part of all is that accompanying the cases which contain the manuscripts are audio extracts from musical compositions, recitations of poetry, etc. I was actually able to listen to several Beatles’ songs and then poetry as read by the poets themselves! It was quite engaging to listen to W.B. Yeats read his own poem ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ in his thick Irish brogue just as Seamus Heany read from his poem ‘Mint’ and James Joyce read an extract from his own Finnegan’s Wake. All of these writers had distinctly Irish accents which is natural, I suppose, since they were born and raised in Ireland. I heard Virginia Woolf’s voice as well in an extract from a BBC radio conversation. It was these bits that I found most fascinating.

Of course, in the literary section there were also original manuscripts of such classics as Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles (I had seen the manuscript of his Jude the Obscure at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge last month), Emily Bronte’s Jane Eyre and early stories that Jane Austen had penned as a child to entertain her family. There was also Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim written in his own handwriting (and bearing evidence of multiple attempts at revision) as well as letters from Rupert Brooke to a woman whom very few scholars knew about until recently. An hour and a half later, I had only seen half the collection and decided that I would return tomorrow as I have to go to the Reader Registration Desk again anyway. I really did want to finish perusing these manuscripts before I left for the States and I am glad I managed to squeeze it in.

Then, I went to NYU to print out some interviews (the Internet was SOOOOOO sluggish and SOOOOOO maddening this morning ) and then I was out of there and walking towards the Waitrose at Brunswick Center to buy a few food items for my Mum in Bombay. Then, off to Tesco’s to buy Llew some of the luxury Muesli he likes–only I found that the Holborn Viaduct branch does not carry it which meant I had to ride the bus to Bank Underground Station where I found it.

With only a couple of days to go before I leave for the States, I am shopping frantically and trying to organize my packing. I have to pack one suitcase to carry to the States and leave one packed suitcase here in my flat. After spending Christmas with my family in Southport, Connecticut, I will board a flight from JFK on the morning of December 26, arrive at Heathrow that evening, spent one night in my London flat before I leave for Heathrow again the next morning, December 27, to board another flight to Bombay. The packed suitcase will then go with me to Bombay. Complicated enough for you????

The last two days have been spent running last-minute errands, transcribing taped interviews and printing them out, filling in grade sheets and handing them in, making phone calls and sending out email messages in order to set in place appointments with my Anglo-Indian subjects for the end of January and the beginning of February. I am proud to say that in the process of two months, despite being afflicted with plantar fasciitis, I managed to do 15 interviews with people who were based in the far-flung reaches of London. It is my hope to do several more in the early months of the new year. In the evenings, I’ve been trying to get some packing done.

Last night, I watched Greyfriar’s Bobby, a poignant movie about a little Skye Terrier that mourned for 14 years on the grave of his master after he died in the late 1800s. The city of Edinburgh made the dog an honorary Friend of the City and gave him free run of the streets. There is a statue of the dog that came to be known as ‘Greyfriar’s Bobby’ (as it lay on his master’s grave in Greyfriar’s cemetery) in Edinburgh today to honor the values of loyalty and faithfulness. My friend Delyse Fernandez had told me about this movie a couple of years ago and I was able to order it on Love Film. Com.

As my first semester comes to a close and I pull my suitcases shut, I cannot help but think what an eventful four months these have been and how dearly I have come to adore this city and how intimately I have grown to know it . I can sincerely say that I have taken fullest advantage of the many benefits that this posting has afforded me. It truly feels as if I have been on vacation for the past eight months and as I start to think of the arrival of my friend Jenny-Lou Seqeuira on Thursday, I know I have one last leg of my Fall semester here in London to anticipate with pleasure.

Hauntingly Beautiful Barnes!

Nov19

Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Barnes

I awoke to a sunshiny morning and felt the day just hollerin’ mah name! Unable to resist, I finished grading another batch of student essays, caught up with my parents in Bombay, mapped out a route I would take to Barnes exclusively using the buses and set out with map, hat, camera, water and packed lunch.

