We had a lovely Christmas. It was our second Christmas in London, just my husband and me. Which I suppose can sound sad and lonely, if Christmas to you means a house full o' kids and grandparents and neighbors. But there is something peaceful - and romantic - about Christmas spent as a couple, in a foreign country, far away from family obligations. (Don't get us wrong, we love our families and friends, and a good portion of the day was devoted to phone calls to the States.)
We woke up late, then breakfasted on that rarest of North American treats - proper buttermilk pancakes, with real maple syrup. Pancakes here are sad affairs, more like a French crepe than a griddle cake. But thanks to Costco, which is virtually identical on both sides of the Atlantic, we were able to whip up Krusteaz's finest. We exchanged presents, from the ridiculous - wine gums and Hobnobs - to the sublime. Our local pub was open Christmas afternoon, so we took the chess set and found ourselves a perch, drinking winter Pimms and eating mince pies while chasing rooks and pawns up and down the board. Then we rambled around Holland Park with our camera, taking photos of black bunnies and incandescent peacocks and the special Christmas Day guest star, a blue heron. Then home to prepare dinner: turkey and stuffing from the butcher; brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and cranberries from the greengrocer; champagne from the wine shop. All bought within a two block radius of our flat, and all of amazing quality.
I made pumpkin pie for dessert. I tried to save time by using storebought pie crust and, well, that was a mistake. Although the pie tasted fine, it certainly wasn't deep dish, or even medium dish. Still, it was an improvement over the last time we ate pumpkin pie in London, at the Ritz - that was whipped cream sprinkled with nutmeg served over a thin scraping of pumpkin puree.
In all, it was a Christmas to remember. A time to recharge and relax, to spend time together as a couple, to reflect and plan. Christmas in London is lovely not because of the decorations - for the most part, the British don't decorate their home exteriors (that's too gauche and, well, American) and the lights in the West End shopping district pale next to any US civic center with an ounce of pride - but because it is so quiet. No public transportation. No open businesses. I don't know what non-Christians do on Christmas because there are zero options other than sitting at home and watching the Queen's speech on the telly. No going to the movies and eating take out Chinese - the Dec. 25 tradition kept by nearly all my Jewish friends (and a lot of my Christian ones as well).
Which leads me to the recent hoop-de-doo over whether one should say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" when addressing people you don't know well. I read about the Wal-mart flap, with picketers demanding that Wal-Mart stop using the generic "Holidays" in favor of the specific "Christmas" on their in-store signs. Some Brits are also up in arms over which greeting to use; it was a topic of conversation on BBC Radio London and the subject of at least two editorials in the Times. The Brits came down heavily on the side of "Merry Christmas," with the various reasons including a) the UK is a Christian country, with a head of state who is also the head of the Church of England; b) Political correctness is an American virus that needs to be rooted out in the UK; c) December 25 IS Christmas, after all, it's a factual statement and you're just wishing them a pleasant day.
I'm going with "Happy Holidays."
Why? Are I some godless heathen? Some politically correct namby-pamby?
No, not really. It's because I am a Christian. And Christmas Day is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, the human son of God, born of Mary. It is a holy day, and while the presents and the food and the decorations are lots of fun, they're not what the day is about.
But I am aware that not everyone believes in Christ. Or even if they live in a household where Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny leave presents every year, they might not have made the very personal and intimate choice to have a deeper relationship with God. That's cool. I'm so not a proselytizing evangelical. Makes me break out in hives.
And the tree and the stockings and the wrapping paper and the fat guy dressed in red: those are pretty swell traditions. They're fun. More power to those who want to celebrate them. And now that I live on a northerly latitude I totally get why the ancients brought greenery inside the house and lit Yule logs - the days are dark and dreary, with sunrise at eight a.m. and sunset at four p.m. Christmas lights and mulled wine and hot mince pies make a short day almost preferable - the sooner the sun sets, the sooner the lights glow, the more inviting the pub looks.
But while these are trappings of Christmas, they're not really Christmas.
And not everyone celebrates Christmas. Get over it, Wal-Mart protestors. You live in a country founded on the principle of religious freedom, a country that rejected the establishment of a state religion.
Christmas can't be bought in a store. Christmas isn't a generic greeting to be handed off to one and all. "Happy Holidays" is so much more appropriate in a commercial and general social setting.
I don't want to be wished a Happy Rosh Hashanah or Happy Eid or Happy Diwali. Not because these are worthless, nothing celebrations - they're not. They are very important, very significant days. But they are not my holy days.
Why should those to whom these are the most holy days of year be wished a Merry Christmas? Why should those who don't have any religious beliefs be wished it as well?
Shouldn't "Merry Christmas" - as an expression of well wishes - be saved for those who revere Christ and commemorate his birth?
And shouldn't "Happy Holidays" - or "Season's Greetings" - be used for the commercial frenzy that, as fun as it all is, is rather incongruous as the celebration of a humble birth in a lowly stable? Not to mention that "Happy Holidays" is also a statement of fact - after all, New Year's is just a week later, and it also encompasses Hanukkah and Kwaanza.
I honestly don't get what there is to protest.
Or am I missing something?
2005-12-27
2005-12-13
More theatre!
It's almost the end of 2005, and time for the second half of the year theatre recap.
