Bloomsbury on Jubilee Walk (Part 6) and Dinner with Friends

May25

Monday, May 25, 2009
London

Holborn was lifeless as May Bank Holiday Monday dawned. I stayed in bed for a long while catching up with The Order of the Phoenix as I am determined to finish it by the end of this month. The trouble with books that weigh a ton, as the later Potter books do, is that they are not mobile–I simply don’t want to carry them around with me anywhere–which means I only read them at home by my bedside. This is why it is taking me forever to finish this one. My blog and my email kept me busy for the next hour and it was only much later, which Holborn continued to remain stubbornly silent, that I ate my cereal breakfast while watching the last bits of The Breakfast Show.

Needless to say, I finally had to get down to the sad task of beginning my packing. I felt oddly lethargic–a clear sign that Withdrawal Symptoms are beginning to manifest themselves at the thought that I will have to leave from her at the end of this week. It was with deep reluctance that I packed up all the clothes I do not believe I will need for the next two months and put them into one of my suitcases. I probably will not need to open this one at all. With my wardrobe pruned down to the barest minimum, my clooset now looks very empty indeed.

Packing up my kitchen things was a lot more challenging. Checking my freezer to find out how best to clear it up, I discovered two lots of plain cooked wholewheat pasta and I realized that I will need to shop for some ingredients so that I can cook them tomorrow and take some cooked food off with me to my new place which I can then place in the freezer there, I hope. I am also emptying out my fridge…so but for milk and my preserves, there is not much else left in there.

I badly need boxes to clear up the rest of my stuff–stationary items, my costume jewelery, loads and loads of paper (how DO we accumulate so much of that stuff?) and a few books that I will need for the months of June and July. Martha and Arben are off today, so I must catch them tomorrow as Martha has promised me some boxes. I am weighing all my books and files as I place them in the boxes I do have with me as the guy at Royal Mail informed me that there is a special rate for books and printed material packed in boxes that are no longer than 60 cms, no more than 90 cms overall and that weigh no more than 5 kgs each (I am making mental conversions all the time as my America digital bathroom weighing scale is marked in pounds and ounces!).

After lunch (pasta with vegetables and a cup of soup–still trying to finish supplies in my pantry), I decided to read some more Potter and felt more lethargic. Before I knew it, my eyes had closed and I was taking a nap–something I haven’t done in ALL these months! (more Withdrawal Symptoms, I guess). Luckily, I awoke within the hour and decided to go out and continue my Jubilee Walk Adventures–Part 6 of them.

Jubilee Walk Adventures–Part 6:
This bit took me through my own backyard, so to speak, as I began at next-door Brownlow Street which, I discovered is no wider than an alley and into a most delightful street called Bedford Row. This one is lined on both sides with typical London Georgian terraced housing and on this delightful spring afternoon, with the flowers from the tress that line it having shed their white petals all along the footpaths, it looked absolutely heavenly. There was a spring in my step as I pranced along and made another discovery–Bedford Street ended on the Theobalds Road side just opposite my friend Sushil’s building–and I would be seeing him in the evening! So, in other works, I found another way to get to his place instead of walking along Gray’s Inn Road. I just love it when I make these sudden discoveries!

I pressed along Great James Street and arrived at a Blue Plaque that announced the residence of detective story writer Dorothy Sayers whose mysteries starring her creations Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, I have enjoyed a great deal on DVD through my Westport Public Library. Sayers had an extraordinary life for a woman of her time and her personal life was fraught with the keeping of a secret–a terrible one in those days (the early 20th century)–of the hiding away of her illegitimate son. Though she did go on to marry, she never openly acknowledged the existence of her biological son (her only child) though she did have a close correspondence with him and made him the sole beneficiary of her estate in her will.

Born to a clergyman father at Christ Church College, Oxford, and to a mother who was rather advanced in years when Dorothy was born, meant that while she was able to study modern languages at Oxford and graduated with an MA (becoming one of the first women to receive the degree through Somerville College), she was also terrified of what her personal scandal would do to them. They died never knowing that she had given them a grand child! Her child was, for all intents and purposes, given up for adoption, his true parentage never made known to her closest family members. It is astounding to me that while carrying this enormous burden she was such a prolific writer and produced some of the earliest womens’ detective fiction of our time. To be able to stand on the very street on which Sayers spent so many creative years of her life and to know that she was married at the Holborn Civil Court just a few meters away (because her husband was a divorcee with two children and, therefore, could not marry in church) was oddly inspring to me and I discovered even more bounce in my step as I continued the walk.

How amazed I was to discover that I had actually walked parallel to Gray’s Inn Road all the while and was soon at the huge red brick facade of St. Pancras Station on Euston Road! And there just a few steps ahead was the British Library. Of course, everything was closed today, but there were much activity on the streets as I spied so many other visitors taking self-guided walks–the various books and maps they have in their hands and the manner in which they gaze up in wonder at buildings to take in architectural details always give them away!

Back through the maze of tree-shaded streets I went, arriving at lovely squares and flower-filled gardens such as Cartwright Gardens and Argyle Square and then I was passing by the Coram Fields Foundling Home Gardens (which adults can only enter in the company of child!–a lovely reversal of regulations) and then Brunswick Square and Gardens where so many folks lay sprawling on the grass taking late-afternoon naps or propping themsevles against tree trunks to read. I thought I really ought to be doing that too–making the most of this glorious spring sunshine by whiling away some time in the city’s gardens reading. I will never stop admiring the ingeniousness of the architectural concepts that led to the creation of these marvelous Georgian squares and gardens that pepper the city of London so liberally and give it such a distinct ambience. The only American city I know that comes close to this in structure and development is Savannah, Georgia, where architect James Orglethorpe created a city in which stately homes and gardens were built to surround a number of squares that allowed more greenery to flourish.

Before arriving at St. Pancras Station, I had passed by a really massive church–the Parish Church of St. Pancras–that has Egyptian caryatids as part of its exterior design , exactly like the ones to be found on the Erectheium near the Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens. I discovered that Sunday Communion Services are held at this church at 10 am and I shall try to make every attempt to attend a service here sometime.

