LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK HOLIDAY
(APRIL 6-May 4, 2018)
FRIDAY, APRIL 6. TO LONDON.
On our way! And already an adventure—sort of. Our
bandannad and bejeweled Uber driver, Rage, he pronounces it Rage accent egu
over the e, looks the part and we learn is a singer soon to go to London
himself where there are possibilities for his music, which on prompting he
plays. Sweet voice almost falsetto range and catchy tune he wrote about—what
else—Love! Better than the alternative (hate?)
Oh the joy of Club Class on British Airways—not just
business class I sternly remind Bob unacquainted in such matters as he
delightfully is.
The Lounge offerings result in a Folie a Deux
(encapsulating phrase for this trip) Merlot for moi and a Mondavi chard for
Bob. Yes we’ll have another. He enjoys his chicken salad wrap but I strike gold
with a lovely plate of mysterious and wonderful house soup (full of good
stuff—it’s minestrone I later discover) and tuna cucumber sandwiches with
crusts off just like our mothers made (not).
Tip. When taking San Diego’s BA direct non stop to London , arrive early as we cleverly did for this episode. Damn, let’s
exploit our $10K flying bill’s capacities.
“This is quite posh” says Bob of his sleeping pod . . . and lovely lemon
tart.
Actually can lie flat. And actually catch some sleep.
Will be achingly tired but not zombie-like tired. This BA San Diego-London
direct night flight is the only way to fly to Europe—Club Class that is.
One hour to our London flat. “Not Cyril” our driver true
to his , as Bob puts it road company My Fair Lady cockney, says. Wif for with,
goo for good as in Goo Friday. He’s a charmer and Professor Higgins has his
number. “Thanks. God Bless” when Bob hands him a tip after he lets us into our
sweet apartment, not as luxurious as the pictures suggested but . . . Sweet.
Very interesting panoramic views of London, nice kitchen, well the whole
smear—just the condo building property itself is a little in need of attention.
Old carpet at the entrance. But there may be compensations.
It’s London! But we’re tired and settle into martinis and
tv—cheers for being able to figure out how the thing works—which thing reveals that
the Brits are boringly obsessed with their footballers.
Must finally bestir ourselves and stagger into the cold
foggy night to find a Sainsbury Local around the corner—yea. This emporium a
close approximation of our beloved Tesco offers wine and viands—though it’s
selection of hot items at least at this hour is minimal.
We demolish our wine and some microwaveable spaghetti-ish
thing which does for the evening.
SUNDAY APRIL 8. LONDON
The fog seems unremitting. I wake at 4:15 AM convinced
that 6 ish hours of sleep will keep me minimally alive for another day. Bob
fares better in the sleep department and we eventually devour delicious
buttered toast and cheese with, for one of us, English breakfast tea with milk in
the English fashion. What follows is deciding what shows to see. Is it to be
comedy day and night? Or how about intense drama for a late matinee at the
Menier accompanied by its pre-show lunch. That is the choice and I struggle with
on-line ordering to make Kiss of the Spider Woman a first London Theatre piece
reality.
We discover an MTV-like (but where is MTV and it’s videos
in the USA?) station counting down 100 hits so I can dance while Bob puzzles
over a gigantic map of London.
A 20 minute Uber ride with a driver who has given more
than 13,000 rides and we’re at the charming Menier Chocolate Factory converted
into a theatre and restaurant where they seem to think I’ve reserved for four
(oops). Great ambiance, brick, girders, posters that sort of thing. We’ve been
deposited here at 1:45 and play begins at 3:30 so we’ve time for a bottle of
their house plonk, a French
Grenache Syrah called Flying Solo. My chicken is huge. I call it brazen. Nicely
sauced. Bob’s corn risotto is also quite good. This is the thing to do when
attending the factory shows. “This is such a Not Southern California kind of
place”, saith Bob. Especially with all the rain raiment the patrons shed on
being seated. The cuisine is supposed to be play themed but I don’t see how
chicken and corn chowder relates to a Spider women. "Baked Spider Legs"?
I tell Bob there’s a woman who has been staring at me. I
opine that she must think I look ridiculous. Is that it? I say Bob doesn’t
always see me that way. He is distracted and hadn’t been following.
KISS OF THE SPIDER WOMAN. Brilliant. A great production.
Wondrous acting. Profoundly affecting this tale of 2 very different men trapped
together in prison, one femme, Molina, arrested for gross indecency, the other
Valentin a political prisoner. Valentin recounts the romantic movies he’s seen
to Malina who at first sees it as a way to kill time.
Our Uber (a BMW this time) gets us to the Criterian
Theatre in crowded Picadilly Circus at 5:50 so we find a pub down the street,
St. James Tavern which god knows doesn’t serve martinis so gin and tonics will
have to do.
 |
| PUB WITH STAINED GLASS WINDOWS |
A COMEDY ABOUT A BANK ROBERY. We’re early in this
gorgeous old theatre. Good seats in the stalls. I’ve time to email our friend
Claire who lives in Minneapolis a photo from the program of a bogus Minneapolis
Star crime run amok story. Apparently that’s sort of what the play is about.
At interval (intermission to some) we agree that the
play’s fun. I say that in these times we need a little silliness (except in our
government). It’s farce/vaudeville; the three writers who also wrote the
dynamo “The Play That’s Gone Wrong” have
got a rich (and I mean rich) formula going. Here some nonsense about a town
where everybody is a criminal featuring an escaped convict and his dumb sidekick
out to rob a bank where the banker is an elaborately mean criminal himself as
his con girl daughter fiancé of an escaped convict and gradually smitten with a
con boy (body to die) whose disapproving mother—an actress who actually (and
exclusively) nails a Minnesota accent is the amorata of a cop investigating the
bank in advance of a coveted-by-all diamond being delivered to its vaults by a
Belgium prince. 2nd act bogs down somewhat, partially because the cast has to
perform physical feats of derring do—hanging from wires upside down, etc. and
being sloppy in picking up cues. But it’s a great audience pleaser, as Bob puts
it, "for people who don’t go much to theatre".
It’s raining and this time we catch a cab driven by another cockney gentleman—must be all in the family—who announces that he studied 4 years to pass “the Knowledge”, requiring he knows every street and alley in London. He does well considering there are a bunch of Newton’s, streets, roads, ways.
Once at our building we see what looks like two homeless
women lurking at the entrance and watching us enter—not cool.
Delicious sandwiches and martinis and after an hour of
sleep I wake and find Bob watching the Oliviers on ITV. Da noive. Catch the
last moments, Hamilton the winner not the home grown Jamie which we’ll see
tomorrow night. So much to . . . See.
MONDAY APRIL 9.
Finally getting a good night’s sleep. Toast for Bob, eggs
and a bit of toast for Reuel.
Here we are in London doing what we do at home—watch tv.
Except that it’s not MSNBC. We get to see the ever-compatible Ellen and the
campy/strange The Bachelor who this year is a gorgeous bland guy. Horror I
guess because I need to tell Bob “I’m into this show.” Gotta know which of
these barely distinguishable women isn’t getting a rose. The fog is getting
thicker now in London Town and we’re (or one of us is) hooked on The Bachelor.
The shame.
Where to dine. After rushing through Covent Garden we
settle on Balthazar. Famous place. Bob knows of the one in New York. I ask if
this capacious lovely restaurant, faux French bistro, mosaic tiled floor, high
tin ceilings, dark wood paneling, is authentically old. He thinks
“authentically new”.
A bottle of Gamay from the Loire does nicely (L25 is least expensive). His tomato soup has a kick and is special. And for me, who knew how much lovely fishy stuff they can stuff into an avocado without rendering it a shell of its former self? Let’s face it Cote du Pork is a fancy pork chop. But it is awfully . . . Good! A lot of chewing required but the sauce is great.
Uber to the Apollo Theatre. Early so we are ushered into
the bar and remarkably we abstain even though you get to take your large
plastic glass into the theatre. How do you applaud the boffo numbers we wonder while clutching your cups.
EVERYBODY’S TALKING ABOUT JAMIE @ The Apollo. At
intermission Bob declares he’s not amused. Here 16 year old gay
Jamie wants to be a drag queen. Each main character gets a defining song of
course. But John the star is brilliant. The actress who plays his supportive
mother is terrific too. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a show with as much
audience enthusiasm so who am I to cavil. At interval I notice a white blond
boy like the Jamie in the show and people crowded around. After the show I ask
a young man who the blond boy is since people are asking for his autograph and he tells me
that he’s the real Jamie with his mum, a portly middle aged woman. Apparently
the show was based on a documentary about his life as a 16 year old who needed
to be a drag queen against the odds. An added real life anecdote that adds
poignancy to the theatre experience. Bob avers he's not enjoying it. A rare moment: I say--but I am. Yes it’s conventional in its plot, the young man overcoming opposition. His da doesn’t want him. But it's a Musical!
Cab driver—yes there’s the pattern—take a cab back from
the theatre—tells us easier and cheaper to get tickets Monday through
Wednesday, even Thursday. We know.
Once dropped off we take the round the corner walk to
Saintsbury market and pick up provisions. I get a part chicken to devour and
Bob some sort of chicken pie he likes but insists I wouldn’t and these things
we have with a glass from an L5 bottle of
Pinot noir.
The news tells us that Britain is weighing whether to
follow Trump if he decides to bomb Syria for nerve gassing its people yet
again.
TUESDAY APRIL 10.
A foggy day in Londontown . . . That seems to be the
default weather report these days. Late rising we laze about our cute flat and
though it’s not unreasonably cold we choose not to go out on our balcony for
more than a few seconds or out for any morning walk. News repeated in a loop on
tv. The future is fearsome. Pleasant interview however with the real Jamie (of
last night’s musical) and his mother pops up and we wondered who these people
were who were hanging around in the bar area during the interval. Were they
paid to do that, their reward for having their lives exposed in big, broad West End musical fashion.
Tour. Guide Brian we’re to meet at the Holborn station
around the corner from our flat. Whilst (note Britishism taking over my being)
waiting we find a nice station guy who helps us get 7-day travel passes. Alas
Bob tells him that we need to start tomorrow not today so in effect we don’t
travel until tomorrow. Hold that thought.
Bloomsbury named after a man.
Virginia Wolfe. Dept store here is Gamages. Sold bicycles. (Oops another sprinting tour.)
Redline Square. John Harrison. Sir cloudsly shovel.
Sailors died. Board of Longitude. Harrison designed chronometer. Kept being
tested. They didn’t have the reward. King did. So Britain got control of seas.
Knew where it was going. Made book and film “longitudes
The square looks familiar but they all do.
Statue of Bertrand Russell. His father demanded in his will that he be
brought up as atheist. 1908 member of royal society. Pacifist. Imprisoned WW1.
