Thursday, October 30, 2008
London
I held a class with a difference today in that I invited a Guest Speaker to address my students. Prof. Paul Montgomery, a second-generation Anglo-Indian who teaches English at Lambeth College on London's South Bank, presented a fascinating account of his mixed-race family in a presentation he entitled, "Call of the Blood". Using an overhead projector, photographs, family trees and precious heirlooms in the form of medals dating from the reign of King George V, he brought alive the complexities of racial ambiguity, diverse blood lines, migration and marriage in his family and traced it's journey through the world from Scotland to India to England with exactitude and sensitivity. My students enjoyed every minute and asked several pertinent questions at the end. It was a wonderful opportunity for them to meet a real-life Anglo-Indian in the UK and to listen to him speak so passionately about his attempts to write down his memoirs by tracing his genealogy.
A few minutes later, we stood in the bitter cold (for we have gone from summer to winter in the space of a few days!) at the entrance to NYU-London to pose for class group pictures. When we did return to our classroom, it was time for my students to take a mid-term exam (or "half-terms" as they say here), then say their goodbyes to each other and to me as they launch out on their discovery of Europe during our week-long Fall Break.
I spoke to Llew while munching my lunch at my desk and keeping office hours. He was close to boarding his flight to London and I was lucky I got him when I did. Kept hanging until the last minute as to whether or not his flight would have the anticipated 3 hour delay, we decided to remain flexible about our plans for tomorrow.
At 2pm, I taught my second class--Writing I at Birkbeck College--but clearly my students were exhausted, excited and frustrated, all at the same time. Exhausted because they are badly sleep-deprived having sat up all night for a week on end cramming for their exams, cranking out papers and handing them in. Excited because most of them are traveling to Europe during the break and can't wait to get the heck out. Frustrated because they received their graded papers back and they were none too pleased with their results.
I have realized that it is necessary to modify my own syllabus based on the large number of students in my class who really ought to be taking English as a Foreign Language. Having spent a few hours grading their portfolios, I have decided to scrap the final version and handed out an additional essay instead--which I shall read from draft to final stage. I had really intended to conduct my class today at the National Portrait Gallery where I was to give a guided tour. However, the fact that I have to rest my feet made me cancel the field-trip. Instead, I asked my students to visit the Museum themselves, then pick out any three portraits and write a research-based essay on them. We also had fun in class, taking our cue from Susan Allan Toth's book England for All Seasons. In one of the chapters entitled, "Listening in at the National Portrait Gallery", she imagines a conversation occurring between the various personages features in oils, water colors and celluloid on the walls. I asked my students to create a conversation between the three people featured in the portraits they picked out. It made for some hilarious efforts as Elizabeth I asked Admiral Nelson what detergent he used because his trousers were so white, Henry VIII made a pass at Emily Bronte while commenting upon her off-the-shoulder dress and Princess Diana told John Lennon that he badly needed a hair cut!
Then, it was time for me to close shop for a week and make my way towards the London Coliseum where Guiseppe Verdi's Aida was on at the English National Opera. I was delighted to discover that though I purchased a ticket for 20 pounds, I was able to move to the 50 pound seats as so many of them remained unoccupied. If there is only opera one can see in a lifetime, I truly believe it should be Aida for every element that constitutes classic opera is present in fullest measure. Take the plot, for instance. This one is full of intrigue and passion. Take the setting. This one is set in ancient Egypt. Take costumes. This one had a wardrobe designed by one of Britain's most talented contemporary designers, the flamboyant, pink-haired Zandra Rhodes. To say that they were sumptuous would be an understatement. Take stage design. This one was spectacular with turquoise blue and flaming orange dominating the color palate and repeated both in the props and the costumes. Take the music...Aida has some of opera's best-known melodies such as The Triumphal March and Celeste Aida and they were sung by virtuosos from Jane Dutton's stunning Amneris to John Hudson's Radames, from Ian Paterson's Amonasro to Claire Rutter's Aida. My favorite artiste was Jane Dutton whose strong mezzo soprano voice soared to the rafters of the ornate Edwardian hall with its plush boxes and its frescoed ceilings. What a treat it was to be able to listen to such fantastic music in such a lush production! It was nothing short of extraordinary!
Having used the bus to get to work this morning, I actually did walk home and was none the worse for my 20 minute trek (touch wood!). A good hot water Coke Bottle Roll Massage did the trick upon my return while I dined on toast with Nutella before I called Llew just as he was boarding his connecting flight from Raleigh, North Carolina, for Heathrow, relieved to discover that he did not have to twiddle his thumbs at the airport for 3 hours! I then called Ian to tell him that Llew's flight will be arriving on time tomorrow morning after all and that he should meet us at Leicester Square at 10 am where we hope to get good half-price tickets for another show.
Ian himself has been painting the town scarlet all week long. Last night, he saw Daniel Craig and the new Bond Girl at the premier of the new film Quantam of Solace at Leicester Square--definitely a highlight of his trip, he says--and today, he was at the stage musical Sound of Music! I am so happy to see how well he has spent his week in London.
I can scarcely believe that even as I type this, Llew is winging his way across the Pond and eating up the miles that have separated us for 6 weeks. To say that I cannot wait to be with him again would be another understatement!
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
An Anglo-Indian Family in Essex
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Essex
I actually overslept today, waking with a start at 7. 15 am. Had no time to do any reading in bed as I had to call my parents in Bombay, finish up my syllabus, find the time to do my new foot exercises and leave the house for my day out in Essex. I had been looking forward to meeting the Haliburns again and I was not disappointed. Together, we spent a truly lovely day and I know not where the time flew.
I had met Ed and Hazel Haliburn in New York almost two years ago through a mutual friend named Margaret Deefholts of Vancouver, Canada. When I had asked Margaret for Anglo-Indians contacts in England, she had suggested their names and when the Haliburns were passing through New York en route to Honolulu, Hawaii, to spend a few days with their daughter Wanda and her family, we had made plans to meet near NYU on Broadway. We hit it off immediately and I knew that they would make wonderful 'subjects' for my investigation when I arrived in England.
It was so easy to get to their place in Essex as it lies on the Central Tube Line that passes right through my stop at Chancery Lane. In about 40 minutes, I was at Woodford Station from where Ed picked me up in his black Mercedes and drove me to the town of Chigwell where they have lived for the past 25 years. Just two years ago, they sold their vast house and property and downsized to a two-bedroom flat and it was there that we spent a very interesting day.
Waiting at home was the lovely Hazel Haliburn in a flat that is spacious and superbly decorated. It offers a sweeping view of the Essex countryside all the way to London and the Millennium Dome at Greenwich. Autumnal views through the windows brought the blazing yellow leaves of mature trees right into the living room where we settled for a chat over coffee and Digestive biscuits. It was great to catch up with them and find out about their fascinating lives for the Haliburns are intrepid travelers. They divide their time between their home on the Costa del Sol in Spain, daughter Wanda's place in Hawaii, visits to South India and, of course, their Essex home. Having spent the last 40 odd years in the UK, they are now a comfortably retired couple who make the most of every single day and the opportunities they bring.
In about an hour, their gorgeous daughter Wendy arrived, trendy in blue jeans, a plaid jacket and a cashmere sweater. She accessorized stylishly with a mauve silk scarf and matching mauve ear-rings, the very epitome of cool chic. It was hard to believe that she has a 21 year old daughter who, like my Chriselle, is pursuing a career in Acting after training in Musical Theater at one of London's best drama schools! Wendy lives close by and since she has a career as a high school teacher and was on Term Break, she was able to join us for lunch. I was delighted to meet her and because she was willing to become a respondent in my investigation, I was pleased to include her in the interview. But first, we had to partake of Hazel's incredible lunch.
Seriously, it is one of the best meals I have eaten since I have arrived in the UK. Every single one of the Anglo-Indians couples I have interviewed have invited me to stay for lunch and every single meal has been memorable. But Hazel's was singularly outstanding because she served Steamed Rice with South Indian style Mutton Stew, exactly the way my dearest Aunty Anne used to make it. I was filled with nostalgia for my Aunt's marvelous cooking as I savored each mouthful. Hazel proudly informed me that she had learned to cook at the age of ten from her grandfather who taught her everything she knows about Indian food. The stew is a one-pot meal including, as it does, virtually every vegetable--carrots, cauliflower, beans, peas as well as starch--potatoes.
It was immensely satisfying, especially as the temperature had dipped suddenly and the morning was frosty. In fact, I had bundled up in my down jacket for the first time this season and am I glad I did. Samosas and a salad were our starters and Tesco's Apple Pie served warm with rich English cream was dessert. I had raved over the meal so much that at the end of the day when I was ready to leave, Hazel asked me if I wanted to take some of the stew home and while, in normal circumstances, politeness would have prompted me to say "No, thank You", I could not resist the offer and found myself instead saying, "Oh, thanks so much for offering and Yes, I would love some." In fact, since Llew will be here day after tomorrow, I shall save it for him as I am sure he will enjoy it too. I know it will bring back for him memories of a similar stew we were served in Dublin, of all places, in an Irish pub named Farringdon's by a chef who happened to be Indian--one Patrick Shah!
The Haliburns were truly a joy to interview. Not only are their stories fascinating and unique, but it is the manner in which they articulate their thoughts and ideas that always impresses me--especially Hazel who has a most balanced view of things and is hugely charitable in her ideas and expressions. Wendy brought another dimension into our discussion and what struck me as I carried on our dialog was how different is the attitude and experience of every single one of the folks whom I happen to be studying. There is really no one box into which I can pigeon hole this community for each of them brings startlingly new perspectives to our meetings.
The Haliburns are unusual in that while they started their lives in the UK as immigrants taking on any job that came along as a matter of survival, they actually went on to create, develop and sustain a hugely successful business in landscape gardening that led them to have clients as famous as model Elle McPherson and Richard Branson's business manager. What is also striking about this couple is the camaraderie and genuine friendship that exists between then. They have accomplished everything in their lives together as a team and they take such pleasure in what they have achieved. Hazel, for instance, gave me a tour of their home and pointed out with such pride all the home improvements that Ed has done and how much more they wish to undertake before they bring their flat up to snuff.
Before I knew it, the sun had set golden over the Essex countryside and darkness fell swiftly. Hazel served tea in a flowery porcelain tea set and I thought to myself, "This is so English. English tea in an English household that exudes warmth and contentment". With my pen flying along, I filled many pages of copious notes while my tape recorder caught every nuance of our conversation.
At last, I had to leave but not before I took my doggy bag home and received invitations from the Haliburns to see them again. They also extended invitations to me to come and stay with them in their home in Spain and to call upon them if I ever need anything while I am here in England. It is this warmth and hospitality that endears me to these people--friends for life gleaned out of an academic project that is proving to be far more fun that work.
Back on the Tube, I was pleased that my feet were holding up well though I have to admit that I barely did any walking today. At home, after I had eaten my dinner (leftovers from last night's Indian dinner from Sainsburys), I did my foot exercises, gave myself a good foot massage by rolling a Coke Bottle filled with hot water as Megan, my physiotherapist, had instructed me, then sat to watch some more of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure.
By 10. 30, having spoken very hastily to Llew who is excited about his departure from the States, I sat to write this blog. And I am still marveling at the sea change that has been wrought in my psychological state by the single visit to the physiotherapist yesterday!
Essex
I actually overslept today, waking with a start at 7. 15 am. Had no time to do any reading in bed as I had to call my parents in Bombay, finish up my syllabus, find the time to do my new foot exercises and leave the house for my day out in Essex. I had been looking forward to meeting the Haliburns again and I was not disappointed. Together, we spent a truly lovely day and I know not where the time flew.
I had met Ed and Hazel Haliburn in New York almost two years ago through a mutual friend named Margaret Deefholts of Vancouver, Canada. When I had asked Margaret for Anglo-Indians contacts in England, she had suggested their names and when the Haliburns were passing through New York en route to Honolulu, Hawaii, to spend a few days with their daughter Wanda and her family, we had made plans to meet near NYU on Broadway. We hit it off immediately and I knew that they would make wonderful 'subjects' for my investigation when I arrived in England.
It was so easy to get to their place in Essex as it lies on the Central Tube Line that passes right through my stop at Chancery Lane. In about 40 minutes, I was at Woodford Station from where Ed picked me up in his black Mercedes and drove me to the town of Chigwell where they have lived for the past 25 years. Just two years ago, they sold their vast house and property and downsized to a two-bedroom flat and it was there that we spent a very interesting day.
Waiting at home was the lovely Hazel Haliburn in a flat that is spacious and superbly decorated. It offers a sweeping view of the Essex countryside all the way to London and the Millennium Dome at Greenwich. Autumnal views through the windows brought the blazing yellow leaves of mature trees right into the living room where we settled for a chat over coffee and Digestive biscuits. It was great to catch up with them and find out about their fascinating lives for the Haliburns are intrepid travelers. They divide their time between their home on the Costa del Sol in Spain, daughter Wanda's place in Hawaii, visits to South India and, of course, their Essex home. Having spent the last 40 odd years in the UK, they are now a comfortably retired couple who make the most of every single day and the opportunities they bring.
In about an hour, their gorgeous daughter Wendy arrived, trendy in blue jeans, a plaid jacket and a cashmere sweater. She accessorized stylishly with a mauve silk scarf and matching mauve ear-rings, the very epitome of cool chic. It was hard to believe that she has a 21 year old daughter who, like my Chriselle, is pursuing a career in Acting after training in Musical Theater at one of London's best drama schools! Wendy lives close by and since she has a career as a high school teacher and was on Term Break, she was able to join us for lunch. I was delighted to meet her and because she was willing to become a respondent in my investigation, I was pleased to include her in the interview. But first, we had to partake of Hazel's incredible lunch.
Seriously, it is one of the best meals I have eaten since I have arrived in the UK. Every single one of the Anglo-Indians couples I have interviewed have invited me to stay for lunch and every single meal has been memorable. But Hazel's was singularly outstanding because she served Steamed Rice with South Indian style Mutton Stew, exactly the way my dearest Aunty Anne used to make it. I was filled with nostalgia for my Aunt's marvelous cooking as I savored each mouthful. Hazel proudly informed me that she had learned to cook at the age of ten from her grandfather who taught her everything she knows about Indian food. The stew is a one-pot meal including, as it does, virtually every vegetable--carrots, cauliflower, beans, peas as well as starch--potatoes.
It was immensely satisfying, especially as the temperature had dipped suddenly and the morning was frosty. In fact, I had bundled up in my down jacket for the first time this season and am I glad I did. Samosas and a salad were our starters and Tesco's Apple Pie served warm with rich English cream was dessert. I had raved over the meal so much that at the end of the day when I was ready to leave, Hazel asked me if I wanted to take some of the stew home and while, in normal circumstances, politeness would have prompted me to say "No, thank You", I could not resist the offer and found myself instead saying, "Oh, thanks so much for offering and Yes, I would love some." In fact, since Llew will be here day after tomorrow, I shall save it for him as I am sure he will enjoy it too. I know it will bring back for him memories of a similar stew we were served in Dublin, of all places, in an Irish pub named Farringdon's by a chef who happened to be Indian--one Patrick Shah!
The Haliburns were truly a joy to interview. Not only are their stories fascinating and unique, but it is the manner in which they articulate their thoughts and ideas that always impresses me--especially Hazel who has a most balanced view of things and is hugely charitable in her ideas and expressions. Wendy brought another dimension into our discussion and what struck me as I carried on our dialog was how different is the attitude and experience of every single one of the folks whom I happen to be studying. There is really no one box into which I can pigeon hole this community for each of them brings startlingly new perspectives to our meetings.
The Haliburns are unusual in that while they started their lives in the UK as immigrants taking on any job that came along as a matter of survival, they actually went on to create, develop and sustain a hugely successful business in landscape gardening that led them to have clients as famous as model Elle McPherson and Richard Branson's business manager. What is also striking about this couple is the camaraderie and genuine friendship that exists between then. They have accomplished everything in their lives together as a team and they take such pleasure in what they have achieved. Hazel, for instance, gave me a tour of their home and pointed out with such pride all the home improvements that Ed has done and how much more they wish to undertake before they bring their flat up to snuff.
Before I knew it, the sun had set golden over the Essex countryside and darkness fell swiftly. Hazel served tea in a flowery porcelain tea set and I thought to myself, "This is so English. English tea in an English household that exudes warmth and contentment". With my pen flying along, I filled many pages of copious notes while my tape recorder caught every nuance of our conversation.
At last, I had to leave but not before I took my doggy bag home and received invitations from the Haliburns to see them again. They also extended invitations to me to come and stay with them in their home in Spain and to call upon them if I ever need anything while I am here in England. It is this warmth and hospitality that endears me to these people--friends for life gleaned out of an academic project that is proving to be far more fun that work.
Back on the Tube, I was pleased that my feet were holding up well though I have to admit that I barely did any walking today. At home, after I had eaten my dinner (leftovers from last night's Indian dinner from Sainsburys), I did my foot exercises, gave myself a good foot massage by rolling a Coke Bottle filled with hot water as Megan, my physiotherapist, had instructed me, then sat to watch some more of Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure.
By 10. 30, having spoken very hastily to Llew who is excited about his departure from the States, I sat to write this blog. And I am still marveling at the sea change that has been wrought in my psychological state by the single visit to the physiotherapist yesterday!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
What a Difference a Day Can Make!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
London
I cannot even begin to describe what a change in mental attitude I have had in the past 24 hours! In a day that began as depressingly as most of those of the last week, I called my GP, Dr. Steven Yaxley, to obtain a referral to a private Physiotherapist as I didn't think it made any sense to wait more than 2 months for an appointment with an NHS one. Well, within an hour, I had the name and address of a Physiotherapy clinic just steps away from my flat and I got an appointment within a couple of hours! Fancy that! It would cost me 75 pounds for the hour long consultation, but I am grateful for Aetna Global Insurance which covers private treatment when I am overseas and will reimburse me after I make a claim.
I spent a couple of hours at my office on campus printing out some material and working on the syllabus for my Writing II course for next semester. The Dr. Scholls Gel Arch Supports that I picked up from Boots last night and inserted into my sneakers felt so uncomfortable initially but in about a half hour, I got into my stride (pun unintended!) and there I was, feeling the good that the 'boost' was doing for me.
When I arrived on Chancery Lane at the London Silver Vaults Building, I was met at the reception by a clerk who requested me to fill a registration form. Within ten minutes, I was being welcomed by Megan Sumner, the physiotherapist from New Zealand who spent over an hour with me discovering the history of my ailment, the treatment I have been following and explaining to me exactly why and how far I have been injured. Then she examined my feet and legs and congratulated me warmly on the care I have taken of myself over the past week, informing me that I have made her task so simple as I have already effected a semi-cure and am halfway to the finishing line.
Her words were like music to my ears and I felt my spirits rising by the second as she pronounced her prognosis. I will probably be completely well in six to eight weeks time. I can now start to get out and walk around and lead a normal life without exerting my feet unduly or pushing myself beyond the point of comfort. I can stop using the ibuprofen gel except in cases of serious pain. I can step up my exercise routine and get on to more challenging ones that will strengthen my calf muscles and Achilles tendon and loosen all the 'knots' that have tightened around my ankles as the inflammation has been healing. I should continue to wear the arch support in my shoes while I am walking and I should roll a Coke bottle filled with hot water twice a day under my arches in order to step up the circulation of blood in my soles or I should manually give myself a foot massage. She told me that I can certainly go to Greece and have as normal a vacation as I had planned without overdoing the physical exertion and I should see her once more upon my return.The foot and leg massage was one of the most relaxing, comforting, yet stimulating things I have had done in a long time and I left her office feeling far happier than I have felt in days.