It was not long before I was leaving Euston Road behind me to walk down Gordon Square where I passed building after building belonging to the University of London (and which reminded me so much of the vast number of New York University buildings that have taken over Greenwich Village in Manhattan) and arrived at the other end where I found the most beautiful honey-toned Gothic Church. However, I could not find its entrance so I do not know its name. But curiosity did get the better of me and I promised myself I shall look it up on the net. Set in a quiet and very pretty square called Byng Square, I had begun to suspect that this church was in the vicinity that Virginia Woolf and other members of the Bloomsbury Group had once called home. In fact, the name Gordon Square began to ring a bell in my mind and I became determined to explore the houses set around the typical green lawn surrounded by wrought iron railings where I spied it: a dark brown plaque at No. 50 that announced that it was in this home and in the srruounding houses that the members of the Bloomsbury Group had lived in the early part of the 20th century. In fact, just besides this house, on the right was a Blue Plaque announcing the residence of Lytton Stratchey (I do love the film Carrington in which his asexual relationship with the artist Dora Carrington, played by Emma Thompson, is beautifully retold) and on the left hand side is a Blue Plaue announcing the residence of economist John Maynard Keynes. Even if I were to live in London for a decade, I would not tire of these facts upon which I stumble so suddenly as I take my walks through the richness of its literary history.

Then, I was skirting the Woborn Gardens directly behind the Birkbeck College building in which I held my afternoon classes all through the year. Cutting through the back of SOAS and the British Museum, I then decided to end my walk and get back home, past the large Sainsbury at Holborn from where I bought fresh vegetables and some cream for the pasta I will fix tomorrow.

Dinner with Sushil and his friends:
And then I was home, getting into the shower and dressed for my evening rendez-vous with some new friends that my friend Sushil had organized. He had sent me an email while I was in Lyon inviting me to dinner at Ciao Bella Restaurant on Lamb’s Conduit Street after drinks at his place at 6.30 pm. So off I went, walking through the Bedford Street shortcut I discovered this morning.

At Sushil’s place, I met Owen who happened to be an Anglo-Indian and a very worthy subject for my research inquiry. Owen lives in Kent and had driven a long way to join us. Just a few minutes later, along came Mike and Nirmala and over red wine, I got to know them a little bit. Owen and Mike were classmates of Sushil at Cathedral and John Connon School in Bombay and, therefore, went back a long long way, They were actually contemporaries of Salman Rushdie and remembered him well during their junior school years at Cathedral. Nirmala’s late brother was Rushdie’s batchmate as was the brother of yet another person I met later at the restaurant, Cecil, who is a physician in Ealing. Cecil arrived with his English wife Ann and we made a very jolly party at the restaurant as I learned more and more about my new friends.

Over shared appetizers (bruschetta and a wonderfully tender Italian salami) and wine and Perroni beer, we made our entree choices: Having had pasta at home at lunch, I kept the carbs off and ordered a Saltimboca which is one of my favorite Italian dishes–escalopes of veal served with pancetta and sage in a mushroom sauce. It was absolutely scrumptious and I finished every large piece on my plate–it was served with the most perfectly done roast potatoes (nobody can do roast potatoes like the English) and mixed vegetables and made a very hearty meal indeed. Little wonder that no one had room for ‘pudding’!

I was kept most amused and entertained throughout my meal by Mike who sat besides me and told me stories about his early life in Bobmay where he had lived until the age of 18, his English parents having found work with a British company called Ferguson’s. He kept lapsing into idiomatic Indian-English so easily and used words as part of his conversation that only an Indian raised in India would understand and appreciate. For instance, he cracked me up when he referred to a man in an Bombay club who arrived there each evening to be surroudned by “his chamchas”. To hear this term emerge from the mouth of a white Englishman sitting right there besides me in an Italian restaurant in London was so hilarious that I couldn’t stop laughing. It became very clear to me then that you can take the Boy out of Bombay but you cannot take Bombay out of the Boy!

We talked a bit about what Owen described as my own “schizophrenic life” over the last 20 years–living in the West with one toe in India. He asked me how I possibly managed it. There was some discussion when I announced that mentally and psychologically I don’t believe that I have ever really left India at all! My connections with the land of my birth are still so strong because of the work I do there, my areas of research interest, my frequent travels to the sub-continent and the strong ties I have continued to maintain with a host of folks–extended family members and friends–out there. While several of them marveled at this fact, they did acknowlegde what I have come to realize–that for most Indian immigrants to the UK, despite the fact that the two countries (India and England) are so much closer to each other (than India and the US) and air fares so much cheaper, immigration to Great Britain meant a virtual cutting off of ties, a complete burning of bridges, as it were. This is something I cannot even begin to conceive of and I recalled Rushdie who has spoken repeated in his essays and to me in person about the strong pull he always feels towards India, no matter where it is in the world that he chooses to make his home.

We returned to Sushil’s place in a gentle drizzle after our excellent meal. It was just a couple of blocks away and over more red wine, we chatted until well past midnight when Owen gave me a ride back home. Bank Holiday Monday had turned out to be perfectly wonderful for me and as I return to more work and chores tomorrow, I hope to start the week on a productive note by doing some cooking first thing tomorrow morning,

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.

Lyon, Here I Come!

May23

Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Lyon, France

My first full day in Lyon began with a typical French breakfast in the Ducote’s kitchen—praline baguette with confiture (jam) and cafe au lait—light and very good. Perhaps one of the things we Americans can learn from the French (the famous book French Women Do Not Get Fat comes to mind) is that it is possible to eat well but lightly by just making one choice per meal and toning down portion size).

Frederic dropped me to the metro station (Gare de Vaise) and showed me where I could wait for a bus in the evening that would bring me back just a few meters away from the gate of their home. I was astonished that less than 15 minutes later, I was in Bellecour, the largest square in Lyon where the Office de Tourisme stared me in the face.

Naturally, that became my first point of contact with the city. Armed with ideas for things to do and places to go (the lady at the counter was very helpful and spoke in French but slowly and clearly so that I understood everything) and with a large map in my hand, I set out first for the funicular train to climb the mountain to Fourviere to see the Church of Notre Dame.

The Church of Notre Dame de Fourviere:
I do remember this church very well from my visit to Lyon, 23 years ago, when I had toured the city in Genevieve’s company. The ride up the steep face of the mountain in the funicular train had been a novel experience for me then and I had written in my journal how impressed I was by the entire arrangement.

On this occasion, I was a little more disappointed. The funicular route to Fourviere was closed due to repair works, but I was able to take the funicular on a neighboring line to St. Just. I got off one stop later at Minimes and then climbed the mountain for fifteen minutes taking a route through the Rosary Garden (Jardin de Rosaires) where I was absolutely charmed by the irises blooming in great big purple clumps everywhere. The sprawling city of Lyon lay at my feet and with each step I took the view got more spectacular.