Wrote marriage and morality. Sued city college for not hiring him. Became Earl.
Only useful when “booking a hotel room”. Got “drunk as a lord”.
Bedford Row😉Now to what Dickens
called “the perfect street to be murdered in.” Hated lawyers who had offices
here. Nicholas Barber. ? Sold in 1684 insurance against fires. Also Property
developer. Built the houses here.
Isaac Disraeli. Dispute with his synoguge. Had his
children baptized so later his son Benjamin was able to be prime minister.
Queen Victoria called him “my dearest Dizzy.” Called her Faery Queen. Said when you talk to royalty lay it on with a trowel.
Great James St. Swinburne born here. Attended Eton.
Learned to love being flogged. Paid for it. Close friend of Rossetti. Boasted
of his relationship with men.
Edward Garnet. Publisher. Son David. Mother suggested
father should take a mistress. He believed in all sex. M. Rachel Marshall. Then
m Angelica Bell. “I shall marry “it”.
Gerald Brennan. Walked to Bosnia. Then ww1. Wrote Spanish
Labyrinth. Friend of Leonard and Virginia Wolfe.
George Meredith. m. Mary Wilkins. She wanted to be a
writer. Problem. 80th b'day--intelligencia sent him telegrams-important guy.
Dorothy Sayers. Graduated from Oxford. A 1st. Worked in
advertising. “It pays to advertise.” “Guinness is good for you.” Joined
motorcycle gang. Gave child away. Then later “adopted” him. Created Peter
Wimsy. Minor aristocrat. Motto “as my whimsy takes me.” Translated Dante’s
inferno.
Rugby St. where Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath spent first
night together. Hughes at oxford st. - review. Plath. Troubled relationship
with her father. Attended Smith. Came to England to go to Oxford. At Cambridge
found Hughes and recited his poetry. Lived at 18 rugby st.
In 1962 discovers ted’s infidelity. Feb 11. Cry for help
actually killed her. Posthumously given Pulitzer Prize. His next woman also
killed herself and dau because he wouldn’t marry her. Became poet laureate. His
and Sylvia’s son also committed suicide,
Persephone books. Mostly feminist.
Great Orman st. Hospital for Sick children. Dickens would
read to them. J. M. Barry it’s greatest benefactor. All royalties of Peter Pan
went to it. Also Johnny Depp donated 1 million pounds.
Queens square (queen Anne). Husband George 3 treated by
dr. In this square. Bout of “bustication”. Put patient in straight jacket.
Beaten. Talked to bushes. Son became regent hence regents square. George mad.
Hence madness of George the third.
Queen Charlotte. Mozart entertained her at 8. Didn’t
speak English. Pug anecdote. Had 15 children. Called one another mrs. king and
mr. King. She was black.
Russel Hotel. Beautiful facade. In fr. chateau fashion.
Gordon Square. Bloomsbury group members lived here.
Virginia’s sister, father, mother, brother died she early age. Financially
independent. Bought here to be free of restraints if upper class society. The
Apostles came down by train and discussed sexual freedom on Thurs and Friday
nights. Leonard Wolf busy as gov of Ceylon. He and wife Virginia. Set up Hogarth
press. Published James Joyce. Etc and their own books. After WW1 group falls
apart. Strachey questioned. “ What If GERMAN soldier wants to rape your sister?" "I interpose my body between the two.” V. Rehearsed her suicide. Then filled her
coat with rocks. Loved her husband but in love to Vita Sackville West. Said you
can succeed as a writer if you have servants. Strachey. Of stained dress.
“Semen?”0 couples in triangles but living in Squares.
TS Elliot worked for Fabre and Fabre where we stand.
Obsessed with punctuation. Friend Ezra pound who called him old possum.
Disastrous 1st marriage. She wore sandwich board “I am married to TS Elliot. He
abandoned me. D 65. Had become naturalized citizen. WH Auden read his name as
Toilets.
U of London building.
Ministry of information. Many writers worked here even
Dylan Thomas and George Orwell.
Next stop. British Museum. Doctor Sloane founded it.
(Also created Sloan’s chocolate). Sold his collection to government. Had to
expand because of deposit library. 1998 books moved to st pancreas. To do
research. Had readers ticket. Dickens. T. Carlisle. Carl Marx. Hence birthplace
of communism. Lenin. (Worked as a tourist guide. Hand up on the air “follow
me.”) How much of this is apocryphal??
Excellent guide and tour. Though we’re exhausted from the
run through Bloomsbury we don’t have an underground ticket (until tomorrow!) so
we set off on what we think might be the right direction back. After 30 minutes in the wilderness we give up
and grab a cab. Our naps seem deserved.
Home I learn how to call the USA—001 for the record—to
get my accountant to e-pay and send our taxes—ouch—since that’s a taxing (wrong
word) task for a simple iPhone on foreign soil. Then to call Don to give him
info to deal with the city. Sorry Don. I say I’m glad you’re doing it. I don’t
want to do it, he says, but I’m doing it. In a word.
WEDNESDAY APRIL 11
Eggs and toast. Learned how to cook spectacularly (well.
. . . ) on an induction stove. Spend all
morning watching English version of Queen for a Day--gets her home rebuilt to
cheer her up and Australian future master chefs create food under duress.
We brave the underground with our newly minted passes and
it’s not too frightening. Those seemingly endless escalators transporting us
deep into the bowels of the British
earth. (Bob thinks British bowels works better.)
Long line at the Tkts booths in Leicester Square giving
me time to try to memorize the shows we want to see vs. those available. More
of a challenge than NYC where you can buy only one at a time. This is the “man”
trip as in seeing The Best Man, the Ferryman, and the Grinning Man. I’m a TKTS athlete
and buy tickets to four shows at one standing.
With much time to spare we stroll into Soho where we last
stayed, past the pub where our waiter was a bear character from San Diego, past
our old flat, a small studio overlooking the Soho-noisy street, and into an old
favorite, Pierre Victoire, just up the block, where we dined several times. The
noise is large but it is the sound of celebration, people who know one another
and are, instead of being appalled by that find it insistently cheering.
The lights go out,
an announcement is made; it’s Daniels birthday and everyone shouts happily,
communily. Who are all these women celebrating him?
We have the pri fixe: soup Bob tomato, I squash—both thin
but ok. Bob discovers salt which he applies liberally to the soup and to his
goulash main. (I too have goulash—pepper will do.) bob recognizes our waiter
who upon questioning was indeed here when we visited this emporium 3 1/3 years
ago every other day.
BRIEF ENCOUNTER. @ Cinema Haysmith.
I ask Bob, did you
like it. He replies, I respected it. The usual with this theatre’s specialties,
the ushers are actually the performers playing and singing pre performance (but
isn’t this?) 2nd tier Coward tunes in this instance. Takes place mostly in a
train station. Tale of burning love between two people married to others.
The
amazing theatrics manage to dilute any emotiomal impact though the actors
perform admirably—but they can’t overcome the artificial presumed tension
between the randy activities of the station folk and the genteel repressed
couple who stage their romance in visits to the station.
On the very crowded underground one woman barely makes it
into our train. Her husband asks “Do you travel”? British humor encapsulated.
Our evening play just won the Olivier and is by the same
playwright who wrote Jerusalem, which we saw on Broadway and was an excellent
vehicle for. .
THE FERRYMAN clearly is an important play--garners The Olivier--with a huge cast mainly family members at dinner and at odds and with secrets mainly about politics--there's violence and villains and betrayals and deadly opportunism--but the actors' Irish accents leave us greatly in the dark.
Pizza and wine . . . is divine.
THURSDAY APRIL 12.
Headlines. Speaker Ryan will not run again for Congress.
Will Trump bomb Syria? Zuckerberg testifies; he’s a billion dollars richer and
there’s no such thing as privacy.
Here we are sitting calmly at The Grinning Man off
Trafalgar Square. This has been a day that started off disastrously since Reuel
(who chooses to use the 3rd person Considering the circumstances) sent $1800+
to one Brian Zwicker not Barry Zwicker our landlord in Paris. Looking forward to depending on the kindness
of strangers (a stranger named Brian in this case) when PayPal opens for
business after this show. As the real Zwicker said “Vacations are supposed to
be fun.”
Sandwiches and chips at home before taking the leap to
changing underground lines to get to the Charing Cross station and a
neighborhood adjacent to the Embankment and the futuristic bridge to the
Southbank zone where we once stayed at the Citizines studios.
THE GRINNING MAN. At interval woman passing by, “it’s the
most eclectic show” Bob “it’s the most boring show I’ve ever seen.” I actually
admire it. Tremendously talented cast. Though it does rather go on with the
myth, i.e. Victor Hugo’s tale of a boy terribly scarred who must find his
birthright through pain. Not subtle is the undercurrent of privileged nobles
who will “keep the kingdom great again” and laboriously, though as brilliantly
and entertainingly handled as possible, it unravels to a fairy tale ending
denouement.
Boyd’s restaurant in a fancy shmancy hotel is just right.
Our pre-theatre two course L21 is excellent. With our bottle of Spanish red
wine L21 we share a charcuterie plate (meal could have ended there). Then Bob
has a salad and Reuel a rump steak, chewy of course, but very nicely spiced.
We’ve time so there’s coffee and tea. I declare that I plan to remain here.
(For our nicely spent $78.75 pounds/$112 why the hell not.)
Excellent staff. Taking the elevator up from the toilet
my attractive staff companion sees that instead of pressing the correct floor I
press the alarm—brring. “Lovely” I say. He presses the lobby floor and then the
alarm. “Lovely” he says. A moment. Mmmm.
Worthy repast and works just fine to get us to The
Playhouse theatre (another beauty) just down the block and just past the
Citizenes where we once stayed, the bridge to Southbank just a stones throw
away.
THE BEST MAN. Playhouse Theatre. Yes, this old Gore Vidal
warhorse. Intermission, the ice cream man holds a container aloft as if it were
liberty’s torch. Bob asks why they decided to produce it. Must be the topical
resonance, I say. Though there’s not much. The audience audibly quivers in
delight at each prescient reference though the general principal is writ large,
that men are venal and politics is a dirty game. Preceding the convention, who
will be the party’s presidential nominee? Will the Adlai Stevenson-like
candidate use the gay dirt on his rival to counteract that crass opportunist’s
dirt on him? Of particular interest are attitudes about the role of women as
presented in the candidates' wives and a mandarin committee woman who believes
she represents the feelings of all women who know their prescribed role. Well acted and the Brits here get their
American accents down.
Stairs, tunnels, escalators; "mind the gap" and home I’m
able to get PayPal to write to the wrong Zwicker for return of funds he didn’t
accept—they’re in euros--permitting me (dumb ass)
to send the real Zwicker his funds. Cheers.
to send the real Zwicker his funds. Cheers.
