Tag Archive | Tower of London

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

December 16, 2008
Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Past and Present at the Geffrye Museum

Dec13

Saturday, December 13, 2008
London

Even at the end of a dreadful day–weather-wise–I am still asking myself this question: How come I had never heard of the Geffrye Museum until a month ago?” For someone who has always loved English Country Style and has decorated her home in that aesthetic, I cannot believe that I had never been to this amazing place before. It was only quite by chance, while surfing the web to find Christmas-related London activities, that I discovered the existence of a place called the Geffrye Museum that is devoted to English Interiors Through the Ages. At Christmas, they decorate each of their rooms in a manner that is historically appropriate. I have been telling myself for days that I must not miss this–I simply cannot return home to the States next week without seeing this once-in-a-year exhibit.

So, despite the fact that the weather made me want to curl up and stay in bed (it poured ALL day), I decided to set out. I went first to the Holborn Library to return my books on Ireland, then on to 48 Doughty Street to the home of Charles Dickens as I wanted to pick up a Christmas present for a Victorianist friend of mine from the gift shop there. In and out, it took me less than five minutes in each place to run these errands

Then, I hopped on the bus to go outdoors to stay indoors–because, once you enter the Museum, you are taken right into the intimate space of people’s homes and the lives they lived in those spaces. It was a great way to escape the rain and still do something worthwhile as well as seasonal. Bus 242 from right outside my building took me straight to Shoreditch in East London where the museum is located and in less than 20 minutes, I was there.

First of all, a word about the building itself which is a quite magnificent 18th century structure, now Grade I listed (i.e. protected as a historical site). It is a long brown brick building, three sided (built like the letter E without the middle prong) enclosing expansive grounds with lovely trees (which, undoubtedly, would give the place a completely different ambiance in the summer). Right in the center of the building is a sculpture of Robert Geffrye after whom the museum is named. He was elected Lord Mayor of London in 1685 where he became an eminent East India merchant. As Master of the Worshipful Company of Ironmongers, he constructed this building to house the widows of the ironmongers among whom he worked. Hence, these came to be known as the Ironmongers Almshouses. Though each widow was initially meant to have a single unit (or house) in the building, demand grew so quickly that several shared spaces and at the height of its popularity about 150 people (men were included later) lived in 14 houses. There is a tiny chapel in the center of the building and the attendance at services was mandatory. Behind the building is more land, today used for the design and creation of period gardens, each one reflecting the style of the room that precedes it. For someone like me, who loves interior decor and gardening, this place was Paradise and I spent far more time in the museum than I had intended.

I was also surprised to see how many people had braved the pouring rain to visit the museum, many with kids and some with babies in strollers. As you proceed through the building, you come upon vignettes–each reflecting a middle class living room–through the ages. The English middle class (or middling class, as it was first known, when the word came into use) were neither the aristocracy (the landed gentry) nor the working class (what, in America, we would call blue collar workers). They were the professionals (what, in America, we would call white collar workers) who practiced professions such as law and medicine, banking and religion (as clergymen or ministers). They did not live merely in imitation of the more privileged aristocracy but developed their own values, customs and traditions and contributed hugely to the economic success of England through the ages. The Geffrye provides a peep into the way they lived through what we would call living rooms, but they called Great Rooms, Halls and Parlors through the years. As I walked through the museum, I learned about the earliest timber frame houses (that stood in London before the Great Fire of 1666) to the creation of the terraced houses (that we now call “Georgian’), to the arrival of the loft-style home so favored by contemporary Londoners. It was simply fascinating and I enjoyed every second there.

The exhibit began with the year 1630, the Great Hall in a Tudor home. The Christmas decoration here was subdued–just a few bay leaves strung together to form a vine that was thrown over the inglenook fireplace and a kissing ball that hung from the center of the room–(a very early cousin of today’s mistletoe). Then, on to the Parlor of the 17th century where the interiors became more elaborate–more furniture, more accessories, curtains, carpets. Christmas decoration too became more pronounced as time passed by.

They exhibit presented extracts from the diairies of people who lived in those epochs detailing the manner in which they would spend the days before and after Christmas as well as the day itself. There was card playing and visits to the theater, the cooking of all manner of things, the entertainment of guests who were served “two jellies and a glass of wine”, for instance, a goose to be stuffed and cooked, cards to be written and sent early (early for the Victorians meant December 24!) and all sorts of interesting and humorous facts that kept me spellbound.

When we came to the high Victorian Age, we could see the excess in interior decoration, the fussiness of grand curtains and lush carpets and the loads of dark furniture. Then, of course, came the Arts and Crafts Movement, the reaction against Victorian excess, that promulgated clean crisp straight lines that ended with Art Nouveau and Art Decor Movements of the late 19th and early 20th century. It was also a wonderful refresher crash course in English history as seen through furniture and domestic accoutrements from rush matting to shield-back chairs, from the arrival of tea and the customs that evolved around tea-taking to the arrival of the Christmas tree, a tradition that came to England through Queen Charlotte (wife of George III) from her native Germany though it was popularized by Albert in the Victorian era when every home followed suit and brought a fresh-cut tree indoors and decorated it.

The cafe divides the space rather effectively and takes the viewer into the 20th century where more vignettes captured homes from the Edwardian Age to the present. This was a fun portion of the museum as I began to recognize Christmas decorations and baubles that I still see in my parents’ home in Bombay! Chinese lanterns and buntings that were so popular in the 50s gave way to the minimalist design of the current loft apartment with its open floor plan s and its high tech stainless steel appliances featuring spaces for DINKYs (Double Income No Kids Yet)–couples who set up home and postpone kids!

It was all so beautifully integrated–the spaces, the Christmas decor, the interior design, the history and the lifestyle that for anyone interested even remotely in Design and Decor, Sociology, History or even Urban Planning, this is truly the place to go! Needless to say, I intend to visit again in the summer when the gardens will be lush and compelling and when I will learn about the history of landscape design and gardening in this country. The shop in which I browsed briefly also contained items I have never seen anywhere else–lovely old-fashioned wooden toys and building blocks, antique cards, gift wrapping paper in incredibly rare patterns, reprints of old books (100 Things that Every Boy Should Know) and all manner of charming things that take one back in time to an era when life was simpler and far less frantic. And the icing on the cake is that, like most of the best museums in London, this one too is entirely free!