It has now become something of an adventure to find my way to my destination using only buses. My monthly bus pass (purchased yesterday) allows me to use the bus network anywhere in London. That is pretty incredible and I decided that I must squeeze maximum value of out it. So since I am teaching both tomorrow and on Thursday this week and am going to spend Saturday in Cambridge, I figured today would be the best date to make use of it.

So off I went. I took Bus 19 from Gray’s Inn Lane and Theobald’s Road to Piccadilly Road from where I transferred to Bus 22 going to Putney. The driver was so kind and so informative. When I told him that I was headed to Barnes, he told me to hop off at Putney Bridge and catch Bus 485 from The Embankment (this is the Thames Embankment at Putney). This bus took me to Barnes Pond from where my walk began. I used Frommer’s 24 Great Walks in London and had the glories of a stunning fall day all to myself to celebrate the season, the weather, nature and the joy of being alive and (almost) recovered from Plantar Fascittis.

I had been to Barnes before, a few years ago, on an exploration of the Thames. I remembered how charming this little village was and how difficult it was to believe that I was not twelve miles outside London. This time round, my forays began at Barnes Pond where the few yellow leaves still clinging to the trees made the scene magical. It was as if a bag of gold flakes had been shaken over the trees to bring them some holiday sparkle. As the ducks and the swans skimmed the surface of the pond in which a few stray weeping willows were also reflected, I thought of Shakespeare’s sonnet:

That time of year that mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or few, or none do hang
Upon those boughs that shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

It was so heartachingly beautiful and my heart sang in ecstasy at the warmth and splendour of the season. Temperature-wise, it was cold…colder than I had expected–I have yet to learn how to interpret Celsius temperatures–what does 9 degrees mean? I had worn a long sleeved cotton shirt, a cashmere cardigan and a suede jacket and I had thought those would be sufficient. But how mistaken I was. I really ought to have worn my down jacket, a scarf and my gloves too. Oh well…live and learn. NO regrets, though. Once I strode briskly along, I warmed up a little bit. And oh, I was also grateful for my new Ecco shoes which fit like a dream and made me feel as if I were walking on a cloud.

Across Barnes Green, I arrived at the memorial to rock singer Marc Bolan who was huge when I was in high school. He died suddenly in the 1970s when his girl friend who was driving a car back from a party, lost control. Bolan died instantly, his side of the car taking the ferocity of the blow. The memorial is placed on the exact spot in which he died. It is a quiet, almost hidden spot and is deeply moving. Placed there on the 25th anniversary of his death, it is also stirring for those of us who are Bolan’s contemporaries. He died just before he turned thirty and it made me realize how death has frozen him in age and time–he will forever remain young. Wasn’t it Laurence Binyon who wrote in his poem “For the Fallen” these lines when talking about England’s tragically lost war dead?

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

I thought of those lines at Bolan’s memorial, then, in thoughtful silence, resumed my walk across Barnes Common. I was the only walker on this rather chilly day and I have to admit that I started to feel jittery about halfway across it. It didn’t help that my walking notes informed me that I was entering the least frequented part of the Common, a part of London in which the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin lay in wait with his accomplice for people crossing the Common then attacked and robbed them. A little later on the same walk was a part of the Common in which a lone walker once reported being waylaid by a frightful creature who scaled the iron railings that bordered the park and landed in front of him with a thud. For years after that, walkers all over the vicinity reported sightings of a hideous creature who appeared fearsomely and scared the living daylights out of them. I decided that I would not walk alone in such deserted stretches again–at least not on days when most people are tucked up cozily by roaring fires at home!

Just when my thoughts threatened to make me feel deeply uneasy, I reached the end of the deserted stretch and found a bench on which to eat my sandwich lunch. A few people passed by, clad warmly to walk their dogs, their garb including the traditional olive-green very English “wellies”. When my feet had rest sufficiently, I resumed the walk again, this time arriving at Milbourne House, the home that 18th century novelist Henry Fielding had purchased just before he became a success with the pulication of his novel Tom Jones. Surprisingly, no one I asked knew where Milbourne House was though it stared them in the face not two hundred yards away!