When I got home to continue to work on my syllabus, I figured that I would skip seeing Ken Loach's film at the British Film Institute tonight as I had already done plenty of walking for one day. I decided instead to call Ian to find out if he wanted to come for dinner to my place tonight instead of tomorrow. As it turned out, tonight worked better for him. Luckily, Sainsbury's is just two blocks away from my place and I returned home with a Diet Coke for him (his favorite brew) and a boxed package--Sainsburys Indian meal for Two comprising 4 Vegetable Samosas, 2 Naans, Saffron Pillau, Chicken Korma and Chicken Tikka Masala--in a handy-dandy container for only 6. 00 pounds! It was the most incredible value for money. It is certainly possible to get bargains such as these even in British supermarkets where everything seems so much higher priced that at our Americans ones. As I laid the table and prepared for Ian's arrival, I fixed us a salad with a balsamic vinaigrette and kept plates ready for dessert (Coffee Walnut Cake) and mugs ready for coffee. Then, I sat to watch Jude The Obscure on DVD.
Ian arrived rather later than expected (thanks to glitches on the DLR--the Docklands Light Railway) but was so delighted to find that my building is just a hop away from the Tube stairwell. He informed me that it was freezing outside and when he stuck his head outside my window to admire the view, we actually saw cars covered with a light dusting and we realized that London had seen her first sprinkling of snow for the season--rather early in the year, I thought, with some dismay. We had a companionable evening together as Ian told me about his conference and the places he has been seeing in the evening as he has taken the Tube into Central London to make the most of his brief visit. After he left, I washed and cleared up and massaged my feet again before I readied myself for bed.
I had told Llew, somewhat excitedly, after I returned from the session, about my encounter with Megan Sumner and both of us rejoiced that the prognosis was so inspiring. All thanks to my dear classmate Dr. Chandra Hegde, a pediatrician in Dartford, Kent, who when I spoke to her last night, strongly recommended that I see a private physiotherapist because she said, "they are very good and will show you exactly how to handle this condition". How right she was! Chandra, I owe you big time...but I will tell her that tomorrow.
For the moment, I am ready to hit the sack in a state of complete exhilaration!
London
I cannot even begin to describe what a change in mental attitude I have had in the past 24 hours! In a day that began as depressingly as most of those of the last week, I called my GP, Dr. Steven Yaxley, to obtain a referral to a private Physiotherapist as I didn't think it made any sense to wait more than 2 months for an appointment with an NHS one. Well, within an hour, I had the name and address of a Physiotherapy clinic just steps away from my flat and I got an appointment within a couple of hours! Fancy that! It would cost me 75 pounds for the hour long consultation, but I am grateful for Aetna Global Insurance which covers private treatment when I am overseas and will reimburse me after I make a claim.
I spent a couple of hours at my office on campus printing out some material and working on the syllabus for my Writing II course for next semester. The Dr. Scholls Gel Arch Supports that I picked up from Boots last night and inserted into my sneakers felt so uncomfortable initially but in about a half hour, I got into my stride (pun unintended!) and there I was, feeling the good that the 'boost' was doing for me.
When I arrived on Chancery Lane at the London Silver Vaults Building, I was met at the reception by a clerk who requested me to fill a registration form. Within ten minutes, I was being welcomed by Megan Sumner, the physiotherapist from New Zealand who spent over an hour with me discovering the history of my ailment, the treatment I have been following and explaining to me exactly why and how far I have been injured. Then she examined my feet and legs and congratulated me warmly on the care I have taken of myself over the past week, informing me that I have made her task so simple as I have already effected a semi-cure and am halfway to the finishing line.
Her words were like music to my ears and I felt my spirits rising by the second as she pronounced her prognosis. I will probably be completely well in six to eight weeks time. I can now start to get out and walk around and lead a normal life without exerting my feet unduly or pushing myself beyond the point of comfort. I can stop using the ibuprofen gel except in cases of serious pain. I can step up my exercise routine and get on to more challenging ones that will strengthen my calf muscles and Achilles tendon and loosen all the 'knots' that have tightened around my ankles as the inflammation has been healing. I should continue to wear the arch support in my shoes while I am walking and I should roll a Coke bottle filled with hot water twice a day under my arches in order to step up the circulation of blood in my soles or I should manually give myself a foot massage. She told me that I can certainly go to Greece and have as normal a vacation as I had planned without overdoing the physical exertion and I should see her once more upon my return.The foot and leg massage was one of the most relaxing, comforting, yet stimulating things I have had done in a long time and I left her office feeling far happier than I have felt in days.
When I got home to continue to work on my syllabus, I figured that I would skip seeing Ken Loach's film at the British Film Institute tonight as I had already done plenty of walking for one day. I decided instead to call Ian to find out if he wanted to come for dinner to my place tonight instead of tomorrow. As it turned out, tonight worked better for him. Luckily, Sainsbury's is just two blocks away from my place and I returned home with a Diet Coke for him (his favorite brew) and a boxed package--Sainsburys Indian meal for Two comprising 4 Vegetable Samosas, 2 Naans, Saffron Pillau, Chicken Korma and Chicken Tikka Masala--in a handy-dandy container for only 6. 00 pounds! It was the most incredible value for money. It is certainly possible to get bargains such as these even in British supermarkets where everything seems so much higher priced that at our Americans ones. As I laid the table and prepared for Ian's arrival, I fixed us a salad with a balsamic vinaigrette and kept plates ready for dessert (Coffee Walnut Cake) and mugs ready for coffee. Then, I sat to watch Jude The Obscure on DVD.
Ian arrived rather later than expected (thanks to glitches on the DLR--the Docklands Light Railway) but was so delighted to find that my building is just a hop away from the Tube stairwell. He informed me that it was freezing outside and when he stuck his head outside my window to admire the view, we actually saw cars covered with a light dusting and we realized that London had seen her first sprinkling of snow for the season--rather early in the year, I thought, with some dismay. We had a companionable evening together as Ian told me about his conference and the places he has been seeing in the evening as he has taken the Tube into Central London to make the most of his brief visit. After he left, I washed and cleared up and massaged my feet again before I readied myself for bed.
I had told Llew, somewhat excitedly, after I returned from the session, about my encounter with Megan Sumner and both of us rejoiced that the prognosis was so inspiring. All thanks to my dear classmate Dr. Chandra Hegde, a pediatrician in Dartford, Kent, who when I spoke to her last night, strongly recommended that I see a private physiotherapist because she said, "they are very good and will show you exactly how to handle this condition". How right she was! Chandra, I owe you big time...but I will tell her that tomorrow.
For the moment, I am ready to hit the sack in a state of complete exhilaration!
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Riches of Richmond
Monday, October 27, 2008
Richmond and London
Exactly a week after I first began foot exercises, I awoke feeling a looseness in the muscles of my calves and hamstrings which, I hope, is a positive sign. My body clock woke me at 6 am, leaving me a whole hour in which to catch up with email and send out Diwali messages to my Hindu friends all over the world for whom the Goddess of Light and Wealth, Laxmi, will be arriving at the start of another New Year.
With breakfast done, I began to get myself organized for my trip to Richmond to meet Dorothy Dady, a second-generation Anglo-Indian photographer in the UK whose interest in her community led her to publish a splendid coffee table edition entitled Scattered Seeds: The Anglo-Indian Diaspora.
It was a long and complicated journey by Tube--first the Central Line to Notting Hill, then a change to the District Line to Earl's Court from where I got a train going forward to Richmond. Dorothy arrived a few minutes later in her spiffy black car and drove me through the beautiful suburb of Richmond to a local pub called the Lass 'O Richmond Hill past some of the most expensive real estate in the area including the home of Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall that overlooks a bend in the River Thames. The pub was atmospheric in the extreme with a low beamed ceiling and furniture that was shiny with use. We settled down to chat over coffee and hot chocolate and Dorothy began to speak candidly and thoughtfully about her life as an Anglo-Indian in the UK. I am amazed how much I learn with each interview that I conduct and how many insights I gain by exposing myself to a variety of individual experiences.
Before she dropped me back to the Station, Dorothy was kind enough to drive me around the famous Richmond Park, the largest expanse of park land within London. This was the stomping ground of King Henry VIII and his sporting pals who hunted deer in these environs. So it was with delight that I spied huge herds of deer all over the Park--deer whose pictures I clicked every so often. Autumn leaves were scattered in crinkly dried carpets along the walking paths where people led their dogs on leashes or pedalled on their bikes. It was a lovely morning, brisker than it has been these past weeks, and I was grateful for the cashmere scarf that I pulled on before I left my flat. Once we were outside the park, Dorothy took me past the Thames at Richmond Hill once again so I could take a few more pictures of the gold that has tinged the tree-tops and made the season glow.
Then, I was on the Tube headed back to the city. My legs, though still feeling shaky beneath me, seemed to stand the journey stoically and except for the last ten minutes when my right foot began to ache, I did okay. Back home, I pampered them a little with a warm water soak and an application of the ibuprofen gel before I curled up in bed to catch up with my email. But within a couple of hours, I had to leave again to attend a meeting at NYU's campus with Fred Schwarzbach, our Dean who is visiting London from New York.
Before I arrived at the meeting, however, I popped into Boots to pick up the Dr. Scholl Gel Arch Supports that I had special-ordered yesterday. I am hoping that they will bring my aching feet much needed relief and will speed up my healing process.
Walking rather slowly from Tottenham Court Road, I arrived at our Bedford Square campus where we had a nice dinner meeting with wine and beer, sandwiches and wraps, at which several of our faculty members had a chance to interact with each other. Beth Haymaker, our Study Abroad Coordinator was also present and when she and Fred heard about my diagnosis, they both told me that they have heard of this condition rather frequently and that it is fully curable with time and patience. Both of them told me that I am looking at approximately two months of discomfort but that it will slowly disappear. I was so heartened by their prognosis that I gladly welcomed Fred's suggestion that we adjourn after the meeting for a drink. My colleague Karen Karbeiner joined in and the four of us gathered at the Museum Tavern right opposite the British Museum where over a half pint of Guinness and some red wine, we talked shop for a long while before moving on to lighter subjects.
I caught the bus back home and because it was dark and I am still unfamiliar with the bus stops, I got off, by mistake, one stop before I intended! Still, this allowed me to pop into M&S Simply Food for some milk before I arrived home to indulge in another foot soak and ibuprofen massage.
Of course, I could not sleep without giving Llew an update on my condition and it was while I was almost nodding off that we called off and said Goodnight. I realize that with Daylight Savings Time, it is now getting dark by 5 pm and when my wrist watch shows 11. 30pm, it is actually past midnight. Ok, time to call a halt to my musing!
Richmond and London
Exactly a week after I first began foot exercises, I awoke feeling a looseness in the muscles of my calves and hamstrings which, I hope, is a positive sign. My body clock woke me at 6 am, leaving me a whole hour in which to catch up with email and send out Diwali messages to my Hindu friends all over the world for whom the Goddess of Light and Wealth, Laxmi, will be arriving at the start of another New Year.
With breakfast done, I began to get myself organized for my trip to Richmond to meet Dorothy Dady, a second-generation Anglo-Indian photographer in the UK whose interest in her community led her to publish a splendid coffee table edition entitled Scattered Seeds: The Anglo-Indian Diaspora.
It was a long and complicated journey by Tube--first the Central Line to Notting Hill, then a change to the District Line to Earl's Court from where I got a train going forward to Richmond. Dorothy arrived a few minutes later in her spiffy black car and drove me through the beautiful suburb of Richmond to a local pub called the Lass 'O Richmond Hill past some of the most expensive real estate in the area including the home of Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall that overlooks a bend in the River Thames. The pub was atmospheric in the extreme with a low beamed ceiling and furniture that was shiny with use. We settled down to chat over coffee and hot chocolate and Dorothy began to speak candidly and thoughtfully about her life as an Anglo-Indian in the UK. I am amazed how much I learn with each interview that I conduct and how many insights I gain by exposing myself to a variety of individual experiences.
Before she dropped me back to the Station, Dorothy was kind enough to drive me around the famous Richmond Park, the largest expanse of park land within London. This was the stomping ground of King Henry VIII and his sporting pals who hunted deer in these environs. So it was with delight that I spied huge herds of deer all over the Park--deer whose pictures I clicked every so often. Autumn leaves were scattered in crinkly dried carpets along the walking paths where people led their dogs on leashes or pedalled on their bikes. It was a lovely morning, brisker than it has been these past weeks, and I was grateful for the cashmere scarf that I pulled on before I left my flat. Once we were outside the park, Dorothy took me past the Thames at Richmond Hill once again so I could take a few more pictures of the gold that has tinged the tree-tops and made the season glow.
Then, I was on the Tube headed back to the city. My legs, though still feeling shaky beneath me, seemed to stand the journey stoically and except for the last ten minutes when my right foot began to ache, I did okay. Back home, I pampered them a little with a warm water soak and an application of the ibuprofen gel before I curled up in bed to catch up with my email. But within a couple of hours, I had to leave again to attend a meeting at NYU's campus with Fred Schwarzbach, our Dean who is visiting London from New York.
Before I arrived at the meeting, however, I popped into Boots to pick up the Dr. Scholl Gel Arch Supports that I had special-ordered yesterday. I am hoping that they will bring my aching feet much needed relief and will speed up my healing process.
Walking rather slowly from Tottenham Court Road, I arrived at our Bedford Square campus where we had a nice dinner meeting with wine and beer, sandwiches and wraps, at which several of our faculty members had a chance to interact with each other. Beth Haymaker, our Study Abroad Coordinator was also present and when she and Fred heard about my diagnosis, they both told me that they have heard of this condition rather frequently and that it is fully curable with time and patience. Both of them told me that I am looking at approximately two months of discomfort but that it will slowly disappear. I was so heartened by their prognosis that I gladly welcomed Fred's suggestion that we adjourn after the meeting for a drink. My colleague Karen Karbeiner joined in and the four of us gathered at the Museum Tavern right opposite the British Museum where over a half pint of Guinness and some red wine, we talked shop for a long while before moving on to lighter subjects.
I caught the bus back home and because it was dark and I am still unfamiliar with the bus stops, I got off, by mistake, one stop before I intended! Still, this allowed me to pop into M&S Simply Food for some milk before I arrived home to indulge in another foot soak and ibuprofen massage.
Of course, I could not sleep without giving Llew an update on my condition and it was while I was almost nodding off that we called off and said Goodnight. I realize that with Daylight Savings Time, it is now getting dark by 5 pm and when my wrist watch shows 11. 30pm, it is actually past midnight. Ok, time to call a halt to my musing!
Messin' Around on Red Double Decker Buses
Sunday, October 26, 2008
London
What do you do when you awake to a washout of a day with rain streaming down your window panes? What do you do when you have a foot ailment that prevents too much standing or walking and a friend from America in town? Why, you mess around on the double decker buses, of course. In fact, you study your bus route map and find the one that takes the most circuitous route around the city so that you can offer your friend a sight seeing tour without getting into the downpour.
So I met Ian outside St. Paul's Cathedral--which allowed both of us to pay a visit inside. He arrived with a steaming cup of Starbuck's Tea in his hand, having overslept and missing his full English breakfast; but then he thankfully remembered that he had gained an hour through the night as we set our clocks back.
I, remaining oblivious to this fact, had called him at his hotel at 10 am, only to discover that it was still 9 am. Still, with the extra hour working in our favor, we walked to Ludgate Hill--me gingerly, trying not to put too much pressure on my feet--where I was thrilled to see the old Routemaster buses plying on the opposite side. These are the red double deckers sans doors. You jump on and off at will through the back door, clinging on to the bar for dear life. It's the kind of double decker bus with which I grew up in Bombay and they take me nostalgically back to those childhood days when that was my only mode of conveyance around the city.
Route No. 11 arrived before long and we clambered upstairs to start our ride along Fleet Street, once synonymous with the biggest names in British newspaper publication. Then, of course, when the Fourth Estate discovered that they could not wire up those old graded buildings for modern telecommunications, they departed, lock, stock and barrel, for Canary Wharf where the concrete jungle emerged to tower over the Thames. The name Grub Street still holds good and Dr. Samuel Johnson's home still lies hidden in a crevice behind one of the alleys, approached quite easily through his favorite watering hole, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.
Then, we were at Trafalgar Square, offered a quick glimpse of a choir singing on the bleachers as the bus turned into Whitehall, allowing a peak at the Horse Guards and the tourist throngs around them. When Big Ben and Westminster drew into sight, Ian got visibly excited and told me that Jenny and Kristen, his wife and daughter, who will be in London with me for a few days in December en route to Bombay, should take this bus ride too. Through Victoria and Sloan Square and then the King's Road and Fulham, we trundled slowly as the rain poured down more copiously.
At this point, mention of Harrods came up and Ian asked me if I had seen the Diana-Dodi Memorial in the store. I told him that I hadn't yet been to Harrods since my arrival, six weeks ago, in London. "But I'd love to go today, if you'd like to", I said. "Sure", he agreed, "but what I'd really like to do is go for chaat to this Indian place that Jenny and I always visit when we are here in London. I even found the phone number for you". And so we decided to peak into Harrods, then take the Tube to Euston Square to go in search of Diwana Bhel Puri House on Drummond Street.
On the No. 14 bus heading towards Knightsbridge from Fulham, we rode through Old Brompton Road and Fulham Road and I felt that old urge tug once more at my heartstrings to get off the bus and explore the shops on foot. Then, I remembered my disability and suppressed the urge that had put me in this position in the first place! Another day perhaps.
We also passed by a double row of mounted police trotting down the road on horseback wearing the flourescent green waistcoats of security personnel. I wondered where they were headed when just a few meters away, we started to see throngs of people progressing in the same direction, strangely attired in uniform navy blue and white colors. "This has to be some kind of sporting event", I told Ian, as the crowds gathered strength. Then, right enough, the bus was held stationery in traffic created by the big football match being played that morning at the Chelsea Football Club's Stadium which appeared on our left. The navy blue and white are the colors of the local home team and the fans were out in droves to cheer their favorites. It was fun to see that--the navy blue umbrellas, the striped blue and white scarves, the two-colored jerseys and cardigans and sweat shirts. The English sure do love their football and passions run wild when the home team is on the field.
The bus stopped right in front of Harrods, where, to my astonishment, I realized that Christmas had already arrived! Giant red wreaths decorated the main floor that, recession or no recession, financial meltdown or no meltdown, credit crunch or no credit crunch, was simply choked with buyers or mere window shoppers, or just browsers--who knows? What I do know is that we had to literally elbow our way through the throngs to get to the back of the parfumerie where a small escalator led us downwards to the Diana-Dodi Memorial.
Immortalized in Italian marble, pictures of the star-crossed lovers form the focal point of a small monument that is made solemn by the use of candles and a lilting fountain. What I thought was a little too much, however, was a diamond ring placed in the very front in a glass case. Was this the ring that Dodi al-Fayed was supposed to have given Diana only days before their deaths? Well, that to me was really a bit much. It is one thing to remember one's son and his girl friend through a memorial but, in my humble opinion, to try to perpetuate the myth that the two were engaged to be married by placing that ring in the public eye is in bad taste.