FRIDAY APRIL 13.
In my dream I look on the mirror and am astounded that my
face which had looked old is young again. When I arise this morning and look in
the mirror . . .
Death and living exhibit—collections of pills. I don’t
need reminding. Take 15 a day. And then there’s a 4000 year old skeleton buried
with his artifacts because he was “powerful”.
And then the Egyptian mummies. Is there a self-imposed theme? Has the
British Museum “lost its charm”?
Let’s find it at the Great Court, the restaurant we’ve
know and loved sort of. We’ll share a Welsh rarebit (excellent though I don’t
taste the rabbit :)) and Bob will have gnocchi (not brilliant) for his main and I, even though aware that it
can be cooked only medium, order the cheeseburger, shame. (Next time try just
the soup with bread (cheap) or the fish and chips (which is huge). Here’s the bill. I note that they include
service charges as everywhere. “They don’t have to be nice to you." (Not that
they aren’t.)
Let’s have a nice nap and we do, particularly Bob.
Eventually we’ve got to make our way to Leister Square for tickets and get 3
shows full through Sunday just under the bar as 7 pm descends on us. “This
window is now closed’.
Now to find the Noel Coward Theatre (with some difficulty
even though it’s under our noses) for a
show called . . ,
THE QUIZ. I’m beginning to think British critics, even
from the respected newspapers like The Guardian, The Times and The Independent
can’t be counted on. They loved this trifle, actually based on a true but
simple story. A contestant as part of a “syndicate” who figure out how to game
the system wins a million dollars and, suspicious, the game’s producers bring
him to trial where he’s found guilty, loses his money, is a felon and is
stripped of his commission as a Major in the army.
Who are all these people leaving Holborn Station as we
arrive on the escalators as it approaches 11 at night? We’ve got wine and
sandwiches and a comfy bed, love.
SATURDAY APRIL 14.
Lo and behold the sun is finally peeping out and the
Telly promises a bit of warmth—just a bit mind you. A coalition of US, Britain
and France bombs a targeted target in Syria; nevertheless there’s an egg
scramble, ham and toast (just toast for more sensible Bob) awaiting.
10:45 we meet at Holland Park Station. Super Adults we
are 8 pounds per for our tour of NOTTING HILL/PORTOBELLO MARKET. (Tip. Next
visit buy a 2 pound discount pass at first tour.)!We’re a group of about 22.
TOM a barrister who does not practice “for reasons of sanity”. Any here from
the U.S.? “Welcome home”. He’s a riot.
Notting means belongs to Knot. Romans conquered 43ad. Other side, holland park, has substantially large homes.
Ludhate famous butchers. Organic produce. Famous for their
pies.
Calls this “one of the wackiest walks”.
Houses 4-5 stories high. Buy-to-rent area. Population
demos have changed. Still ex-pats e.g. Iberian. Earlier it was a bohemian area=
drugs. Mick Jaeggar. Knighted by the queen “for his service to the pharmaceutical
industry”. “Lavender Hill” and “Hard Days Night” filmed here. On street where
movie about fascists taking over. Alarmed residents.
Fanlights used on invitations before there was a
numbering system.
National fascist league shop. Published “Black and
White”. Colin Jordan—“Keep Britain white”. Arrested for stealing women’s
underwear.
Ozzie Clark murdered here. Dressed Beatles etc. David
Hockney’s lover (“when they discovered facts about themselves” subtle reading.)
Mansions blighted by “one of the worst slums”. As
described by Charles Dickens.
Land is clay soil. 1666 great fire. After that brick
important. (We see a big kiln in the middle of a row house street.
We see labor party partisans electioneering; they stop to
talk—May 3 is the election for local offices.
Late 1820’s—a man brings pigs. Got name “the piggerie” —
pigs outnumbered people 3 to one. Slaughtered pig but bits left in pond. Known
as ocean. Stagnant, stank. Spread disease. Life expectancy was only 12 years.
Elsewhere 30’s.
1840 Irish potato famine. Moved here but life worse.
Francis Bentley built Catholic Church here—converted himself.
1890 Ocean finally drained and area could be developed.
Notices my orange sneakers.
Chimney pots. Smog common here because smoke was trapped
in chimney pots.
Respiratory illnesses. Led to postwar clean air act.
Peter Rackman extorted rents. Hence Rackmanism.
Windrush generation—imported from Caribbean-/can’t prove
they are legal. (Sounds like the US DACA business.) Teddy Boys with “ducks ass”
hairstyle. Shoes called brothel keepers. Went on “nigger hunts”.
Violent race riot. Out of bad can come good. Carnival.
Caribbean feel. Last weekend of August. Most Caribbeans moved out. Rent here minimum L2000 pounds a week.
This year is the anniversary of women getting the vote.
Happened 1918 after ww1. Had to be over 30, white and married.
Robbie Williams. Famous singer. Lived here.
Greens were called paddocks used in Nottinghill film.
(Alan Hollingshurst’s “Line of Beauty” novel about this
area. I read it years ago. Gay as I recall.) Richard Curtis, important
director, lives here.
Church. St. John’s in the Hayfield. 1 of first gothic
rule churches in London.
Luftwafter targeted Paddington station but missed so some
bombs fell in this neighborhood.
Jimmy Hendrix died here—had a “misadventure”. Girlfriend
slow in calling emergency. Police strapped him sitting up in Ambulance.
St. Peter’s (orange) one of the last neo-classical churches
in London. Houses around it were built for the new rich of the 19th c.
David Cameron said “Nothing like a goat curry from
portobello road”.
Loo in Road 20 pence. Don’t get trapped in. It will be
auto disinfected and so will you.
It’s 1:45 by the time we get to Leister Square. Not the
plan which was to stop at a pre-theatre pri fixe but Tom kept us over 15
minutes being charming and then we had to wend our way through the stalls and
crowds of Portobello market (part of the “experience” after all) before
arriving at Notting Hill station and a ride to Totting Court then Northern line
to Picadilly. Bright idea. Why not Pret a manger? A worthy concept. I love my
tuna and cucumber on a hoagie roll with chips and a green tea and peach
concoction. Bob somewhat less thrilled with his chicken and cucumber. But the
schedule works to get us well in time for our matinee . . .
THE MODERATE SOPRANO by David Hare at The Duke of York’s.
At interval where this time we get a chance to go outside and take the moderately
fresh air Bob says “Its an English sort of play.” Yes it is, this tale of mandarin Britons
building an opera house at their estate during wartime
I’m no artist. There she was, the visage of a Hogarthian
character, in profile jutted jaw hair angled, at end of interval and I’m too
slow with my camera. The demand is sharpness, perception. Not the first time
nor will be last I’ve lost the opportunity.
At play’s end wonderful plummy British stentorian voice
“I’m touched, beautiful play.” I think, yes, Hare is a consummate playwright.
His dialogue is unassailable. Here his themes of abiding love, the nature and demands of art, and—a theme that haunts
any of my poor poor work—what is loss?
We’ve got the builder brilliantly brilliantly interpreted
by actor Roger Allan as Captain John Christie who seemingly of authoritarian
bent will create with artists fleeing Nazi imperialism an opera house on his
estate especially for his singer wife, Audrey. Impressive set by the way.
Worthy.
Back for a little rest not to mention a martini poured by
my heavy hand and a little tea time sandwich. Then, theatregoing athletes, we
must make the journey back to theatreland for . . .
YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN @ The Garrick Theatre. Seating rather
high In the dress circle. But better rake—note—than the stalls.
This being April in Britain, I note that most of the
patrons are Brits.
We know the story. Brooks’ voice is clear throughout.
Borscht Belt vaudeville and shtick. Actually really takes fire after the
monster becomes more human, the shtick with the blind man who in his lonely
kindness and blindness burns him, and where he has sex withDr. Frankenstein
Jr.’s (Fronkensteen junior corrects, at first ashamed of his grandfather’s
attempts to reverse nature) fiancé and then chorus in tow sings Putting On the
Ritz. It’s hysterical and though I’ve
been laughing rigorously throughout, this provokes all out coughing and
tear-filled sobs of laughter which I sense discomforts my neighbor, a
stiff-lipped Brit watching stoically.
After interval (7 pounds for a glass of wine?) start into
row D then back up not sure, then start again; patron says “no turning back.”
British spontaneous wit.
However, upon leaving I’m busted. Usher and manager
insist I delete my illicit (apparently) photos which after objections (but I
fear of years in The British pen when they threaten with calling in “security”)
I do. And such terrific photos—damn. Embarrassing.
Refuse to let this put a pall over my happy enjoyment of
this show. The only problem is that we know what’s going on too well, but it’s
going on very well. Major talents in all the leads. Well done, though I wish
the ushers were less observant.
Back home through the undiminishing Saturday night crowds
for booze and Indian morsels at home.
Late rise and a Sunday-style reward of toasted muffins
and jam (imported from the plane by Bob), swaning about (right expression? Probably
not.) relaxing with those Sunday news summary programs on BBC and CNN.
Lunch of a Saintsbury sandwich chips and wine (so what.
Else is new). Later I will regret that we didn’t go out for a Sunday Roast. Ah
regrets.
Interrupting my morning recollection, Here I sit apart
from Bob (45 years!) who’s two rows closer to the judge’s stand (?) in the
magnificent County courthouse, soon to be The scene of Agatha Christie’s
warhorse “WITNESS TO THE PROSECUTION” We actually found this place in
Southwark—a not laborious trip mainly on the Northern line. And I’ve been thinking—it might take some
convincing the Other—that Southbank might be a good next choice for a flat. 
We’re early of course accounting for travel nerves and
have a drink at the bar and reserve for the interval. Comfortable
seating—perfect setting for the drama about to unfold. Bob tells me that his
friend George and fellow Lehigh alum had written a critique of their college
production of said play. No doubt scathing.
Stop writing. Take in the atmosphere of this grand
soaring chamber.
At interval we agree this is fun and don’t know why
Jeremy Irons is an understudy for the defense attorney. He isn’t of course but
the resemblance and voice similarity is striking. We forgot how the film turned
out so speculation abounds.
Back I’m listening to the young people sitting in my pew, smart, trying to discover one
another. Feeling avuncular. Must inhibit these weak impulses.
We enjoy this theatrical experience-it is brilliantly
(that f***g word) produced and there is the added dimension of the unique and
uniquely appropriate environment. Of course the denouement is full of reversals
and surprises. The innocent are guilty and vice versa and there’s hell to
pay—if they’d ask me I’d invest in this. (They didn’t.) How many years has the
Mousetrap strutted its stuff by example?
Looks like we’re not ready for a night on the town. So
it’s Saintsbury’s for wine and salad to accompany our gourmet . . . Pizza.