I was at the summit in less than 15 minutes and like the other tourists that had assembled there, I gaped at the marvelous views on this glorious morning. Summer seemed to have arrived already in this part of France. Not only was the weather warm but also the flowers that scented the air so gloriously were summer ones: irises and roses. It was with difficulty that I tore myself away to make my entrance into the church whose interiors I did not remember at all.

Good job I did not because they were truly stunning. Notre Dame de Fourviere is a confection of Byzantine, Gothic and Renaissance features—there are a marvelous clutch of mosaics all over the walls and the ceiling in the most unusual shades of blue. The materials used are Renaissance ones—lavish pillars clothed in marble and faced with gilding beg to be admired. It is absolutely breath taking. The stained glass windows added to the atmosphere and the silence with which pilgrims prayed at the front only deepened it. I took many pictures after pausing in prayer myself

My next stop was the Crypt, which lay underground, and turned out to be a second, smaller church in itself. Here too, the mosaics gave the interior a Venetian look that was very arresting indeed. Groups of school children out on field trips milled all over the place and guides gave commentaries in many languages.

I chose to make my way down the mountain along the Rose Garden which buzzed with the sound of bees feasting on the nectar to be found in the multitude of rose bushes that climbed the arched trellises and gave off the most inviting perfume. It was certainly one of the high points of my visit to Lyon—this unexpected stroll in a rose garden. Though roses are not my favorite flower (orchids are), I always love to ramble in rose gardens to admire their complicated structure and drink in the pleasures of their fragrance.

Exploring Vieux Lyon:
At the bottom of the mountain that I reached by descending a steep stone staircase, I found myself in Vieux Lyon—the ancient Quarter of Lyon—with its atmospheric cobbled streets, typically rustic bouchons (small eateries), salons de the (tea rooms) and one-of-a-kind boutiques. I can easily ramble through such neighborhoods all day and but for the fact that my feet feel tired and my legs start to ache much more easily than they once did, I could easily have stayed there exploring each winding lane and hidden alley.

Instead, I took pictures of the old medieval houses that have been converted into museums (such as the Museum of Miniatures) where people were assembled in groups to take in the architectural delights of the exterior even if they chose not to enter. It was, after all, a beautiful day, and I too felt that I did not wish to waste it by staying indoors. I, therefore, put off a visit to the Musee de Beaux Arts and decided to explore it later.

Meanwhile, since I had arrived at Place St. Jean where the Gothic cathedral that overlooks the banks of the River Saone stands, I went in for a quick visit. I passed many squares as I took in the glories of the old quarter. Hanging baskets of perennial flowers spoke of a colorful summer and I felt as if I were on holiday (which perhaps I was since I had officially finished with teaching for the year, had handed in grades and begun my summer travels in Lyon).

In Search of the Silk Weavers of Lyon:
I then crossed the Pont de La Fueillee and found myself on the opposite bank of the River Saone. Lyon, by the way, is punctuated by a vast number of bridges (far more than Paris) each of which has its own distinct architectural design and atmosphere. I was on a mission to find the ateliers (workshops) of the canuts (silk weavers) who had put Lyon on the world map in the weaving of silk using ancient methods and traditional techniques.

Indeed, ever since Francois I had granted Lyon the silk import, the city developed a monopoly in the creation of silk garments in the most luxurious textile that money can buy. By 1848, the city boasted 60,000 ateliers, all of which produced ingenious designers who created a huge demand for foulards that graced the necks of many a celebrity. In fact, the famed and much sought-after Hermes silk square with its hand rolled hem is produced in one of these little ateliers, indeed in the atelier of designer Andre Claude Canova whose wares I was also keen to sample.

It was only much later that I discovered that Frederic’s ancestors were silk weavers themselves! It was at the beginning of the 20th century that the silk industry in Lyon died, what with the arrival of synthetic fibers that lured buyers away from these industrious ateliers. In recent years, the uberchic houses of Hermes and Valentino and Cartier had revived a dying industry by having traditional designers (such as Canova) design scarves for them that are made by hand using ancient methods that involve the careful addition of color across wooden dowels that are pushed back and forth between two skilled workers.

My guide book (Lonely Planet) had informed me that a visit to Lyon would be incomplete without a look at some of these ancient ateliers that have been in constant production for centuries. Besides, loving silk scarves as much as I do and having created quite a collection of them—my favorite accessory apart from costume jewelry–I was keen to buy myself one of these treasures to add to my growing collection of European scarves. My quest for one of these began at the atelier of A.C. Canova at 26 Quai St. Vincent, which I reached on foot past some of the prettiest sights in the city such as the buildings whose facades are completely painted to tell the story of the city.

Canova’s atelier is situated in a very old and very lovely courtyard. There is an air-conditioned showroom with a very inviting perfume that draws you inside to admire the wide range of scarves and shawls, pocket sized handkerchiefs (pochettes) and wraps that he produces using extremely classic designs. Each of Canova’s scarves tells a story (as do the scarves he regularly designs for Hermes) and I was at a loss as to which design I should choose. Eventually, given my literature background and the fact that I had spent the entire year traveling as extensively as I have done, I chose one based on the Jules Verne’s novel Around the World in 80 Days which divided the scarf into four sections each of which presented tableaux based on different parts of the world: India, Japan, Europe and America. I found the perfect color combination (peach with shades of blue and green) as well as a stole based on a design for Kenzo that I picked up for Chriselle (in her favorite color—mauve) and then I was out on the street again, thrilled with my buy and so pleased to take away a bit of traditional Lyonnais silk-weaving techniques home with me.

My next stop was the Atelier de Soierie which happened to be just behind the famous Place des Terreaux which is the location of Lyon’s Hotel del Ville or Town Hall, an extremely striking and very ornate building that was embellished in this classic fashion in the 17th century. A Mom and Pop duo who also hand apply their color to wooden frames to painstakingly create scarves that are then embossed with their signature logo run this atelier. Here too, I was very pleased to find a lovely classic scarf on sale that depicted a happening in 1868 in Germany called the Berline Gala. I found it significant since I had also visited Berlin this year. With its blue border and its shades of yellow and green, it made an enchanting addition to my wardrobe and I was pleased as Punch when I walked out of the store.

The Place des Terreaux:
The Place de Terreaux, my next destination, is dominated by a gigantic fountain (that I remembered well from my last visit to Lyon) made by Frederic August Bartholdi who also designed and made the famous Statue of Liberty in New York that France presented to the United States. Bartholdi won a competition run by the City of Lyon for the design of a monument that would decorate their most famous square. He designed four horses (said to represent the world’s four greatest rivers making their way to the sea) pulling a chariot that is driven by a woman. It is a sculpture of great passion, speed and energy made of lead on an iron frame and forms a splendid backdrop for the grand classical buildings that surround this square, such as the Hotel de Ville and the Musee des Beaux Arts.