Before long, we were headed Underground to Euston where we found Diwana easily enough and passed on the weekend buffet to make a meal of the chaat and kulfi. With sev batata puri and dahi bhale, a mixed platter of starters, mango juice and malai kulfi, we were replete and ready, once again, to walk out into the rain. We parted company soon after, with Ian heading for his conference and me going home, feeling extraordinarily fulfilled from having had such an interesting afternoon.
Back home, I graded a batch of student papers before settling down to watch some great TV--Charles Dickens's Little Dorrit is in serial form on BBC1 (I had always dreamed of spending my evenings in London curled up with good Victorian fiction on the telly and tonight I have Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure to anticipate, thanks to Love Films.Com). Then Stephen Fry came on offering his Tour of the American States which continued yesterday with his sojourn across the Deep South. This is truly an interesting look at American life because Fry has avoided all the cliches and is presenting glimpses into aspects of Americana with which even I am unfamiliar--such as voodoo in New Orleans, the country's largest penitentiary in Kentucky, and Morgan Freeman's club Ground Zero in Mississippi, Home of the Blues.
One long chat with Llew later, I called it a night.
London
What do you do when you awake to a washout of a day with rain streaming down your window panes? What do you do when you have a foot ailment that prevents too much standing or walking and a friend from America in town? Why, you mess around on the double decker buses, of course. In fact, you study your bus route map and find the one that takes the most circuitous route around the city so that you can offer your friend a sight seeing tour without getting into the downpour.
So I met Ian outside St. Paul's Cathedral--which allowed both of us to pay a visit inside. He arrived with a steaming cup of Starbuck's Tea in his hand, having overslept and missing his full English breakfast; but then he thankfully remembered that he had gained an hour through the night as we set our clocks back.
I, remaining oblivious to this fact, had called him at his hotel at 10 am, only to discover that it was still 9 am. Still, with the extra hour working in our favor, we walked to Ludgate Hill--me gingerly, trying not to put too much pressure on my feet--where I was thrilled to see the old Routemaster buses plying on the opposite side. These are the red double deckers sans doors. You jump on and off at will through the back door, clinging on to the bar for dear life. It's the kind of double decker bus with which I grew up in Bombay and they take me nostalgically back to those childhood days when that was my only mode of conveyance around the city.
Route No. 11 arrived before long and we clambered upstairs to start our ride along Fleet Street, once synonymous with the biggest names in British newspaper publication. Then, of course, when the Fourth Estate discovered that they could not wire up those old graded buildings for modern telecommunications, they departed, lock, stock and barrel, for Canary Wharf where the concrete jungle emerged to tower over the Thames. The name Grub Street still holds good and Dr. Samuel Johnson's home still lies hidden in a crevice behind one of the alleys, approached quite easily through his favorite watering hole, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese.
Then, we were at Trafalgar Square, offered a quick glimpse of a choir singing on the bleachers as the bus turned into Whitehall, allowing a peak at the Horse Guards and the tourist throngs around them. When Big Ben and Westminster drew into sight, Ian got visibly excited and told me that Jenny and Kristen, his wife and daughter, who will be in London with me for a few days in December en route to Bombay, should take this bus ride too. Through Victoria and Sloan Square and then the King's Road and Fulham, we trundled slowly as the rain poured down more copiously.
At this point, mention of Harrods came up and Ian asked me if I had seen the Diana-Dodi Memorial in the store. I told him that I hadn't yet been to Harrods since my arrival, six weeks ago, in London. "But I'd love to go today, if you'd like to", I said. "Sure", he agreed, "but what I'd really like to do is go for chaat to this Indian place that Jenny and I always visit when we are here in London. I even found the phone number for you". And so we decided to peak into Harrods, then take the Tube to Euston Square to go in search of Diwana Bhel Puri House on Drummond Street.
On the No. 14 bus heading towards Knightsbridge from Fulham, we rode through Old Brompton Road and Fulham Road and I felt that old urge tug once more at my heartstrings to get off the bus and explore the shops on foot. Then, I remembered my disability and suppressed the urge that had put me in this position in the first place! Another day perhaps.
We also passed by a double row of mounted police trotting down the road on horseback wearing the flourescent green waistcoats of security personnel. I wondered where they were headed when just a few meters away, we started to see throngs of people progressing in the same direction, strangely attired in uniform navy blue and white colors. "This has to be some kind of sporting event", I told Ian, as the crowds gathered strength. Then, right enough, the bus was held stationery in traffic created by the big football match being played that morning at the Chelsea Football Club's Stadium which appeared on our left. The navy blue and white are the colors of the local home team and the fans were out in droves to cheer their favorites. It was fun to see that--the navy blue umbrellas, the striped blue and white scarves, the two-colored jerseys and cardigans and sweat shirts. The English sure do love their football and passions run wild when the home team is on the field.
The bus stopped right in front of Harrods, where, to my astonishment, I realized that Christmas had already arrived! Giant red wreaths decorated the main floor that, recession or no recession, financial meltdown or no meltdown, credit crunch or no credit crunch, was simply choked with buyers or mere window shoppers, or just browsers--who knows? What I do know is that we had to literally elbow our way through the throngs to get to the back of the parfumerie where a small escalator led us downwards to the Diana-Dodi Memorial.
Immortalized in Italian marble, pictures of the star-crossed lovers form the focal point of a small monument that is made solemn by the use of candles and a lilting fountain. What I thought was a little too much, however, was a diamond ring placed in the very front in a glass case. Was this the ring that Dodi al-Fayed was supposed to have given Diana only days before their deaths? Well, that to me was really a bit much. It is one thing to remember one's son and his girl friend through a memorial but, in my humble opinion, to try to perpetuate the myth that the two were engaged to be married by placing that ring in the public eye is in bad taste.
Before long, we were headed Underground to Euston where we found Diwana easily enough and passed on the weekend buffet to make a meal of the chaat and kulfi. With sev batata puri and dahi bhale, a mixed platter of starters, mango juice and malai kulfi, we were replete and ready, once again, to walk out into the rain. We parted company soon after, with Ian heading for his conference and me going home, feeling extraordinarily fulfilled from having had such an interesting afternoon.
Back home, I graded a batch of student papers before settling down to watch some great TV--Charles Dickens's Little Dorrit is in serial form on BBC1 (I had always dreamed of spending my evenings in London curled up with good Victorian fiction on the telly and tonight I have Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure to anticipate, thanks to Love Films.Com). Then Stephen Fry came on offering his Tour of the American States which continued yesterday with his sojourn across the Deep South. This is truly an interesting look at American life because Fry has avoided all the cliches and is presenting glimpses into aspects of Americana with which even I am unfamiliar--such as voodoo in New Orleans, the country's largest penitentiary in Kentucky, and Morgan Freeman's club Ground Zero in Mississippi, Home of the Blues.
One long chat with Llew later, I called it a night.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The Two Ians
Saturday, October 25, 2008
London
High Holborn is like a churchyard on Saturdays at dawn when the legal world grinds to a halt for the weekend respite. Having fallen into something of a routine by now, I awake before it is quite daylight, snap on the table lamp and read in bed for a hour--right now, I am devouring The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards which my own daughter Chriselle pressed upon me as I said my goodbyes to her upon my exit from the States. She had raved about it and said she knew that I would love it. And she is right--I am enjoying every word. It is an intriguing plot indeed that is bolstered by a lyrical writing style and while I want to know what happens next, I am pausing frequently to admire the elegant turn of phrase.
Then, I switch on my PC and check my email (only that part of it that has originated from the East has reached me by this point in the day ). If it is urgent, I respond right away; if it can wait, I turn over and climb out of bed. Force of habit (one my Dad inculcated in me decades ago), motivates me to make my bed right away--this means nothing more than straightening the down comforter in its waffle weave buttermilk duvet cover, then reaching for my sneakers (a very new development) so that I pad on cushioned comfort towards the bathroom.
I have to say that I thoroughly enjoy my morning shower because my bathroom is so comfortingly white, clean and uncluttered--never knew I would ever appreciate domestic minimalism, but it has grown on me. The shower head is wonderfully voluminous and the temperature just perfectly right--some might say a little too steamy--and because I have never been one to linger in the bath, I am toweling myself dry in five minutes. At precisely this time, the automatic fan comes on and clears the room of accumulated steam. It is a contraption that then whirs rhythmically on for the the next half hour. I even have a towel warming rack in my bathroom which is the height of luxury to me and by this time, when it is close to 9. 30 (or "half nine" as they say here), I pad into the kitchen to switch on the Gold Channel on TV that is currently showing reruns of Britain's best-loved sitcoms. As Time Goes By comes on at 9. 20. On days when I arrive in the kitchen about 9 am, I get the last bits of BBC's Breakfast show which allows me to catch snippets of the news as well as the weather forecast. So it is a leisurely routine, sans alarm clocks or household traffic to disturb me. With a large bowl of cereal and sometimes a cup of coffee, I am ready to start work about 10 am and then I work steadily till
1. 30 or 2 .00 pm at which time I stop for a sandwich or salad lunch.
While I used to enjoy a daily afternoon nap at home in Connecticut, I have given up naps here altogether as I did not want to waste any of my precious time in London sleeping during the day! I have continued to work at my PC through the afternoon, stopping to watch a film from my Love Film selections at lunchtime. Occasionally,I pause for a cup of herbal tea and a snack at 5pm, but most times I do not even do that. Instead, I work through the day until about 7.30 or 8. 00pm by which time I am ready to relax with a movie and a bit of dinner. As long as I am able to get work done, I do not mind being cooped up in the house all day. Since my foot affliction began, I have been punctuating this routine with foot exercises and massages, chats on the phone with Llew and my parents and pouring over the web to find out all the happenings in London that I am missing.
Not that I have allowed myself to stray too far away from the theater. This afternoon, for instance, I left the house at 2.00 pm for another memorable theatrical show. Just a little earlier, I received a call from Ian Seqeuira, a close family friend from New Jersey, who is in London for a week-long conference. He had just checked into his hotel and wondered what my plans were for the rest of the day. I told him that I was about to leave my place for Shaftesbury Avenue to see Luigi Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of An Author. Ian and I made plans to meet about 5. 30 pm at the theater. I got there easily enough by Tube and found myself in the marvelous Gielgud Theater, named, of course, for the legendary Sir John Gielgud, whom I always associate with the role of Lord Irvin in Richard Attenborough's Gandhi.
There is something superbly special about these London theaters--they are just so strikingly opulent. Located right off Piccadilly Circus, the Gielgud is all stained glass and wrought iron on the outside and a combination of stately columns, gilded plasterwork and painted frescoes within. Fat cherubs cavort on the walls amidst skeins and floral garlands and the carpeted floors make the space old-fashioned yet very elegant. My seat in the Stalls was, as the English would say, "not too bad", but then, just minutes before the curtain call, we were told we could occupy the empty seats in front. This put me just about 10 seats from the stage, much to my delight.
Pirandello's plays with their Post-Modernist twists are challenging at the best of times, but in the hands of Rupert Gold and Ben Power, this one became intensely cerebral to the point where I felt the need to read a few of the reviews to make complete sense of what was happening. For me, the biggest attraction was the presence, in the main role, of Ian McDiamid, former Artistic Director of the Almeida Theater in Islington. He played the Father in the play so incredibly well that he carried the play off independently but was ably assisted by Noma Dumezweni who played the Producer. The play within a play within a play was so complex as to leave the audience completely baffled yet bowled over by the sheer technical brilliance. I cannot wait to read the reviews tomorrow. Suffice it to say that by the end of the performance, I was so swept away by the intricacies of plot as to be overwhelmed by them.
I met two people in the lobby outside while waiting for Ian to arrive (thankfully on a chair so I was prevented from straining my feet)--Dan, one if my NYU students who had arrived to attend the 7. 30 pm show and Noma whom I ran after to compliment upon a truly great performance. When I told her that McDiamid was amazing but that she matched him scene for scene in histrionic virtuosity, she almost hugged me--so pleased was she by my assessment. We spent several moments chatting during which she revealed to me that she has had no formal training in Acting whatsoever but has been "learning loads" on the job itself.
After a half hour, the other Ian arrived--Ian Sequeira and we took leave of Dan to go to Costa, a coffee shop just opposite the theater as I could not do much walking. We settled down with a pot of tea for him and a hot chocolate for me and chatted incessantly, catching up with all that has transpired in our respective family lives since we last met at my birthday bash at Southport in July. Indeed we had so much to say that, before we knew it, it was almost 8 pm and we decided to grab a small bite in Vietnamese House, a restaurant right around the corner. There, over hot soup and Pork Spring Rolls, we continued chatting until at 9. pm, then decided to call it a day. We took the Tube together and while I hopped off at Chancery Lane, Ian carried on to Canary Wharf where his hotel and his conference are based.
We have made plans to meet again tomorrow morning and since I cannot do any walking, we've decided to take the Route 11 bus that goes from Bank right across London from East to West offering perhaps the cheapest tourist trip that could possibly exist.
In spending a stimulating evening with the Two Ians, I realize that I managed to take my mind completely off my ailment and truly felt as I could take it in my stride--ooooh, awful pun that and so unintended!
And so to bed...
London
High Holborn is like a churchyard on Saturdays at dawn when the legal world grinds to a halt for the weekend respite. Having fallen into something of a routine by now, I awake before it is quite daylight, snap on the table lamp and read in bed for a hour--right now, I am devouring The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards which my own daughter Chriselle pressed upon me as I said my goodbyes to her upon my exit from the States. She had raved about it and said she knew that I would love it. And she is right--I am enjoying every word. It is an intriguing plot indeed that is bolstered by a lyrical writing style and while I want to know what happens next, I am pausing frequently to admire the elegant turn of phrase.
Then, I switch on my PC and check my email (only that part of it that has originated from the East has reached me by this point in the day ). If it is urgent, I respond right away; if it can wait, I turn over and climb out of bed. Force of habit (one my Dad inculcated in me decades ago), motivates me to make my bed right away--this means nothing more than straightening the down comforter in its waffle weave buttermilk duvet cover, then reaching for my sneakers (a very new development) so that I pad on cushioned comfort towards the bathroom.
I have to say that I thoroughly enjoy my morning shower because my bathroom is so comfortingly white, clean and uncluttered--never knew I would ever appreciate domestic minimalism, but it has grown on me. The shower head is wonderfully voluminous and the temperature just perfectly right--some might say a little too steamy--and because I have never been one to linger in the bath, I am toweling myself dry in five minutes. At precisely this time, the automatic fan comes on and clears the room of accumulated steam. It is a contraption that then whirs rhythmically on for the the next half hour. I even have a towel warming rack in my bathroom which is the height of luxury to me and by this time, when it is close to 9. 30 (or "half nine" as they say here), I pad into the kitchen to switch on the Gold Channel on TV that is currently showing reruns of Britain's best-loved sitcoms. As Time Goes By comes on at 9. 20. On days when I arrive in the kitchen about 9 am, I get the last bits of BBC's Breakfast show which allows me to catch snippets of the news as well as the weather forecast. So it is a leisurely routine, sans alarm clocks or household traffic to disturb me. With a large bowl of cereal and sometimes a cup of coffee, I am ready to start work about 10 am and then I work steadily till
1. 30 or 2 .00 pm at which time I stop for a sandwich or salad lunch.
While I used to enjoy a daily afternoon nap at home in Connecticut, I have given up naps here altogether as I did not want to waste any of my precious time in London sleeping during the day! I have continued to work at my PC through the afternoon, stopping to watch a film from my Love Film selections at lunchtime. Occasionally,I pause for a cup of herbal tea and a snack at 5pm, but most times I do not even do that. Instead, I work through the day until about 7.30 or 8. 00pm by which time I am ready to relax with a movie and a bit of dinner. As long as I am able to get work done, I do not mind being cooped up in the house all day. Since my foot affliction began, I have been punctuating this routine with foot exercises and massages, chats on the phone with Llew and my parents and pouring over the web to find out all the happenings in London that I am missing.
Not that I have allowed myself to stray too far away from the theater. This afternoon, for instance, I left the house at 2.00 pm for another memorable theatrical show. Just a little earlier, I received a call from Ian Seqeuira, a close family friend from New Jersey, who is in London for a week-long conference. He had just checked into his hotel and wondered what my plans were for the rest of the day. I told him that I was about to leave my place for Shaftesbury Avenue to see Luigi Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of An Author. Ian and I made plans to meet about 5. 30 pm at the theater. I got there easily enough by Tube and found myself in the marvelous Gielgud Theater, named, of course, for the legendary Sir John Gielgud, whom I always associate with the role of Lord Irvin in Richard Attenborough's Gandhi.
There is something superbly special about these London theaters--they are just so strikingly opulent. Located right off Piccadilly Circus, the Gielgud is all stained glass and wrought iron on the outside and a combination of stately columns, gilded plasterwork and painted frescoes within. Fat cherubs cavort on the walls amidst skeins and floral garlands and the carpeted floors make the space old-fashioned yet very elegant. My seat in the Stalls was, as the English would say, "not too bad", but then, just minutes before the curtain call, we were told we could occupy the empty seats in front. This put me just about 10 seats from the stage, much to my delight.
Pirandello's plays with their Post-Modernist twists are challenging at the best of times, but in the hands of Rupert Gold and Ben Power, this one became intensely cerebral to the point where I felt the need to read a few of the reviews to make complete sense of what was happening. For me, the biggest attraction was the presence, in the main role, of Ian McDiamid, former Artistic Director of the Almeida Theater in Islington. He played the Father in the play so incredibly well that he carried the play off independently but was ably assisted by Noma Dumezweni who played the Producer. The play within a play within a play was so complex as to leave the audience completely baffled yet bowled over by the sheer technical brilliance. I cannot wait to read the reviews tomorrow. Suffice it to say that by the end of the performance, I was so swept away by the intricacies of plot as to be overwhelmed by them.
I met two people in the lobby outside while waiting for Ian to arrive (thankfully on a chair so I was prevented from straining my feet)--Dan, one if my NYU students who had arrived to attend the 7. 30 pm show and Noma whom I ran after to compliment upon a truly great performance. When I told her that McDiamid was amazing but that she matched him scene for scene in histrionic virtuosity, she almost hugged me--so pleased was she by my assessment. We spent several moments chatting during which she revealed to me that she has had no formal training in Acting whatsoever but has been "learning loads" on the job itself.
After a half hour, the other Ian arrived--Ian Sequeira and we took leave of Dan to go to Costa, a coffee shop just opposite the theater as I could not do much walking. We settled down with a pot of tea for him and a hot chocolate for me and chatted incessantly, catching up with all that has transpired in our respective family lives since we last met at my birthday bash at Southport in July. Indeed we had so much to say that, before we knew it, it was almost 8 pm and we decided to grab a small bite in Vietnamese House, a restaurant right around the corner. There, over hot soup and Pork Spring Rolls, we continued chatting until at 9. pm, then decided to call it a day. We took the Tube together and while I hopped off at Chancery Lane, Ian carried on to Canary Wharf where his hotel and his conference are based.
We have made plans to meet again tomorrow morning and since I cannot do any walking, we've decided to take the Route 11 bus that goes from Bank right across London from East to West offering perhaps the cheapest tourist trip that could possibly exist.
In spending a stimulating evening with the Two Ians, I realize that I managed to take my mind completely off my ailment and truly felt as I could take it in my stride--ooooh, awful pun that and so unintended!
And so to bed...
Friday, October 24, 2008
French & Saunders--Live and Kicking...Butt!