I took the bus back home and had myself some lunch with a few bits and bobs that I could find in my fridge (I am trying to finish things in my fridge before I leave next week), then rested briefly before I got ready for my ride to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Michael and Cynthia had invited me to A Celebration of Carols by Benjamin Britten. I arrived at their place at Amen Court only to find it filled with folks comprising three generations–there were grandparents and their grandkids and parents in-between! There were kids who spoke English with a French accent and South Asian kids who spoke with an English accent! It was amazing! It turned out to be one large family, the family of the current Bishop of Kensington who was simply introduced to me as George. He turned out to be a delightfully friendly man who was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and graduated from Queens University. He lived right across the street in the very place that is today occupied by the University’s bookstore. When I told him that I visited the book store and browsed through its collection, he was thrilled! Then, the boyfriend Paul Lisboa, of his daughter Gael, turned out to know some friends of mine in Bombay–the family of Winnin Pereira who lives in Bandra and whose daughters Aruna and Vinita are friends of mine!!! It was all rather odd indeed but very merry and we had a good time over lovely mint tea and cake before we all trooped off to the Cathedral to hear the Choristers and Vicars of St. Paul’s treat us to a magnificent display of their musical talents. A harpist named Sioned Williams playing plaintively while the boys enchanted us by their voices. Conducted by Andrew Carwood, the program was built around 12 medieval carols (now long forgotten) that Britten set to his wonderful music and, in a sense, revived for our generation. It was wonderfully arranged and superbly performed and I enjoyed every bit of it.

Then, since it was still only 6 pm when we emerged from the cathedral, I decided to take a bus down to Trafalgar Street to see the Christmas Tree there and listen to the carollers because the web had also informed me that there are carollers each evening on the Square. How delighted I was when I actually was able to enter one of those old historic Routemaster buses–Number 15. These are the buses that have been preserved by public demand and are still plying on the streets after they debuted in 1954! They are older than me, I thought, as I scrambled up the stairs at the back to the approving nod of the conductor (yes, each bus still has an accompanying conductor just like the red double deckers in South Bombay) and found a seat at the very front. I took many pictures of the bus and the conductor (much to his delight), then got off at Trafalgar Square.

I was very disappointed indeed by what I saw there. I had imagined a tree on the lines of New York’s Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, all emblazoned with thousands of twinkling lights. Though the tree is towering (an annual gift from the people of Norway to the UK in recognition of help granted them during the war), there were a few paltry strings of lights on it that looked as if they had just been thrown on sloppily. A few carollers stood in the rain, their umbrellas held up high, singing carols as if they had never sung a note in their lives. They were members of the Epilepsy Foundation and their members walked around with boxes collecting money for their cause. The singing was just pathetic. The guy who was conducting the singing did not even stand at the mike when singing. We could barely hear them. Though the onlookers were also invited to join in, their voices were even sadder than those on the stage. The whole thing was just such a let down after the splendour of the performance I had just heard at St. Paul’s that I left as quickly as I could and decided to get home and get some work done.

I was caught in the worst traffic jam you can ever imagine as one of those abominable Bendy buses seemed to have broken down in the middle of Charing Cross Road just as it was making a turn from one street into the main road. This blocked up the entire road. All traffic came to a grinding standstill and a cacophony of impatient horns started as motorists blew off steam in protest! It was madness! After I sat there in the bus talking on my cell phone to Chrissie, for about 20 minutes, the driver opened the doors to let people out and I jumped off and started to walk to New Oxford Street from where I hopped into another bus and got home. What an evening!

I stayed up until after midnight transcribing two interviews I had done several weeks ago as I am determined to finish all pending work assignments before I leave for my month of family fun and revelry in the States and India. I had a very late dinner (more bits and bobs from the fridge), hit my bed and was asleep in less than five minutes!

Thrice in Three Months! More Glimpses of the Queen!

Dec3

Wednesday, December 3, 2008
London & Harrow

There are a few lines of an English nursery rhyme that I learned as a kid and have never forgotten. They go:

Pussycat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to see the Queen…”

And that’s what I did. I became that feline this morning–I went to London to see the Queen. You see, BBC’s Breakfast Show informed me at 8 am that today was a critical day in the Royal Calendar—The State Opening of Parliament. In an interesting feature that explained the coalescence of historical events, tradition, pomp and circumstance, the reporter took us from Buckingham Palace at the point where the Queen leaves her residence and along the track known as the Royal Route to Parliament Square and the entrance to the House of Lords. The country pulls out all the stops in order to make this occasion special. Parliament is officially declared Open for the year and the Queen makes an annual speech, addressing the Members of Parliament and commenting on the affairs of state—a British version, if you like, of the American State of the Union Address.

I watched fascinated, the Anglophile in me surfacing immediately and I figured, since I am free today and Parliament Square is not twenty minutes away and I will probably never have an opportunity like this to rub shoulders with royalty, why not go and take a peek at the pageantry for which British tradition is so reputed? Every American loves a parade and I am no exception—so off I went to witness one of Great Britain’s most important annual parades!

So I showered, stepped briefly into my Holborn Public Library to pick up some Travel books on Ireland for my forthcoming weekend trip to Belfast, got on the Tube and sped off. I arrived at Westminster Embankment to find the entire area cordoned off with metal barriers, dozens of policemen and women in their spiffy uniforms (love those bobby helmets and those smart black and white checked pillbox hats!) and security personnel in those fluorescent green vests that have become a permanent feature of all public celebrations. I inquired of a policewoman as to the best vantage point for viewing the parade. She told me (duh!) to stand where the crowd was thickest!!! I decided to do no such thing. For one thing, I do not have height working to my advantage. For another, I had my trusty camera and intended to take pictures of items more interesting that a bunch of heads in front of me! Thirdly, while I did want to be a part of it, I didn’t intend to be right in the thick of it!

So, I found myself a spot right on the fringes of the crowd and there I stood awaiting the arrival of the Monarch and her entourage. It was 11. 10 am and the royal procession was expected to arrive at 11. 20 as the Queen’s speech to the House of Lords was scheduled for 11. 25. It wasn’t long before the pageantry began. Two tall riders wearing shiny gold helmets and breastplates and carrying sabers rode on black horses from Whitehall towards Parliament Square. A large cohort of about fifty riders, similarly uniformed, on black horses, followed them. Two more cohorts of fifty horses each followed. I had never seen so many black horses in my life and it was a rather strange sight–so many horses on tarred city streets. The carriages then followed—the first one, a closed carriage—black all over and lavishly decorated with gold. It was pulled by six white horses and in it, as clear as crystal, I saw the Queen wearing an off-white hat and an off-white coat, her well-coiffeured curls matching her outfit. Then, within five seconds, the carriage and the Queen disappeared from my view. I had, of course, readied my camera and my telephoto lens to get what I thought was the best shot with the towers of Westminster Abbey in the background. (Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the bells of Westminster seemed to have gone crazy. All morning, they rang out merrily and provided magnificent sound effects to accompany the glorious visuals.) Several other carriages followed, each one more striking than the next—some open, some closed. They carried people whom it was too difficult to recognize. Some were attired in what looked like military uniforms, others wore elaborate hats. More cohorts of horses followed, more orders were shouted, more pomp and ceremony followed though the crowd remained quiet and courteous. The Save Iraq, Save Iraqis Brigade of protestors were in their usual spot right opposite the Tower of Big Ben, but even they remained quiet as the Queen’s carriages passed by. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared out of sight. From the chinks in the railing that separate the street from the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament below, I could see the frenzied, if very organized movements of men and animals.