Martini of course.
Watching on CNN (non domestic) an African show and I tell
Bob I as a traveler really want to know
as much as I can about Africa. I’m not sure that the safari tours is what
that’s about.
MONDAY APRIL 16.
Lost early notes. Plumb the old brain.
Ride later than usual but still time aplenty to plan and
accomplish. What?
First eggs toast and ham. Call the mgt. co and arrange a
cab for tomorrow’s escape to the land of real French fries. 35 pounds. Yikes.
Multiple trains to embankment, then to monument (getting
better at Tubework) for our walk about the . .
.
CITY OF LONDON with guide Shaughan, a dapper looking chap with the requisite stentorian voice who when we ask for concession pricing pronounces us “venerables”.
CITY OF LONDON with guide Shaughan, a dapper looking chap with the requisite stentorian voice who when we ask for concession pricing pronounces us “venerables”.
But first that huge monument just outside Monument stop
is commemorative of the Great Fire of 1666 (note devil numbers).
London toll bridge. Drive left so can grab sword. Wound
up in Lake Havershaw. Manifest declared it as “a large antique” so no tax.
Monument. King said don’t put me on top looks like I
started fire. One underestimating wag said a woman could put the fire out by
pissing on it. (That hypothetical woman never arrived.) Sculpture at monument’s
base depicts “Envy” looking up King Charles’ “miniskirt” in tribute to his
“equipment”—(had many girlfriends). But supposed to be declaring that the
rebuilt London will be the envy of the world.
King blew up houses to stop the fire but in doing so
destroyed the old city. However Rebuilt
the city quickly.
Banking district. He sings ditties. “Cheap” meant open
market from which we get the word “shop”, shopping.
St Mary’s Abchurch. In 17th c life revolved around
church. Mercer’s, grocers, skinners, fishmongers. Apprenticeship 7 years. Or
Patrimony. Now charity work. Since hardly any people live here in thenCity of
London (only 9,000) abandoned churches are for various religious communities.
Patron saint of coffee—st Starbucks.
Candlemakers-patron saint. Addresses guarantee merchants
place in the annual guild parade. Fight between 6 & 7. Hence phrase at 6’s
and 7’s.
Church of st Michael.
Dick Whittington—Lord Mayor 4 Times. His cat wiped out
rats. Puss n boots story. L He was a Poor boy who became wealthy.
This area generates 15% of England’s gross natl product.
Painted Bollards to keep cars off the curbs. Specific to
the City.
Statue of swans guard. Vintners in uniform. Only Kings
can eat swans.
Dennis Thatcher. Dinner here. Drank bottle of gin a day.
Sir will you give us an address. “Certainly. No 10 downing st” and down he sat.
Times building. B.B. (bracken) was minister of information.
Associate of Churchill. Orwell called him big brother.
St. Paul’s destroyed in great fire. Phoenix underneath
“resergem” =I shall rise again. Christopher Wrenn.
The bridge. “Space shuttle demobilized”. Cost 14 m. 5m to
“dewobbleize”.
Cockfighting up til 1820.
Pharmacy. Apothecary. Shaughan details various potions
used for cures. Keats studied here. Charitable.
Pubs all preserved because gave firemen free beer. Turned
hoses on them.
Bridewell institute. Printing. “Mind your p’s and q’s.”
Wedding cake church. Wrenn. A bajet reproduced it for a wedding. Hence
tiered wedding cakes ritual.
Dr JOHNSON. Hodge his favorite cat. Hence statue of cat
on Johnson’s dictionary which was more encompassing than Webster’s which
preceded it. Dr. Johnson’s tendentious definitions.
Old Cheshire Cheese pub for journalists. Potty mouthed
parrot Polly would also shriek Germany Uber Alas during the war. Stuffed and
sits behind the bar.
Shaughan points us for best food to The Old Bank of
England located in Old Bank Fleet Street. Good to relax in this gorgeous place.
Tours are after all strenuous. Running after the guide. Taking notes and
photos. Holding up my trousers and re-hanging chords on my glasses. We will of
course have the 18.45 tasting menu of 3 famous mini pies accompanied by 3 ales.
And we decide the planned afternoon tour of Clerkenwell will be too taxing. 
Our waitress is charming. To an old English couple she
says “I was trying to tell the Americans from California that it’s a sunny day
here.”
Now heading toward the Thames everyone wanting to help us
find our way especially one sweet lady who clearly wants us to walk—takes us
out of the station and after her little travelogue once she’s gone we head back
into the station for transport to TKTS for the last of our theatre
entertainments, 42nd STREET at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Great, upbeat way to end our bout of West End theatregoing since it's a brilliant production, replete with Busby Berkely chorines reflected in a giant mirror waving gams in unison and all mounted in one of London's most historic and beautiful theatres, the ghosts of the likes of Kean, Siddons and Garrick enjoying themselves this evening as is that ghost of the 1970's Lulu revived as the aging star who breaks her leg which misfortune allows the tap dancing (Eleanor Powell style!) engenue to star.
Home to nap, drink the teeny bit of vodka left over, and
watch the CNBC money channel.
Always a busy morning when it’s transit day. The packing.
The anxiety. Some of it justified as today the dryer won’t open while it’s
drying and we’ve five minutes before Cyril our driver is scheduled to arrive.
Turns out he’s a bit late. There’s that nasty finance conference going on and
clogging the streets.
Cyril is a real character. These cockney guys who’ve
passed The Knowledge typically are.
Knows San Diego. Loves Tijuana because it reminds him of
his youth when he had all kinds of schemes to make money.
So we arrive at St. Pancras with only 20 minutes to
spare. Ah but there’s luggage inspection. Then passport control. The minutes
are ticking away. Why can’t anything be easy?
And lo and behold there’s our guide from our Rhine tour
saying hello, we all wondering at the happenstance of it. Nice seeing him. He’s
splendid. He’s on his way to Belgium,
his home. The guide season has just begun. And serendipitously he helps by
pointing the way for us to push our luggage up to the Eurostar platform and be
seated in our Standard Premium coach with only 5 minutes before “take off”.
Considering the train hurtles through the tunnel at 200 mph "takeoff" might be
the bon mot but we don’t feel the speed.
Not too unpleasant a trip. 2 1/2 hours. Waiting in the
taxi line does add 1/2 hour. And then start stop. Fairly unpleasant driver.
Radio plays at full volume.
But finally we arrive at seize (16) rue du Parc royale
(I’ve practiced saying it on the ride over from London) and there’s the owner
Barry Zwicker waiting for us suggesting I top off the 16.50 fare at 20 euros
but kindly assisting with my suitcase—Bob gets to tote his—through the
courtyard of this giant 16th century chateau converted into apartments into a
cavernous entryway with stone stair and mural covering the domed ceiling
leading to a reception within which sits the lady of the conscierge couple who
is informed we don’t speak either French or Portuguese—our bad. Then the lift
to the penthouse floor to Barry’s utterly incredible duplex (ok I knew there
would be stairs but thought on balance . . . ). Barry gutted the apartment ten
years ago and apparently spared no expense to create this modern impeccably
designed and curated art-filled oasis (much of it whimsical in our preferred
fashion) in the Marais.
He rents the place out maybe 4 months of the year to a
few select people (one a New York hatter who comes for the fashion shows) and
we are now among them. We discover that his “cottage” is fifty minutes away
(you can imagine what wonder that is—I think he keeps horses). And after
advising us of the apartment’s features and his suggestions for how to spend
our time here and taking us on a walk of the neighborhood, he is off to catch his
train to his country home, we accompanying him as far as the local grocery-the
G-7, Paris’s Tesco equivalent.
Trudge back with two large bags of “starter” staples
including vodka and vino of course to relax in our new surroundings and
destined to hunker down this first night with tv, sandwiches and those
libations. Cheers. Um . . . A votre sante monsieur.
16 steps up from the 1st floor, bedroom and bath up to
the upper floor, great room/kitchen. All contemporary gorgeous but somewhat
difficult for the senior especially in the descending. Worth it? Probably.
We don’t venture forth until noon. Fear of the unknown
and pleasure in our surroundings has kept us in.
We follow our noses pretty much in our exploration
finally deciding as we head west that Notre Dame is our afternoon destination
and consequently we must find the Seine which delightedly we do on this
perfect, sunny spring day.
Apparently you can’t just get on line for the tower but
must choose your time in the standing computer and show up then. For us it
needs to be 3 0’clock. So be it. Now let’s find lunch.
At a corner cafe in the vicinity there’s s cafe called
Dante since it’s on Rue Dante; we sit outside and have the plat du jour which
is a rumpsteak, actually quite nice with salad followed by a molten chocolate
cake dessert. A hit and we begin to feel like we can perhaps maybe navigate
this French-speaking city.
Think twice. Our goal is Norte Dame. We’ve got the 3
0’clock appointment and think it’s a tour of the cathedral. I note that our 3:
pm cohort are all young and healthy. Does Tour mean OMG Tower??? Surely we . .
. Bob asserts its the conventional tour
of the cathedral and nave and then we’re paying 20 euros each for us to begin
our ascent. And Ascend. Now a word to our fellow readers. Some people fear
snakes. I fear climbing up narrow enclosed steps where there seems no exit . .
. No hope. No hope. The enclosed climb
is stupendous. I curse Bob breathing scarily behind me. Which of us will be the
first to die? Where is the cathedral’s nave? Not here surely.
At last we reach first level above the rooftops. Not so
bad actually. There’s a metal fence to prevent suicide and ameliorate
agoraphobia-magnificent views of the cathedral’s famous gargoyles guarding the
city beneath. But as we are forced
around the parapet there are yet many more steps up to the top level. More
photos and misgivings to be had. Finally what goes up must . . . and we do. Tired
tired boyz.
How to find our way back. Inadequate Map in hand we walk
20 minutes in the wrong direction. No! We give in and find a taxi. Told to say
Musee Picasso because Rue du Park Royale
(which we try first) is we discover recondite. Our driver however is a
French character. Claims in French what I think is his attempt well practiced
to cover up evident fact he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He rails at us
tourists I think. We tell him tourist places like Eiffel Tower, we say . . .
He doesn’t know. I close airplane mode and show him the address of
Picasso Museum and he corrects my pronunciation. We finally pass our entrance.
But this is a residence he proclaims and will not stop. Arreste I cry hoping
that will do it. Puzzled he does. Merci monsieur. We’re home.
Martinis in the wonderful upstairs.
I am dismissed at respectable 8:30 pm to make my
dangerous—considering dinner consisted of various alcohols-way down stairs to
the bedroom. Goonight.
 |
| ENTRYWAY TO THE CHATEAU WHERIN WE RESIDE |
Another late rise and reluctant attention to schedule. As
I write Barry in response to his email with suggestions for things to do,
places to see, very thoughtful of him, his apartment has a problem: it’s too
charming and makes us want to stay in.