Friday, October 24, 2008
London
What a rollicking evening I had at the Royal Theater today! I have just returned from a hysterically comedic evening in the company of two of the UK's funniest women--Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders who have been entertaining audiences on both sides of the Atlantic for the past thirty years. I, of course, got to know of the duo through PBS screenings of The Vicar of Dibley that starred French as Vicar Geraldine Grainger of the village of Dibley. That was it...I was so hooked on to her talents that I rented French and Saunders from the library and became introduced to her other half--Jennifer Saunders (who also had a huge hit with Absolutely Fabulous). Crashing through the essentially male world of stand-up comedy, this twosome hit the scene in the 70s and have been steadily at it for what seems like forever.
I was even more delighted to learn that while Dawn French might be the other half of Jennifer Saunders, she is the better half of comedian Lenny Henry (the arrogant, wordy, tell-it-like-it-is Chef Gareth Blackstock of Chef!)--the other show that I grew to love on PBS in the States. I was sorely disappointed that this limited engagement sell-out show had no seats available for any of the nights that Llew will be in London. So, I had to content myself with spending an evening guffawing--make that rolling in the aisles--at the Drury Lane Theater all on my own. But not for a second did I feel lonely, for I was in the company of legions of French & Saunders fans who hung on to their every antic, syllable and lyric in this fantastic celebration of their three decades in the limelight.
The Theater itself was a treat to visit. One of London's oldest theaters, it was constructed in the mid-1600s and rebuilt (after the Great Fire of London) by Sir Christopher Wren. From the foyer with its magnificent dome and glittering chandelier and the marble sculptures of the doyens of playwriting and drama (Shakespeare, Edward Kean, Balfe), to the interior with its ornate boxes, gilded plasterwork on ceiling and elaborate scroll decoration, the space is opulent and historic. Dickens was a frequent visitor to this theater as was Dr. Johnson and his constant companion Boswell.
Right opposite, is the famous candy store Hope and Greenwood with its unique chocolate creations (Lime Creams, Lavender Truffles, Strawberry and Black Pepper Chocolates and Squirrels which are chocolates that look like acorns !). But for the fact that I am trying to lose some weight--the less weight I carry upon my feet now, the better), I would have bought a pound and feasted on them all by myself!
But for this evening's excursion, I had been exceptionally good today, following doctor's orders and carrying out my routine of exercises and foot massages and rest. I graded a bunch of papers while stretched out in bed and took it nice and easy.
Indeed, I even managed to change the venue of my appointment this morning with retired Professor Lionel Caplan who taught South Asian Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies. We had fixed up to meet for coffee at 11 am at the British Library, but in view of my condition, Lionel agreed to come over to my flat. We sat down over cups of coffee and discussed his work among Anglo-Indians in Madras--the outcome of which is his excellent book, Children of Colonialism: Anglo-Indians in a Post-Colonial World. I have been greatly inspired by his work as a scholar and in the research I am conducting among Anglo-Indians in the UK, I pick up where he left off and examine the position of diasporic Anglo-Indian immigrants in the West. He very helpfully brought me a bunch of contacts that I can continue to tap as I delve deeper into my investigations, as well as suggested his former colleagues at SOAS who might be of assistance to me for the rest of my stay in London.
So I guess my day was intensely productive and, thanks to laptop technology, I am able to get a lot done even while confined to my flat. I am grateful for this and keep taking courage from the number of people, some in my own family, who are laboring right now under far worse health constraints. By keeping a positive attitude and looking for ways to take my mind off my affliction, I am hoping to heal, not just physically but psychologically as well. Llew is a tremendous help in this regard. He has been functioning as my coach, rahrah-ing me along, albeit through long-distance calls, and urging me to stay in high spirits. I cannot wait to see him next week this time and I keep thinking of all the fun things we will do together...God willing!
London
What a rollicking evening I had at the Royal Theater today! I have just returned from a hysterically comedic evening in the company of two of the UK's funniest women--Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders who have been entertaining audiences on both sides of the Atlantic for the past thirty years. I, of course, got to know of the duo through PBS screenings of The Vicar of Dibley that starred French as Vicar Geraldine Grainger of the village of Dibley. That was it...I was so hooked on to her talents that I rented French and Saunders from the library and became introduced to her other half--Jennifer Saunders (who also had a huge hit with Absolutely Fabulous). Crashing through the essentially male world of stand-up comedy, this twosome hit the scene in the 70s and have been steadily at it for what seems like forever.
I was even more delighted to learn that while Dawn French might be the other half of Jennifer Saunders, she is the better half of comedian Lenny Henry (the arrogant, wordy, tell-it-like-it-is Chef Gareth Blackstock of Chef!)--the other show that I grew to love on PBS in the States. I was sorely disappointed that this limited engagement sell-out show had no seats available for any of the nights that Llew will be in London. So, I had to content myself with spending an evening guffawing--make that rolling in the aisles--at the Drury Lane Theater all on my own. But not for a second did I feel lonely, for I was in the company of legions of French & Saunders fans who hung on to their every antic, syllable and lyric in this fantastic celebration of their three decades in the limelight.
The Theater itself was a treat to visit. One of London's oldest theaters, it was constructed in the mid-1600s and rebuilt (after the Great Fire of London) by Sir Christopher Wren. From the foyer with its magnificent dome and glittering chandelier and the marble sculptures of the doyens of playwriting and drama (Shakespeare, Edward Kean, Balfe), to the interior with its ornate boxes, gilded plasterwork on ceiling and elaborate scroll decoration, the space is opulent and historic. Dickens was a frequent visitor to this theater as was Dr. Johnson and his constant companion Boswell.
Right opposite, is the famous candy store Hope and Greenwood with its unique chocolate creations (Lime Creams, Lavender Truffles, Strawberry and Black Pepper Chocolates and Squirrels which are chocolates that look like acorns !). But for the fact that I am trying to lose some weight--the less weight I carry upon my feet now, the better), I would have bought a pound and feasted on them all by myself!
But for this evening's excursion, I had been exceptionally good today, following doctor's orders and carrying out my routine of exercises and foot massages and rest. I graded a bunch of papers while stretched out in bed and took it nice and easy.
Indeed, I even managed to change the venue of my appointment this morning with retired Professor Lionel Caplan who taught South Asian Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies. We had fixed up to meet for coffee at 11 am at the British Library, but in view of my condition, Lionel agreed to come over to my flat. We sat down over cups of coffee and discussed his work among Anglo-Indians in Madras--the outcome of which is his excellent book, Children of Colonialism: Anglo-Indians in a Post-Colonial World. I have been greatly inspired by his work as a scholar and in the research I am conducting among Anglo-Indians in the UK, I pick up where he left off and examine the position of diasporic Anglo-Indian immigrants in the West. He very helpfully brought me a bunch of contacts that I can continue to tap as I delve deeper into my investigations, as well as suggested his former colleagues at SOAS who might be of assistance to me for the rest of my stay in London.
So I guess my day was intensely productive and, thanks to laptop technology, I am able to get a lot done even while confined to my flat. I am grateful for this and keep taking courage from the number of people, some in my own family, who are laboring right now under far worse health constraints. By keeping a positive attitude and looking for ways to take my mind off my affliction, I am hoping to heal, not just physically but psychologically as well. Llew is a tremendous help in this regard. He has been functioning as my coach, rahrah-ing me along, albeit through long-distance calls, and urging me to stay in high spirits. I cannot wait to see him next week this time and I keep thinking of all the fun things we will do together...God willing!
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Turkish Thursday Dinner at Tas
Thursday, October 23, 2008
London
Having to stay off my feet as much as possible means making new discoveries--like which bus routes will get me to our Bedford Square campus, where the bus stops are located, how long the bus ride will be in peak hour rush. At 9 am, I hopped into the No. 242 to Tottenham Court Road that pulled up just as I got to the bus stop, which, thankfully, is just across the street from the entrance to Bishop House, my building. In less than ten minutes, I was at Bloomsbury Street and, ten minutes later, I was in my basement office. Funny, but after six weeks of being a Londoner of sorts, I am still discovering new ways to get to work!
I had a load of things to print out before class began, based on the large amount of work I accomplished through the week that I have been homebound. Karen, my colleague, came in a half hour later, inquired after my foot and wondered if I could keep our Thursday evening dinner date together. If the restaurant we choose is close enough, yes, I said. She chose Taz, a Turkish eatery on the corner of Bloomsbury and Great Russel Street and half way to my bus stop on my way home. It seemed like a great idea.
My classes went off well except that I also discovered that Plantar Fasciittis is common among sportsmen and women and dancers (and I have both categories among my students). The prognosis they gave me was heartening and depressing in turns. It seems that if diagnosed and treated early--mainly by staying off the foot and with exercises--it has good chances of healing. If foot rest is impossible, the condition can become chronic and create multiple aches and pains in the back, hips and calves as the condition can, in the long term, alter the way one walks. I tried hard not to allow myself to become too depressed by these reports and focussed instead on the account given me by Yvonne Hunkin, one of the administrators of our program, who told me that she was afflicted by the same condition two years ago but managed to lick it completely merely by following the exercises rigorously--and without even taking foot rest as she had to get to work and back each day and hung about buses and the Tube in the effort.
As luck would have it, students in both my classes today presented me with a ton of material to be graded during the coming week. This means that the load I would carry home would be heavier than usual but since I do not intend to get back to campus for at least a week, I put it all on my back and set out resolutely to get them safely home.
After I kept my office hours, I met Karen as planned at Tas, a restaurant that we have both passed several times en route to work. It was crowded though it was only 6. 30 pm. Karen chose red wine, I (in my attempt to stay away from sulphides to which I have developed an allergy) chose a beer. A quick look at the menu convinced us to get a sampler called the 'Yaz' which presented us with a variety of small dishes--aubergine, taboulleh, hummus, tsaziki, lima beans in yogurt and olive oil, mixed minced nuts in a tomato sauce, falafel and a spinach filled envelope similar to spanakopita. All this came with bread and as we nibbled our way through the exotic and very unfamiliar fare, we caught up with our plans for next week when our Fall Break begins. Llew and I will be in Greece, of course, while Karen and her husband Douglas will be off to Turkey--Istanbul and Ephesus and the Turkish coast. They have just returned from a trip to the Costa Del Sol in Spain (at the same time that I was in Barcelona) and are looking at covering Egypt during our Spring Break. I, of course, have decided not to look beyond the next couple of weeks as I know not where I stand--literally and figuratively! We finished our meal with some lovely coffee--Turkish coffee for Karen who is caffeine-addicted and a decaff cappuccino for me, and then, we said goodbye until Monday when we have a meeting with our Dean Fred Schwartzbach who is arriving from New York.
I found the bus stop on the way back easily enough and didn't wait for more than a minute before a Bendy bus came along--the newest vehicles on the London Transport network and supposedly soon to displace the famous red double deckers--I will, of course, rue the day that happens! But in ten minutes, I was back home, my feet feeling very tired from the sudden activity of the day. As I applied the ibuprofen gel, I felt somewhat defeated--I really did feel as if I had taken one step forward and two steps back. But, I'm trying hard to hold on to my optimism despite all the conflicting reports I received today about the treatment and cure of this condition.
I settled down to watch Noel Coward's Brief Encounter on Love Films because I was referred to it by the salesgirl at Persephone Books last Friday who told me that Nicola Beauman, the founder of the company, had been inspired by the character played by Celia Johnson in the film, to create a company that would reprint fiction by women that had been published between the Wars. However, I could only keep my eyes open through an hour of it, before I felt dreadfully tired and sleepy and decided to call it a day having chatted with Llew earlier in the day during my office hours.
I will have to wait until breakfast tomorrow to find out what happens to the couple involved in the clandestine extra-marital affair--the 'Brief Encounter' of the movie's title!
London
Having to stay off my feet as much as possible means making new discoveries--like which bus routes will get me to our Bedford Square campus, where the bus stops are located, how long the bus ride will be in peak hour rush. At 9 am, I hopped into the No. 242 to Tottenham Court Road that pulled up just as I got to the bus stop, which, thankfully, is just across the street from the entrance to Bishop House, my building. In less than ten minutes, I was at Bloomsbury Street and, ten minutes later, I was in my basement office. Funny, but after six weeks of being a Londoner of sorts, I am still discovering new ways to get to work!
I had a load of things to print out before class began, based on the large amount of work I accomplished through the week that I have been homebound. Karen, my colleague, came in a half hour later, inquired after my foot and wondered if I could keep our Thursday evening dinner date together. If the restaurant we choose is close enough, yes, I said. She chose Taz, a Turkish eatery on the corner of Bloomsbury and Great Russel Street and half way to my bus stop on my way home. It seemed like a great idea.
My classes went off well except that I also discovered that Plantar Fasciittis is common among sportsmen and women and dancers (and I have both categories among my students). The prognosis they gave me was heartening and depressing in turns. It seems that if diagnosed and treated early--mainly by staying off the foot and with exercises--it has good chances of healing. If foot rest is impossible, the condition can become chronic and create multiple aches and pains in the back, hips and calves as the condition can, in the long term, alter the way one walks. I tried hard not to allow myself to become too depressed by these reports and focussed instead on the account given me by Yvonne Hunkin, one of the administrators of our program, who told me that she was afflicted by the same condition two years ago but managed to lick it completely merely by following the exercises rigorously--and without even taking foot rest as she had to get to work and back each day and hung about buses and the Tube in the effort.
As luck would have it, students in both my classes today presented me with a ton of material to be graded during the coming week. This means that the load I would carry home would be heavier than usual but since I do not intend to get back to campus for at least a week, I put it all on my back and set out resolutely to get them safely home.
After I kept my office hours, I met Karen as planned at Tas, a restaurant that we have both passed several times en route to work. It was crowded though it was only 6. 30 pm. Karen chose red wine, I (in my attempt to stay away from sulphides to which I have developed an allergy) chose a beer. A quick look at the menu convinced us to get a sampler called the 'Yaz' which presented us with a variety of small dishes--aubergine, taboulleh, hummus, tsaziki, lima beans in yogurt and olive oil, mixed minced nuts in a tomato sauce, falafel and a spinach filled envelope similar to spanakopita. All this came with bread and as we nibbled our way through the exotic and very unfamiliar fare, we caught up with our plans for next week when our Fall Break begins. Llew and I will be in Greece, of course, while Karen and her husband Douglas will be off to Turkey--Istanbul and Ephesus and the Turkish coast. They have just returned from a trip to the Costa Del Sol in Spain (at the same time that I was in Barcelona) and are looking at covering Egypt during our Spring Break. I, of course, have decided not to look beyond the next couple of weeks as I know not where I stand--literally and figuratively! We finished our meal with some lovely coffee--Turkish coffee for Karen who is caffeine-addicted and a decaff cappuccino for me, and then, we said goodbye until Monday when we have a meeting with our Dean Fred Schwartzbach who is arriving from New York.
I found the bus stop on the way back easily enough and didn't wait for more than a minute before a Bendy bus came along--the newest vehicles on the London Transport network and supposedly soon to displace the famous red double deckers--I will, of course, rue the day that happens! But in ten minutes, I was back home, my feet feeling very tired from the sudden activity of the day. As I applied the ibuprofen gel, I felt somewhat defeated--I really did feel as if I had taken one step forward and two steps back. But, I'm trying hard to hold on to my optimism despite all the conflicting reports I received today about the treatment and cure of this condition.
I settled down to watch Noel Coward's Brief Encounter on Love Films because I was referred to it by the salesgirl at Persephone Books last Friday who told me that Nicola Beauman, the founder of the company, had been inspired by the character played by Celia Johnson in the film, to create a company that would reprint fiction by women that had been published between the Wars. However, I could only keep my eyes open through an hour of it, before I felt dreadfully tired and sleepy and decided to call it a day having chatted with Llew earlier in the day during my office hours.
I will have to wait until breakfast tomorrow to find out what happens to the couple involved in the clandestine extra-marital affair--the 'Brief Encounter' of the movie's title!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Provocative Thoughts from 'Fat Pig' and 'The Bucket List'
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
London
Autumn is here! I realized that this evening on my way back from Piccadilly where I saw Neil Labute's newest comedy Fat Pig at the Comedy Theater on Panton Street. Theater-buffs were shrouded in cashmere scarves and leather jackets and were shivering against the cold night air. Festivity was in the air as neon lights twinkled all along Shaftesbury Avenue and the pubs and clubs in Soho. I was able to notice all of this as I took the bus to the theater and back, determined to avoid all the walking in those endless Underground tunnels every time you need to make a line change.
The play was topical in the extreme--its theme is the discomfiture of being overweight in a world that values only the underfed. Featuring just four characters--Kevin Bishop, Katie Kerr, Kelly Brook and Nicholas Burns, all of whom are popular stars of the British TV screen, the humor had a tragic edge to it in the classical manner of Dark Comedy. Helen is the fat librarian who chances upon the attractive and very sleek Tom in her cafeteria (make that the British 'canteen'). They start dating and fall in love but their affection has little chance of survival in a judgmental environment peopled by his superficial co-workers, Carter and Jeannie, who scoff at his choice of partner. Despite attempting to defend his love for Helen, Tom is ultimately unable to deal with this maliciousness and calls an end to his relationship with Helen. In the midst of the extraordinarily well-acted plot, I found myself sympathizing with people, especially women, who must continuously find the resources within themselves to hold on to self-esteem in an epoch which insists on judging human beings purely by appearance alone.
I was glad to have escaped into the outdoors for a while, having spent my entire day closeted indoors preparing for my class on Anglo-Indians in the 20th century that I will teach tomorrow and composing my mid-term exam for next week. Fascinated as I am with my current subject of inquiry, preparing this lecture was extremely time-consuming and ate up my entire day.
Well, not quite. Actually, I did spend a good part of the morning and about an hour during lunch watching The Bucket List, a film directed by Rob Reiner (Sleepless in Seattle) that my students had insisted I see last semester when I was teaching a Sophomore Seminar on Grief-Management. I had tried to catch it at my local Community Theater in Fairfield before I arrived here in London, but simply couldn't find the time. The main thesis of the film completely ties in with my own philosophy of life, i.e. that one should live each day to the fullest and as if it were one's last. Do not put off, in other words, doing the things you want to in the belief that there will be time to do them tomorrow--because, fatalistic as this might appear, tomorrow might never come. It is the way I choose to live my own life--fully, passionately, zestfully--and it is the way the two characters in the film played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman decide to live their last year after each has been diagnosed with cancer. They create a Bucket List--based on the things that would like to accomplish before they kick the bucket. In this team project, they develop a firm friendship.
Then follows the sheer fun and frolic of the film as they travel all over the world, reunite with estranged family members, laugh till they cry, and try to answer two questions: Have you ever experienced Joy? Have you ever brought joy to someone else's life? These are questions that we have often pondered in class in my course on the Politics of Mourning and on grief-management and, a few weeks ago, I was heartened to receive an email from one of my students who wrote to inform me that she had suffered grievous loss over the summer when her 18 year old brother died in a car accident. The loss has devastated her entire family and has caused a rift between her father and herself. Thanks to my course, she says, she has realized that every individual grieves differently and at a different pace. She says that taking my course has enabled her to come to terms with her own loss and to keep her fragile relationship with her father intact at a time when he has shut everyone off, including his closest family members.
This movie, sad as it might seem, is a celebration of life--and of those things that truly matter most, such as one's relationships with those to whom one is closest (spouses, children, parents, friends, pets). I found it deeply thought provoking and certainly one of the better films I have seen in a long time.