Most of the crowd had started to leave, by that point, but a thought suddenly struck me. If the procession had passed along the route at the beginning of the pageantry that marks the State Opening of Parliament, then surely it would have to go along the same route to return to Buckingham Palace, wouldn’t it? So there would yet another opportunity to see royalty pass before me.

I asked a policeman standing nearby what time the procession would return to the Palace. “By mid-day”, he said, glancing up at Big Ben. I wondered, for a few minutes, whether I wanted to stand for a half hour (could my feet take it?) braving the cold on what was another frigid day. Then, I decided, what the heck? I’m right here now and with the crowd diminishing, I found a spot far ahead of where I was, not fifty feet from the intersection where Whitehall meets Parliament Square. I decided to stand there and edit the pictures in my camera as I had only a few shots left.

During the waiting period, I began a conversation with a couple that had missed the first parade and hoped to catch a glimpse of the Queen on her way out. They turned out to be from Belfast on vacation in London for a few days. Of course, I then told them that I would be in Belfast this coming weekend and obtained wonderful insider tips from them on where to go and what to do (the Christmas fair in the City Hall is a must, they said, as is the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum). The Giant’s Causeway and the Coastal Route, they said, was also something I should not miss—but I had intended to make a trip there anyway.

And then it was close to noon and the first couple of horses passed us by, indicating that it would not be long before the procession of carriages would begin on its return journey. This time, I was so close to the front that I had a clear view and, of course, my excitement mounted. Who would have thought that in three months, I would see the Queen three times? Llew and I had been not more than three feet away from the entire Royal Family when we were at Balmoral in Scotland in the month of August. At that time, we had both thought it was a unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And now here I was, three months later, looking upon the royal visage of the Queen twice on the same day! It was truly unbelievable!

And while all these thoughts went through my mind, her carriage passed by again—a closed carriage, thankfully, for the cold would have frozen the most stoic of monarchs. Since the policeman had informed the crowd that she is always in the first carriage, they knew what to expect. There was their Queen, the longest reigning monarch in British history, sailing majestically by, seated besides her husband Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, to the accompaniment of carillon bells from Westminster, and a battalion of horses and riders, footmen and attendants. Before me appeared a scene, like an illustration in a fairy story, whose characters had names like Snow White and Cinderella. As each carriage passed by, the shutter clicked on my camera. Then followed the large troupes of bear-skin hatted guards, looking very different from the pictures one sees of them in tourist brochures—for they were all clad in gray overcoats to combat the cold and seemed to have arrived in London via the Kremlin! It was the stuff that television drama is made of and I was as excited as a kid in a candy shop as I took it all in. I could not resist calling Llew, despite the fact that it was only 8 am in New York, to tell him that I had been to Parliament to see the Queen. Of course, he exclaimed and I giggled and gushed, and then it was all over and I had another adventure to write home about.

The nursery rhyme continues:
“Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under her chair”.

I did not, of course, frighten any mice under her chair, but I could visualize it clearly—the chair, I mean, which is, in fact, an opulent gilded throne, for Llew and I had visited the House of Lords only a couple of weeks ago and in the sanctum sanctorum of the British government, we had sat in the “Stranger’s Gallery” on the third floor and watched at local MPs debated the hottest issues of the day. Having been there, having done that, and now having seen the Queen three times in my life, I felt like a veteran Londoner to the core.

Then, I was on the Tube hastening off to Harrow to spend the afternoon with my classmate and dear friend Bina Samel Ullal. I had not visited her since I arrived in London in September and I was keen to see her kids Alisha and Dhiren and her husband Navin. I had told her that I would arrive there around 1. 30 pm and from the Circle line at Westminster, I changed to the Bakerloo line at Paddington, then took the 186 bus to her place from Harrow and Wealdstone Tube station (she had told me that her stop is called the Belmont Health Center and I am now so familiar with the use of buses that I can hop on and off them without batting an eyelid).

Within an hour, I was seated on the sofa in her living room watching events unfold in Bombay in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks as Bina gets NDTV coverage directly from India. Naturally, we spent a long time discussing the awful destruction of our beloved city and its people before we broke for lunch. Bina had cooked an Indian meal that morning—Chicken Curry with Peppers and Potatoes with Aubergine. With a delicious salad and naans, we had ourselves a delicious lunch with a mince pie to follow for dessert.

So there it was, another first for me–my first mince pie of the festive season. This is a British holiday delicacy of which Americans are unaware—tiny pies, each baked individually in a muffin pan. The pastry is almost like a cookie—it is sweet and crumbly and delicious and the inside is filled with a mixture of dried fruit soaked in rum and flavored with orange rind. Served with single cream, it was simply scrumptious and I enjoyed every crumb.

By 3. 30pm., we got into Bina’s car so that she could pick up her son, Dhiren, from school. I had the chance then to meet Sheila, one of Bina’s friends, who had visited me together with Bina, in Southport, Connecticut, a few years ago. We chatted for a while before Dhiren joined us and then drove back to her place at Beverley Gardens. Navin had left work early to keep a dentist’s appointment and I had a chance to greet him briefly before he left. A few minutes later, Alisha, her daughter, returned from junior college and we spent the next half hour in amiable conversation. It was a lovely evening and I was delighted to have seen the kids—all grown up now and fun to be with. Of course, I told them all about my encounter with royalty that morning and I know I will get a great deal of mileage out of this adventure as the week goes by.

Then, I was on the Tube, headed home to Holborn. I spent the evening catching up on email as my server is playing up and I was unable to access the Web this morning. I spent a while on my blog before I called it a night, ready to awake tomorrow to teach my last two classes of the semester. Where, oh where, has the time gone?