This museum was my next item of interest and it was with much anticipation that I made my way into its shaded courtyard that was liberally dotted with benches on which so many people quietly dozed. However, I was in for a disappointment as the museum is closed on Tuesdays and I had no choice but to join the rest of the dozers outside for a long rest that allowed me to admire the exterior of this beautiful building that was once a monastery.

When I felt rested enough, I walked towards the Opera House, another Lyonnais landmark, to admire the distinct architecture and the number of sculptures that are dotted around the region. Then, feeling the need to explore the streets that were filled with shoppers, I walked the length of the Rue de la Republique with a large ice-cream in my hand arriving at the Place des Jacobins with its interesting fountain sculpture in the center. In my mind Lyon had always been associated with fountains and I now understood why. Another rest for my feet by its cooling spray and I was on my way again, arriving at the Place Bellecour where I did not stop long as I was keen to see the antiques district which Frederic told me was right behind this area. Alas, I did not find many shops open by the time I arrived there (after 6 pm). I was very tired by this time with all the walking I had done throughout the day and I felt it would be prudent to return home if I wanted to have the stamina to spend exploring more of the city on the morrow.

An Evening with the Ducotes:
So, off I went, homeward bound, taking the metro from Bellecour to Gare de Vaise from where I easily found the bus stop for the Number 22 bus that took me to La Fouchaniere on Monte St. Didier where I then climbed up the hill to the Ducote’s residence. It was almost 7 pm by this time and the boys were winding down for the day at their favorite place—in front of the television set! A little later, Genevieve reached home. Frederic had spent the day cutting the grass in the meadow and pruning the hedges that had started to cover the four stone sculptures representing the four seasons that grace the front lawns of his property.

About an hour later, we sat down to dinner—a Spanish omelet also made by Virginie, that included pancetta, potatoes and, of course, eggs. It was very hearty indeed and was followed by fresh strawberries with chantilly cream. A cup of coffee followed and I wondered if it was that indulgence for which I paid for the next few hours as I lay awake in my bed simply unable to fall asleep! It gave me the opportunity to think of all the delights of the city to which I had introduced myself that day and on that happy note, sometime in the early hours of the morning, I finally fell asleep.

Bonjour France! Arrival in Lyon

May23

Monday, May 18, 2009
London-Lyon

My travels in France this year were a long time happening. As soon as I heard that I would be spending a year in London, I had made up my mind that I would not leave Europe without attempting to see Genevieve Tougne and her family. Genevieve and I have been pen-friends since the age of 13 (exactly the present age of her older son, Louis). It was she who had delighted me by writing me a letter from the beautiful region of the Haute Savoie (once a part of Italy) requesting me to be her pen-pal. For a 13 year old in Bombay, such as myself, this was a rare privilege and I responded warmly and immediately. Thus, our correspondence began.

We met for the first time in 1985 when she arrived in India as a tourist together with her sister Chantal. As a professor at that time, at the University of Bombay, I had organized a tour of Northern India for my undergraduate students which the Tougne sisters joined. We spent the next two weeks in Rajasthan during International Youth Year and returned to Bombay with a huge fund of happy memories and hilarious stories (including meeting Mick Jagger in Jaisalmer).

Two years later, in 1987, we met again, this time in Europe where I traveled extensively with Genevieve and Chantal and spent wonderful weeks in Rumilly, a little village tucked in the folds of French Alps with her mother Lisette and her father Raymond. My French improved rapidly in the company of this hospitable family whose extended members I also grew to know and love (siblings Brigette and Henri and sister-in-law Carole), all of whom played their roles as tour guides leaving me more wonderful memories of Europe.

Genevieve and I met for the last time in 1989 in Paris, exactly 20 years ago, when I was en route to the United States as an immigrant. She had made a journey to the capital with her friend Milene just to spend a few days with me and we’d had a great time together. Neither one of us had realized then that it would be exactly twenty years before we would meet again. During that time, Genevieve had met and married antiques dealer Frederic Ducote, had two sons, Louis (13) and Amaury (11) and had moved from the Haute Savoie where she had spent her childhood and teenage years to Lyon where Frederic had been raised. She continued to work as a civil engineer and in the Lyon to which she introduced me, during the next few days, she pointed out several important buildings for whose construction she was responsible (as Directrice), including a grand terminal building at Lyon’s international airport that resembles a huge and very exotic bird about to rise up and fly. So you can imagine how thrilled I was to meet Genevieve after such a long time and with what a sense of exhilaration and excitement I set out on my visit to France.

Arrival in Lyon:
My Easyjet flight was at a decent hour for once. I awoke at 6 am, took a shower and left my Holborn flat at 7 am, hopped into the Tube to Victoria, jumped into the National Express coach to Stanstead at 8 am, was at the airport at 9. 20, checked in and was on aboard at 11. 20. The flight across the Channel was lovely indeed—no matter how many times I see the receding white cliffs of Dover from the air, I never tire of the sight. A little later, the captain was kind enough to point out that we were flying right over Paris, and through a few scattered clouds, I could clearly see the Seine flowing placidly along and then the very distinct star formed by the confluence of so many of the principal streets around the Place de L’Etoile with the Arc de Triomphe in the center of it. Indeed, I have to say that I felt a pull on my heartstrings and I thought to myself that it has been too long since I have visited Paris—time to return and renew my acquaintance with their unique city.

Then, we were landing in Lyon airport at 2.00 pm (local time) where Frederic (whom I had never met) was awaiting my arrival with a huge card that announced my name. Later, we realized that both of us had been in a state of panic wondering how we would communicate—my French was very rusty indeed and Frederic, it turns out, knows barely any English at all. I need not have worried. He did most of the talking in the car en route to their home and my attentive ears picked up the phrases and hung on to them for dear life. By the end of the day, indeed, by the time Genevieve returned home at 6. 30 that evening, not only had my French come rushing back to me, but I was speaking very easily. Indeed, I was astonished how quickly the language came back (it helped that I had spent the previous few days boning up on my French vocabulary by reading an illustrated Beginner’s French Dictionary) and by the end of the five days I spent with the Tougnes and the Ducotes, I was actually thinking in French (which was heaps of fun).