My feet continue to feel wobbly when I walk. It is as if they have a mind of their own--as if I have no control over my movements from my knees down. Llew rang me to inform me that my family physician in Connecticut, Dr. Ed Pinto, has confirmed that my recovery will be slow, but I need to be patient and follow all the suggested remedies.
Well, I am trying to make lemonade out of this tart lemon--I have seen two plays this week and I am eagerly awaiting the next two.
London
Autumn is here! I realized that this evening on my way back from Piccadilly where I saw Neil Labute's newest comedy Fat Pig at the Comedy Theater on Panton Street. Theater-buffs were shrouded in cashmere scarves and leather jackets and were shivering against the cold night air. Festivity was in the air as neon lights twinkled all along Shaftesbury Avenue and the pubs and clubs in Soho. I was able to notice all of this as I took the bus to the theater and back, determined to avoid all the walking in those endless Underground tunnels every time you need to make a line change.
The play was topical in the extreme--its theme is the discomfiture of being overweight in a world that values only the underfed. Featuring just four characters--Kevin Bishop, Katie Kerr, Kelly Brook and Nicholas Burns, all of whom are popular stars of the British TV screen, the humor had a tragic edge to it in the classical manner of Dark Comedy. Helen is the fat librarian who chances upon the attractive and very sleek Tom in her cafeteria (make that the British 'canteen'). They start dating and fall in love but their affection has little chance of survival in a judgmental environment peopled by his superficial co-workers, Carter and Jeannie, who scoff at his choice of partner. Despite attempting to defend his love for Helen, Tom is ultimately unable to deal with this maliciousness and calls an end to his relationship with Helen. In the midst of the extraordinarily well-acted plot, I found myself sympathizing with people, especially women, who must continuously find the resources within themselves to hold on to self-esteem in an epoch which insists on judging human beings purely by appearance alone.
I was glad to have escaped into the outdoors for a while, having spent my entire day closeted indoors preparing for my class on Anglo-Indians in the 20th century that I will teach tomorrow and composing my mid-term exam for next week. Fascinated as I am with my current subject of inquiry, preparing this lecture was extremely time-consuming and ate up my entire day.
Well, not quite. Actually, I did spend a good part of the morning and about an hour during lunch watching The Bucket List, a film directed by Rob Reiner (Sleepless in Seattle) that my students had insisted I see last semester when I was teaching a Sophomore Seminar on Grief-Management. I had tried to catch it at my local Community Theater in Fairfield before I arrived here in London, but simply couldn't find the time. The main thesis of the film completely ties in with my own philosophy of life, i.e. that one should live each day to the fullest and as if it were one's last. Do not put off, in other words, doing the things you want to in the belief that there will be time to do them tomorrow--because, fatalistic as this might appear, tomorrow might never come. It is the way I choose to live my own life--fully, passionately, zestfully--and it is the way the two characters in the film played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman decide to live their last year after each has been diagnosed with cancer. They create a Bucket List--based on the things that would like to accomplish before they kick the bucket. In this team project, they develop a firm friendship.
Then follows the sheer fun and frolic of the film as they travel all over the world, reunite with estranged family members, laugh till they cry, and try to answer two questions: Have you ever experienced Joy? Have you ever brought joy to someone else's life? These are questions that we have often pondered in class in my course on the Politics of Mourning and on grief-management and, a few weeks ago, I was heartened to receive an email from one of my students who wrote to inform me that she had suffered grievous loss over the summer when her 18 year old brother died in a car accident. The loss has devastated her entire family and has caused a rift between her father and herself. Thanks to my course, she says, she has realized that every individual grieves differently and at a different pace. She says that taking my course has enabled her to come to terms with her own loss and to keep her fragile relationship with her father intact at a time when he has shut everyone off, including his closest family members.
This movie, sad as it might seem, is a celebration of life--and of those things that truly matter most, such as one's relationships with those to whom one is closest (spouses, children, parents, friends, pets). I found it deeply thought provoking and certainly one of the better films I have seen in a long time.
My feet continue to feel wobbly when I walk. It is as if they have a mind of their own--as if I have no control over my movements from my knees down. Llew rang me to inform me that my family physician in Connecticut, Dr. Ed Pinto, has confirmed that my recovery will be slow, but I need to be patient and follow all the suggested remedies.
Well, I am trying to make lemonade out of this tart lemon--I have seen two plays this week and I am eagerly awaiting the next two.
A Cheerful Chinwag...then Pinter at the Playhouse
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
London
Cabin Fever has set in seriously and I spent a good half hour on the phone booking tickets to a number of plays that I want to see at the West End. Since the actors in these productions are usually big stars of the stage and screen, they have a limited engagement and I do not want to miss the opportunity to see them. So I was very pleased to get tickets to three plays this week, figuring that all I had to do was take a bus to Leicester Square and stay put in my seat for three hours. How damaging could that be to my feet, right? Well, I'd find out at the end of the evening after I'd kept my date with Harold Pinter at the Duke of Yorks' Theater.
When my friend Bina Samel Ullal arrived at a quarter past eleven, I greeted her warmly, thrilled at the knowledge that I'd be out in a little bit in her company. Bina arrived with magenta delphiniums and a bag with the Waitrose gourmet nibbles I had requested--the Fig and Walnut Bread, Stilton with Stem Ginger and Cold Pressed Tongue. The two of us go back a long long way--we were teenagers together in Bombay and high school chums and we spent our salad days exchanging romantic pulp fiction, drooling over Donny Osmond and Rajesh Khanna and swatting for our exams late into the night over her mother's inimitable cups of steaming coffee.
So it was little wonder that we curled up with mugs of coffee at my flat and chinwagged about our old acquaintances and friends before we set out to Boots so I could buy the gel heel lifts that the doctor recommended I insert in my shoes. We also picked up coriander and ginger naan from Sainsburys, some batteries for my tape recorder and a Top-Up for my cell (sorry, mobile)phone SIM card. I cannot even begin to express how fabulous it felt to be out in the world again! The weather had taken a chilly turn and the rush of cold air against my face felt absurdly welcome as I crossed the street and headed for the Farmer's Market to buy a few figs. I walked slowly and gingerly, still feeling the pull on my plantar (I cannot believe the ease with which I use this term when only one week ago, I had said, "Plantar, what?!?") I know that my recovery will be very slow indeed but at least the worst of the pain seems to have passed and I am functional again.
A half hour later, having rustled up a salad, we were seated at my dining table sipping chilled white Muscadet, making a meal of Sainsburys' Chicken Jalfrezi and Naans and gabbing nineteen to the dozen. Time always just floats away when we are together and we regress to our giggly youth as we recall our former years. Now, of course, we talk about our kids and their doings and we tsk, tsk, as all parents will inevitably do!
Bina had to leave before the peak hour rush began, having to make her way back to Harrow, a good hour away on the Tube. This left me time to start planning my Spring Syllabus and catch up on email. After I had designed my course on South Asian Civilization that I will be teaching next semester, I washed up and cleared away the remnants of our meal, found the time to do my exercises, massaged my feet with the ibuprofen gel and indulged in a few ice massages. The tip that my friend Amy Tobin sent me from New York--to freeze water in Dixie cups and then roll them on the arches of my feet--is so simple but so practical.
With the clock's hands creeping towards 6.45 pm, I excitedly got dressed for my evening at the West End. Harold Pinter's No Man's Land features a galaxy of stars at the Duke of York Theater which is right near the Church of St. Martin's-in-the-Field near Charing Cross. I was attracted by the name of Michael Gambon who plays Hirst, an alcoholic ageing scion, who is visited in his home in the country by a stranger named Spooner, played by David Bradley. As his reserves of whisky dwindle at his well-stocked bar, the pair are joined by two younger, menacing men, Foster (David Williams) and Briggs (Nick Dunning) apparently Hirst's employees who guard him and his doings fiercely.
The two older men reminisce about their younger days in Oxford, realizing that they have a lot of friends in common and that they once hated each other. Though Spooner has evolved into a somewhat successful poet, he hopes to find patronage under Hirst's influence. The two younger men are determined to keep the older two apart and the four of them fall into a 'No Man's Land' in which the dialogue (in classic Pinter terms) takes strange, even poetic turns and seems to cast them almost in a dream or perhaps even a nightmare.
As in all Pinter plays, the end remains inconclusive. The curtain came down on some riveting theatrical dialogue and some truly brilliant acting. Gambon, of course, has a magical stage presence that has endeared him to me in such films as Gosford Park and I can't wait to see him as Lord Marchmain in the new version of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited (which will be out in the theaters any day now). Bradley (who has featured in all the Harry Potter films) made an equally impressive Spooner, his craggy features and his wiry gait working effortlessly to portray the slight seediness of his character despite the spit and polish of his lines. As for the two younger actors, Williams (whom I have seen in Little Britain) and Dunning (whom I have seen in a number of TV series, most recently The Inspector Lynley Mysteries), they played their roles to perfection, keeping the audience on edge throughout as we wondered what their next moves would be. This was contemporary drama at its best, Pinter at its most potent, and I was glad I braved the journey alone and witnessed the synergy that can result when truly brilliant dramatic writing meets the genius of a great performance.
I was still shaky on my feet when I got home and went straight to bed...but secretly pleased that I had not allowed my affliction to prevent me from enjoying one of London's greatest offerings--world-class theater.
I am looking forward now to the next show... because despite my pesky plantar, the show/s must go on!
London
Cabin Fever has set in seriously and I spent a good half hour on the phone booking tickets to a number of plays that I want to see at the West End. Since the actors in these productions are usually big stars of the stage and screen, they have a limited engagement and I do not want to miss the opportunity to see them. So I was very pleased to get tickets to three plays this week, figuring that all I had to do was take a bus to Leicester Square and stay put in my seat for three hours. How damaging could that be to my feet, right? Well, I'd find out at the end of the evening after I'd kept my date with Harold Pinter at the Duke of Yorks' Theater.
When my friend Bina Samel Ullal arrived at a quarter past eleven, I greeted her warmly, thrilled at the knowledge that I'd be out in a little bit in her company. Bina arrived with magenta delphiniums and a bag with the Waitrose gourmet nibbles I had requested--the Fig and Walnut Bread, Stilton with Stem Ginger and Cold Pressed Tongue. The two of us go back a long long way--we were teenagers together in Bombay and high school chums and we spent our salad days exchanging romantic pulp fiction, drooling over Donny Osmond and Rajesh Khanna and swatting for our exams late into the night over her mother's inimitable cups of steaming coffee.
So it was little wonder that we curled up with mugs of coffee at my flat and chinwagged about our old acquaintances and friends before we set out to Boots so I could buy the gel heel lifts that the doctor recommended I insert in my shoes. We also picked up coriander and ginger naan from Sainsburys, some batteries for my tape recorder and a Top-Up for my cell (sorry, mobile)phone SIM card. I cannot even begin to express how fabulous it felt to be out in the world again! The weather had taken a chilly turn and the rush of cold air against my face felt absurdly welcome as I crossed the street and headed for the Farmer's Market to buy a few figs. I walked slowly and gingerly, still feeling the pull on my plantar (I cannot believe the ease with which I use this term when only one week ago, I had said, "Plantar, what?!?") I know that my recovery will be very slow indeed but at least the worst of the pain seems to have passed and I am functional again.
A half hour later, having rustled up a salad, we were seated at my dining table sipping chilled white Muscadet, making a meal of Sainsburys' Chicken Jalfrezi and Naans and gabbing nineteen to the dozen. Time always just floats away when we are together and we regress to our giggly youth as we recall our former years. Now, of course, we talk about our kids and their doings and we tsk, tsk, as all parents will inevitably do!
Bina had to leave before the peak hour rush began, having to make her way back to Harrow, a good hour away on the Tube. This left me time to start planning my Spring Syllabus and catch up on email. After I had designed my course on South Asian Civilization that I will be teaching next semester, I washed up and cleared away the remnants of our meal, found the time to do my exercises, massaged my feet with the ibuprofen gel and indulged in a few ice massages. The tip that my friend Amy Tobin sent me from New York--to freeze water in Dixie cups and then roll them on the arches of my feet--is so simple but so practical.
With the clock's hands creeping towards 6.45 pm, I excitedly got dressed for my evening at the West End. Harold Pinter's No Man's Land features a galaxy of stars at the Duke of York Theater which is right near the Church of St. Martin's-in-the-Field near Charing Cross. I was attracted by the name of Michael Gambon who plays Hirst, an alcoholic ageing scion, who is visited in his home in the country by a stranger named Spooner, played by David Bradley. As his reserves of whisky dwindle at his well-stocked bar, the pair are joined by two younger, menacing men, Foster (David Williams) and Briggs (Nick Dunning) apparently Hirst's employees who guard him and his doings fiercely.
The two older men reminisce about their younger days in Oxford, realizing that they have a lot of friends in common and that they once hated each other. Though Spooner has evolved into a somewhat successful poet, he hopes to find patronage under Hirst's influence. The two younger men are determined to keep the older two apart and the four of them fall into a 'No Man's Land' in which the dialogue (in classic Pinter terms) takes strange, even poetic turns and seems to cast them almost in a dream or perhaps even a nightmare.
As in all Pinter plays, the end remains inconclusive. The curtain came down on some riveting theatrical dialogue and some truly brilliant acting. Gambon, of course, has a magical stage presence that has endeared him to me in such films as Gosford Park and I can't wait to see him as Lord Marchmain in the new version of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited (which will be out in the theaters any day now). Bradley (who has featured in all the Harry Potter films) made an equally impressive Spooner, his craggy features and his wiry gait working effortlessly to portray the slight seediness of his character despite the spit and polish of his lines. As for the two younger actors, Williams (whom I have seen in Little Britain) and Dunning (whom I have seen in a number of TV series, most recently The Inspector Lynley Mysteries), they played their roles to perfection, keeping the audience on edge throughout as we wondered what their next moves would be. This was contemporary drama at its best, Pinter at its most potent, and I was glad I braved the journey alone and witnessed the synergy that can result when truly brilliant dramatic writing meets the genius of a great performance.
I was still shaky on my feet when I got home and went straight to bed...but secretly pleased that I had not allowed my affliction to prevent me from enjoying one of London's greatest offerings--world-class theater.
I am looking forward now to the next show... because despite my pesky plantar, the show/s must go on!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Getting Spoiled Rotten
Sunday, October 19, 2008
London
Coming to live in London has erased for me, in many ways, almost twenty years of my life. Not only have I begun to talk again in the way I used to when I lived in Bombay, but it has brought home to me the tremendous similarity between English customs and Indians ones and the ways in which American ones differ. Allow me to explain...
First of all, here's how my speech is changing. Not only have I gone back to pronouncing words like 'class' and 'pass' with a heavy 'Ah' sound instead of the American 'Ae' sound but my phraseology is also undergoing a marked change. I don't "take care of" something, I now "look after it". I don't "make do" in a situation, I now "manage". I don't come upon "a hassle", I now encounter "a snag" or "a hurdle". When my students come up with good answers, I no longer say, "Good Job", I say "Well Done!" Almost every second one of my sentences is peppered not with "Great" or "Terrific" but with "Lovely". I don't talk about "moving" house, but "shifting". My students are not "bright" but "clever". Young entrepreneurs are no longer "doing better", they are "coming up". When people say, "How are you?" I no longer say, "Good", I now say, "Very well, thank-you". In other words, I speak now in exactly the way my parents speak in Bombay--using the British vocabulary and turn of phrase they learned from their Anglo-Indian education in convent schools. And I am continually amazed at how quickly this change in my speech is happening.
Secondly, there is the matter of custom: I have been overwhelmed, for instance, by the care and concern that has been showered on me in the past two days by the English--neighbors and friends alike--who have discovered that I have an affliction that has rendered me home bound. In all the years that my husband Llew and I experienced illness in the United States, we have never had a single visitor who popped in just to see how we were doing and to visit with us. It has never happened! Not even when Llew was writhing for months in pain under the scourge of shingles did he have a single one of our American friends or neighbors come over to visit us. Whether this has to do with the huge geographical distances that separate us from our friends in America or whether this is simply not customary, I cannot say. I mean, we have had friends call to find out how we're doing and we have received the occasional box of chocolates, but never have people simply said to us, "OK, I'll be over this evening to see you" simply because they know we've been ill. By the same token, I have to say that we have never made the journey to see friends who've been ill either. In other words, visiting the sick does not seem to be customary in the United States and we, though from the Indian sub-continent, seem to have adopted the American way of sympathizing with the ill over the phone and then getting on with our lives--completing forgetting the ways in which we visited so easily with the sick when we lived in India.
So, you can imagine how overwhelmed I feel by the spontaneity with which my newly-minted friends and neighbors in London have reacted on getting to know of my condition. On Saturday morning, I sat on the phone and called a few friends to have a chat with them. When they discovered that I was home bound, every single one of them asked if there was anything I needed, any shopping they could do for me, anything they could bring me, etc. Then, before each call ended, every one of them said that they would be over to come and see me.
As I had anticipated that I would be unable to leave my flat for a few days, on Friday, on my way back from the GP, I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up bread, milk and cheese. However, my salad veggies ran out by the end of Saturday, and when my friend Michelle Misquita Rafferty came over yesterday evening, she brought me Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, long shelf life milk, a TV program for the week and a packet of Eccles Cakes. How very thoughtful of her! Can you imagine? Michelle was my classmate at Elphinstone College in Bombay. She made London her home about 20 years ago, went to Law School here and is now a solicitor with the British Parliament. She lives in Islington and cares for her elderly parents who are rather poorly themselves, health-wise; and yet she dropped everything and made the time for me and arrived with all those goodies!
Barely had she left my place after sharing those Eccles Cakes and a cup of tea with me than in walked Cynthia Colcluff, with whom I made friends only four weeks ago and purely by chance. Cynthia, nee D'Souza, is of Goan heritage, born and raised in Uganda, East Africa. She arrived in the UK as a teenager with her parents when Idi Amin threw all Asians out of Uganda. She met Michael Colcluff, an Anglican priest, in England, converted from Roman Catholicism to C of E and married him. They have two handsome sons, Aidan and Edward, both currently in Law School here in London. Llew and I met Cynthia when we attended the morning service at St. Paul's Cathedral, a few weeks ago. Bishop Michael, her husband, who is now Canon-Pastor at St. Paul's. chatted with us after the service, told us that his wife was a Goan and brought us together in the nicest of ways. Cynthia and I have been getting to know each other since then.
When she arrived last evening, we sat down for a chat. She too had asked me if I needed anything purchased, then thoughtfully cut me a wedge of her home made fruit cake as a present. Just as we were in the midst of a lovely chinwag, my doorbell rang. It was my next-door neighbor Tim popping in to see how I was doing. I thanked him for putting me on to the Holborn Medical Center and invited him in. Tim is a wonderful conversationalist and soon the three of us were in the midst of a thoroughly delightful chat that lifted my spirits considerably and helped me realize how fortunate I was to have created this little network of friends within just 5 weeks of being in London! Tim stayed around for about a half hour and once again told me to promise him I would let him know if there was anything I needed. He also left me the name and number of a good podiatrist in case I need more specialized attention.
That left Cynthia and me to ourselves but for only for a short while before the doorbell rang again and her husband Michael appeared. Over red wine and some tasty nibbles, we spent a lively evening. I could not believe that these folks, whom I had only recently met were giving me so generously of their time and their caring. I felt as if I were back again in Bombay where, when one is ill, the doorbell never stops ringing as a steady stream of people troop in to see how you are doing.