A Touch of Frost at Somerset House & St. Paul’s

Dec2

Monday, December 1, 2008
London

Jack Frost nipped at my nose all day today as London slipped down to a numbing 1 degree–that’s Celsius, of course, in which scale the figures always sound scarier than they are even to North Americans accustomed to more frigid winters. However, it was with a twinge of jealousy that I noticed that it was 11 degrees Celsius in New York and Fairfield today–December 1, 2008, Chriselle’s Birthday. I can only hope that we will be released from this Freezer Box soon and return to more seasonal English temperatures.

Still, I cannot complain because when I awoke, the sun–that elusive thing–was out, shining gloriously upon the city. The pull towards the outdoors is so strong especially when this happens after three straight days of slickness and gloom. I finished grading a batch of essays, showered and left my flat. I bussed it to Bedford Square and arrived at my office, rather unusually on a Monday, in order to print out a bunch of things on which I had worked through the weekend–not the least of which were my Megabus tickets for my trip to Oxford tomorrow. Karen even remarked about how strange it seemed to see me on a Monday.

Then, all work accomplished for the day, I set off to have some festive fun, catching the bus to Trafalgar Square from where I caught another one to Aldwych to see Somerset House which wears a dressed-up air at Christmastime. The grand Neo-Classical mansion is the backdrop for holiday festivity sponsored, this year, by Tiffany and Co. There was a small snack bar all painted in the signature robin’s egg blue and tied with a bow to resemble a typical Tiffany present–it called itself the Tiffany Tuck Shop and sold cup cakes decorated with robin’s egg blue icing and a tiny white bow, blue and white candy canes and gingerbread cookie men wearing robin’s egg blue scarves. All very cute but all very pricey!

On the skating rink, dozens of merrymakers slid around, some proficient, others obvious beginners. The Christmas tree that stood in another ‘Tiffany present’ stand sported ice-skates in blue, huge silver snowflakes and strings of blue lights. In the adjoining cafe, hot mulled cider and hot chocolate were being sold in robin’s egg blue Tiffany paper cups. So there you had it–a crassly commerical American Christmas exported to London, courtesy of Tiffany, in these days of global credit crunches and economic downturns. I had hoped to see a festival market all set up on the sidelines, but was sorely disappointed. A look in the Somerset House Shop was equally disappointing, for there was really nothing that shouted out my name.

By then it was 3 pm in London (10 am in New York), a good time to call Chriselle who would have arrived at her office desk. We ended up having the nicest chinwag. She had received the yellow roses I sent her via Llew and was looking forward to dinner that evening at a Thai restaurant with Llew and Chris and, somewhat unexpectedly but very pleasantly for her, the presence of my brother Roger, who happens to be in New York on a flight.

I then hightailed it back home on the bus, but not before I passed by India House at India Place which intersects Montague Street (he, I suppose, of the Montague-Chelmsford Reforms) and was attracted to a sculpture of India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru perched on a pedestal in the alley where visitors to India queue for visas at the adjoining consulate offices. I took a few pictures but with the light fading fast, I’m not optimistic about the results.

On the way back, I tried so hard to find one of the old red Bombay-style double deckers but though I just missed one that sailed off majestically as I arrived at the bus-stop, my resolve was shattered in the freezing cold and I caught the first bus that came my way and dropped me off on Fleet Street from where I walked home. I did spent a few moments in Waterstones browsing through the new coffee table books being offered this season, including Steven Fry’s Tour Across America and Nigella’s Christmas. It’s funny to see how one can become a vicitim of one’s own success. Indeed, success has completely changed Nigella’s natural persona. I was warching some of the episodes from her earliest TV series shot at the time when her first husband was still alive and her kids were still kids (and not the pre-teens they are now) and I found her so natural in front of the camera. In the newer series, she behaves like a sex kitten, flashing come-hither bedroom smiles into the camera and keenly playing up her sex appeal. I have to admit that at times I find the current series’ almost embarrassing.

I had enough time at home to get myself a quick slice of pizza and a coffee before I left again and took the bus to St. Paul’s Cathedral to Amen Court, the home of my new friends the Colcloughs, Cynthia and Michael. Bishop Michael is Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s Cathedral and has invited me to a bunch of Advent and Christmas services at the Cathedral. The service was by invitation or pass only but the place was packed. For the next one hour and a half, I lost myself in the prayerful interior as I listened to a number of readings, superbly articulated by several different Anglican prelates and a couple of choirs, including a Boy’s choir that was simply outstanding. Their angelic voices rose to the towering domed ceiling and made me feel as if I were in Heaven in the midst of the hosts of angels all singing their hearts out. It was idyllically beautiful. Since it was Chriselle’s birthday and I like to attend Mass on her birthday when I am far away from her, this was the ideal service to dedicate to her and she was closely in my prayers all through the evening. I made the discovery that very day that Chriselle shares a birthday with my friend Mary-Jo Smith from Connecticut and, so MJ was in my prayers too. I am looking forward now to Handel’s Messiah this coming Thursday in the same venue.

I continued watching Far From the Madding Crowd over dinner when I got home. I did not realize what a lengthy movie it is, but I was relieved that it did have a happy ending unlike most of Hardy’s novels that are lachrymose and dripping with tragedy. Gabriel did win Bathsheba’s hand in marriage, at the very end, though there were some rather morbid scenes that I was afraid would keep me awake at night. As it turned out, I was ready to drop by the time I cleared and washed up and went to bed.

Tomorrow, I will be catching the 8 am Megabus from Victoria to Oxford where I have a couple of meetings at St. Antony’s College, so I set my cell phone alarm to 6.30 am and fell asleep. Since I am using the cell phone as an alarm clock for the first time, it is my fervent hope that it will ring on schedule!

Just Another Soggy Sunday!

Dec1

Sunday, November 30, 2008
London

Winter has arrived with a vengeance. It is cold and it is soggy. And that’s the thing about English rain…it’s never really a proper downpour. It’s always just a light spritz, a gentle drizzle, sometimes just the finest spray! Like Hawaii, in many ways, except that in Hawaii that spray lasts precisely five minutes and then the sun–and the rainbows!–come out again and the day goes on as if that shower had never happened at all.