Making Acquaintance with the Home and Family:
As we drove through the city, Frederic caught me up on the family news as well as gave me a little tour of Lyon. He spoke slowly and clearly for my benefit and I understood almost everything. He also explained the geography of the city (which sits astride two rivers—the Rhone and the Saone) which made it very easy for me to find my way around during the next two days.

When we arrived at St. Didier sur Monte d’Or (a real mouthful for the name of a town), I discovered that it is a really privileged neighborhood in which to live (sort of the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles, if you like). Indeed, the Ducotes live in what we, in the States, call a ‘gated community’. There are 8 sprawling houses and gardens in the property called Les Saisons where the Ducotes live in one of the oldest houses—it dates from the early 1900s and is built in the style of a French chateau complete with wide balustraded terraces, a sloping slate roof and a load of interesting architectural plaster details on the façade which include a skein of flowers above each window. As an antiques dealer, this was Frederic’s dream home, and he spent the first few years in it embellishing it with the touches of which only a rare visionary and a true aesthete is capable—such as ornate wrought iron grilles at each window in the style of Renaissance Italy and landscaping the garden to include several gorgeous rose bushes (just beginning to bloom during my visit) around the inviting swimming pool and building a grotto or rock folly at the back for the children. Indeed, it is such a delightful property that I fell in love with it right away and was very pleased indeed to be able to spend a few days in such a beautiful place. What’s more, since St. Didier is perched on a mountain, the terraces look out over the city of Lyon in the distance and at night, the twinkling lights make one feel as if one is on a ship slowly approaching an exciting new port.

I spent most of the afternoon relaxing (and falling asleep!) in a chaise-longue by the pool and making friends with the Ducote boys (Louis and Amaury) as they each returned from school. Though they learn English as part of their school curriculum, it is almost non-existent, and it was in their company that my confidence in speaking French grew. They are beautifully behaved (and very handsome) boys and but for the occasions on which they sit together in the back of the car (which for some odd reason brings out the beast in them!), they were totally a pleasure to be with and I loved every second of their charming company. In fact, we bonded so well that on the eve of my departure, Amaury was crying all over his hamburger dinner because he could not bear the thought that I would be leaving the next morning! It was heartbreaking!

When Genevieve returned from work that evening, we had a very affectionate reunion. We were so pleased to see each other again and noted that neither of us had changed very much since we had last met in Paris. As usual, Genevieve wanted to know what I intended to do during the next few days and her mind began to work at once to think of all the places to which she could accompany me. Over a spaghetti dinner that evening (cooked by her housekeeper Virginie), we discussed our plans for the next few days. It turned out that, by coincidence, Thursday and Friday were days off in France (the feast of the Ascension) and the Ducotes had a long weekend which they were very pleased to be able to spend with me. As we sat and ate around their old-fashioned kitchen with its dining peninsula, we spoke companionably and decided that I would spend the next two days on my own exploring the city of Lyon. Genevieve was thoughtful enough to purchase and present me with a booklet of ten tickets that I could use on the metro for the next two days. Then, the Ducotes would take over and escort me around the region by car.

That evening, I made my way up to the bedroom on the third floor of the house (which was exclusively mine with a spacious old bathroom, also exclusively mine) and fell asleep rather quickly that night—something that would not happen for the next few nights. I also decided that I would explore the house more fully the next day for indeed the Ducote residence is like a museum, so full of antiques that it would take an entire morning just to appreciate them all.

Sunday Service at All Hallows by The Tower and NYU Farewell Luncheon

May17

Sunday, May 17, 2009
London

For almost two weeks now, I have been waking up at a decent hour–which is to say, after 7 am. I am delighted that I am finally sleeping enough but sorry as it is robbing me of precious and very productive time. I have hardly made any headway with The Order of the Phoenix and I had hoped to finish it before I left for France–which is tomorrow. Still, I suppose I can’t have everything.

Today, I awoke at 7. 30, proofread my blog, checked my email and discovered that it was 8. 30 before I knew it. I had half a mind to get dressed quickly and go to St. Etheldreda’s for the 9 am Mass, but then I remembered my resolution–to discover a new London church every Sunday. So, off I went to my bookshelf from where I plucked out The Churches of London by Sir John Betjeman and browsing through the ones that I thought sounded most interesting, I finally zeroed on the Church of All Hallows By the Tower. A quick check on their website informed me that they had Communion Service at 11 am on Sundays and after eating a cereal breakfast (I tried a new Waitrose cereal full of berries that I do not care for at all) and taking a shower, I left my flat at 10. 30, walked over to Fleet Street from where I hopped into a Number 15 bus and made my way towards the Tower of London.

Sunday Service in London’s Oldest Church:
All Hallows By The Tower is simply the oldest church in the City of London. Indeed, there has been a church on this site since the year 675 AD when it was founded by the Saxon Abbey of Barking. An original arch from that church still survives and is embedded with Roman tiles. A very helpful usher pointed these out to me at the end of the 11 am. service which I attended.

Being so close in proximity to the Tower of London, the church dealt with numerous beheaded bodies such as those of Sir Thomas More, John Fisher and Archbishop Laud. Thomas More is known to have preached from its pulpit.

The church survived the Great Fire of London in 1588 which started in Pudding Lane just a few hundred yards from the church. In fact, it was from its tower that Samuel Pepys viewed the extensive catastrophe wrought upon the city together with his friend Admiral Penn (the father of William Penn, founder of the American state of Pennsylvania) . William Penn was baptised in this church in the magnificent marble font that is crowned with a stunning wooden carving of two cherubs clinging to corn sheaves and branches of hops–which Betjeman describes as the most exquisite church carving in the city–no marks for guessing that it is the work of Grindling Gibbons which I am now able to recognize as easily as the back of my hand and which I have grown to love deeply.

John Quincy Adams, sixth President of the United States, was married in this church and the museum in the undercroft holds the original church register turned to the page on which the sacrament is recorded. He married Louisa Catherine Johnson on July 26, 1797. This museum is superbly maintained and just as I have been struck repeatedly in the past by the manner in which the British have preserved every last artifact that they have unearthed over the years, so too in this space, I marveled at their gigantic love for history and their determination to pass on their legacy to the coming generations.

Also rather remarkable about this church is the uncovering of a Roman floor distinguished by a mosaic that is fainty visible. Restoration work is due to start shortly on this section of floor that is approached through the museum entrance.