While I was talking to Cynthia and Michael, my cousin Cherry rang me from Kent to give me the good news that my condition can also be treated with homeopathy. She had chatted with her India-based homeopatist on the phone and had consulted her about my condition. Cherry then told me about the London Homeopathic Hospital and suggested that I try to find a cure there. Soon after she rang off, my phone rang again and this time it was my parents from Bombay, calling to find out how I was managing on my own in London despite my injured foot. I was almost moved to tears. I told them I would call them back in an hour and give them the prognosis.
Believe me, it has been a long time since I have felt so spoiled. in fact, my class mate Bina Samel Ullal from high school in Bombay who now lives in Harrow, told me on the phone that she would come along on Tuesday to spend the day with me as she was working on Sunday and Monday. She too wanted to know if there was anything she could bring me and since she works for Waitrose, I asked her for some of their gourmet goodies to which I am partial--their Fig and Walnut Bread, their cold Ox Tongue, their Stilton Cheese with Dates and Oranges, their Wensleydale Cheese with Ginger. I am now looking forward to her visit tomorrow and I know that in the company of these caring, loving people I will heal quickly, if not physically, then at least psychologically. Indeed, the frequent calls from Llew and the unexpected visits of so many friends have lifted my spirits immensely and I no longer feel as if I am alone in a foreign country.
All of this has taught me that perhaps some customs are worth clinging on to, no matter where one travels or makes a new home.
London
Coming to live in London has erased for me, in many ways, almost twenty years of my life. Not only have I begun to talk again in the way I used to when I lived in Bombay, but it has brought home to me the tremendous similarity between English customs and Indians ones and the ways in which American ones differ. Allow me to explain...
First of all, here's how my speech is changing. Not only have I gone back to pronouncing words like 'class' and 'pass' with a heavy 'Ah' sound instead of the American 'Ae' sound but my phraseology is also undergoing a marked change. I don't "take care of" something, I now "look after it". I don't "make do" in a situation, I now "manage". I don't come upon "a hassle", I now encounter "a snag" or "a hurdle". When my students come up with good answers, I no longer say, "Good Job", I say "Well Done!" Almost every second one of my sentences is peppered not with "Great" or "Terrific" but with "Lovely". I don't talk about "moving" house, but "shifting". My students are not "bright" but "clever". Young entrepreneurs are no longer "doing better", they are "coming up". When people say, "How are you?" I no longer say, "Good", I now say, "Very well, thank-you". In other words, I speak now in exactly the way my parents speak in Bombay--using the British vocabulary and turn of phrase they learned from their Anglo-Indian education in convent schools. And I am continually amazed at how quickly this change in my speech is happening.
Secondly, there is the matter of custom: I have been overwhelmed, for instance, by the care and concern that has been showered on me in the past two days by the English--neighbors and friends alike--who have discovered that I have an affliction that has rendered me home bound. In all the years that my husband Llew and I experienced illness in the United States, we have never had a single visitor who popped in just to see how we were doing and to visit with us. It has never happened! Not even when Llew was writhing for months in pain under the scourge of shingles did he have a single one of our American friends or neighbors come over to visit us. Whether this has to do with the huge geographical distances that separate us from our friends in America or whether this is simply not customary, I cannot say. I mean, we have had friends call to find out how we're doing and we have received the occasional box of chocolates, but never have people simply said to us, "OK, I'll be over this evening to see you" simply because they know we've been ill. By the same token, I have to say that we have never made the journey to see friends who've been ill either. In other words, visiting the sick does not seem to be customary in the United States and we, though from the Indian sub-continent, seem to have adopted the American way of sympathizing with the ill over the phone and then getting on with our lives--completing forgetting the ways in which we visited so easily with the sick when we lived in India.
So, you can imagine how overwhelmed I feel by the spontaneity with which my newly-minted friends and neighbors in London have reacted on getting to know of my condition. On Saturday morning, I sat on the phone and called a few friends to have a chat with them. When they discovered that I was home bound, every single one of them asked if there was anything I needed, any shopping they could do for me, anything they could bring me, etc. Then, before each call ended, every one of them said that they would be over to come and see me.
As I had anticipated that I would be unable to leave my flat for a few days, on Friday, on my way back from the GP, I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up bread, milk and cheese. However, my salad veggies ran out by the end of Saturday, and when my friend Michelle Misquita Rafferty came over yesterday evening, she brought me Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, long shelf life milk, a TV program for the week and a packet of Eccles Cakes. How very thoughtful of her! Can you imagine? Michelle was my classmate at Elphinstone College in Bombay. She made London her home about 20 years ago, went to Law School here and is now a solicitor with the British Parliament. She lives in Islington and cares for her elderly parents who are rather poorly themselves, health-wise; and yet she dropped everything and made the time for me and arrived with all those goodies!
Barely had she left my place after sharing those Eccles Cakes and a cup of tea with me than in walked Cynthia Colcluff, with whom I made friends only four weeks ago and purely by chance. Cynthia, nee D'Souza, is of Goan heritage, born and raised in Uganda, East Africa. She arrived in the UK as a teenager with her parents when Idi Amin threw all Asians out of Uganda. She met Michael Colcluff, an Anglican priest, in England, converted from Roman Catholicism to C of E and married him. They have two handsome sons, Aidan and Edward, both currently in Law School here in London. Llew and I met Cynthia when we attended the morning service at St. Paul's Cathedral, a few weeks ago. Bishop Michael, her husband, who is now Canon-Pastor at St. Paul's. chatted with us after the service, told us that his wife was a Goan and brought us together in the nicest of ways. Cynthia and I have been getting to know each other since then.
When she arrived last evening, we sat down for a chat. She too had asked me if I needed anything purchased, then thoughtfully cut me a wedge of her home made fruit cake as a present. Just as we were in the midst of a lovely chinwag, my doorbell rang. It was my next-door neighbor Tim popping in to see how I was doing. I thanked him for putting me on to the Holborn Medical Center and invited him in. Tim is a wonderful conversationalist and soon the three of us were in the midst of a thoroughly delightful chat that lifted my spirits considerably and helped me realize how fortunate I was to have created this little network of friends within just 5 weeks of being in London! Tim stayed around for about a half hour and once again told me to promise him I would let him know if there was anything I needed. He also left me the name and number of a good podiatrist in case I need more specialized attention.
That left Cynthia and me to ourselves but for only for a short while before the doorbell rang again and her husband Michael appeared. Over red wine and some tasty nibbles, we spent a lively evening. I could not believe that these folks, whom I had only recently met were giving me so generously of their time and their caring. I felt as if I were back again in Bombay where, when one is ill, the doorbell never stops ringing as a steady stream of people troop in to see how you are doing.
While I was talking to Cynthia and Michael, my cousin Cherry rang me from Kent to give me the good news that my condition can also be treated with homeopathy. She had chatted with her India-based homeopatist on the phone and had consulted her about my condition. Cherry then told me about the London Homeopathic Hospital and suggested that I try to find a cure there. Soon after she rang off, my phone rang again and this time it was my parents from Bombay, calling to find out how I was managing on my own in London despite my injured foot. I was almost moved to tears. I told them I would call them back in an hour and give them the prognosis.
Believe me, it has been a long time since I have felt so spoiled. in fact, my class mate Bina Samel Ullal from high school in Bombay who now lives in Harrow, told me on the phone that she would come along on Tuesday to spend the day with me as she was working on Sunday and Monday. She too wanted to know if there was anything she could bring me and since she works for Waitrose, I asked her for some of their gourmet goodies to which I am partial--their Fig and Walnut Bread, their cold Ox Tongue, their Stilton Cheese with Dates and Oranges, their Wensleydale Cheese with Ginger. I am now looking forward to her visit tomorrow and I know that in the company of these caring, loving people I will heal quickly, if not physically, then at least psychologically. Indeed, the frequent calls from Llew and the unexpected visits of so many friends have lifted my spirits immensely and I no longer feel as if I am alone in a foreign country.
All of this has taught me that perhaps some customs are worth clinging on to, no matter where one travels or makes a new home.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Living with Plantar Fascittis
Saturday, October 18, 2008
London
If you'd told me, one month ago, that I'd be confined to my flat in London for two whole weeks without the chance of any voluntary activity, I'd have thought you were nuts. Yet, here I am, housebound for at least a week if not two, as I allow my plantar to heal. Since I might as well make the best of it, I sat on the phone and called a few of my UK-based friends to inform them of my condition. I've been receiving a lot of very welcome TLC from Llew who's been phoning me several times a day from the States to make sure I am coping and staying as well as can be expected under the circumstances.
I spent most of the day writing an essay for NYU's Economics Blog of which I am the London-based co-ordinator and editing an essay written by one of my students, David Kim, for the same blog. I also cleaned up my Inbox that had over 1000 messages accumulated in the initial troubles I had accessing my email in the weeks soon after I moved to London.
I then continued reading Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies which is slowly nearing its conclusion. It is an immense tour de force, the outcome of months of research about 19th century sea-faring and the Opium Trade across the globe. In the vast amount of trouble it has undoubtedly taken to research and construct this novel, I am deeply impressed by Ghosh's effort and feel sorry that he did not win the Booker Prize. I also watched a movie delivered at home to me through Love Film. Com called A Kind of Loving starring a very young Alan Bates and Thora Hind. Set in the 1960s in the English Midlands, it is now hopelessly dated but I enjoyed it, if nothing else to see how handsome Alan Bates was when young.
Surprisingly, considering what a boob tube junkie I am, I haven't been watching a lot of British TV--this has probably to do with the fact that I preferred to explore the outdoors (much to my detriment!)than keep company with the idiot box. That said, I have discovered the UK Food TV channel and am slowly getting to know the programs--Market Watch, Rachel Allen Bake, Master Chef, etc. That, coupled with the old Britcoms that I have traditionally loved, has kept me occupied as I have munched my solitary meals.
Catching up with the web albums sent to me by friends all over the world allowed me to pass time--my friend Rosita Fernandes' 50th birthday celebrations in Australia; my Bombay-based friend Shahnaz Nalwalla's trip to Iran. It's been fun glancing through these pictures at leisure and feeling reunited with my friends though they are all over the globe.
As I grow older, I realize that friends are the most precious gifts we have on earth. For instance, Rosemary Massouras, my London-based friend, offered immediately to come over to my flat and take me out for dinner in her car. Based in Battersea, it is a fifteen minute ride from her place to mine and I was delighted to see her at 8 pm as I had a serious attack of cabin fever by that hour of the day. My next-door neighbors Barbara and Tim had told me about a good restaurant called Italian Kitchen,not too far away in Bloomsbury and we decided to check it out. Rosemary arrived with a bouquet of peach roses and a packet of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and thoroughly fussed over me while sipping a glass of wine at my place. Then, I braced up my ankle, wore my sturdy sneakers, popped into her car and we were off.
Italian Kitchen was packed but it was the sweetest little restaurant and took me directly back to the cobbled streets of Florence. Red checked tablecloths, a chalk-scribbled menu on the wall, waiters who said "Buona Sera" when they seated you, an impressive wine list and an array of pasta dishes to die for. It was worth the 15 minute wait. Rosemary and I settled on a glass of chianti for starters, then chose a plate of pasta each--she had Spaghetti with meat balls and olives in a tomato based sauce, I chose Tagliatelle with asparagus tips and smoked salmon in a cream based sauce. My dish was just scrumptious and I was transported once again, to Fiesole where my friend Amy and I had tasted the most exquisite Italian meals in the tiniest little outposts.
Rosemary and I chatted nineteen to the dozen--there was so much to say! We talked about everything--our international travels, our common friends, our daughters, everything! When it came time for dessert, Rosemary chose a cappuccino while I decided to spoil myself and have dessert--I selected a Tartufo which, in the States, is usually an italian ice-cream. How surprised I was to be presented with a marvelous wedge of Chocolate Mousse and oranges soaked in Grand Marnier.
Thoroughly cheered up by our Italian repast, Rosemary and I made our way back home, amazed to find that it was already past midnight. Where had the hours gone? Five minutes later, I was home, applying ibuprofen gel to the soles of my feet that seemed to have survived my little excursion without protest, and went straight to sleep.
London
If you'd told me, one month ago, that I'd be confined to my flat in London for two whole weeks without the chance of any voluntary activity, I'd have thought you were nuts. Yet, here I am, housebound for at least a week if not two, as I allow my plantar to heal. Since I might as well make the best of it, I sat on the phone and called a few of my UK-based friends to inform them of my condition. I've been receiving a lot of very welcome TLC from Llew who's been phoning me several times a day from the States to make sure I am coping and staying as well as can be expected under the circumstances.
I spent most of the day writing an essay for NYU's Economics Blog of which I am the London-based co-ordinator and editing an essay written by one of my students, David Kim, for the same blog. I also cleaned up my Inbox that had over 1000 messages accumulated in the initial troubles I had accessing my email in the weeks soon after I moved to London.
I then continued reading Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies which is slowly nearing its conclusion. It is an immense tour de force, the outcome of months of research about 19th century sea-faring and the Opium Trade across the globe. In the vast amount of trouble it has undoubtedly taken to research and construct this novel, I am deeply impressed by Ghosh's effort and feel sorry that he did not win the Booker Prize. I also watched a movie delivered at home to me through Love Film. Com called A Kind of Loving starring a very young Alan Bates and Thora Hind. Set in the 1960s in the English Midlands, it is now hopelessly dated but I enjoyed it, if nothing else to see how handsome Alan Bates was when young.
Surprisingly, considering what a boob tube junkie I am, I haven't been watching a lot of British TV--this has probably to do with the fact that I preferred to explore the outdoors (much to my detriment!)than keep company with the idiot box. That said, I have discovered the UK Food TV channel and am slowly getting to know the programs--Market Watch, Rachel Allen Bake, Master Chef, etc. That, coupled with the old Britcoms that I have traditionally loved, has kept me occupied as I have munched my solitary meals.
Catching up with the web albums sent to me by friends all over the world allowed me to pass time--my friend Rosita Fernandes' 50th birthday celebrations in Australia; my Bombay-based friend Shahnaz Nalwalla's trip to Iran. It's been fun glancing through these pictures at leisure and feeling reunited with my friends though they are all over the globe.
As I grow older, I realize that friends are the most precious gifts we have on earth. For instance, Rosemary Massouras, my London-based friend, offered immediately to come over to my flat and take me out for dinner in her car. Based in Battersea, it is a fifteen minute ride from her place to mine and I was delighted to see her at 8 pm as I had a serious attack of cabin fever by that hour of the day. My next-door neighbors Barbara and Tim had told me about a good restaurant called Italian Kitchen,not too far away in Bloomsbury and we decided to check it out. Rosemary arrived with a bouquet of peach roses and a packet of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and thoroughly fussed over me while sipping a glass of wine at my place. Then, I braced up my ankle, wore my sturdy sneakers, popped into her car and we were off.
Italian Kitchen was packed but it was the sweetest little restaurant and took me directly back to the cobbled streets of Florence. Red checked tablecloths, a chalk-scribbled menu on the wall, waiters who said "Buona Sera" when they seated you, an impressive wine list and an array of pasta dishes to die for. It was worth the 15 minute wait. Rosemary and I settled on a glass of chianti for starters, then chose a plate of pasta each--she had Spaghetti with meat balls and olives in a tomato based sauce, I chose Tagliatelle with asparagus tips and smoked salmon in a cream based sauce. My dish was just scrumptious and I was transported once again, to Fiesole where my friend Amy and I had tasted the most exquisite Italian meals in the tiniest little outposts.
Rosemary and I chatted nineteen to the dozen--there was so much to say! We talked about everything--our international travels, our common friends, our daughters, everything! When it came time for dessert, Rosemary chose a cappuccino while I decided to spoil myself and have dessert--I selected a Tartufo which, in the States, is usually an italian ice-cream. How surprised I was to be presented with a marvelous wedge of Chocolate Mousse and oranges soaked in Grand Marnier.
Thoroughly cheered up by our Italian repast, Rosemary and I made our way back home, amazed to find that it was already past midnight. Where had the hours gone? Five minutes later, I was home, applying ibuprofen gel to the soles of my feet that seemed to have survived my little excursion without protest, and went straight to sleep.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Understanding the NHS and Discovering Persephone Books
Friday, October 17, 2008
London
Boo Hoo, Boo Hoo...that's me weeping. I am still here in London as I had to cancel my weekend travel plans to Berlin. And for very good reason too. My maniacal walking all over London has finally done me in. The excruciating pain I woke with two days ago reached unbearable levels yesterday. After teaching my two classes, I consulted with my colleagues and was told to head straight for the A&E (Accidents & Emergency) Department at the University of London Hospital at Euston.
Dusk was already falling gently on the city when I reached there feeling unusually nervous about having to find my way through the medical system of a foreign country. I expected to have to wait for at least an hour--after all, an ache in the foot doesn't compare quite as urgently with a heart attack or someone with a burn accident. Registration done, I was asked to sit for a bit. Waiting time, the receptionist informed me, was running at an hour. Not too bad, I thought, as I settled down to read the evening's edition of The London Paper--full of the news about the Madonna-Ritchi divorce.
I was only quite getting into the dirt when someone with a strange accent barked my name. I had barely sat down for ten minutes! The doctor who saw me was rakish--a Dr. Manolo Gavalas. From his name, I would guess he was Greek. He gave me a welcoming smile and asked to see my foot. He took one look at it, encased in my ankle brace, and said, "I'm sorry, but you've come to the wrong place. There's not much I can do for you here. There are no bones broken. No fractures. You need to see your G.P. Who's your G.P?"
"I don't have one", I said, miserably.
"Well, you need to register and get a G.P. He'll then decide what to do--whether to send you for a X-Ray or to see a physiotherapist. I think you have Plantar Fasciitis. It's a painful condition and will be troublesome for a few days. But I can't do anything for you".
That was it. At the reception, I received a print out giving me instructions on how to register with the NHS--that's Britain's notorious National Health Service for you. If you are legally present in the UK, you are entitled to NHS facilities which, basically, means you can see a doctor and get a prescription. However, you do have to pay for your medicines (7 pounds is the average cost for one set of medications) unless you are a child or a pensioner (British for senior citizen) in which case medication is also free.
Well, I hobbled back home, seriously concerned about my leg, and went straight to my laptop. I googled 'Plantar Fasciitis' and learned everything about it. It is clearly all the walking I have done that has caused my condition. The arches under my foot, which are very weak to begin with, have stretched and become inflamed and need a great deal of TLC to coax them back to health.
I then rang my neighbor's doorbell and asked Tim if he could suggest a GP in our area since I'd rather go to a doctor they could recommend than to a stranger. Within a half hour, I had the telephone number and location of the Holborn Medical Center on Lamb's Conduit Street just behind High Holborn and I resolved to get there and find a G.P. first thing today.
Well, I then went on to the NHS website, registered (they needed a lot of personal information) and awaited the Registration confirmation. NHS GPs (that is General Practitioners, what in the States we call Internists) are the first port of call. They diagnose conditions and refer patients to specialists who suggest treatment and dispense medication.