Here, the spray continues all day–just enough to ensure that your umbrella is raised and the streets are wet and the populace stays indoors sipping hot chocolate, or, in this season that’s merry and bright, hot mulled wine. Yes, that’s a very English thing indeed and all weekend long I’ve been seeing hot mulled wine offered everywhere at 3 pounds a glass–from Borough Market to Covent Garden, jaded shoppers are sipping these potent potations in a Dickensian tradition that lives on in the 21 st century. Oh, and also hot roasted chestnuts have been appearing on carts everywhere in keeping with the carol,
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

Thanks to my resolution to attend Mass each Sunday in a different historic church in London, I resisted the temptation to go to the 9 am service at my parish church,St. Etheldreda’s, and instead kept myself busy till about 11 am. I had Breakfast in Bed–uuummmm!–hot toasted buttered croissants (I have developed such a love for Lurpak) and steaming coffee. Now that’s Sunday comfort food for you! I hammered out my November newsletter, then did my exercises and showered and at 11 .30 am, I was out of the house and in a bus and headed to Church. I decided to go to Berkeley (pronounced Barkley in this country, in the same way that Derby is Darby, I suppose) Square to attend the 12. 30 mass at Immaculate Conception Church.This is usually referred to as ‘Farm Church’ as it is on Farm Street in Mayfair and sits at one end of Mount Street Gardens (the same one in which KGB spies left secret notes for each other in the slats on the many benches that pepper the pathways).

As I said before, it was cold and it was soggy, so I was surprised to see how packed the church was. It’s Gothic interior is quite breathtaking with its high ceiling and tons of decorative details including Byzantine mosaics, innumerable carvings around the altar and pulpit, paintings on the walls). It turned out that the congregation was composed largely of ‘pilgrims’, devotees of the Jesuit martyr St. Edmund Campion. They’d been on the road since September, having started out at Oxford where Campion was a student at St. John’s College, and making their way to London where he was condemned to death by hanging for converting to Catholicism, joining the Jesuits and preaching secretly when his ministry began. His Feast Day is celebrated on December 1 (Chriselle’s Birthday) which is why the pilgrimage ended today in London where he was martyred.

Of course, I obtained all this information from the web only after I got home and decided to read up on him. While his name sounded familiar to me, I could not quite place him. I remember now that he is revered in Oxford and that might have been where I first heard his name. I also realize how dangerous it might have been to continue to profess allegiance to the Vatican in the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. Campion lived and preached and ministered to Catholics while in hiding and while being continually hounded. He was finally exposed by a spy, taken to the Tower where at his Trial, he presented a stirring defence of his faith, but was condemned to Death. He was hung, drawn and quartered in 1581 and was canonized a saint in 1980.

I was surprised to see that the congregation comprised multiple ethnicities. Of course, the majority were white English but I saw South Asians, East Asians and Blacks among the pilgrims. Fr. Hugh Duffy, S.J. said Mass and preached a sermon that was inspiring and particularly designed for his faithful congregation of pilgrims. I realized that he was a Scotsman when he referred, at one point, to St. Andrew, who, he said, was “the patron saint of the greatest country in the world”. This drew a hearty laugh from the congregation and I became aware, once again, of the healthy Anglo-Scots rivalry that continues to exist all over the British Isles. I sat for a few minutes, in the aftermath of the terrible terrorist attacks on Bombay, thinking that perhaps a reunification of Pakistan and India might be the solution to the continued bitterness that shrouds relations between these two countries. Perhaps if they are united politically, once again, the rivalry can continue, but on a more humorous level and without the threat of war or terrorism marring such a union. But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part.

Back on the bus, I spoke to Llew and our Canadian guests who were at breakfast in Southport preparing for their long drive back to Toronto. I had intended to stay on the bus to Old Spitalfields Antiques Market but the weather strongly deterred me. Instead, I got off at my home stop and treated myself to a huge Italian lunch as I was starving by the time mass ended. I had mushroom soup for starters, garlic bread with cannelloni and salad (all courtesy of Sainsburys) and lemon tart for dessert. Then, replete with my large meal, I caught up on email correspondence and felt drowsy enough to take a short nap.

At 5 pm, I left my flat again, got on the bus and joined the throng of holiday shoppers at Oxford Street. At Marks and Spencer, I found some presents to take back home to India–prices are rapidly coming down and with the dollar so strong again, it is a great time to buy. Up in the lingerie section, I sought underwear but as I was getting ready to pay, the store made the announcement that it was closing in five minutes. That’s when I realised that they close at 6 pm on Sundays–even during the holiday season! Now that would never happen in the Land of Mamon, aka the United States. So I quickly paid for my purchases and was out and on the bus again, weighed down with gifts.

I spent a rather quiet evening with the telly, watching Far from the Madding Crowd with Julie Christie and Alan Bates. I realised in the first five minutes that I had seen this version before in Bombay, aeons ago, in the private British Council auditorium. Some scenes remained burned in my memory–the ones, in the beginning, with the sheep tumbling down the cliffs, another of the house on fire and Gabriel’s attempts to quell the flames. I ate another lovely dinner as I watched until I grew too sleepy and almost fell asleep on the couch.

It was the soggiest weekend in my memory but apart from the fact that today was rather unproductive, I really did use my time effectively and did not allow the rain to deter my plans ovet the past three days.

The Other Place–Calling on Cambridge

Nov22

Saturday, November 22, 2008
Cambridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s More to Athens Than The Acropolis

Nov12

Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Athens, Greece

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

And so we finally arrived at our last day in Greece. It had been such a blissful ten days that Llew and are were loath to return to routine, even though, comfortingly, that routine would be for me at least, in London.

Though friends had told us that Athens can be covered in a day and a half, we so loved the city and its many varied quarters, some of which we had yet to explore, that we had several places lined up to see before we returned home. However, I woke up feeling awful and for some inexplicable reason, had no appetite or energy to tackle anything. Llew breakfasted alone while I took a rest and it was only after he had checked out, an hour later, that I stirred and found the enthusiasm to go ahead with our plans.

Our first stop was Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of Olympian Zeus in “Roman Athens”. These remnants of Rome’s occupation of Greece take the form of large monuments in rather dismal shape. While the Arch is quite impressive, it is the few standing columns of the Temple that catch the eye–mainly because they are so tall. This temple was once the largest in Greece and though today only 17 columns remain, they do give an idea of how stupendous a sight it might have presented to contemporary Athenians.

Then, we found ourselves skirting the Temple’s precincts and making our way towards the National Gardens to see the Zappeion, at the suggestion of Ted Francis, a corporate attorney in the States, who was once Llew’s colleague and is now a good friend. Ted has Greek heritage and Llew had made sure to ask him for his travel tips before he left the States. One of the places that Ted thought we should see was the Zappeion and I am very grateful he suggested this, not just because it allowed us to explore the interior of a very unique and very imposing Neo-Classical Building in the middle of the city, but because we also had the opportunity to explore the ‘lungs’ of Athens in the huge and very well-maintained garden. Inside the building–which is odd because it appears like a rectangular structure on the outside but is really circular within–that was used as the press center for the Athens Olympics in 2004, there was a publicity event on for the forthcoming Special Olympics and the press was busy setting up cameras and lights.