Around the corner from the antiquated Essex Lodge, I walked along Barnes High Street with its rather smart shops to The Terrace, a quieter embankment which I recalled having walked over the last time I was in Barnes. There was Barnes Bridge with a pretty part of Hammersmith evident in the distance at the opposite end. I walked beneath it, passed the house once occupied by composer Gustav Holst and arrived at the historic White Hart Pub for which the White Hart Lane is named.

This street contains a number of very enticing stores selling one-of-a-kind items. Two of my favorite stores are on this street–The Dining Room Shop and Tobias and the Angel. The former was so crammed with shoppers that I wondered if there was a pre-Christmas sale on! They fell all over the merchandise which consists of antiques for the dining table including crystal and glassware, china and linen. There were baubles and ornaments of every variety and a whole load of items that would make handsome gifts–no wonder everyone and her sister was there! Best part of all was the fragrance in the store and whether these came from the bags of pot pourri (“still only ten pounds”) or the candles that lent their golden glow to the room, I am uncertain. Business was brisk and items were flying off the shelves. What I did know was that though I did not intend to shop, I could hardly tear myself away.

But then just next door, “The Angel” sat in her shop which exuded the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked mince pies. This store features handmade ornaments, mainly made of fabric and scraps of vintage material. It also sells antiques with a ‘country’ feel–lamp shades and pitchers and bowls and and accessories such as scented pouches filled with dried lavender. Though I have little doubt that all these things are handmade, I find it hard to reconcile the prices which are just outrageous. While I saw many browsers such as myself, I saw few buyers–which, I suppose, speaks for itself.

I then rounded a lane and found my way to the Roman Catholic Church of Mary Magdalen where in the adjoining graveyard was the strangest memorial in the world! This one commemorates the death of Richard Burton…no, not the actor, but the author, linguist and translator of The Arabian Nights. As a tribute to the long years he spent in Arabia, his memorial is a Bedouin tent! If you climb the ladder at the back–which I did–and peer into the glass window, you can actually see the ornate coffins of himself and his wife, Isabelle Arundel. I was so spooked by this sight that I quickly scrambled down the ladder and rushed out of the graveyard!
But then as I was leaving, in the midst of all those aged gravestones, mossy with the passage of time (Burton died in the 1880s), I passed a freshly-dug grave whose marble headstone was sprinkled over with pure white marble pieces. “This can’t be an old grave”, I thought. And so I paused to read the headstone and I swear, you could have knocked me down with a feather. The grave contained the body of a man who had been born in 1904 and had died in 1933. In the very same grave was buried his wife, a woman named Edith, who was born in 1905 and who had died in March of this year! Yes, she died at the age of 103 having spent 75 years as a widow!!! I couldn’t help but stare and imagine all those years that she lived alone, without another companion in her life. Somehow, the sight left me feeling terribly despondent while, at the same time, stirred by her extraordinary devotion to her husband.

Soon, I was crossing the street to get into yet another churchyard–this one the church of St. Mary the Virgin at Mortlake. Dating from the mid-1500s, the church is notable for its graveyard which won the award for Best Maintained Graveyard in 2001–imagine that! They actually do award prizes of this kind! A plaque inside explained the history of the grave sites. The oldest dates from the 1600s and many of them contain the remains of figures who were prominent in their respective fields in their day and age. I also visited the inside of the church which was eerily quiet and empty and had me rushing off in a hurry.

Then, before the sun quite set, I decided to find my way back home on the buses. I did so enjoy the long bus ride coming in and it was better on my return. The discovery of new spaces always interests me and the villages on the banks of the Thames are especially pretty containing as they do some very pricey real estate and very fancy shops that cater to the upscale tastes of this segment of suburban London.

I hope now to explore Putney and Chiswick and Hampstead and over the course of the month, before I return to the US and India for my winter break, I will have covered some pretty fascinating pockets of the city.