When I awoke this morning, the pain was still present, not severe, but there, a nagging ache in the sole of my foot that caused me to hobble about my flat. I didn't waste too much time contacting the Holborn Medical Center. A lovely chap called Steven told me to come in with my "documentation"--by which he meant my passport (he needs to determine that I am legally in the UK, so I guess he would need to examine my work permit), my rental agreement (which makes me a bonafide resident of Holborn--I took my Camden Council tax papers) and one utility bill (I took my Virgin Media bill for last month). Then, I set out on a particularly lovely autumn day to find the "surgery" as they call the doctor's office.
A short ten minute away, there it was. Steven met me, had me fill out the paper work, and told me to stay tuned for a call from the doctor that would come within the hour--thank God for my new cell phone. I decided to find a coffee in a cafe nearby as I did not want to walk too much on my strained foot. My research on the Internet had informed me that they only real treatment was footrest and a few exercises to strengthen the Achilles tendon and the plantar. Then, just across the street, I spied a shop called Persephone Books and, of course, I cannot pass a bookshop without browsing through its shelves. So in I went.
And thus, I discovered one of the cutest bookshops in the world. Inside were shelves with books covered in a uniform grey. The end papers were wonderfully funky prints. Where on earth had I stumbled? The lovely salesgirl then came forward and asked if I needed help. "What an interesting book shop!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, we are one of a kind, aren't we?" she said. "Persephone was started by Nicola Beauman in the most interesting way."
She went on to inform me that the company's founder, Nicola Beauman, had just watched a movie called Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean (yes, he of Lawrence of Arabia and A Passage to India and Beckett) and was enchanted by the heroine of the film which is set in the 1930s who enjoyed her weekly excursion to town to do some shopping, have a coffee in the cafe, see a movie, then go to the local library to change her book. In her shopping bag, was a book by Edna O'Brien. The cover of this book fascinated Nicola Beauman who decided that she too would read the book. This got her involved in the world of female writers between the two great Wars and she found that so many of the books were out of print.
So, there it was--a business opportunity staring her in the face. One that would allow her to reprint these classic books written mostly between 1900 and 1940 only by women. She chose fabrics that were contemporary to the period of the book and used those as end papers. Each book has a plain grey cover though, in some cases, 'Classics' have been reissued with a picture on the cover--usually a contemporary painting by a female artist.
Thus, Persephone Books was born, an outfit that has two London storefronts--one at Kensington Church Street, the other at Lamb's Conduit Street. Their market is very specific. Almost all their customers are women. Because they have, to date, no more than 60 odd titles, the books are ready wrapped in fuchsia or grey wrapping paper, tied with a ribbon and finished off with a book mark in the same print as the end paper to be found in the book. Now how clever is that? And how charming? As I flipped through the pages, I became aware of the trills of a Chopin Etude playing softly in the background and I envied the salesgirl her little spot of heaven.
I was so taken by the store and the collection that I asked for prices and was informed that every single books costs a flat 10 pounds, though you can buy three for 27. They do ship all over the world (in fact, the Lamb's Conduit Street shop handles mail orders) and they run events all year round. Not surprisingly, the events take the form of "cream teas" and lectures (one of them on November 13 is to be given by Prof. Elaine Showalter, my colleague at NYU's English Department).
As if that were not enough for the Edwardian in me, guess, what? They also run a book club! YYYEEESS!!! Groups of women get together over Madeira, bread and cheese and discuss one of their titles. The cost to attend this is 10 pounds and because I will be missing their November meeting (I will, fingers crossed, be with Llew in Greece at that time, when the group will be discussing
The Making of a Marchioness by Frances Hodgson Burnett"), I hope to attend their early December meeting where the book to be discussed is A House in the Country by Jocelyn Playfair. I cannot believe that I have actually stumbled upon a Book Club in London and one that I can enjoy. Naturally, I did get enrolled and will pay my 10 pounds when I get to the meeting in December at their Notting Hill Shop.
To read more about Persephone Books, please visit their website:
http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk//
So, here I was, feeling unhappy that I was forced to call off my trip to Berlin as I was so afraid about my foot and as a compensation , I found a darling book shop in London and will soon be a member of a Book Club! How fortunate can one reader be? Well, just as I was browsing through the shop, my cell phone rang--withing 20 minutes of my arrival there. The doctor could see me in ten minutes. What a good thing I hadn't strayed too far away.
In ten minutes, I was sitting with a GP named Steven Yaxley who didn't seem older than 18! He went through the formalities with me and came up with an identical diagnosis--plantar fasciitis. He also gave me a print out of the exact same thing I had read on the Net yesterday and suggested foot rest, foot exercises, a local ibuprofen gel and the use of sneakers with good supportive arches. He actually showed me the exercises and told me to stay off my feet for at least one to two weeks. I was so crestfallen. Imagine wasting two weeks in the autumn staying cooped up indoors, unable to do any of the exploring I had intended. But then, I realized that perhaps it is best I do this because I do want to be, as my Dad would say, "fighting fit" by the time Llew arrives here at the end of the month and we leave on our travels in Greece.
Dr. Yaxley told me that I could see a physiotherapist if I wished but I would probably not get an appointment for at least a month. It seems that the UK is short of physiotherapists and there are too many patients to see them. In any case, he assured me, my condition does not require any urgent treatment. If I am good and stay off my feet and do the exercises while watching TV or working at my desk, I should be much better in a couple of weeks, he assured me.
So I returned to my flat and have started making plans to spend the next few days cozily at home with lots of good stuff to eat and drink, a lot of reading and good TV (with my feet raised for comfort) and a lot of writing accomplished on my laptop.
Really not too bad a deal, if you come to think of it. And if I stay optimistic, I will get rid of the foot pain and be all set to start exploring again!
I only hope I am not going to pile on the pounds in two weeks!!!
So, there you have it. The NHS. It works.
London
Boo Hoo, Boo Hoo...that's me weeping. I am still here in London as I had to cancel my weekend travel plans to Berlin. And for very good reason too. My maniacal walking all over London has finally done me in. The excruciating pain I woke with two days ago reached unbearable levels yesterday. After teaching my two classes, I consulted with my colleagues and was told to head straight for the A&E (Accidents & Emergency) Department at the University of London Hospital at Euston.
Dusk was already falling gently on the city when I reached there feeling unusually nervous about having to find my way through the medical system of a foreign country. I expected to have to wait for at least an hour--after all, an ache in the foot doesn't compare quite as urgently with a heart attack or someone with a burn accident. Registration done, I was asked to sit for a bit. Waiting time, the receptionist informed me, was running at an hour. Not too bad, I thought, as I settled down to read the evening's edition of The London Paper--full of the news about the Madonna-Ritchi divorce.
I was only quite getting into the dirt when someone with a strange accent barked my name. I had barely sat down for ten minutes! The doctor who saw me was rakish--a Dr. Manolo Gavalas. From his name, I would guess he was Greek. He gave me a welcoming smile and asked to see my foot. He took one look at it, encased in my ankle brace, and said, "I'm sorry, but you've come to the wrong place. There's not much I can do for you here. There are no bones broken. No fractures. You need to see your G.P. Who's your G.P?"
"I don't have one", I said, miserably.
"Well, you need to register and get a G.P. He'll then decide what to do--whether to send you for a X-Ray or to see a physiotherapist. I think you have Plantar Fasciitis. It's a painful condition and will be troublesome for a few days. But I can't do anything for you".
That was it. At the reception, I received a print out giving me instructions on how to register with the NHS--that's Britain's notorious National Health Service for you. If you are legally present in the UK, you are entitled to NHS facilities which, basically, means you can see a doctor and get a prescription. However, you do have to pay for your medicines (7 pounds is the average cost for one set of medications) unless you are a child or a pensioner (British for senior citizen) in which case medication is also free.
Well, I hobbled back home, seriously concerned about my leg, and went straight to my laptop. I googled 'Plantar Fasciitis' and learned everything about it. It is clearly all the walking I have done that has caused my condition. The arches under my foot, which are very weak to begin with, have stretched and become inflamed and need a great deal of TLC to coax them back to health.
I then rang my neighbor's doorbell and asked Tim if he could suggest a GP in our area since I'd rather go to a doctor they could recommend than to a stranger. Within a half hour, I had the telephone number and location of the Holborn Medical Center on Lamb's Conduit Street just behind High Holborn and I resolved to get there and find a G.P. first thing today.
Well, I then went on to the NHS website, registered (they needed a lot of personal information) and awaited the Registration confirmation. NHS GPs (that is General Practitioners, what in the States we call Internists) are the first port of call. They diagnose conditions and refer patients to specialists who suggest treatment and dispense medication.
When I awoke this morning, the pain was still present, not severe, but there, a nagging ache in the sole of my foot that caused me to hobble about my flat. I didn't waste too much time contacting the Holborn Medical Center. A lovely chap called Steven told me to come in with my "documentation"--by which he meant my passport (he needs to determine that I am legally in the UK, so I guess he would need to examine my work permit), my rental agreement (which makes me a bonafide resident of Holborn--I took my Camden Council tax papers) and one utility bill (I took my Virgin Media bill for last month). Then, I set out on a particularly lovely autumn day to find the "surgery" as they call the doctor's office.
A short ten minute away, there it was. Steven met me, had me fill out the paper work, and told me to stay tuned for a call from the doctor that would come within the hour--thank God for my new cell phone. I decided to find a coffee in a cafe nearby as I did not want to walk too much on my strained foot. My research on the Internet had informed me that they only real treatment was footrest and a few exercises to strengthen the Achilles tendon and the plantar. Then, just across the street, I spied a shop called Persephone Books and, of course, I cannot pass a bookshop without browsing through its shelves. So in I went.
And thus, I discovered one of the cutest bookshops in the world. Inside were shelves with books covered in a uniform grey. The end papers were wonderfully funky prints. Where on earth had I stumbled? The lovely salesgirl then came forward and asked if I needed help. "What an interesting book shop!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, we are one of a kind, aren't we?" she said. "Persephone was started by Nicola Beauman in the most interesting way."
She went on to inform me that the company's founder, Nicola Beauman, had just watched a movie called Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean (yes, he of Lawrence of Arabia and A Passage to India and Beckett) and was enchanted by the heroine of the film which is set in the 1930s who enjoyed her weekly excursion to town to do some shopping, have a coffee in the cafe, see a movie, then go to the local library to change her book. In her shopping bag, was a book by Edna O'Brien. The cover of this book fascinated Nicola Beauman who decided that she too would read the book. This got her involved in the world of female writers between the two great Wars and she found that so many of the books were out of print.
So, there it was--a business opportunity staring her in the face. One that would allow her to reprint these classic books written mostly between 1900 and 1940 only by women. She chose fabrics that were contemporary to the period of the book and used those as end papers. Each book has a plain grey cover though, in some cases, 'Classics' have been reissued with a picture on the cover--usually a contemporary painting by a female artist.
Thus, Persephone Books was born, an outfit that has two London storefronts--one at Kensington Church Street, the other at Lamb's Conduit Street. Their market is very specific. Almost all their customers are women. Because they have, to date, no more than 60 odd titles, the books are ready wrapped in fuchsia or grey wrapping paper, tied with a ribbon and finished off with a book mark in the same print as the end paper to be found in the book. Now how clever is that? And how charming? As I flipped through the pages, I became aware of the trills of a Chopin Etude playing softly in the background and I envied the salesgirl her little spot of heaven.
I was so taken by the store and the collection that I asked for prices and was informed that every single books costs a flat 10 pounds, though you can buy three for 27. They do ship all over the world (in fact, the Lamb's Conduit Street shop handles mail orders) and they run events all year round. Not surprisingly, the events take the form of "cream teas" and lectures (one of them on November 13 is to be given by Prof. Elaine Showalter, my colleague at NYU's English Department).
As if that were not enough for the Edwardian in me, guess, what? They also run a book club! YYYEEESS!!! Groups of women get together over Madeira, bread and cheese and discuss one of their titles. The cost to attend this is 10 pounds and because I will be missing their November meeting (I will, fingers crossed, be with Llew in Greece at that time, when the group will be discussing
The Making of a Marchioness by Frances Hodgson Burnett"), I hope to attend their early December meeting where the book to be discussed is A House in the Country by Jocelyn Playfair. I cannot believe that I have actually stumbled upon a Book Club in London and one that I can enjoy. Naturally, I did get enrolled and will pay my 10 pounds when I get to the meeting in December at their Notting Hill Shop.
To read more about Persephone Books, please visit their website:
http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk//
So, here I was, feeling unhappy that I was forced to call off my trip to Berlin as I was so afraid about my foot and as a compensation , I found a darling book shop in London and will soon be a member of a Book Club! How fortunate can one reader be? Well, just as I was browsing through the shop, my cell phone rang--withing 20 minutes of my arrival there. The doctor could see me in ten minutes. What a good thing I hadn't strayed too far away.
In ten minutes, I was sitting with a GP named Steven Yaxley who didn't seem older than 18! He went through the formalities with me and came up with an identical diagnosis--plantar fasciitis. He also gave me a print out of the exact same thing I had read on the Net yesterday and suggested foot rest, foot exercises, a local ibuprofen gel and the use of sneakers with good supportive arches. He actually showed me the exercises and told me to stay off my feet for at least one to two weeks. I was so crestfallen. Imagine wasting two weeks in the autumn staying cooped up indoors, unable to do any of the exploring I had intended. But then, I realized that perhaps it is best I do this because I do want to be, as my Dad would say, "fighting fit" by the time Llew arrives here at the end of the month and we leave on our travels in Greece.
Dr. Yaxley told me that I could see a physiotherapist if I wished but I would probably not get an appointment for at least a month. It seems that the UK is short of physiotherapists and there are too many patients to see them. In any case, he assured me, my condition does not require any urgent treatment. If I am good and stay off my feet and do the exercises while watching TV or working at my desk, I should be much better in a couple of weeks, he assured me.
So I returned to my flat and have started making plans to spend the next few days cozily at home with lots of good stuff to eat and drink, a lot of reading and good TV (with my feet raised for comfort) and a lot of writing accomplished on my laptop.
Really not too bad a deal, if you come to think of it. And if I stay optimistic, I will get rid of the foot pain and be all set to start exploring again!
I only hope I am not going to pile on the pounds in two weeks!!!
So, there you have it. The NHS. It works.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Great Family News--and the Booker Prize Live on the BBC
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Selhurst and London
In a day that began with an excruciating pain on the sole of my right foot, I made my way to Victoria and from there on a Main Line train to the suburb of Selhurst to meet The Ribeiros--Dennis and Joy--an Anglo-Indian couple who agreed to be interviewed as part of my research and also graciously invited me to join them for lunch.
Selhurst is a small quiet little village and the Ribeiros live on a sleepy street called Prince Road right besides a small evangelical church. Their home is spacious, the living room stretching out to their garden door. It is filled with the kind of photographic memorabilia that is usually seen in the homes of people who have lived in the same place for a long while, have raised a family in it and now enjoy their grandchildren. They bring me a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits (I am told that in England you never offer anyone a cup of tea or coffee without also offering at least one accompanying biscuit!)--this is what I mean when I say that the culture is so civilized!
We settle down for a chat and I find the couple fascinating. Joy is charmingly soft spoken but so articulate and thoughtful. Dennis is full of funny stories. He does so much charitable fundraising for the community in Calcutta, yet they remain touchingly modest about their contribution. When my interview is done, Dennis offers me a glass of sherry which I gratefully accept. It is a long time since I have sipped sherry and I realize how English this Anglo-Indian couple has become after fifty odd years in England.
Then, we adjourn to their dining room where Dennis has put together a fine typically Anglo-Indian meal--Rice and Chicken Curry, Cabbage Foogat studded with mustard seeds, a nice thick Masoor Dal and Pickle. There is Pistachio Ice-Cream for dessert and After Eight Mints passed around at the end. Like I said, so civilized! Everything is home cooked and delicious and I enjoy every morsel. We eat in the Anglo-Indian style with forks and tablespoons--as the Ribeiros say, they have not changed at all after 50 odd years of living in the UK. I guess the truth lies somewhere in-between my superficial perceptions: they have remained essentially Indian while yet imbibing the English lifestyle.
Then, I am on my way back to the train, hobbling along painfully on my damaged sole. I resolve to get medication and a support bandage as soon as I reach Victoria and at the Boots' there (that's a chain of British pharmacies or drug stores as we say in the US), I pick up an ankle brace. On the Tube, I make my way to NYU's campus at Bedford Square for a 6 pm screening of a film called Life is Sweet (dir. Mike Leigh) as part of Prof. Phillip Drummond's class. I see a very young Jim Broadbent (Bridget Jones' Diary, Moulin Rouge, etc.) in it and I am taken by the setting and the story.
Before the film began, I nipped again into the much larger Boots' at Tottenham Court Road and spoke to the pharmacist (in the UK this is always the first person you 'consult') named Julie. She turned out to be a wonder. Not only did she tell me that I had done the right things--worn an ankle support brace and good quality sneakers) but that I ought to buy a good Ibuprofen gel (I chose Nurofen) to apply on the painful parts. If it doesn't get better in 2-3 days, she said, please go and see a GP and when I told her that I did not know to whom I could turn as I am a foreigner in this country, she promptly gave me the business card of a GP who practices in nearby Bloomsbury Street. How efficient and how perfectly helpful! I was so delighted as I hobbled off to the film.
Back home (I did take a bus home for the first time since coming here), I found a ton of eager messages awaiting me from Chriselle and from Llew. They had some exciting family news to deliver to me which I discovered just ten minutes later after I did speak to Chriselle. One long trans-Atlantic chat later, I was whooping and sharing her excitement. But it is not for me to reveal her great news. Suffice it to say that I am so pleased for her and, though so far away, I share her joy.
Then, I made myself a dinner plate, sat in front of the telly to watch In the Valley of Elah but switched to the BBC News at Ten for the thrill of listening, for the first time in my life, to the announcement of the Man Booker Prize Winner for the year 2008: It was India's Aravind Adiga's White Tiger that went home with the 50,000 pound prize. I am doubly excited--he is from India and has won for a debut novel at the age of 33, making him the youngest of the nominees for the prize. I called Llew immediately and revealed the winner to him. We do already have the book at home in Connecticut, though neither one of us has read it...and I now have the assignment of trying to find the first British edition, first printing, tomorrow for my bibliophile husband.
On those twin happy notes (Chriselle's big announcement and the new Booker), I applied the Ibuprofen gel, bandaged my throbbing foot and went straight to bed.
Selhurst and London
In a day that began with an excruciating pain on the sole of my right foot, I made my way to Victoria and from there on a Main Line train to the suburb of Selhurst to meet The Ribeiros--Dennis and Joy--an Anglo-Indian couple who agreed to be interviewed as part of my research and also graciously invited me to join them for lunch.
Selhurst is a small quiet little village and the Ribeiros live on a sleepy street called Prince Road right besides a small evangelical church. Their home is spacious, the living room stretching out to their garden door. It is filled with the kind of photographic memorabilia that is usually seen in the homes of people who have lived in the same place for a long while, have raised a family in it and now enjoy their grandchildren. They bring me a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits (I am told that in England you never offer anyone a cup of tea or coffee without also offering at least one accompanying biscuit!)--this is what I mean when I say that the culture is so civilized!
We settle down for a chat and I find the couple fascinating. Joy is charmingly soft spoken but so articulate and thoughtful. Dennis is full of funny stories. He does so much charitable fundraising for the community in Calcutta, yet they remain touchingly modest about their contribution. When my interview is done, Dennis offers me a glass of sherry which I gratefully accept. It is a long time since I have sipped sherry and I realize how English this Anglo-Indian couple has become after fifty odd years in England.