A little toast and tea, some grappling with google
maps—getting it installed when google doesn’t recognize I exist—and finally
we’re off to follow the yellow brick road to Pompedou Center, which we don’t
arrive at until noon. Here’s a huge line of hundreds of our grand and great
grand children. It moves fairly rapidly however and after plunking down 14
euros each we ascend escalulators into vast multi floors of
biblioteques—apparently the Pompedou library with its rows of computers was the
major goal of those young hordes—not for us though and yet more
escalators—these contained in tubes outside this huge hi-techi building—leading
up to the heavens above Paris—yet more of those pano vistas on offer—and we’re
In their permanent exhibit—we could be at MOMA—and the the Chagall exhibit with
his Russian colleagues when they created a movement in many ways
anti-establishment out of their art school with its utopian ideals.
Some other exhibits, a woman who does fabric
installations—a favorite of groups of youngsters apparently and a photographer
who chronicled the last days of the apartheid.
All this makes us hungry which makes our choice of the
museum’s own restaurant, Georges, an easy one. It’s posh but not above serving
a club sandwich (crusts shorn) and frankly wonderful. A bottle of white. Skinny
flitting Waiters in fitted suits and bow ties. Views to die. And hefty prices.
And we are seated next to a grandmother a mother and the 15 year old son who is
beautiful—sort of Timothy Olifant from Call Me By Your Name. Are you
Ashchenbach, Bob asks. No I say mine is a non erotic celebration of beauty . .
. but . . .
Some provision shopping at the G20 market near us which
offers all we need. This time we’ve provided some really good pate with our
martinis and Wolf Blitzer on CNN. And a little cheese on crackers is all we
need to cap the day.
Another warm sunny day. Breakfast? Bob and I are just
toast boys this morning.
We’re determine to take the morning Hemingway walk with Chris.
Getting there is half the fun. Our google map guides us
to the St. Paul station where we buy a 5 day transportation card and I write
down the Not so uncomplicated directions to the morning tour’s meeting
place. Our maiden voyage with the
underground and the card visite is full of starts and stops rushing and going
one station too far or in the wrong direction but we get to our destination
Cardinal Lemoigne with five minutes to spare.
Hemingway's memoir: A Moveable Feast. 1920’s when in his 20’s was
his 1st permanent address here.
This is the 5th arrondisement. Expensive today. But then
it was working class. Americans usually went to Montparnasse though.
No sewers here so had a big moving tank. Smelly.
Lost generation Americans post WW
1. Cynical. Out for fun—
Live for moment. He “grew up with wide lawns and narrow
minds.”
Romans incorporated Gaul into their empire in 52bc
Mouardt name from mountain here.
We stop at a quiet courtyard where James Joyce wrote
Ulysses. He lived in 7th A. But needed here for peace to write away from the
wife and kids. No respectable publisher would publish it except Sylvia Beech’s
(her girlfriend also had a bookshop).
Her Shakespeare and Co. closed after WW2. Hemingway and
others frequented it. She knew it was financial suicide to publish Ulysses.
Publishers burned it. Joyce said I’ve been burned on earth we’ll see about
hell. Writers thought she published pornography—had to turn them away.
LGBT Paris the place to be then. 20’s. Tolerance. Perfect
storm for a Creative explosion. Hemingway who had difficulties with everyone
never argued with Joyce.
Valery Larbaud translated Ulysses into French.
We are Outside of medieval Paris now In a courtyard (get
in with buzzer during day but not night—like our residence.) we see a portion of
the old wall. 1190-1210. Built to keep the English out.
Paris defined by its defensive boundaries. Concentric
circles as it grew unlike London which is shapeless.
Paris very close knit city. Walkable. (They all day
that.)
Ecole polytechnique. Since French Revolution. Healthy
body, healthy mind. Need to cram for 2 years. Then paid to study. Napoleon
turned it into a military academy. Today also. Parade on 14th of July. With the
other militaries and the gendarmes.
Now we’re at the Church where Owen Wilson sits to be
picked up by time warp limo. Midnight in Paris.
Church bridges 2 architectural styles. Gothic—pointed
arch vs Roman wider arch. Here also rounded off in classical style.
Carved screen divides nave and choir. Prereformation
Catholic Church the elites were separated from the people. That’s why
disillusioned Catholics left for reformation. So to get them back, changed
church design. Eg sermon in French. Roof over the tester (podium) for
acoustics.
Here at this church just took down wooden panels So could
see through.
Musee Henri 4 is an Elite school that gets you into
Polytechnic.
Points to mausoleum. Had to fill in holes in hill on
which this Abbey rests. Turned into mausoleum. Blocked off the windows.
President chooses who will be pantheonized. Can be depantheonized. Michabu was
considered the Father of the 1st revolution. But it was discovered he wanted to
restore the monarchy. 2nd to be depantheonized was Marat. Not hero but
bloodthirsty.
Hemingway’s writing studio above La Maison de Verlaine
restaurant. Lived on tangerines and sherry. Finds shelter in a cafe on the
blvd. st. Michelle. Moveablr Feast itemized what he ate which he remembered
when he wrote it at the end of his life.
Talks of Verlaine. His boy lover Rimbaud, Verlaine
shooting him, serving prison time, declining on absinthe.
 |
| Hemingway's apartment |
Hemingea’s apt. Primitive conditions. Loved this address.
Realized his wife then was his true love at the end of his life—Hadley
Richardson.
H settled in the working class Mufta. Why Americans?
Probhibition. 1st WW. Buying power of $.
Black Americans settled here. Not discriminated against. Taught French jazz.
H had annual income of $5K. (3K from Hadley.) Contradicts
image in his book. Had to be seen as starving and suffering. Lied that he ate
pidgeons.
Paris city of light place for inspiration. H didn’t like
the Montparmasse crowd. He wanted to feel the Paris experience—bars, boxing
maches. He said of them that they dressed alike.
But Later he gravitated toward the Montparnasse set.
Describes this square in his novels.
“A ravine of tall leprous houses.” George Orwell lived
here in 1928. Wanted to study the underbelly of the The Capital. “Down and Out
inParis and London”. Leans out of hotel window. Conscierge shouting crush the
bedbugs and throw them out like everyone else. Called it Rue d coque d’or.
Passageway where jean valjon runs down with daughter.
Hugo loved to stroll streets of Paris.
A la bone source. Wine. Sign.
1957. H in Paris at Ritz. Crates finds ex’s of his early
writings. Inspired to work on his manuscript. After he died, in 1961, his wife went against his wishes and
published A Moveable Feast.
At end of tour Chris points to a cafe Cave La Bourgogne
on Rue Mouffetard which, convenient, we choose for le dejourne. My cassolette
Montagnarde is amazing. Toasted crust and underneath in its earthenware pot
riches await. Melted cheese, potato, ham etc. bob likes his club sandwich (I
don’t notice any ecstasy in that pronouncement) but finds the French
Fries—quell horreur—soggy. Our bottle of Chardonnay serves its purpose nicely.
Inside it’s sort of pub like. Surrounded by French speaking Parisians which is,
as it turns out, a good sign.
Bob blurts as he phrases it “out of nowhere.“ “Hemingway
is so yesterday.” Oui.
We are now heroic, wending the long way of train and
walking back without a hitch.
Ridiculous. As soon as we’re back home, we fall into a swoon of napping and then it’s almost 5 pm. I guess we couldn’t have successfully fitted in the afternoon tour (Momartre)—also guided by the estimable Chris.
This is the perfect one bedroom apartment, likely world
competing, seriously. The curated custom features, the art. However we can’t get on this hot (and last-night's hot) evening the air conditioning to work. Emailed very responsive
owner, Barry. See what he’ll reply.
Nice long telephone conversation with Barry.
Some salad for supper and to bed.
Momartre tour Ariel guide.
Paris started olde de city. Toll gate wall. So Monmartre separate village. Since 1860.
2 million within the perimeter. 1900 3 million.
10 million total Paris.
Long history as a separate village.
When separate cheaper to eat and drink because taxes. Had
vineyard here--wine not good.
Local loyalty. Fighting off McDonalds and Starbucks.
Metro exit designed 1900 art nouveau. New style. Doesn’t
take reference from past. Modern materials Japanese style glass,metal.
Elaborate but not expensive.
Wall 300 translations. “I love you” Ariel's neighbor
designed it:
Said here’s a wall that joins people not separates.
To love is messy so let’s love.
Abbesses. This was an Abbey. Nuns owned the land. People
paid taxes to them.
C1900 Catholic parish church at bottom of hill. Priest
Did eqivalent of crowd funding. Used enforced materials. Stark inside because
too expensive. We don’t go inside. Looks middle eastern meshed with art
nouveau. St John of the bricks.
# 54 where Vincent Van Gogg lived with Theodore. After
Vincent went South, Theo moved to 9th district. Touchingly bros buried
together. Shows painting VG made from window.
Down hill Toulouse Latrec lived luxuriously. Addicted to
absinthe. Had bottle in his cane.
Nei classical style house with sculptures in niches.
Street art.
Windmill (moulin)evokes old Monmarte.
Picasso had his studio. Burned down. Still artists
studios.
Washing barges with washer women (bateau lavoir) artists
likened their (Picasso’s) studio to it.
Fountain with sculptures given to Paris for drinking
water.
Punmice Stone House c 1900.
House of Dalida pop star.
Plaster quarried here. Locals said more of Monmarte in
Paris than vice versa.
Sculpture in wall of resident. Famous short story Man who walks through
walls. Story. Mr. Limetree. Learns he can walk through walls. Caught in wall.
Claude Lelouche’scinema (a man and a woman)
Here we sit finally in s charming little restaurant in
the village which meant many steps down from the Sacre Cour. (Bob thinks the funicular is a little train. I tell him he’s a man of the world and has been
on many funiculars taking him up and down steep inclines expletives after I’ve
limped to the bottom deleted. Thank god for the ankle wrap we purchased
yesterday or big trouble for the Reuel would ensue.)
Bob lentil, (I’m not s fan) Reuel onion soup (tres bon).
Both the Suprise de boeuf et pommes. (The suprise is that there’s none. But
pleasant nevertheless.) Woman next to us leaves for a moment and is cautioned
by those on other side never to leave her bag. There are robbers everywhere. I
tell her , “we’re robbers.” She says you don’t look like. . .”
Gay Couple near us finishing the same bottle of red
merlot (great bargain at 16.90 euros) touch fingers playfully. (But separate
credit cards.) I like this place--mostly Frenchies and a 4 star Trip Adviser
plaque. I say next time in Monmarte we’ll return. Here. When will that be?