Having viewed the Zappaeion, we went in search of the Athens Olympic Stadium of 2004 and though finding it on foot following a map was something of a challenge, we were quite overwhelmed when we did see it. For the stadium is massive and entirely constructed of marble. The five international Olympic rings dominate the structure and make a marvelous backdrop for the pictures that visitors feel compelled to take. This was the stadium into which the finalists of the marathon entered at the end of their long run and we could just imagine what it might have been like–thousands of cheering fans greeting the winners and screaming during their victory lap.

Walking through the lovely flower-beds of the garden, we arrived at the main thoroughfare, in time to take in the rituals of the 12 noon “Changing of the Guards” ceremony at Syntagma Square. This is very similar to the ceremony in London except that instead of wearing funny bear-skin hats, these Greek guards wear funny frilly skirts and large pom-pom shoes and march in the fashion that is distinctly reminiscent of John Cleese in Fawlty Towers in the episode in which he attempts to be a Nazi soldier. Needless to say, the moves of these guards brought a great deal of laughter–some of it suppressed, much of it not–and photo opportunities for the assembled tourists who arrive at the tolling of each hour. The handsome Parliament Building makes a very fitting backdrop to this ceremony which is performed on a platform that contains the Tomb of an Unknown Soldier. It is meant to be a solemn and dignified ritual and I was sorry that so many young tourists found it amusing.

After resting for a bit, we walked along the main avenue towards the three Neo-Classical Buildings that one cannot fail to notice as one rides in the city’s trolley buses. These comprise the Athens Academy, the University of Athens and the Central Library. Each building is more beautiful than the other, the Academy fronted by the statues of Socrates and Aristotle and crowned by those of Apollo and Artemis. At the University, we were delighted to have strayed into the midst of a graduation ceremony where lovely young ladies all decked out in summer floral dresses and chiffony frills with either improbably high heeled boots or delicate stilettos, bore large bouquets of flowers in their hands and posed for pictures with their loving relatives. It was a lovely sight to see and we were so glad to receive this spontaneous glimpse into contemporary Athenian culture.

A few moments later, having covered Roman Athens and Neo-Classical Athens, we crossed the street and went in search of Byzantine Athens represented by the ancient churches that dot its oldest quarters. Llew was especially keen that I visit the 11th century Church of Kapnikarea that stands smack in the middle of Ermou, one of the city’s busiest shopping areas and which he had seen earlier on one of his solo rambles. This tiny church is so old that when you enter it, you almost expect its walls to crumble in your hands.

It was time for lunch and we hurried again to Thannasis which was doing roaring business at midday. It was our last chance to enjoy a really good meal and we opted for a Greek Salad and the moussaka, which was served in the terracotta pot in which it had been baked and was easily one of the best we have ever tasted. Over Mythos beer, this meal went down like a dream and we were so glad that we would take back superb memories of Greek food through the many varied restaurants we had visited on the recommendation of Lonely Planet.

On the way back to our hotel to pick up our bags, we did have a chance to see one more old church, the large Cathedral which stands right next to the smaller 12th century Church of Agios Eleftherios. All Byzantine churches have a similar design inside and exude an air of religious formality through the use of swinging incense-burners and glass chandeliers.

It was, sadly, time for us to think of returning to our hotel as our flight left at 8pm. We wanted to arrive at the airport by 6 pm, which meant that we needed to get on the metro by 5 pm. A last stroll through Monastriki allowed us to pick up some inexpensive souvenirs trinkets for relatives and a scarf for me depicting the glory of classical Greek architecture, before we arrived at Acropolis House and picked up our baggage. En route to the metro stop, we could not resist stopping at Syntagma Square to pick up some edible goodies to carry back home–Greek pistachios, mixed nut brittle studded with sesame seeds, and some more sokolatina (chocolate mousse pastry) from our favorite confectionery at the corner.

On the metro back to the airport, we ran into the group of four Asians–two couples from Hongkong–whom we had seen repeatedly on our travels. Together, we entered the train that spirited us away to the airport and on to our Easyjet flight which landed at Luton airport at about 11 am. Because there wasn’t much traffic on the motorways at that time of night, we did manage to get to the Baker Street Tube stop before the last train left and the system closed for the night. We were home twenty minutes later, holding close to our hearts, some indelible memories of the ten blissful days we had spent in Greece–the cradle of Western civilization.

The Acropolis and the Agora in Ancient Athens

Nov12

Wednesday, November 5, 2008:
Athens, Greece

http://rochellesroost.googlepages.com/greece_athens

On one of America’s most historic days–the election of our first African-American President–Llew and I awoke in the very cradle of Democracy–Athens, Greece–and rejoiced. “He did it, Babe”, Llew shouted to me through the bathroom door in our hotel in Athens. We high-fived each other, then joined a jubilant band of local Athenians at breakfast, all of whom were celebrating the great win of Barack Obama and, hopefully, the beginning of Change in America.

We were at the base of the Acropolis is ten minutes, strolling in leisurely fashion through Plaka, the area that looks completely different by daylight. Through the quaintest little Greek village we passed and joined the bus loads of late-season tourists trooping towards the towering monuments at the top of the world’s most famous urban mountain. Twelve euros covered entry into a number of attractions and Lonely Planet made it very easy for us to tour the complex without the need of a pricey personal guide. We passed by the awesome Theater of Herodes Atticus where we have seen so many famous performers (Yanni, Charlotte Church, etc.) wow audiences in recent years. It must be a stunning venue at night when the lights are turned on and the rest of Athens sleeps quietly just beyond the stage walls.

Next we advanced towards the Prophylea and the Temple of Athena Nike with its high steps and its endless scaffolding, for conservation is an on-going process at these ancient sites. Through the arches and into the main courtyard, the Parthenon finally came into sight. Of course, we spent ages examining it in loving detail, noting the acquisitiveness that led to the hacking of sculpture from the central frieze by Lord Elgin in what has become an endless controversy. It became clear to me then that he did not ‘rescue’ these sculptures in any way. They were not buried hundreds of feet beneath the earth as the treasures of Tutankhamen were, for instance, or the city of Pompeii. These marbles were just cut clean off the pediment and transported to England to the best of my knowledge on a bare whim. I realized that I ought to read more to educate myself on why and how the Elgin Marbles are now in the British Museum. At any rate, the two remaining sculptures–one on each end, of a seated youth, and a horse’s head–that are still on the structure are deeply stirring and I simply couldn’t take enough pictures of these works “in situ”.