Then, we adjourn to their dining room where Dennis has put together a fine typically Anglo-Indian meal--Rice and Chicken Curry, Cabbage Foogat studded with mustard seeds, a nice thick Masoor Dal and Pickle. There is Pistachio Ice-Cream for dessert and After Eight Mints passed around at the end. Like I said, so civilized! Everything is home cooked and delicious and I enjoy every morsel. We eat in the Anglo-Indian style with forks and tablespoons--as the Ribeiros say, they have not changed at all after 50 odd years of living in the UK. I guess the truth lies somewhere in-between my superficial perceptions: they have remained essentially Indian while yet imbibing the English lifestyle.
Then, I am on my way back to the train, hobbling along painfully on my damaged sole. I resolve to get medication and a support bandage as soon as I reach Victoria and at the Boots' there (that's a chain of British pharmacies or drug stores as we say in the US), I pick up an ankle brace. On the Tube, I make my way to NYU's campus at Bedford Square for a 6 pm screening of a film called Life is Sweet (dir. Mike Leigh) as part of Prof. Phillip Drummond's class. I see a very young Jim Broadbent (Bridget Jones' Diary, Moulin Rouge, etc.) in it and I am taken by the setting and the story.
Before the film began, I nipped again into the much larger Boots' at Tottenham Court Road and spoke to the pharmacist (in the UK this is always the first person you 'consult') named Julie. She turned out to be a wonder. Not only did she tell me that I had done the right things--worn an ankle support brace and good quality sneakers) but that I ought to buy a good Ibuprofen gel (I chose Nurofen) to apply on the painful parts. If it doesn't get better in 2-3 days, she said, please go and see a GP and when I told her that I did not know to whom I could turn as I am a foreigner in this country, she promptly gave me the business card of a GP who practices in nearby Bloomsbury Street. How efficient and how perfectly helpful! I was so delighted as I hobbled off to the film.
Back home (I did take a bus home for the first time since coming here), I found a ton of eager messages awaiting me from Chriselle and from Llew. They had some exciting family news to deliver to me which I discovered just ten minutes later after I did speak to Chriselle. One long trans-Atlantic chat later, I was whooping and sharing her excitement. But it is not for me to reveal her great news. Suffice it to say that I am so pleased for her and, though so far away, I share her joy.
Then, I made myself a dinner plate, sat in front of the telly to watch In the Valley of Elah but switched to the BBC News at Ten for the thrill of listening, for the first time in my life, to the announcement of the Man Booker Prize Winner for the year 2008: It was India's Aravind Adiga's White Tiger that went home with the 50,000 pound prize. I am doubly excited--he is from India and has won for a debut novel at the age of 33, making him the youngest of the nominees for the prize. I called Llew immediately and revealed the winner to him. We do already have the book at home in Connecticut, though neither one of us has read it...and I now have the assignment of trying to find the first British edition, first printing, tomorrow for my bibliophile husband.
On those twin happy notes (Chriselle's big announcement and the new Booker), I applied the Ibuprofen gel, bandaged my throbbing foot and went straight to bed.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Autumn Arrives in Islington
Monday, October 13, 2008
London
After four glorious days when it shone proudly upon the earth, the sun played peekaboo today, disappearing, for the most part behind thick cloud cover. I did not feel sorry that I stayed cooped up at home transcribing an interview from my tape recorder on to my laptop. Did not realize how gruelling a task that would be until I got started. But once I got the hang of it, I quickly picked up speed and hope to get more adept as time goes by.
Lunch was a baguette sandwich munched on my couch while watching British sitcoms on Gold, a channel I've discovered that does Oldies--some of which are my own favorites--As Time Goes By, Keeping Up Appearances, Fawlty Towers, One Foot in the Grave, even Sorry. Then, it was back to the salt mines until 3. 30 pm, when I rushed off for my appointment with Paul Montgomery, a second generation Anglo-Indian who had made plans to meet me in Islington.
I constantly underestimate the distance and the time it will take me to walk to my destinations despite being an expert map reader. In about 40 minutes, I arrived at our meeting point, the English and Media Center on Compton Terrace just outside the Highbury and Islington Tube Station. Paul had attended a workshop there and suggested we use the library-cum-lounge for our chat. He is a very personable man who had extensively researched his own family ties to India and has written about them with little intention of getting his discoveries published.
In the lounge, we were lucky to be able to partake of the remains of the "Tea and Cakes" that had been served to the workshop participants. With some delicious herb tea and a whopping slice of tiramisu, I felt fortified to start our conversation. Paul, of course, did most of the talking and then read to me quite beautifully from his own memoirs. It made for a very touching evening indeed as he disclosed some of the most unsavory aspects of his family background--secrets that were never even whispered about behind closed doors. At the end of our evening, he agreed to come in as a guest lecturer and speak to my students of Anglo-Indian history.
When we said goodbye, I decided to go for a walk around Islington, an area that is beloved to my colleague Tim Tomlinson (now based in Florence,Italy) after the one year he lived there while on assignment at NYU-London. I found this little 'village' it be quite delightful indeed. The High Street is filled with trendy shops, stone sculpture graces the tiny 'greens', and traditional pubs and ethnic restaurants galore offer enticing morsels. There is some literary history to be found in the environs--Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell lived in the area and there is a pub named The Orwell on the corner of Essex Road to commemorate this fact--and much cultural fare--the Sadler's Wells Theater that offers world class dance performances is here as is the Almeida Theater (not in any way associated with my surname) which hides a wonderful gourmet restaurant that belongs to Terence Conran.
Then, as I was trundling my way through the streets, it occurred to me that fall had arrived in London though you'd never guess it by the temperatures--it is still so warm. Crispy, crunchy, crackly leaves are everywhere on the sidewalks. But where is the glory? Where is the dazzling drama of color that leaves me dumbfounded in my New England garden? Where are the sugar maples that turn shades of burnt sienna, blazing orange, sunshine yellow and amethyst? No, there is none of the seasonal visual feast that we associate with Autumn on the North Atlantic coast of the United States of America and I realize, with a pang, that I will miss Nature's showy splendour this year.
When I reached home, I found that the sole of my right foot was seriously hurting and taking a painkiller, I tried to comfort the ache. I had walked for an hour and a half non-stop on the way back and while all this exercise is keeping me trim and offering exercise and allowing me to discover London, it is probably doing a number on my feet and I had probably better watch out. Especially since I have a break planned in Berlin this coming weekend where I will, undoubtedly, do miles of walking once again.
London
After four glorious days when it shone proudly upon the earth, the sun played peekaboo today, disappearing, for the most part behind thick cloud cover. I did not feel sorry that I stayed cooped up at home transcribing an interview from my tape recorder on to my laptop. Did not realize how gruelling a task that would be until I got started. But once I got the hang of it, I quickly picked up speed and hope to get more adept as time goes by.
Lunch was a baguette sandwich munched on my couch while watching British sitcoms on Gold, a channel I've discovered that does Oldies--some of which are my own favorites--As Time Goes By, Keeping Up Appearances, Fawlty Towers, One Foot in the Grave, even Sorry. Then, it was back to the salt mines until 3. 30 pm, when I rushed off for my appointment with Paul Montgomery, a second generation Anglo-Indian who had made plans to meet me in Islington.
I constantly underestimate the distance and the time it will take me to walk to my destinations despite being an expert map reader. In about 40 minutes, I arrived at our meeting point, the English and Media Center on Compton Terrace just outside the Highbury and Islington Tube Station. Paul had attended a workshop there and suggested we use the library-cum-lounge for our chat. He is a very personable man who had extensively researched his own family ties to India and has written about them with little intention of getting his discoveries published.
In the lounge, we were lucky to be able to partake of the remains of the "Tea and Cakes" that had been served to the workshop participants. With some delicious herb tea and a whopping slice of tiramisu, I felt fortified to start our conversation. Paul, of course, did most of the talking and then read to me quite beautifully from his own memoirs. It made for a very touching evening indeed as he disclosed some of the most unsavory aspects of his family background--secrets that were never even whispered about behind closed doors. At the end of our evening, he agreed to come in as a guest lecturer and speak to my students of Anglo-Indian history.
When we said goodbye, I decided to go for a walk around Islington, an area that is beloved to my colleague Tim Tomlinson (now based in Florence,Italy) after the one year he lived there while on assignment at NYU-London. I found this little 'village' it be quite delightful indeed. The High Street is filled with trendy shops, stone sculpture graces the tiny 'greens', and traditional pubs and ethnic restaurants galore offer enticing morsels. There is some literary history to be found in the environs--Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell lived in the area and there is a pub named The Orwell on the corner of Essex Road to commemorate this fact--and much cultural fare--the Sadler's Wells Theater that offers world class dance performances is here as is the Almeida Theater (not in any way associated with my surname) which hides a wonderful gourmet restaurant that belongs to Terence Conran.
Then, as I was trundling my way through the streets, it occurred to me that fall had arrived in London though you'd never guess it by the temperatures--it is still so warm. Crispy, crunchy, crackly leaves are everywhere on the sidewalks. But where is the glory? Where is the dazzling drama of color that leaves me dumbfounded in my New England garden? Where are the sugar maples that turn shades of burnt sienna, blazing orange, sunshine yellow and amethyst? No, there is none of the seasonal visual feast that we associate with Autumn on the North Atlantic coast of the United States of America and I realize, with a pang, that I will miss Nature's showy splendour this year.
When I reached home, I found that the sole of my right foot was seriously hurting and taking a painkiller, I tried to comfort the ache. I had walked for an hour and a half non-stop on the way back and while all this exercise is keeping me trim and offering exercise and allowing me to discover London, it is probably doing a number on my feet and I had probably better watch out. Especially since I have a break planned in Berlin this coming weekend where I will, undoubtedly, do miles of walking once again.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
A Sunday in the Parks with Ivana
Sunday, October 12, 2008
London
I awoke at 6 this morning (despite going to bed after midnight) and could not fall asleep again so I sat in bed reading Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies. When I stuck my head outside the window, there was not a soul in sight on either side of High Holborn even at 8 am. It is amazing how quiet this area gets at the weekend when the law firms have shut down.
Then, Surprise! Surprise! My next door neighbor Barbara was in church this morning at the 9 am Mass at St. Ethelreda's Parish on Ely Place. It was nice to be able to wave to one known face in the congregation in the midst of that sea of strangers. Our priest was a Frenchman, Fr. Dennis Labarette (he goes as Fr. "Denny", said Barbara) who stood outside to greet us as we left the church. Barbara did me the favor of picking up a copy of The Mail for me from Holborn. I would have accompanied her but I was expecting a call from Ivana which came right on cue as soon as I entered the house. Now that I am buying the Sunday papers, I guess you can say I am getting acculturated to London. I am beginning to recognize the local celebrities that are almost unknown in the States: Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, Agnes Deyn, Charles Saatchi, Stephen Fry, Sienna Miller.
Ivana ("you can call me Ivvy") did call to set a time and a place--Sloan Square Tube Station at a quarter past eleven. Getting there took longer than I thought and Ivvy had beaten me there despite having arrived there on her bicycle. We found a bike stand on which to fasten it and were away on one of the self-guided walks in my DK Eye Witness Guide to London: A Two to Three Hour Walk in Chelsea and Battersea. I'm not quite sure that Ivana knew what she was in for when she agreed to set out with me but she declared at several intervals during our walk that she was having a great time. And I believed her...for what was not to love about our rambles?
Leaving the excited Sloan Rangers behind us, we turned into Holbein Place, named, of course, for Hans Holbein, the Dutch portrait painter whom Henry VIII befriended (his work graces the National Portrait Gallery with its wide array of Tudor and Elizabethan mugs shots in oils). Out on Pimlico Road, one of my favorite streets in London, I could not resist peeking into the showrooms of interior decorating doyens Linley (yes, that is Viscount Linley, the Queen's nephew, son of her late sister Margaret) and Joanna Wood whose signature English County look has inspired me for years.
Then, we were walking past the Royal Hospital's magnificent buildings (designed by none other than Sir Christopher Wren) where I was delighted to catch a glimpse of a Chelsea Pensioner complete with long red coat and dapper black hat. In the Ranelagh Gardens, I saw the site of the famous annual Spring Chelsea Flower Show and resolved anew to try to obtain tickets for next year.
We crossed the swirling waters of the Thames at Chelsea Bridge with its four golden galleons guarding the gateposts and were over on the other bank in Battersea. In the extensive park that borders the banks we stopped for a light lunch before passing by the Buddhist Pagoda and crossing the river again--this time on the elegant Albert Bridge with its white painted ironwork. Over on the Chelsea side, we strolled along the delightful Embankment unable to get over the grandeur of the day or how fortunate we were to be able to enjoy it so thoroughly.
I couldn't resist taking pictures by the sculpture of Thomas Carlyle whose home on Cheyne Row I had visited only a couple of days ago and of St. Thomas More who also lived on Cheyne Walk. A few steps later, his very dignified statue came into view--in gilding and black stone against the charming backdrop of the old red brick Chelsea Church. Naturally, we had to step inside and were unexpectedly treated to the rehearsal of a German operatic duo which we paused to enjoy for a while. Then, we were inspecting the remotest corners of the church, taking in the private chapel and the memorial to Sir Thomas More, the poor ill-fated Chancellor to Henry VIII who refused to accept his supreme authority as Head of the Church of England, was beheaded in the Tower of London, only to be canonized a saint by the Catholic Church. Wonderful stone memorials, most of which were destroyed through German bombing in World War II and were loving restored, grace the dim interiors of this venerable church. Ivana was as enchanted as I was as we stopped frequently to read tomb stones and memorials dating from the 1400s.
When we did get out into the bright sunshine, we made our way to the King's Road past the beautiful terraced houses that carry multi-million dollar price tags today. The shoppers were still hard at it as we walked through the Chelsea Arts and Crafts Market and picked up fresh walnut bread in Waitrose before heading towards Sloan Square where Ivana picked up her bike and left me to sample scents at Jo Malone's showroom on Walton Street.
Half an hour later, half drooping with fatigue, I returned home on the Tube and treated myself to a cream tea--fruit scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream that I had picked up from M&S Simply Food. That and some rich fruit cake provided sustenance enough to allow me to sit and grade my first lot of essays from my Writing class. Except that the darn phone did not stop ringing and after a while I just left the machine to pick up.
An Inspector Lynley Mystery and watching Steven Fry's new series on the BBC based on his exploration of the fifty US states got me ready for dinner and I fixed myself my Cheddar-Broccoli Soup with the aforementioned Walnut Bread. With some Chocolate Fudge Pudding for dessert, I was ready to call it a night.
And I hope I will sleep longer tonight.
London
I awoke at 6 this morning (despite going to bed after midnight) and could not fall asleep again so I sat in bed reading Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies. When I stuck my head outside the window, there was not a soul in sight on either side of High Holborn even at 8 am. It is amazing how quiet this area gets at the weekend when the law firms have shut down.
Then, Surprise! Surprise! My next door neighbor Barbara was in church this morning at the 9 am Mass at St. Ethelreda's Parish on Ely Place. It was nice to be able to wave to one known face in the congregation in the midst of that sea of strangers. Our priest was a Frenchman, Fr. Dennis Labarette (he goes as Fr. "Denny", said Barbara) who stood outside to greet us as we left the church. Barbara did me the favor of picking up a copy of The Mail for me from Holborn. I would have accompanied her but I was expecting a call from Ivana which came right on cue as soon as I entered the house. Now that I am buying the Sunday papers, I guess you can say I am getting acculturated to London. I am beginning to recognize the local celebrities that are almost unknown in the States: Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, Agnes Deyn, Charles Saatchi, Stephen Fry, Sienna Miller.
Ivana ("you can call me Ivvy") did call to set a time and a place--Sloan Square Tube Station at a quarter past eleven. Getting there took longer than I thought and Ivvy had beaten me there despite having arrived there on her bicycle. We found a bike stand on which to fasten it and were away on one of the self-guided walks in my DK Eye Witness Guide to London: A Two to Three Hour Walk in Chelsea and Battersea. I'm not quite sure that Ivana knew what she was in for when she agreed to set out with me but she declared at several intervals during our walk that she was having a great time. And I believed her...for what was not to love about our rambles?
Leaving the excited Sloan Rangers behind us, we turned into Holbein Place, named, of course, for Hans Holbein, the Dutch portrait painter whom Henry VIII befriended (his work graces the National Portrait Gallery with its wide array of Tudor and Elizabethan mugs shots in oils). Out on Pimlico Road, one of my favorite streets in London, I could not resist peeking into the showrooms of interior decorating doyens Linley (yes, that is Viscount Linley, the Queen's nephew, son of her late sister Margaret) and Joanna Wood whose signature English County look has inspired me for years.
Then, we were walking past the Royal Hospital's magnificent buildings (designed by none other than Sir Christopher Wren) where I was delighted to catch a glimpse of a Chelsea Pensioner complete with long red coat and dapper black hat. In the Ranelagh Gardens, I saw the site of the famous annual Spring Chelsea Flower Show and resolved anew to try to obtain tickets for next year.
We crossed the swirling waters of the Thames at Chelsea Bridge with its four golden galleons guarding the gateposts and were over on the other bank in Battersea. In the extensive park that borders the banks we stopped for a light lunch before passing by the Buddhist Pagoda and crossing the river again--this time on the elegant Albert Bridge with its white painted ironwork. Over on the Chelsea side, we strolled along the delightful Embankment unable to get over the grandeur of the day or how fortunate we were to be able to enjoy it so thoroughly.
I couldn't resist taking pictures by the sculpture of Thomas Carlyle whose home on Cheyne Row I had visited only a couple of days ago and of St. Thomas More who also lived on Cheyne Walk. A few steps later, his very dignified statue came into view--in gilding and black stone against the charming backdrop of the old red brick Chelsea Church. Naturally, we had to step inside and were unexpectedly treated to the rehearsal of a German operatic duo which we paused to enjoy for a while. Then, we were inspecting the remotest corners of the church, taking in the private chapel and the memorial to Sir Thomas More, the poor ill-fated Chancellor to Henry VIII who refused to accept his supreme authority as Head of the Church of England, was beheaded in the Tower of London, only to be canonized a saint by the Catholic Church. Wonderful stone memorials, most of which were destroyed through German bombing in World War II and were loving restored, grace the dim interiors of this venerable church. Ivana was as enchanted as I was as we stopped frequently to read tomb stones and memorials dating from the 1400s.
When we did get out into the bright sunshine, we made our way to the King's Road past the beautiful terraced houses that carry multi-million dollar price tags today. The shoppers were still hard at it as we walked through the Chelsea Arts and Crafts Market and picked up fresh walnut bread in Waitrose before heading towards Sloan Square where Ivana picked up her bike and left me to sample scents at Jo Malone's showroom on Walton Street.
Half an hour later, half drooping with fatigue, I returned home on the Tube and treated myself to a cream tea--fruit scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream that I had picked up from M&S Simply Food. That and some rich fruit cake provided sustenance enough to allow me to sit and grade my first lot of essays from my Writing class. Except that the darn phone did not stop ringing and after a while I just left the machine to pick up.
An Inspector Lynley Mystery and watching Steven Fry's new series on the BBC based on his exploration of the fifty US states got me ready for dinner and I fixed myself my Cheddar-Broccoli Soup with the aforementioned Walnut Bread. With some Chocolate Fudge Pudding for dessert, I was ready to call it a night.
And I hope I will sleep longer tonight.
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