Clearly we’re not going to make the afternoon tour which
Bob says we’re “of an age” not to do so when the tour in the Marais would be
starting we order dessert, chocolate mousse for Bob and a bread pudding with
ice cream for moi. (I get knife, spoon and fork in prep for it so I’m excited.)
Bob salts his French fries. I caution him that he’s going
to die. He says I’m 79. Point taken.
We do find the metro and s half hour later we’re st st
osil’dvwndvsx we approach our neighborhood the streets shorn of cars are
crowded with civilians enjoyuing a beautiful sunny Sunday.
Having worked hard, we succumb to naps (mine for an hour)
before our evening peregrination to the market for provisions.
And yikes our local G-20 is closed. Sunday rest I guess.
So we stroll (what’s the alternative) to the market at St. Paul’s. And well
provisioned (a boy needs his vodka par example) back again. Actually it’s kind
of neat being part of Le Marais on a Sunday eve. Lots of gay couples. Young.
Where in fact do they lock up the old?
So martinis of course. Pizza (not terrific—looks like
Barry never indulges) wine and CNN morning programming ; yes it’s morning in New
York) like Real . . . ) yes Sean Hanity is President. Ho hum. Then learning
more about Africa (through portraits of artists there—designers and such- -most
of whom seem to be gay) which is equally eye opening.
The birds seem agitated, angry in their calls this
morning. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had an agitating dream. I’m in a theatre
company and it’s the night of performance and it’s been so long since I’ve
acted that I don’t have makeup and am embarrassed to ask any of the other
actors, busily applying theirs, to borrow some. Is it done? All I need is a base
coating because I’m old now and the age of the character I’ll portray. I’ll
probably not know my lines anyway. I feel responsibility since I need to pay
some of them insurance funds for some misadventure. The bureaucracy of it all.
Am I in charge?
An what does this have to do with Paris in the morning?
It’s cool now. It seems the weather has changed.
Interesting as I sitting here upstairs on Barry’s red
leather sofa looking out the window, that like the London flat there are
rooftops in the foreground and cupolas of great landmark buildings in the
distance. This and the cool air.
Good cause for agitation. After making too large a
breakfast discover my visa credit card is missing. Since we’re going on the
Cite tour and are heading toward the Sy Paul’s metro, we stop in at the g20
there, where. Last used my card. “Non” is the answer. Won’t let this damper our
holiday (too much) and at the Cite stop there is one of our former tour guides
who will not be doing this (has a private group) but that Cerise will. So we
wait. 10 in the group as yesterday.
City islands ancient birthplace of Paris. Little left
that’s ancient. Napoleon 3 on throne, self proclaimed. Crackpot idea to
bulldoze the capital. Said emperor for life. Destroyed 350,000 homes. 75,000 on
city island. Shanty towns. So this is modern 19th c Paris.
The art gives us context why cathedral built 850 years
ago. 1163. Church service Latin. Visual supports for bible stories. Crusades
Exchange. Sculptures. Ecclesiastica and Judica. Statues on facade. Jesus
showing his wounds—sacrifice. Comically miserable figures below—we’re all equal
in the face of death. Selling Christianity. Discouraging bad behavior.
Took 200 years to build. The kings chapel 4-6 years. Got
rid of cathedral of St. Steven.
Generally an Arson fire was started to justify a rebuilding. Church all
powerful until king moves in. To be updated in new gothic style. Only 3rd to be
built in the new style. 16-17th c gothic considered disgusting next to Roman so
named after visigoths. Celestial hierarchy. Higher up more light and color.
House of god should be invaded with light. Old churches built on barrel vault
style. Combo 3 Architecturalelements—demarerialization of weight bearing
structure. Ribbed vault—can have openings. Flying buttresses. Pointed arch,
robbed vault, flying buttress. 10% of orig glass remains—standard. Napoleon
coronated—stage set.
3rd estate—the people. King war lord. Church—socialized
eg health care. Aristocracy—taxes.
King Louis 9 created San chapelle for crown of thorns.
Dusting walls to restore. Napolisn hated artists.
Tightened up jury at exhibitions. Paid artists to do restorations to keep them
happy.
Louis 9 bought the crown of thorns 1238. Traced
provenance. Authenticated.
Paris limestone —porous. Massive underground openings.
Eifel tower problem.
Roodscreen—altar pieces grew pictorially also to keep
noise out. Rate surviving one. Storyboard. This one starts with Mary’s
pregnancy. 1360’s.
Herod asked where newborn king angry
Now Hospital of Paris. Called God’s hotel although France
heavily secular. L’hotel doeu. Hotel a large house.
By end of 1850’s pop tripled. Disgusting.
Demolition of Paris gives us museums. Looking back at
past.
San chapelle. Spectacular stained glass. Old home of the
Kong’s of France since 1630’s. 130,000 pounds for crown of thorns. Cult of
relics. Attracted pilgrimages. Role of medieval king to lead populace to
apocalypse. Leading country to Jerusalem. If have Jesus crown then his
successor. In windows inserted himself in line of biblical kings. Chapel is
propaganda scheme to support king’s departure.
Romans leave 350. 450’s Christianity’s.
Kings used Roman preficysvpalace. Philip Augustus
reworked Ronan palace.
Cite flower market. Since 1810.
Napoleon couldn’t do much of his grand plans. Said not
enough monuments . . . To me. I’d rather face 2000men on battlefield than 2000
parisians.
Since revolution no food production. Came up with plan
for covered markets supplied by rail system in case of siege.
Beautiful flower market triggers Bobs allergies.
Now we’re at Seine looking at city hall.
Paris was not a fishing village. Water merchants.
Merchant prefect head of city council. On left bank you think on right bank
spend money.
1360’s when kings left went to Louvre. Long bitter
history between French and English. Palace of Justice. 3000 pp lost their lives
in 1790 and Marie Antoinette.
1604 pony neuf 1st without houses. Most sought after
tourist spot in Paris. Until Eifel Tower. “
Katherine de Medici. M to Henry 7. 4 sons. No legit heir.
Bourbons next in line. But Protestants. La Reigne Margot. Katherine killed
Protestants at Margot’s wedding. But Henry 4 1st bourbon king converted to
Catholicism. Kept out of city for 5 years. 1594. Finds city ravaged by war.
Unpopular. His solution: urban planning and architecture. Pony neuf to avoid
ambush. Sells of palace to moneymakers. Becomes most pop king of all time. Only
statue not defaced by revolutionaries.
Cerise recommends a tiny restaurant off the square where
our tour ends. We have a pichet of wine which is less than a bottle. (20 euros)
Bob’s croque monsieur is good plus a great salad with string beans. My
linguini, the suggestion du jour, is lovely. Tiny restaurant. Must wait for
mothers and children to use the one toilet down and up a winding stair when one
waits and sees the husband downstairs making the food and washing the dishes.
What to do? No time for an afternoon tour certainly and
we are not feeling . . . Spry. So we follow again the suggestion of Cerise and
purchase tickets for the Prison where Marie Antionette was kept so we can get
an avoid-the-line ticket (both 15 euros) for the remarkable Saints Chapel. I feel it is . . . remarkable
The most glorious stained glass windows—all telling biblical stories
designed to aggrandize the pious but enormously egotistical Louis 9, later to
be Ste. Louis. The gorgeous glass panels start with Adam and Eve and end with
Louis positioned among the biblical kings. Bob believed we’ve seen this in our
last visit. If so, bears repeating.
Navigating the Chatelet metro which is enormous and
labyrinthine to get to St. Paul’s for
provisions and the now much-traveled walk though the Marais back home.
So, anxious, I’m on the phone to cap one to report my
great lost card. Fortunately they keep me on hold as I retrace steps and
realize my last purchase was tomorrow’s Versailles tour made at night when I
was . . . In bed! Yes under the bedclothes there’s the sweet card itself.
Celebrate. Martinis of course. A variety of cheeses-excellent.
TUESDAY APRIL 24.
Annoyed with Pariscityvision Viator Tours because answerer was
abrupt and vague when I asked for location of today’s Versailles tour at 3. Not
an auspicious beginning.
Determined to find the gay neighborhood in Le Marais
google map takes us to the Rue Temple area 10 minutes walk and the recommended
gay cafe not serving Le Dejeuner until noon we find equally gay—gentlemen
sitting about cafes along the way and settle at one for people watching
outdoors. A pitcher of Catalan red and we order for moi something called
Norvegian—salmon on toast with a yoghurt
topping a little hard to negotiate so I said I will defeat it /-to which
Bob adds defeat it to eat it and for Bob a Transgendre which as far as I can
tell is a croque monsieur.
At noon the shift of pink shirted waiters wait on the
street to start their lunch shift as they finish their galloises. The French
folks sitting next to us have gorgeous things. With plenty of time we order
coffee au lait for Bob and for moi an espresso (yes a departure). Inevitable—it
seems—climb up (sometimes down) narrow winding staircases to reach the
facilities. Will that experience be forever in my memory of (the last time I
saw) Paris.
We’ve got to get to our next destination, the Viator
tourist office for our Versailles tour.
Here’s where everything goes off the rails. We use Monsieur Google to
get us to St. Paul’s metro. The train’s coming. I rush in. Bob doesn’t. The
door closes and won’t open. I gesture to him and mon dieu I am hurtling ahead.
He’s standing at the station. Will this be the last I’ll ever see of him?
What ensues is a waking nightmare. Bob doesn’t have his
phone with him. How to put it: and he’s not clear on the schedule and
logistics. I wind up traveling from station to station because when at the next
stop I return to St. Paul’s he’s not there. After backtracking—did I give him
the wrong signal at the closing doors to go back so I’m even find myself at the
open air edges of central Paris—the Bastille station. Must stop for the outdoor
toilet at St. Paul’s—a fascinating contrivance with auto doors that close to
clean after each “visit”. Frantic call to the tour office to tell them of our
plight that I’ve got a lost soul out there and no I must try to find him rather
than go on the tour which I’m not now going to make anyway.
An hour later
without luck I’m at the office playing up the drama and my anguish for what
it’s worth which is convincing them to let us take the tour on Thursday for a
small premium relative to the cost of the tour which was supposed to be non-refundable.
Bob emails me; he’s made his way home. When I’m finally back I discover that he
appears to have missed some of the
drama. It’s not yet cocktail hour but cocktails we will have. All’s well that
ends well?
 |
| LOOKING FOR BOB AT THE EDGES OF THE CITY |
 |
| LOT'S OF LUCK ON THAT |
WED APRIL 25.