Back home, with my feet and my legs protesting loudly, I worked on a feature article for the Christmas issue of The Examiner, a Catholic weekly in Bombay, to which I have contributed a Christmas essay for the past six years. Naturally, since this is my first Christmas in England, I decided to pen a piece about my impressions which have been ‘cooking’ for several weeks in my head. I entitled the essay “Yuletide in Ole’ Blighty”.

I have finished the first draft and will start to improve on it over the next couple of days before I send it off for publication.

My Ideal London Day

Nov18

Tuesday, November 18, 2008
London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reading, Blogging, Grading, Viewing, Listening…

Nov17

November 17, 2008
London

On a day that began with rather dismal weather, I awoke to the eerie quietness of a flat that seemed to sorely miss Llew’s presence. It was still only 6 am, but I decided to get back to routine, which meant spending an hour reading in bed. I have begun The Mature Mind: The Positive Power of the Aging Brain by Gene D. Cohen, a recent birthday present from my friends Shahnaz and Mukaram Bhagat of Bombay who handed it to me personally on their recent visit to London. It is rather technical going at the moment as the author explains the workings of the brain and those parts of it that sharpen with time when the ability to make connections far from slowing the brain allows it to come up with rather creative problem-solving techniques.

With Chapter One done, I turned to my Blog and relived the joys of our Greek Odyssey in the pages I filled for the many days we spent on the mainland and while cruising through the Cyclades. I will now turn to my website and create a few pages there while adding pictures that will bring our holiday to life. Documenting in detail the great time we had together, made me miss Llew very much and I do so wish we could have spent the year together in London. I know he would have loved it as much as I am doing; but on his first day back at work in New Jersey and his undertaking of a new assignment in a new department, I did wish him the best of luck and much success. Of course, he did call as soon as he arrived at work at the start of a new day and I heard all about his return flight and the odds and ends he has left behind in my flat.

Then, I sat to grade a few of my student’s essays. The sun made a brave attempt to break through the clouds while I was at it and I wondered whether I should venture outdoors. When I saw the weather forecast and realized how cold it was, however, I decided to stay put and continue with the grading. I went through half a pile before I returned to my own travel writing with the intention of finishing the lot tomorrow.

With the calls I made to my parents in Bombay and to Llew in the States and the online dialogue I had with Chriselle, it was 4pm before I quite knew it and with darkness having fallen outside, I decided to go out for some air. Walking through Chancery Lane and on to Fleet Street, I took a bus to the National Portrait Gallery. One month ago, I would have walked there and would have scoffed at the idea of taking the bus…but now that my feet are slowly healing, I am determined to lavish them with some TLC. Anyway, I love riding the buses and I do look forward to the day when I will hop, a la Bombay buses, on to the back of a Routemaster and sail down Fleet Street feeling for all the world as if I am in the Fort or Colaba area again!

I spent almost two hours at the National Portrait Gallery. No matter how often I visit, there is always something new to see. And this time, there were the infamous portraits of the Queen taken on her Golden Jubilee by Annie Lebowitz that caught my eye as I walked to the cloakroom to hand in my coat. I was struck by how aged the Queen looks. When did she grow so old? When did she put on so much weight? How did that elegant lady in her hats and pearls become so forbidding? There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of a smile on her face in those portraits and I realized that she was either very bored, very cross or very unhappy the day she posed for the celebrated photographer. Shot in stark black and white, the pictures only emphasize the Queen’s distance from her people and I did not care for them at all. Was it the regalia in which she had chosen to be attired that made her seem so disconnected with the viewer? Was it the setting–Buckingham Palace–with its splendour reflected in the background that disengaged her so totally from the camera? I have no clue. What I do know is that I found those portraits too solemn, too grim, too lacking in any kind of human warmth or compassion and whether this is the fault of the sitter or the photographer is hard to fathom.