As with all the churches of London, this one too suffered extensive damage during the blitz which left only the outer walls intact. These are easily evident as they bear all the scars of age–they are grime ridden and blackened with time, but, as Chriselle pointed out, they are deeply moving because they proclaim their history so effortlessly. This cannot be said of the pillars that support the nave of the church that are far newer. In fact, it was through the efforts of Vicar “Tubby” Clayton who managed to bring American support and money to the reconstruction of the church, that it was rebuilt and declared open by the late Queen Mother in 1948. The lamp of the Toc H movement that he founded can be seen in the Lady Chapel together with his effigy and body that rest in the church. This church is also notable for the grand organ upon which the famous Bach recordings by Albert Schweitzer were made–a fact that might thrill lovers of classical music.

With all this history behind me you can imagine how delighted I was to take my seat in one of the front pews this morning only to find that the pad on which I would cushion by knees was embroidered with a great big yellow crown and with the words “ER II–Golden Jubilee 2002”! I wondered if this was the very kneeler that Her Majesty might have used during one of her visits to the church–but probably not. It was just embroidered by a parishioner to commemorate the occasion. Still, I was thrilled to be accidentally assigned such a hallowed kneeler.

Imagine my surprise when the preacher turned out to be a fellow-American, one Jim Rosenthal, whose sermon had all the ingredients that make these Anglican sermons a sheer pleasure to listen to. It was amusing, thought-provoking and, as always, superbly delivered, filled with topical cultural allusions such a references to the lyrics of John Lennon (“All You Need is Love”) and Andrew Lloyd-Webber( “Love Changes Everything”). The entire service was almost word for word identical to the Catholic masses which I usually attend except that it was far more absorbing and interesting.

After the service, there was coffee and biscuits and time to socialize and I am very pleased to say that the Vicar , a Frenchman named Bertrand Olivier and the Associate Priest, one Jennie Hogan, both sought me out, recognizing that I was a stranger, welcomed me warmly into their midst and invited me to come back again. It is these personal touches that are totally lacking in the Catholic churches and that have endeared me very much to Anglican practices in this country.

I left the church at 12. 45 and caught one of the old Routemaster buses to make my way back home. I switched to a 17 that then brought me right up to Fetter Lane. It is amazing how at this stage too, I am learning about bus connections and changes that can bring me closer and closer to my ultimate destination. Indeed I have become so adept at making my way around London that Chriselle was deeply impressed by the ease with which I hopped in and out of buses as I combed the city with her.

Off to NYU’s Farewell Faculty Luncheon:
Then, I changed into something more summery–a dress after a very long time indeed–and thrilled that the morning’s rain had become history and that the sun was out and warm and cheering, I caught a bus and left for Bedford Square Gardens where our NYU Faculty Farewell Luncheon started at 1 pm. I arrived there about 1. 45 to find a sprinkling of familiar faces and some whose names I actually know. As always, I gravitate towards folks I have met at past faculty meetings and with a glass of white wine in my hand, I started to circulate.

It was not long before Yvonne announced that lunch was served–a nice variety of finger foods and “things on sticks” as Hyacinth Bucket of Keeping Up Appearances would describe them and and I spent the rest of the afternoon nibbling away in the company of some of my new faculty friends. I simply could not believe that the year has passed so quickly–it seems only yesterday that the Director was welcoming us to a new academic year at an orientation dinner at the Radisson Edwardian Hotel on Great Russel Street! It is just madness, the way time seems to pass faster as we grow older and the more fun we allow ourselves!

At 5 pm, after we had plied ourselves with one more last glass of champagne, we did disperse and I made my way home, only to have to return again to hand deliver my grades as I had forgotten to carry them with me. Since I am leaving for Lyon, France, tomorrow morning and will not be back till next Saturday, I did need to hand in my grades before my departure for my trip. I felt awfully sorry to say goodbye to so many of my colleagues, but I take consolation in the fact that I will see some of them (especially the administrative staff) during the months of June and July when I shall continue to use my basement office as my research continues.

Finally, I have to say that I am so enjoying my new oak desk and am pleased to be able to watch the world go by outside my living room window where I have placed it. It is the perfect height for my laptop computer and allows me to catch glimpses of the passing of life outside. I see people disappearing down the stairwell leading to Chancery Lane Tube Station and emerging from it; I see red buses (both the bendy and the tall ones) pass me by; I see a camera right outside my window (one of those thousands now sprinkled all over the city–Big Brother is watching our every movement in this city and it is rather unnerving); I see the coffee shop (Cafe Nero) and the Salad Bar (Chop’d); and, of course, I see the black and white exposed beams of the Tudor Staple Inn Building with its red roof and its tall chimneys and I think to myself, “Ah, This is England!” No doubt, tomorrow, when weekday life returns to High Holborn, I will see much more of the daily frenzy that characterizes life among London’s busy legal community, even in these rather depressed days. And I am glad I went with my gut feeling or impulse or whatever you want to call it and bought his darling desk in a cobbled street in Hampstead that I have grown so quickly to love.

One light dinner later (Stilton and Broccoli Soup, Pasta with Tomatoes and Sainsbury Tiramisu), I was ready to call it a night–but not before I set my alarm for 6 am for my 7 am departure for Victoria Bus Station for my National Express ride to Stanstead airport.

National Trust Houses in Hampstead–and Buying a Vintage Bureau/Desk

May16

Saturday, May 16, 2009
Hampstead, London

When I awoke this morning at 7 am, I thought it would be a weekend day like any other–I did not think I would end the day with a really valuable purchase. Of course, I had heaps of things to deal with, not the least of which was completing my grading and entering my grades into the sheets as I would like to hand them in tomorrow. I brewed myself a cafetiere of good Lavazza coffee and climbed back into bed which has become my favorite place to work in partly because this flat came without a desk of any kind. I had considered buying one in the very beginning when I first moved in here in August, but I always wondered how I would carry it home to the States and the item of furniture just simply never was purchased.

I also booked my tickets to get me to Stanstead airport on Monday for my flight to Lyon and then my return ticket for the trip from Gatwick next Saturday. I ended up buying one ticket on National Express, the other on Easybus as that was most economical!

More morning tasks involved downloading, editing and captioning the 145 pictures I took while Chriselle was here–all of which ate into my time and made me miss her terribly. My flat seemed curiously empty without her lively presence and I know I will always cherish the extraordinary week we spent together.

The sun peeped out, then disappeared, then peeped out again–all morning long. Every time it shone full upon the earth, I considered going outdoors to enjoy it and then the raindrops would fall and I would reconsider!