Hearty breakfast at home. Got too much food in the
refrigerator, a bad idea if cutting down on caloric intake while traveling is a
sane notion. Nevertheless, eggs with shrimp chopped cheese, yoghurt, soupçon of
tomato sauce and buere are yummy Alec toast. Besides we’ve not scheduled a
morning tour since we’re meeting Barry for lunch—food again— at 12:45
downstairs at the courtyard Gate. Which we do. After stopping here and there to
look at menus and chat with proprietors—Barry has lived in this neighborhood 22
years, we settle on a charming (what else?) cafe.
Our entree is a wonderful thick beet soup. Bob and I have
a kind of stew in a pot for our main, chock full of carrots and onions, Barry a
delicate fish (“purche”) dish. For us, a
“pitch” (finding that a more sensible lunch quantity) of wine, Barry enjoying
just a
drop for us to toast “our host” in Paris.
Plenty to talk about, US and French politics (of course), and Barry’s life as an expat (he’ll be applying for dual citizenship, his remarkable work career, from academia as a landscape architect to banking at Lehman Bros., to semi retirement (part time at Apple as a token senior) now shuttling between his charming (that word again) cottage and beautiful gardens (we see photos—perfect), and differences between gay life here and the States, which conversation continues as he walks us around the neighborhood (stopping here and there to peruse gardens and historical properties (including a pastry shop where I have a mini-cream pastry—magnifique). We’re flattered that Barry never dines with his well-vetted apartment clients but finds us “interesting”. It’s mutual.
Back just in time to get ready for our 5 pm meeting in
front of the Louis 14th statue which is in front of the IM Pei pyramid in the
courtyard of the magnificent Louvre. There Oriel, the Paris Walks owner (and
our Momartre guide) hands us off to avuncular (he’s a contemporary at 77)
genial, engaging Oxford scholar Malcolm who will lead our little party of six
through the palace/museum in what will turn out to be a fascinating tour which
he kindly stretches to three, not two, hours. We will find this semi private
tour the best way to approach the museum and I manage to take many photos and
take in his anecdotes though both Bob and I are fairly hobbling from up and
down stair climbs by tour’s end. 
Louvre. Malcolm guide. Exciting dig site since 1980’s. 800
years going back to the 1200’s. Somehow we make our way back home and though
after de rigeur pate and martinis in keeping with that too much in the refrigerator
rule Bob rustles up meatballs and spaghetti.
THURSDAY APRIL 26.
The big deal today is the (ahem postponed) Versailles
tour and since that’s not until 2 we’ve bought a sense of leisure about our
(holiday) apartment. Though I thought we’d take lunch at The Wood, we have
sandwiches and some white wine and there’s still time.
How discouraging. No little cakes to take home as gifts
at the little local shop across the street that Barry recommended. But it looks
like we’ll make our trip on time and since I had a dry run (!) Tuesday there’s
the tourist shop and bus ticket for the line awaiting.
On the bus three languages.
Lost his father when 13. Mother Spanish. Father Italian.
Felt humiliated, violated. Wanted to keep troublemakers
in iron fist—his own family members. Needed palace as a guided jail. When 23,
pm died abolished that function. Established dictatorship. Organized his daily
life facing the 240 troublemakers.
Used best architects, painters. Chief Charles Labroy.
Note de Notre landscaper. From marsh made beauty. All materials French. Opened
quarries in SW of France. Studied Italian technique. Manufactured porcelain
from Sevre.
Apt of the planet. Bedroom of the king is the sun. Other
apts run around it.
At one point banctupt. Melted down the silver to sell.
2nd antechamber, the moon. Used for billiards. For
gentlemen. King always won.
We see an amazing parallel with Trump, his guilded
quarters, his fawning minions.
Queens wing closed 2 years.
Pass Revolution Square as we enter Paris (and having
passed by the Eifel Tower) where Louis 16 and Marie Antoinette lost their
heads.
Home for martinis
 |
| HAPPENING CAFE AROUND THE CORNER IN LE MARAIS; RECO. BARRY |
FRIDAY APRIL 27. TO THE BIG APPLE
Goodbye to our lovely temporary home in the Marais. Our
car is precisely on time 6:15 am (this
for a 10:40 am departure). Relatively
quiet streets unlike the bustle of our return from Versailles during drive time
yesterday. And now a trip that was supposed to be 1 hour is 35 minutes. 50
euros cash plus a fiver.
I tell Bob if I ever book economy class, kick me. The
economy line stretches embarrassingly for days. There is no one on our priority
line and everybody’s nice to us. Security check in in minutes. And here we sit
in the Admirals Club lounge at Charles de Gaulle; it’s wonderful. Such a
breakfast, delicious quiches, and everything else American and European. I have
an espresso because I’ve become Frenchified; Decaf because I’m not. A
delightful Admirals Club.
We are in the first aisle of Business Class (of this
767-300). Apparently that’s what I chose. Not sure that’s a good thing since
the hustle and bustle of the flight attendants preparing is within visual and
aural reach but it’s niiice.I've got a single seat with table by the window. Bob
does not have a companion so he’s got the middle row himself so this is working
well. However I think Brit Air Biz was a cut above.
 |
| TSK. TSK. ECONOMY CLASS LINES. |
 |
| ON THE OTHER HAND . . . |
Sipping alotta champs. Looks like I’m watching Star Wars,
the one with Carrie Fisher before she died. (Not after.)
Lovely entree of beetroot salmon (a first). Looks like
the now old Star Wars heroes are teaching the new generation. I like that.
Im overeating gorgeous gourmet food. Topped off by a to
die ice cream sundae.
Of the movie, Much boring lazer shoot em ups. We are basically a militant
culture.
Next after Will
and Grace there’s “Creed”, naturalistic, a little dull but some really good
performances especially Stallone as the old trainer who is inveigled into
training the son of his famous opponent Creed (hence the name of the name of
the movie). However the film gets interrupted so . . . Don’t know if Creed dies
or . . . O
Instead of an ending we get a black and white James
Franco film. Good! The Great and Powerful Oz. Of what I see before landing not
that many hours from Paris it’s fun. He’s a mountebank who after a tornado
lands him in Oz decides its good to pretend to be the Wizard.
 |
| OZ MOVIE |
 |
| HMM. |
About 2 pm we’re in our taxi heading for The Manhattan
Club on 56th which will be our residence for this upcoming week in New York.
This looks like it’s a good choice for temporary New York
domicile, though expensive because we’ve chosen the deluxe two bedroom suite;
this one on the 15th floor is tastefully, even somewhat sumptuously, decorated
with muted “upgraded” finishes (marble bathrooms for God’s sake) although as
anticipated a Pullman kitchen sans stove—just microwave. No biggee maybe since
there’s an expensive spacious breakfast lounge upstairs where we wait until 4:
0’clock (we arrive at 3) for our suite to be ready for occupancy. And then when
permitted in we wait 45 minutes for our luggage, Bob assuming that the butch (“if there’s
anything I can do for you” hmm) bell
captain would know our suite location
without telling him.
So by the time Bob has unpacked (his assigned task
always; he shoos me away if I interfere so I . . . Desist) we are ready to head
to the Neil Simon theatre for
Tony Kushners ANGELS IN AMERICA part two with its London
staging and cast pretty much intact. Good mezzanine seats though we are both
tired and fragile ) Bob his arthritis (forgets to take his pill and I right leg
Increasingly painful (I say it must be gangrenous) as we sit through three
hours with two essential intermissions of Kushner’s 25 year old magnum opus.
One does feel he is in the presence of surreal (is what’s
happening really happening as the central character dying from AIDS
hallucinates and achingly attempts to come to terms with his lover Louis
brilliantly played by greatness here
here, a must see with quibbles. It’s talky. Subtlety does not abound. This is
an over the top production. There is some terrific acting Nathan Lane always
worthy but a bit hammy as Cohen the hypocrite evil attorney. Everyone’s
following with great dedication the director’s vision—all kill/for-it bravura
roles as written—the sassy black nurse hits it out of the park but Garfield as
the central character Pryor is over time (a long time) wearying—though admirable
in his physicality and intensity. He hits the funny parts—I hadn’t remembered
the play has so many (essential) humorous moments.
Anyway we finally make our tortuous way out of the
theatre (I lose my glasses) without falling into the orchestra (Reuel has a
serious walking problem—what’s going on?) and in our luxurious bed by midnight
(6 in the morning Paris time—Oy.) One down, how many to go (I preordered 5
plays on discount TDF including The Play That Goes Wrong for us and our two
Tuesday guests—at least there’s no universal angst in that selection).
SATURDAY APRIL 28.
Where to get breakfast? Upstairs in the Lounge serves a
“grab and go@ by which they mean select your meager provisions and get the hell
out of here. No thank you. Seating at the counter atdeli around the corner is
more congenial (considering the wait for tables). Bob has The Omelette, Reuel
the salmon Benedict both great. Congenial server behind the counter helps.
We’ll be back. Then tickets for a matinee.
 |
| LOOKING FOR MY GLASSES BACKSTAGE AT "ANGELS" |
Crowds midtown on this Saturday are almost—just
almost—impassable.
Matinee—TRAVESTIES. By TOM Stoppard.
Stopping for evening tickets at TKTS. Just miss out on
Carousal but not disappointed by the selection for the evening.
Stoppard is famously a preening playwright. There’s
always the aura of the smart aleck Oxonian in his work especially here in his
early play which were not sure whether we’ve seen before—essentially a
“travesty” of the Importance of Being Earnest. Well directed with lots of
distractions to minimize the tedium . . . Somewhat. Standout performances.
Premise—Tom Hollander as an English aristocrat sort of remembering his
relationship with various post WW1 luminaries, such as James Joyce and Lenin
and a brilliantly kinetic Seth Numrich as Tristan Tzara, freethinker and Dada
founder (lots of Stoppardian word play on that). Disquisitions on the function
of art as polemic or entertainment within the farcical reworking of Wilde’s
farce. The fact that my leg is killing me in that confined seating space (I
remove my ankle brace during intermission hoping that’s the problem—probably
not) doesn’t help my enjoyment or concentration. Not a winner for me. Fares
better for Bob.
Need to stock our kitchen for some of the days ahead. And
after a visit to the Food Emporium (our old market haunt on 8th Avenue) we wind
up with 5 expensive plastic bags full of provisions for a kitchen with a
microwave but no stove. At least there’s no charge for the bags.
Evening—THE BAND’S VISIT. Gershwin Theatre. (The
continuing long walks to the theatres downtown of us is a concern.) Music and
Lyrics by David Yazbek. Book Itamar Moses. The theatre is full. Bob and I are
in the 3rd and 6th row respectively, albeit w a y on the side.
We’re in 3rd and 5th rows of the orchestra respectively
way on the side and since I’ve sat Bob closer I realize he may not have better
sight lines and worry about that throughout. When I ask him about that he says
it doesn’t matter since he doesn’t like the play. I on the other hand was
transported by it. Based on story of an Egyptian band offered hospitality
overnight in a nowhere Israeli town. (It would later win the Best Musical Tony and for its two leads.)