We then made our way towards the Erechtheion, another beautiful temple of Poseidon that features the Karyatids, a series of six sculpted women that are charmingly graceful. Here again, five of the originals can be seen in the Acropolis Museum while the fifth original is in the British Museum in London. Plaster of Paris replicas of the five that are in Athens are placed on the building and they make a striking backdrop for pictures. Greece must be so enormously proud of these visions of Pericles that have allowed so many such buildings to survive, albeit in ruined form.

Just at the foot of the Acropolis is the Theater of Dionysus, an enormous complex that is now in the process of refurbishment. Here it is possible to see the original venue on which the plays of the Greek tragedians, Aeschyles, Sophocles and Euripedes were performed with the works of Aristophanes providing comic relief. Here were created the classical principles of dramatic composition upon which playwrights the world over have depended. The lion-footed throne on which the high priest sat to watch the shows is still in place and I was deeply stirred by my rambles through the Pentellic marble spectator stands of this strangely atmospheric place.

The original Acropolis Museum which was a part of the Parthenon has been shut down and a superb new and very modern building has taken its place a few blocks away. Llew and I walked quickly there to see the original Karyatids only to discover that they were not yet in place as only part of the museum has been opened to the public. Instead, we were treated to a special exhibit containing the items that were acquired fraudulently by such great international museums as the Metropolitan in New York and the J. Paul Getty in Malibu, California, that have now been returned to Italy. These pieces, which include the famous Euphronious Krater about which I had learned while training at the Met, were on loan to the Athens Museum and were on display for a limited period before they find a permanent home in Italy. I was so thrilled to see the Euphronius Krater again–it was like running into an old friend! Indeed, I had wanted to visit the Met and bid goodbye to it at the time that the newspapers in New York were full of the news of its departure to Italy but had not been able to find the time–and little did I expect that I would see it again on foreign shores! That is the beauty of travel too, isn’t it? You never know what or who you will run into when you set sail for distant lands. I cannot wait to tell my fellow docents at the Met about my serendipitous discovery.

After a delicious Greek Salad lunch on one of the wayside restaurants that line Adrianou just outside the gates of the Ancient Agora, Llew and I launched on to the next phase of our sight seeing–an examination of the Temple of Hephthasos, a classical Greek temple that stands almost intact on the great grounds that once constituted the most important part of official Athens. It was in the Agora (marketplace) that St. Paul disputed with his critics endlessly while trying to find converts to Catholicism; it was here that Socrates was imprisoned and accepted the cup of hemlock that led to his heroic death; it was here that merchants, bankers and financiers created the economic glory that was Greece. Only three buildings are in a good state–the Stoa of Attalos, the Church of the Holy Apostles built in honor of St. Paul and full of lovely Byzantine mosaics and the Temple of Hephthasos. The rest of the Agora is in dismal condition, most of it lying in ruins in the shape of columns and blocks and red terracotta tiles–somewhat like the Roman Forum in Rome, only in worse condition.

By this point in our day, my feet were fatigued and I needed to return to our hotel for a long rest. Upon awaking from a siesta, we went out in search of dinner and chanced upon Thannasis, a wayside restaurant at Monastiraki, which Lonely Planet had extolled as having the best kebabs in the city. And they were quite correct indeed. Our meal was simple–lamb kebabs with roasted tomato and onions wrapped in pita bread, but so delicious and so laughably cheap we actually spent less that three euros for the lot. For dessert, we picked up Sokolatina, a chocolate mousse pastry that had been recommended to us by Llew’s former Greek colleague Ted Francis. And it was simply fabulous!

After a day that had been both historic and deeply fascinating, we packed up our few belongings and get ready for our early morning departure, the next day, for the ferry cruise to Mykonnos. Athens are just amazing and we were glad that our itinerary included one more day in the city on our way back when we hoped to explore those bits of it that we had yet to traverse.

Messin’ Around on Red Double Decker Buses

Oct27

Sunday, October 26, 2008
London

What do you do when you awake to a washout of a day with rain streaming down your window panes? What do you do when you have a foot ailment that prevents too much standing or walking and a friend from America in town? Why, you mess around on the double decker buses, of course. In fact, you study your bus route map and find the one that takes the most circuitous route around the city so that you can offer your friend a sight seeing tour without getting into the downpour.

So I met Ian outside St. Paul’s Cathedral–which allowed both of us to pay a visit inside. He arrived with a steaming cup of Starbuck’s Tea in his hand, having overslept and missing his full English breakfast; but then he thankfully remembered that he had gained an hour through the night as we set our clocks back.

I, remaining oblivious to this fact, had called him at his hotel at 10 am, only to discover that it was still 9 am. Still, with the extra hour working in our favor, we walked to Ludgate Hill–me gingerly, trying not to put too much pressure on my feet–where I was thrilled to see the old Routemaster buses plying on the opposite side. These are the red double deckers sans doors. You jump on and off at will through the back door, clinging on to the bar for dear life. It’s the kind of double decker bus with which I grew up in Bombay and they take me nostalgically back to those childhood days when that was my only mode of conveyance around the city.

Route No. 11 arrived before long and we clambered upstairs to start our ride along Fleet Street, once synonymous with the biggest names in British newspaper publication. Then, of course, when the Fourth Estate discovered that they could not wire up those old graded buildings for modern telecommunications, they departed, lock, stock and barrel, for Canary Wharf where the concrete jungle emerged to tower over the Thames. The name Grub Street still holds good and Dr. Samuel Johnson’s home still lies hidden in a crevice behind one of the alleys, approached quite easily through his favorite watering hole, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.

Then, we were at Trafalgar Square, offered a quick glimpse of a choir singing on the bleachers as the bus turned into Whitehall, allowing a peak at the Horse Guards and the tourist throngs around them. When Big Ben and Westminster drew into sight, Ian got visibly excited and told me that Jenny and Kristen, his wife and daughter, who will be in London with me for a few days in December en route to Bombay, should take this bus ride too. Through Victoria and Sloan Square and then the King’s Road and Fulham, we trundled slowly as the rain poured down more copiously.

At this point, mention of Harrods came up and Ian asked me if I had seen the Diana-Dodi Memorial in the store. I told him that I hadn’t yet been to Harrods since my arrival, six weeks ago, in London. “But I’d love to go today, if you’d like to”, I said. “Sure”, he agreed, “but what I’d really like to do is go for chaat to this Indian place that Jenny and I always visit when we are here in London. I even found the phone number for you”. And so we decided to peak into Harrods, then take the Tube to Euston Square to go in search of Diwana Bhel Puri House on Drummond Street.