Finally, at about 1 pm, I finished most of the tasks on my To-Do List and decided to shower and step out. The day seemed too good to waste, so what the heck…there were a few walks left in my book that I wished to complete. My idea was to get to Hampstead Heath to see the properties run by the National Trust as I do have an annual Royal Oaks Foundation Membership (the American equivalent). But God, what a time I had getting there! There was some march on; so no buses were running along High Holborn. I walked to Holborn only to find that there were no buses plying along Kingsway either. I had no choice but to take the Tube–I had preferred not to as I have a bus pass and it is, by far, the most economical way to travel around London. Well, I reached Bond Street and was all set to transfer to the Jubilee line when I heard announcements stating that the Jubilee Line was not in service this weekend. Darn! Well, then I started to think of the most creative ways to get there, and long story short, I reached Hampstead Heath at 3. 15 pm after making at least 3 bus changes!

Heavenly Hampstead:
Deciding not to waste any more time, I headed straight for Fenton House which is run by the National Trust. It is reached by a very easy uphill climb from Hampstead Tube Station. By the afternoon, the weather which seemed not to be able to make up its mind had cleared completely and the sun shone beautifully upon one of the prettiest parts of London. I do not know any other capital city (well, maybe Paris) where you need travel no more than ten miles to find yourself in the midst of bucolic rustic lanes and carefully cultivated gardens–so that the urban landscape seems far away in the distance.

Hampstead hasn’t changed at all since the 1700s when it first attracted the elite, thanks mainly to its views. During the Victorian Age, the grand red brick buildings proliferated, bringing a stately elegance to the maze of narrow cobbled streets that fringe the vast expanses of the Heath–an open park-like space that offers arresting views of the city including, far away in the hazy blue yonder, the outlines of the London Eye.

Fenton House and Garden:
Fenton House is a 17the century brick home with classic lines set in a stunning formal garden.
I left my rather heavy bag at the door and began my exploration through one of the most heartwarming properties of the National Trust that I have seen so far. The house has a complicated history but it derives its name from James Fenton who owned it in the late 1700s. His portrait hangs at the entrance as if sizing up every visitor–and I heard from one of the guides that there are 15,000 per year that come through that impressive porch. They have been doing so since 1952 when the Trust took over the House–which has resulted in frequent changes of the carpeting!

The home is very tastefully furnished in the style of the 18th century. Minimalism is the order of the day and despite the fact that the house is a receptacle for some of the most beautiful collections I have seen in recent times–mainly keyboard instruments and porcelain–they are so skillfully corralled in a variety of vitrines, wall units and cabinets that there is not the slightest sense of ‘clutter’ to mar the visitor’s enjoyment of the domestic space. I have learned a great deal from these visits to old English country homes and I am determined now to take some of these lessons in interior decoration home with me to Southport, Connecticut, and to incorporate them into my own domestic decor. I have always loved the English country style, of course, and our Southport home is decorated very much in that vernacular…but I feel I have miles to go.

Here, dark furniture, large occasional porcelain pieces and china accessories, oil paintings and subtle watercolors lend their charm to the rooms. John Fowler (of the English interior decorating firm of Colefax and Fowler) is responsible for the decoration of one of the rooms–his signature yellow is evident on the walls as are the floral drapes and sofa upholstery. There is also a John Fowler wallpaper design that climbs the main stairwell that goes by the name of Prickly Pear! Now, how very English is that!!!

Of course, for a lover of porcelain like myself, there can be no more breathtaking space than a home that includes the work of every prominent European factory including Chelsea and Meissen. There were human figurines, animals, cottages, tableaux–each of which told a story–birds, flowers, fruit. You name it, George Salting collected it, then bequeathed his collection to his niece, Lady Katherine Binning, who added to the collection. The end result is a marvelous treasure trove of painted and fired delights that stirred my imagination and thrilled me no end. The depth of color and the quality of the glazes were superior and proclaimed their price–and at the lower end were the Staffordshire animals that were once mass produced and given away as prizes at country fairs then used to garnish the mantelpieces of humble rustic cottages. These too found a way into Lady Binnings’ heart and were accumulated with pleasure.

For the musician and historian, the gaggle of keyboard and stringed instruments would be equally enthralling for there was a spinet, a virginal, a harpsichord, a lute, a hurdy-gurdy and other old world pieces that are valuable not merely for their historic significance but for the decorative touches that distinguish them.

The rooms are superbly laid out and seem almost lived-in–yes, that’s what I most loved about this house. I did not feel as if I was in a museum but in a real home that had once been inhabited and loved by real people. Everything about this house is worthy of a visit–indeed a second visit and perhaps I might return as I do love Hampstead dearly and I fall in love with it a little more each time I visit. I have the happiest memories of solitary walks taken along its serene streets and of sitting on benches on Parliament Hill as lights fell softly over the city at dusk.

After I had explored the three lovely floors of Fenton House, I stepped out into the garden that includes a beautiful apple orchard, rows of gently waving catmint in full blue bloom and, in the heart of summer, fragrant lavender bushes. There are neat topiaries shaped into curvaceous orbs and fanciful pyramids…and benches everywhere, coaxing the visitor to sit awhile and take in the quiet splendour of these surroundings. I was completely enchanted and it was with difficulty that I tore myself away to go on and explore the second property that is close at hand and also owned by the National Trust.

The Goldfingers’ Domain–Modernism at 2 Willow Road:
But much as I wanted to linger, I did want to get to 2 Willow Road, another National Trust property that is located just a ten minute walk from Fenton House. It pays to remember that though the closing time at these homes is listed as 5 pm, last entry is 4. 30–so I had to tear off in a massive hurry to make the deadline!

I knew nothing about these homes before I set foot in them, which is what made my rambles in them even more adventurous. Willow Road could not have been more different from Fenton House. This is an example of a Modernist home–one that went on to influence a great deal of the homes that were subsequently built in London. Owned by Budapest-born architect Erno Goldfinger who made London his home following his marriage to artist Ursula Blackwell (an heiress of the famous Crosse and Blackwell English pickle company). They had met in Paris early in the 20th century, fallen madly in love, and spent the next fifty odd years together in this interesting home overlooking the Heath. And yes, Ian Fleming (who was known to Erno) did name one of his James Bond novels after this extraordinary man.

Of course, for a traditionalist such as myself, this home was fascinating only in the most academic sense as I simply do not identify with this aesthetic. It is basically a glass and concrete block with little exterior embellishment to catch the eye. Indeed, it sits rather incongruously in a block of pretty homes and appeared from the outside like a primary school building.