SUNDAY APRIL 29.
Let’s face it, we love Porterhouse at Time Warner Center.
Tres elegant but not pretentious. And early, 11:30, as we are There’s the only
two top fronting the window view of Central Park though Bob gets to see only me.(I
tell him he has better neck mobility—true—to see the scene. He says he only
needs to see my radiant beauty and I reply that his standards are woefully
low.)
The grey goose dry martini is my god perfect, huge (I
don’t care if costs a third mortgage. . . It does at $22 per). We both order the 3
course $35 special—not a first for us. My starter is an incredible asparagus
soup, Bob’s is a beet salad that is enormous—“lovely but it’s very large”.
I say they’re playing jazz, what could be more perfect.
Bob says perfect if we didn’t have to pay for it. I say I like to be able to
pay for it. He: “but we came here even when we couldn’t. Such a lovely place. So not Southern
California.”
And the filet: to die. Cheesecake and molten chocolate.
$168 and there are people in Somalia who . . .
Matinee is a giant walk to 9th Ave and 42nd St. “Theatre
Row” which in one building has all those theatres. We’ve seen many plays at
this one, The Acorn, this time . . .
A LETTER TO HARVEY MILK. Both Bob and I see it as
“fragile”, this play about an older man who has lost his wife (who appears as a
corporial voice in his head) who takes a writing class and with the
encouragement of his teacher a young lesbian writes about his relationship as
butcher and friend to Harvey Milk. The denouement is learning why he fears for
his teacher’s coming out. The songs and script are mostly not up to the fine
acting job of the two principals, especially the female lead who sings wonderfully
and acts convincingly. However it builds from almost amateurish to affecting
through the relationship and unraveling. Worthy.
I’m still feeling bloated after overeating at Porterhouse
so don’t even have a pre-theatre martini. Am I sick?
It’s terribly cold out so not much if getting to the
theatre for . . .
ONCE ON THIS ISLAND at the Circle In the Square where
last we saw Fun Home but it’s worth it. A brilliant production. The theatre set
is as environmental as a broadway theatre can be—a beach where the villagers
are enjoying the routine of their lives. Can’t help being swept in by the sheer
joy of it, the Africans-style bursts of dancing, the glorious voices and music,
setting for the mytho tale of a young black girl who falls for a (very dishy)
light skinned boy from the other side of the tracks. Transporting.
Cold back for (now) martinis and for me pulling at my
chicken pieces wfrom the Emporium.
May Day! And the weather has finally broken. Our first
evidence that it’s Spring in New York.
We spend most of our morning getting ready for the
arrival of niece Nancy and sister-in-law Dorothy. We’ll see if our plans,
admittedly somewhat free flowing (prosecco, lunch, play).
Plans working. Nancy arrives at 10:23 (she’s being very
precise on the time) having walked from the Port Authority terminal. This gives
us opportunity to chat before Dorothy arrives an hour later. We are delighted
that Nancy is upbeat and is the clever, talented, empathetic Nancy not . .
. Much talk of how we are all getting
fat and the difficulty of weight control—the Olin curse.
Which conversation continues with the arrival of Dorothy
bearing various tea gifts, who, taking advice, took a cab from Penn Station,
toting a tiny overnight bag on wheels. The prosecco is poured and free wheeling
conversation ensues about ailments, children and grandchildren, pending
surgeries and . . . Weight control.
The hours fly by until we leave at 12:30–mindful of
Dorothy’s walking limitations—for the Time Warner building and our 1: pm
reservation at, what else?, Porterhouse where we actually find a $45 red.
Dorothy is being careful but the rest of us try the 3 course special. Goat
cheese and beet salad is a hit( Dorothy has it as a main and shares the salmon
(and chocolate cake) with Nancy) and Bob and I have that fabulous filet and
gelato desert. + coffee and tea. ($252–but life is short and our girls are
special).
A short foray in the park and bossy I demanding photos.
More gossip back at the flat and we leave at six—this time taking a cab/-to the
Lyceum Theatre home of my old Shubert Theatre Fellowship inaugural archives
work upstairs above the theatre.
And the play is an absolute hoot . . .
THE PLAY THAT GOES WRONG. It wrings every drop of
slapstick out of the basic premise of an amateur English theatre company
attempting to put on a conventional murder mystery. The set falls apart and
rebels against the actors who are caught dumbfounded as they try to keep to the
script. It’s all ridiculous fun and I for one am laughing too hard. Bob and I
are familiar with the concept, having seen this holiday the company’s THE
COMEDY ABOUT A BANK ROBBERY in London. This is funnier, though the second act
does guild the Lily a bit.
Bye to Nancy who gets to walk the 5 blocks to the bus
terminal. And walking slowly we make it without incident but taking in
appreciatively the wonders of New York, the lighted skyscrapers along sixth
Avenue back past Rockerfelkwr Center and round the corner past Carnegie Hall to
The Manhattan Club to install Dorothy in her sleep couch and retire for the
night.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 2.
Dorothy is still with us. Yea.
When we open our doors from our bedroom she’s in the
bathroom and well on her way to readiness. A little nudge on the sleep couch and it’s a formal necessity
once again.
Hey we’re a well armed team for breakfast at The Brooklyn Deli which is as it will turn out the perfect venue. Jewish. Today I’ve got The Omelette as does Dorothy but if will be the choice of challah—emphasis the ch we inform the congenial server—that takes it over the edge. Bobs pastrami omelette, a sort of frittata is dry and tasteless but it’s the occasion that carries us all along. Talk of family—I’m touched that Dorothy says my brother was proud of me, bragged about me when they met. Told her I am gay kind of as a test (not realizing her liberalness). So I tell her that she married him is my fault.
A lot of talk of the bizarreness of our families. And
overcoming obstacles leads us to Dorothy’s departure by cab around the corner
as we continue on to
THE BOYS IN THE BAND at the Booth Theatre. Really looking
forward to this, a 50th Anniversary production in part because it represents a
milestone in the theatrical representation of gay life and the seminal
production I attended those many years ago.
Alas exciting as the eventness of this is, it is somewhat
disappointing as a production. The only improvement over the original acting is
that of Jim Parsons as the self loathing guy who is giving a birthday party for
his self loathing friend Harold played one-note without the energy of Leonard
Fry.
Also it’s very early on in the production (2nd
performance?) and laughs are stepped on.
As Bob says “it’s an old friend” all those camp lines.
 |
| THE BOYS ON THE STREET |
Evening’s show is HELLO DOLLY. Turns out--confession--I thought I’d purchased 2 separate single tickets for the show through cheap TDF. At box office however discover the 2nd ticket is for Wednesday next week. But able to get two seats closer row for $47 extra so no great loss. Gotta be more careful next time though.
As to the show, it too is an old friend. Despite Brantley
saying Peters gives a great performance with more dramatic depth than Midler
(but this is not Medea for god’s sake) who all agreed killed it, we find
Peter’s work (and that’s what it seems to be) is lackluster. I think, perhaps
unkindly, that the reason I have trouble understanding her lines is the fault
of all those facelifts. Can only wonder how that bitch Betty Buckley who is
slated to be the next Dolly (and who for her $20,000 fee, tortured us when she
appeared at our resort) will play the universally lovable Dolly Levi. “Dolly
will never go away again.” Hmm. Then again there are all those hummable
melodies, that old fashioned male chorus line athletically expressing their
adoration of the camp mistress, and
excellent featured actors.
Another balmy day—unseasonally hot! actually. Just as our
first days in New York were unseasonally cold! and yes there are consequent
coughs and sniffles from these fearless but vulnerable travelers.
Bobs bored hanging around our suite while we wait for Hugh
so we walk eastward. It’s going to be a Walks day.
And then as scheduled at noon there’s Hugh at our door
leaning on a cane—which will lead to a discussion of our mutual ailments over
prosecco but Hugh has been identified with a neurological disorder that is
concerning and if progressing may require delicate surgery. We discuss his
relationship of 25 years with Louie who lives a few brownstones away where he’s
the super with his wife, son, daughter in law, their baby and now a puppy which
Hugh claims-to the world in a kind of relationship coming out—is actually his
and Louie’s. Perhaps some day he’ll live with Louie (and the puppy) in a condo
he owns on Riverside drive. Dearly wish it for him. We love old friend
Hugh—deserves as we all do (except Donald Trump who of course is another
significant subject of discussion) happiness.
The short walk to Time Warner Center (one advantage of our present location at The
Manhattan Club though it’s a hard back and forth to the theatres) yields a
visit for the third time (a record) to Porterhouse. Hugh barely drinks but Bob
and I will have little trouble quaffing most of a bottle of domestic red
carefully culled from that wine list primarily festooned with bottles costing
in the mult-hundreds.
FRIDAY MAY 4.
After almost a month galavanting around the globe it’s
time to go home. Plenty of time to pack before our 11 am final exit from The
Manhattan Club. And presuming a 70 pound bag limit for 1st class (hope we’re
right) we pack 2 bottles of prosecco that are unused (we did rather
overestimate need for provisions; I tell Bob I knew but it seemed to make him
happy picking up extra stuff at The Emporium—true).
Jordy says it’s hard to live in New York now. Too
busy. I say we thought we’d live here
forever but now we realize we couldn’t, will just visit. "It’s no place for old men." He says not old. You get younger. I say what’s the secret. He answers, when
you’re young they take care of you and when you're old they take care of you
like you’re young.
And then the disappointment. The ticket clerk tells us
that our Priority fancy shmancy ticket doesn’t get us into the American
Airlines Admirals Club Lounge which seems to be the only lounge in the terminal
and this is borne out when we stop by hen lounge. Oh yes if you pay $120 for
the day. Not. However priority pass since there’s no lounge access with that
does get us a $56 credit at the once estimable
Bobby Vans steakhouse and though that’s a substantial credit with its
prices we still wind up spending half a bill ($50 in layman’s terms) for a
bottle of plonk, cheeseburger and steak sandwich plus tip. And plenty o time to
spare among the rabble at our gate (flight at 5:45). Da noive. I tell Bob I’ll
write to AA (but I won’t-better to take Delta non-stop when flying domestically
NYC-San Diego).
Tip. When flying internationally with stopover in NYC as
this. Book the domestic return non-stop flight separately with an airline that
treats a 1st class patron well. This is low-rent first class on a small
airplane. No pre-flight drink, no plug-in for the device,
Let’s try the movies on the stupid laptop. FROZEN was a
big hit. Part of pop culture. Besides Bob hates cartoons and this is my chance.
Gives young girls insistently fairytale heterosexual options. Yea.
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