I began on the second floor and went chronologically through the collection starting with the Tudors. Almost all of these people are now instantly recognizable to me through the many movies and TV shows I have watched that have documented this epoch. The rarer portraits of Dudley and Devereux, Queen Elizabeth I’s alleged lovers, were interesting for the amazing similarity they showed with the actors who have played them in recent TV series. A girl passing with her boyfriend through the gallery saw the portrait of Dudley and said, “This was her boyfriend. She had his head chopped off”. Whew! Imagine that! She pronounced those words so casually, almost triumphantly, and with so much relish–as if she had something to do with the Virgin Queen’s decrees!

I progressed then to the more literary portraits that showcase Shakespeare and his contemporaries and called to mind the excellent lectures on the History of Renaissance Literature that I had attended in the classes of the late Dr. Mehroo Jussawala at Elphinstone College, Bombay. Portraits of Beaumont and Fletcher, Sackville and Norton, Wyatt and Sidney took me back to those undergrad classes and I thought it lamentable that other stalwart writers of the period were absent–such as Spenser and Marlowe, either because they never had their portraits painted or because none exist to be acquired by the Gallery.

In the Civil War section, I put faces to the names of those monarchs whose history I recently reviewed at the Banqueting Hall–James and Charles I, James and Charles II and their wives. I learned, for instance, that Catherine of Braganza brought to Charles II as part of her dowry not just the islands of Bombay, but Tangier in Morocco as well. I saw why King Charles spaniels are so called. It was because Charles I loved them and popularized them in his court. He is seen in his portrait posing with one such puppy in his lap. I read interesting extracts from the diary of Samuel Pepys in which he records his experiences, including the crick in his neck that he received from having to pose endlessly for his portrait. I was only able to complete seven rooms, however, when I was politely requested to return tomorrow as the Gallery was closing. I have resolved to return on a Thursday or Friday night when the gallery remains open till 9 pm. I intend to go through each of the rooms at leisure but because the space is small, I can see myself accomplishing this goal within a week.

Then, I walked briskly down Monmouth Street, stopping at Starbucks to purchase a Black Forest Cupcake that is special to the Christmas season, and arriving at the School of Oriental and African Studies where, in the Brunei Gallery, Dr. Gary Day of De Montford University in Leicestershire, was scheduled to give a lecture at 6. 30 pm on “Class in the UK”. The audience consisted mainly of NYU students taking courses on British Politics and Government, but because I learn so much from these varied points of view, I try to make it a point to attend. Day’s views–he calls himself a Marxist Socialist–so riled up the capitalists in the American student audience that the Q&A that followed the lecture was indignant and aggressive. In proposing a classless society in Great Britain, created through the payment of equal wages to every single person irrespective of the kind of job he did (a somewhat Platonic concept if I remember The Republic correctly) , Day met with much opposition from my students who boldly refuted his perspectives. It made for a lively evening and one I much enjoyed.

On the way back, I stopped to pick up a few essentials at Tesco and Sainsburys, then ate my dinner while watching a few old Britcoms on GOLD, the channel that has resurrected the most beloved ones. In these days of reality TV, for those of us who are allergic to such programs, this channel is a savior and I am so glad that I discovered it.

French & Saunders–Live and Kicking…Butt!

Oct24

Friday, October 24, 2008
London

What a rollicking evening I had at the Royal Theater today! I have just returned from a hysterically comedic evening in the company of two of the UK’s funniest women–Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders who have been entertaining audiences on both sides of the Atlantic for the past thirty years. I, of course, got to know of the duo through PBS screenings of The Vicar of Dibley that starred French as Vicar Geraldine Grainger of the village of Dibley. That was it…I was so hooked on to her talents that I rented French and Saunders from the library and became introduced to her other half–Jennifer Saunders (who also had a huge hit with Absolutely Fabulous). Crashing through the essentially male world of stand-up comedy, this twosome hit the scene in the 70s and have been steadily at it for what seems like forever.