However, it was interesting to learn (through a film) about the vision and life of this couple who shared artistic inclinations and created a synergistic relationship that was manifested in the company they kept in Hampstead among other artists and writers and in the unique home they created together.

Here too, three storeys take the visitor on an engaging journey into the heart of a marriage. The Goldfingers raised three lovely children in this home and garden–they are interviewed in the film and they speak candidly of their lives as children with their visionary parents for company. The house is also filled with contemporary paintings as Ursula had trained in Paris and knew a few of the artists who became big names as the century marched on–such as Max Ernst and Frank Leger. There are Henry Moores in the house as Moore was a good friend of the couple as were Barbara Hepworth and Ben Nicholson who also started their careers in Hampstead before they moved to St. Ives in Cornwall. Much as I took in everything I saw, I found it difficult to connect with the space–though I have to say that having lived for almost a year in this small, minimalist London flat with its stark white walls and Ikea style furniture, I do see the virtue in living with little. Even Chriselle who lives in a crowded one-bedroom apartment commented on how serene my flat made her feel mentally. Yes, there is a great deal to be said about fighting the urge to accumulate–a virtue that my sister-in-law Lalita has mastered. There is certainly much of my Connecticut clutter that will disappear when I get back home at the end of the summer. When I am not writing, perhaps I shall spend the coming fall de-cluttering!

‘Mystery in Hampstead’ Walk:
After 5 pm when the house closed, I turned to the ‘Mystery in Hampstead’ Walk in my book 24 Great Walks in London and followed it through some of the most delightful lanes such as Flask Walk and Downshire Hill, all of which skirted the Heath. I passed by a home that was once lived in by John Constable who, when he left his beloved Stour Valley in Suffolk behind to earn a livelihood as a portraitist in London, made his home in Hampstead.

Everywhere I walked, the air was fragrant with the scents of a million wisteria petals that hung in copious bunches from grey vines. Rhododendrons are beginning to bloom in a variety of hot, torrid shades from magenta to purple. The lavish fronds of the chestnut plumes are beginning to fade away but I have had my fill of them over the past several weeks and am ready now for the coming attractions of summer–such as deep red roses that I have started to see climbing stone walls and waving at me from gate posts. I cannot wait for the full-blown flowers of the summer.

I passed the homes of more rich and famous people who over the centuries have added to the varied landscape of Hampstead’s intellectual life from Daphne du Maurier’s theater manager father Gerald to John Galsworthy to Admiral Barton who, on the roof of his three storyed home, built a quarter master’s deck and fired a canon to celebrate royal birthdays–an occurrence that led author P. L.Travers to base Admiral Boom’s home in Mary Poppins on this fanciful property.
Of course, Hampstead is synonymous with the name of my favorite poet John Keats but since I have visited his home before–the one in which he composed my favorite poem of all time (Ode to a Nightingale) and fell in love with his next-door neighbor, the lovely Fanny Brawne, to whom he became engaged but could not marry as tuberculosis claimed him prematurely in Rome. Through all these quiet country lanes, as you pass by the grave-filled yard of a stone church or peek into the flower-filled front garden of a rectory, you will fancy yourself a Victorian or Edwardian maiden who picks up her parasol and lifts her skirts gingerly as she traverses the pathways of her home turf. It is only when you venture a little outside London and explore these country lanes that you realize why walking was such a favored activity in the old days. It is my great love for walking (among a host of other things–not the least of which is my fondness for keeping a diary!) that convinces me that in a past life I must have lived in England at the turn of the 20th century!

Spying a Vintage Desk in Flask Walk:
Then, just when I was homeward bound, at the end of the long walk, I happened upon a narrow cobbled lane and decided on impulse to explore it–Flask Walk is peculiarly named but is quite charming indeed. It was then that I spied it–the most beautiful oak bureau-desk with a pull-down lid, a warren of cubby-holes within and three narrow drawers in the base. I stopped dead in my tracks thinking, “This is exactly the kind of desk I have been looking for all year long!” Just as my mind was racing ahead wondering how I could possibly transport it home, I noticed that the dealer, a brusque woman named Jackie who was smoking like a chimney, was packing up for the day.

The desk stood rather forlornly all my itself and I simply could not pass it by. I did not dare to ask for the price as I expected it to be in the hundreds of pounds. When I did pluck up the courage to approach the dealer for the price after gazing at it longingly for a few minutes, I thought I had misheard her. I asked her again and when she told me the price, you could have knocked me down with a feather. She was almost giving it away as a gift!!! I wasted no time at all in telling her that I would have it. I was so afraid that she would change her mind. It was then that I asked if she could hold it for me until I made arrangements to have it picked up.

“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Holborn”, I said.
“Oh, just put in a black cab, darlin”, she said.

I began contemplating my choices, when a man stepped forward and said he would take it home for me. Mind you, it was only later when we were chatting in his car on the way to my flat that I discovered that Matt did this for me purely as a favor as the ride had taken him right out of his way since he lived in Hampstead and not in the city as I had assumed. This was surely my lucky day, I thought, as we agreed on a price for delivery, the bureau changed hands and was placed in the trunk of his van. He took me home and helped me to load it into the elevator in my building and brought it inside my flat for me. All the way home, we talked about places that would be able to ship it home for me to the States. I guess I have my work cut out for me in the next few days as I figure out the best (and least pricey!) way to get this marvelous piece home.

Oh, and I forgot to say that what sold me on the piece was the linen fold carving in the front panels–the same linen-fold panelling that is all over the walls of Hampton Court Palace and Sutton House in the East End (which I have talked about in an earlier entry). That and the acorn-shaped pulls on the drawers did it. I simply had to have the piece–it would be my big England purchase and one that I will always remember as I sit and write the rest of my life away.

I spent the evening pruning through my books and files. There are several I am going to leave behind in London and tons of paper I will need to toss as I start to pack for my end of month move. Since the bulk of these items will go as Printed Material by Royal Mail at a special rate and the majority of my clothes will be carried in my suitcases on the flight back, I am hoping I will have enough shipping allowance left to transport my vintage bureau home. It may not be a hundred years old (and, therefore, not technically an antique) but it is certainly antiquated (probably dating from the early 1930s) and at the price I paid for it, I could not have gone wrong.

I was tired when I sat to eat my dinner (alone, after a long while) as I watched the Eurovision contest on BBC 1–a huge European cultural event and one about which we hear practically nothing in the States. By the time I wrote this blog, it was a little after midnight and I was ready to hit the sack very pleased with myself indeed about where serendipity had led me this afternoon.