On the No. 14 bus heading towards Knightsbridge from Fulham, we rode through Old Brompton Road and Fulham Road and I felt that old urge tug once more at my heartstrings to get off the bus and explore the shops on foot. Then, I remembered my disability and suppressed the urge that had put me in this position in the first place! Another day perhaps.

We also passed by a double row of mounted police trotting down the road on horseback wearing the flourescent green waistcoats of security personnel. I wondered where they were headed when just a few meters away, we started to see throngs of people progressing in the same direction, strangely attired in uniform navy blue and white colors. “This has to be some kind of sporting event”, I told Ian, as the crowds gathered strength. Then, right enough, the bus was held stationery in traffic created by the big football match being played that morning at the Chelsea Football Club’s Stadium which appeared on our left. The navy blue and white are the colors of the local home team and the fans were out in droves to cheer their favorites. It was fun to see that–the navy blue umbrellas, the striped blue and white scarves, the two-colored jerseys and cardigans and sweat shirts. The English sure do love their football and passions run wild when the home team is on the field.

The bus stopped right in front of Harrods, where, to my astonishment, I realized that Christmas had already arrived! Giant red wreaths decorated the main floor that, recession or no recession, financial meltdown or no meltdown, credit crunch or no credit crunch, was simply choked with buyers or mere window shoppers, or just browsers–who knows? What I do know is that we had to literally elbow our way through the throngs to get to the back of the parfumerie where a small escalator led us downwards to the Diana-Dodi Memorial.

Immortalized in Italian marble, pictures of the star-crossed lovers form the focal point of a small monument that is made solemn by the use of candles and a lilting fountain. What I thought was a little too much, however, was a diamond ring placed in the very front in a glass case. Was this the ring that Dodi al-Fayed was supposed to have given Diana only days before their deaths? Well, that to me was really a bit much. It is one thing to remember one’s son and his girl friend through a memorial but, in my humble opinion, to try to perpetuate the myth that the two were engaged to be married by placing that ring in the public eye is in bad taste.

Before long, we were headed Underground to Euston where we found Diwana easily enough and passed on the weekend buffet to make a meal of the chaat and kulfi. With sev batata puri and dahi bhale, a mixed platter of starters, mango juice and malai kulfi, we were replete and ready, once again, to walk out into the rain. We parted company soon after, with Ian heading for his conference and me going home, feeling extraordinarily fulfilled from having had such an interesting afternoon.

Back home, I graded a batch of student papers before settling down to watch some great TV–Charles Dickens’s Little Dorrit is in serial form on BBC1 (I had always dreamed of spending my evenings in London curled up with good Victorian fiction on the telly and tonight I have Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure to anticipate, thanks to Love Films.Com). Then Stephen Fry came on offering his Tour of the American States which continued yesterday with his sojourn across the Deep South. This is truly an interesting look at American life because Fry has avoided all the cliches and is presenting glimpses into aspects of Americana with which even I am unfamiliar–such as voodoo in New Orleans, the country’s largest penitentiary in Kentucky, and Morgan Freeman’s club Ground Zero in Mississippi, Home of the Blues.

One long chat with Llew later, I called it a night.

Autumn Arrives in Islington

Oct14

Monday, October 13, 2008
London

After four glorious days when it shone proudly upon the earth, the sun played peekaboo today, disappearing, for the most part behind thick cloud cover. I did not feel sorry that I stayed cooped up at home transcribing an interview from my tape recorder on to my laptop. Did not realize how gruelling a task that would be until I got started. But once I got the hang of it, I quickly picked up speed and hope to get more adept as time goes by.

Lunch was a baguette sandwich munched on my couch while watching British sitcoms on Gold, a channel I’ve discovered that does Oldies–some of which are my own favorites–As Time Goes By, Keeping Up Appearances, Fawlty Towers, One Foot in the Grave, even Sorry. Then, it was back to the salt mines until 3. 30 pm, when I rushed off for my appointment with Paul Montgomery, a second generation Anglo-Indian who had made plans to meet me in Islington.

I constantly underestimate the distance and the time it will take me to walk to my destinations despite being an expert map reader. In about 40 minutes, I arrived at our meeting point, the English and Media Center on Compton Terrace just outside the Highbury and Islington Tube Station. Paul had attended a workshop there and suggested we use the library-cum-lounge for our chat. He is a very personable man who had extensively researched his own family ties to India and has written about them with little intention of getting his discoveries published.

In the lounge, we were lucky to be able to partake of the remains of the “Tea and Cakes” that had been served to the workshop participants. With some delicious herb tea and a whopping slice of tiramisu, I felt fortified to start our conversation. Paul, of course, did most of the talking and then read to me quite beautifully from his own memoirs. It made for a very touching evening indeed as he disclosed some of the most unsavory aspects of his family background–secrets that were never even whispered about behind closed doors. At the end of our evening, he agreed to come in as a guest lecturer and speak to my students of Anglo-Indian history.

When we said goodbye, I decided to go for a walk around Islington, an area that is beloved to my colleague Tim Tomlinson (now based in Florence,Italy) after the one year he lived there while on assignment at NYU-London. I found this little ‘village’ it be quite delightful indeed. The High Street is filled with trendy shops, stone sculpture graces the tiny ‘greens’, and traditional pubs and ethnic restaurants galore offer enticing morsels. There is some literary history to be found in the environs–Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell lived in the area and there is a pub named The Orwell on the corner of Essex Road to commemorate this fact–and much cultural fare–the Sadler’s Wells Theater that offers world class dance performances is here as is the Almeida Theater (not in any way associated with my surname) which hides a wonderful gourmet restaurant that belongs to Terence Conran.

Then, as I was trundling my way through the streets, it occurred to me that fall had arrived in London though you’d never guess it by the temperatures–it is still so warm. Crispy, crunchy, crackly leaves are everywhere on the sidewalks. But where is the glory? Where is the dazzling drama of color that leaves me dumbfounded in my New England garden? Where are the sugar maples that turn shades of burnt sienna, blazing orange, sunshine yellow and amethyst? No, there is none of the seasonal visual feast that we associate with Autumn on the North Atlantic coast of the United States of America and I realize, with a pang, that I will miss Nature’s showy splendour this year.

When I reached home, I found that the sole of my right foot was seriously hurting and taking a painkiller, I tried to comfort the ache. I had walked for an hour and a half non-stop on the way back and while all this exercise is keeping me trim and offering exercise and allowing me to discover London, it is probably doing a number on my feet and I had probably better watch out. Especially since I have a break planned in Berlin this coming weekend where I will, undoubtedly, do miles of walking once again.

Rochelle's Roost

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