I was even more delighted to learn that while Dawn French might be the other half of Jennifer Saunders, she is the better half of comedian Lenny Henry (the arrogant, wordy, tell-it-like-it-is Chef Gareth Blackstock of Chef!)–the other show that I grew to love on PBS in the States. I was sorely disappointed that this limited engagement sell-out show had no seats available for any of the nights that Llew will be in London. So, I had to content myself with spending an evening guffawing–make that rolling in the aisles–at the Drury Lane Theater all on my own. But not for a second did I feel lonely, for I was in the company of legions of French & Saunders fans who hung on to their every antic, syllable and lyric in this fantastic celebration of their three decades in the limelight.

The Theater itself was a treat to visit. One of London’s oldest theaters, it was constructed in the mid-1600s and rebuilt (after the Great Fire of London) by Sir Christopher Wren. From the foyer with its magnificent dome and glittering chandelier and the marble sculptures of the doyens of playwriting and drama (Shakespeare, Edward Kean, Balfe), to the interior with its ornate boxes, gilded plasterwork on ceiling and elaborate scroll decoration, the space is opulent and historic. Dickens was a frequent visitor to this theater as was Dr. Johnson and his constant companion Boswell.

Right opposite, is the famous candy store Hope and Greenwood with its unique chocolate creations (Lime Creams, Lavender Truffles, Strawberry and Black Pepper Chocolates and Squirrels which are chocolates that look like acorns !). But for the fact that I am trying to lose some weight–the less weight I carry upon my feet now, the better), I would have bought a pound and feasted on them all by myself!

But for this evening’s excursion, I had been exceptionally good today, following doctor’s orders and carrying out my routine of exercises and foot massages and rest. I graded a bunch of papers while stretched out in bed and took it nice and easy.

Indeed, I even managed to change the venue of my appointment this morning with retired Professor Lionel Caplan who taught South Asian Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies. We had fixed up to meet for coffee at 11 am at the British Library, but in view of my condition, Lionel agreed to come over to my flat. We sat down over cups of coffee and discussed his work among Anglo-Indians in Madras–the outcome of which is his excellent book, Children of Colonialism: Anglo-Indians in a Post-Colonial World. I have been greatly inspired by his work as a scholar and in the research I am conducting among Anglo-Indians in the UK, I pick up where he left off and examine the position of diasporic Anglo-Indian immigrants in the West. He very helpfully brought me a bunch of contacts that I can continue to tap as I delve deeper into my investigations, as well as suggested his former colleagues at SOAS who might be of assistance to me for the rest of my stay in London.

So I guess my day was intensely productive and, thanks to laptop technology, I am able to get a lot done even while confined to my flat. I am grateful for this and keep taking courage from the number of people, some in my own family, who are laboring right now under far worse health constraints. By keeping a positive attitude and looking for ways to take my mind off my affliction, I am hoping to heal, not just physically but psychologically as well. Llew is a tremendous help in this regard. He has been functioning as my coach, rahrah-ing me along, albeit through long-distance calls, and urging me to stay in high spirits. I cannot wait to see him next week this time and I keep thinking of all the fun things we will do together…God willing!

Another Walk, Another Movie

Sep23

Tuesday, September 23, 2008
London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stonehenge and The Golden Georgian City of Bath

Sep14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Walk in Southwark and a Play at the Globe Theater

Sep10

Wednesday, September 1o, 2008
London

The sun finally peaked out today making a guest appearance during what, Londoners tell me, has been a dreadful summer on the whole. Of course, this rarity would have to occur on the one day in ten whole days that I had to stay home to prepare for my classes for tomorrow! Still, I can’t complain. I managed to salvage much of the warmth and light by working hard all morning at my desk making notes for my classes and adding new pages on our Scotalnd trip to my website.

Felcy came to meet me this morning. She is to be my new cleaning lady and will come in to do my domestic chores on Fridays. I was almost certain she would refuse to accept employment with me as I need her for such a short time only every other week. But I think she was delighted to find a compatriot in London–we can both trace roots to South India, she to Goa, me to Mangalore–and wanted to oblige. Also, she was recommended to me by a family friend whom she holds in high regard and for whom she has worked for years. So, it was all settled then and she will relieve me of the bulk of my chores. She seems cheerful and companionable and, thankfully, speaks perfect English. She also seems to know what needs to be done without being trained–which is a big comfort to me.

Today was also the day my first 2 movies arrived from LoveFilm which is the UK equivalent of Netflix. I picked them up from my mailbox this evening and hope to take full advantage of the free 30 day introduction they have given me. If this arrangement really works, I shall continue to pay them 12. 99 pounds per month to receive 2 DVDs at a time–unlimited. As it has turned out, I have been so busy writing, that I have hardly found any time for TV movies.

Lunch done and with my tickets having been booked for the 7.30 pm performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe Theater, I decided to take one of those lovely walks in London as delienated in the book 24 Great Walks in London. This one is entitled “Bards and Bawks in Southwark”–pronounced “Sut-erk”. It was a two hour walk that began at Borough Tube Station and ended at London Bridge Tube Station. I gave myself a spare half hour at the Theater to enjoy a hot chocolate before the performance began.

As with all these walks, I realize that each time I set out I am in for a treat. I passed three churches–St. George the Martyr, the grand Southwark Cathedral, the oldest Gothic church in London (Shakespeare, Gower, Marlowe, Dickens–all worshipped here) and St. Thomas’ Church which was under heavy renovation and closed. I also saw the remains of the Marshalsea Prison in which Dickens’ father, John, was imprisoned as a debtor–an experience which so traumatized Dickens and was the subject of his prison scenes in Little Dorrit. In fact, the entire area is steeped in Dickens’ memorabilia. There is a Little Dorrit Playground and Court across the road and the Southwark Public Library has fascimile scenes on the wall of the first illustrated pages of the novel.

Southwark also had a totally delightful hidden garden called the Red Cross Garden created in the later 1880s by Octavia Hill from what was a paper factory, in her determination to create open play space for the poorest children of London’s south bank. The garden and the cottages that border it are adorable and I was amazed at how well it has retained its original objective. The space was full of the last roses of summer, an abundance of lavender–most drying on the bushes–bulrushes in a pond and catmint. Neat pathways allowed charming strolls and a couple of people sat on benches chatting amiably on what was a lovely afternoon indeed. But for the most part, the garden was deserted–a fact that added to its serene ambience.

Just a few steps away was Cross Bones, a cemetery for the prostitutes from Southwark’s brothels who were forbidden a decent burial in consecrated ground. The hypocrisy of Renaissance and Victorian Christian society was brought out in the callousness with which these women were treated. Forbidden by the Bishop of Winchester to be blessed in death, their professions were, in fact, licensed by the church! As time went by, this cemetery was used to bury paupers, the nameless dead. Today, it has been turned into a shrine by which to remember the poorest of the poor, those whom Time forgot.

Across the street, I arrived at Maiden Lane, the street on which the original Globe Theater stood in Shakespeare’s Time. Careful archeological digs have revealed some remnants of the original theater which have been carefully preserved and the area cordoned off from any future development. Just a few hundred meters away is the new revived Globe Theater, built through the efforts of American film-maker Sam Wanamaker who subsequently passed away. The gradual gentrification of Southwark means that droves of tourists are pouring into a part of London that received few visitors until ten years ago.

Today, the neglected, crumbling buildings of the neighborhood are being revitalized through modern housing projects that cost tens of hundreds of pounds. I was fascinated to walk through the former Bear Gardens where, in Medieval and Elizabethan times bear and bull-baiting tournaments were held–a bloody sport that fired the public imagination and was extrememly popular. I also passed by the old Rose Theater which staged plays by Ben Jonson and his contemporaries. Indeed, this part of Southwark was a cultural hothouse in the days of Elizabeth I and it slowly seems to be attaining that level of theatrical and cultural proficiency again.

Past The Globe, I saw the Clink Prison, the oldest remaining medieval prison in London and the remains of the Palace of the notorious Bishop of Winchester who, as can plainly be seen, lived a luxurious and lascivious life. Just a few steps ahead is a replica of The Golden Hind, the famous ship of which Elizabeth I knighted Francis Drake for his solo circumnavigation around the world. This brought me directly to Southwark Cathedral where the altar was recently refurbished and freshly gilded and looked stunning. (I had seen only glimpses of it shrouded under scaffolding when I was last there this past March with my friend Amy Tobin). I passed the famous Borough Market, England’s most famous food emporium and crossed over on to Borough High Street towards St. Thomas Lane where at the Church of St. Thomas, the Angel of Mercy Florence Nightingale worked as a nurse in an operating theater that is today, like the Clink Prison, a museum. I am stunned by the number of buildings that have been reconstructed and turned into museums. No matter how small they are, they are still receptacles of curiosity and of an epoch that is fascinating in its antiquity.

Then, I was at the New Globe Theater, Sam Wanamaker’s baby, its unique circular shape a wonderful addition to the river scape. It sits cheek by jowl with the equally unique Millennium Bridge and by their very presence these two structures–one essentially Elizabethan, the other Futuristic–have revitalized the South Bank and made it a must-do tourist destination.

It was a little past mid-summer when I got down to the comic business of seeing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Bard’s last comedy, at his own Globe Theater. What a difference it made seeing the evening show. When I had last seen a play at the Globe, a few years ago, I had attended a matinees show of Hamlet as a groundling, i..e. standing in the ‘pit’ by paying just five pounds for a ticket. I was unable to stand for more than an hour then and I had left having seen the entry of all the major characters.

This time I was seated, like Elizabethan aristocracy, in one of the ‘galleries’, enjoying the view from up above. The entire production was ‘over-the-top’, portrayed exactly as things happen in dreams, that is to say, with no resemblance at all to reality. The characters interacted with the audience in the pit in the same way that Shakespeare’s Lord Chamberlain’s Men (later The King’s Men) had done, resulting in an enormous amount of ad-libbing which the groundlings relished. Costumes were sumptuous, stage movements–including the choreographed dances–were strategic, performances were uniformly good–the best part of all was the clarity with which Shakespearean poetry is articulated by these well-trained artistes. Despite the ‘strangeness’ of the language, there is never any difficulty following the plot and the actors were so effortlessly able to roll the poet’s words off their tongues. Slapstick, great good rollicking humor, rough and tumble, the kind of high jinks that appealed so much to his audience kept this contemporary audience in splits and there was never a dull moment. There was even an attempt to delineate double roles through a change in accent, with Theseus and Hippolyta employing a Scots accent (with which I became so familiar on our recent travels in Scotland) when playing Oberon and Titania respectively. This, I thought, was an inspired example of dramatization.

During the intermission, I went downstairs into the courtyard, stood “Bankside” and gasped at the panorama of London laid out before my eyes. As the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral glowed softly, the varied heights of the other buildings were bathed in neon colors that brought a completely different vista to the urban landscape. These lights, reflected in the waters of the river as the Thames flowed gently downstream, took me back to the time of Elizabeth I when the traffic on the waters was thick with the “bards and bawds” of the walk I had taken earlier. How privileged I felt to be able to relive the grandeur of the greatest of Renaissance drama in the land of its birth, in a space that was so evocative of the exact atmosphere of a century long past.

I walked back to London Bridge Station with Prof. Mike Hattaway (no relation to Shakespeare’s wife Anne who spelt her surname with an ‘h’!) who teaches Shakespeare at NYU and is a Professor Emeritus at Sheffield University. We made a companionable twosome on the ten minute walk and have made plans to meet soon for lunch. To my enormous delight, though I changed Tube trains, I still made it home in 20 minutes flat! I simply cannot get over how quickly and easily I can travel from anywhere in London to my flat.
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It is for nights like this that I have longed for London in my dreams and to see them coming true night after night…it flies in the face of all my fondest expectations.