Since the last theatre entry, we've seen:
Guys and Dolls, with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski, co-produced by Donmar Warehouse
This was a TERRIFIC production. I've always liked Jane Krakowski, and thought she stole the TV series "Ally McBeal" from all those stick figure girls who got all the newsprint. She was born to play Miss Adelaide, the burlesque dancer who just wants Nathan Detroit to make an honest woman out of her after being engaged for fourteen years. Adorable and sexy, she lit up the stage. The headlining star was Ewan McGregor, who has a pleasant voice and is far from difficult on the eyes (as millions of female Star Wars fans can attest). His Skye Masterson was appealing enough, and he turned up the sexual heat in the Havana nightclub number. But Krakowski and Douglas Hodge, who played Detroit, really shone. Score another steal from the big name star for Krakowski. One of my favorite West End musicals of the year.
Twelfth Night, Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park
Shakespeare in the park, London style. An absolutely gorgeous production, in which Regent's Park is turned into a tropical Spanish island colony. And there's a parrot. And they serve sangria at the bar. Not a difficult night out at all. Oh, and there's shipwrecked siblings, star-crossed lovers, lots of cross-dressing, and did I mention the parrot? OK, I might have had more sangria than was good for my comprehension of Shakespearean language. But it's hard to go wrong watching theatre in a beautiful setting on a lovely summer night.
Aristocrats by Brian Friel, at the National
A dysfunctional Irish family gathers at the ancestral pile as their father withers away. Gina McKee was v. v. good, but the play was sloooow, I had worked a long day, and, well, I was asleep long before the father died.
Theatre of Blood with Jim Broadbent, at the National
This was my husband's favorite play of 2005 (so far). A re-imagination of the 1973 Vincent Price MGM film, the stage play was a collaboration with Improbable Theatre. Broadbent played Edward Lionheart, an over-the-top Shakespearean actor who disappeared after a particularly vicious public dissing by seven theatre critics. Several years later, those same critics find themselves invited to an abandoned theatre. Each critic has an invite that is specifically tailored to flatter their pretensions. They soon learn that Lionheart is out to exact revenge, picking them off one by one in gruesome, gory and laugh-out-loud scenarios taken from Shakespeare. Campy but stylish fun, pulled off with panache.
Mary Stuart by Friedrich Schiller, with Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter, at Donmar Warehouse
Absolutely amazing acting, and my favorite play of 2005. We saw it in the very intimate setting of the Donmar Warehouse (it has since transferred to a larger venue), which really emphasized the personal in the politics played between the two Queens and cousins, and between Elizabeth and her courtiers. The play isn't historically accurate - the most riveting scene, in which a disheveled, passionate, impulsive Mary, Queen of Scots meets the impeccably groomed and emotionally controlled Elizabeth I, never happened - but it's theatre at its most compelling.
Henry IV, Part 1 and Part 2, with Matthew Macfadyen and Michael Gambon, at the National, directed by Nicholas Hynter
This production received mixed reviews and I'm not sure why, because I was riveted from the opening: King Henry standing on a battlefield still smoking from the conflict, with distraught women crying over their dead kinfolk in the background.
I sometimes have a hard time listening to Shakespeare's language as I grew up reading his plays instead of seeing them performed. I have no problem with his words on paper, but spoken Shakespeare is rather difficult to follow. Not this play. The language felt fresh and immediate, as current as the nightly news. This was helped by the production design, which was spare and elegant, suggesting medieval England but also the 21st century.
Both Macfadyen and Gambon have big Hollywood movies out now, but while Matthew Macfadyen's Prince Hal shared some of Mr. Darcy's mannerisms, Gambon's Falstaff was 180 degrees from Dumbledore.
HMS Pinafore by Gilbert & Sullivan, Open Air Theatre at Regent's Park
I drank less sangria this time (it was later in the summer and starting to get cold at night). In 7th grade, I was in the chorus of the school production of Pinafore, but either I've forgotten much of it or it was radically shortened (and cleaned up - don't remember all the baby switching) for our budding adolescent attention spans. And this production turned Deadeye Dick into a comic one man Greek chorus, breaking the fourth wall to explain the Victorian in-jokes. All good fun, cheerful and colorful.
The History Boys by Alan Bennett, directed by Nicholas Hytner, at the National
The History Boys will be transitioning to Broadway soon, and the play returned to the National for its run-up. I enjoyed this play, very much, even if some of the jokes and references were completely lost on me. Set in a grammar school (aka high school) in Northern England in the late 80s, the play is a rumination on education, coming of age, sexual identity and moral trade-offs. A group of male students are earmarked by the headmaster as "Oxbridge" prospects. However, the school has a terrible track record at prepping students for their entrance exams. The headmaster hires a teacher with Oxbridge credentials to ready the boys for their exams. However, the new teacher, who coaches the students to give the answers the examiners want to hear, conflicts with the boys' regular teacher who wants to teach them to think for themselves via a solid grounding in the classics. It's a very smart play, very funny play, very moving play. Highly recommended, although I'm curious how well it will transfer to the States - our high schools are very different. And even after 18 months in Britian, my husband and I missed quite a few jokes that had the rest of the audience in the aisles, while we found otherselves the only ones laughing in other spots.
2000 Years by Mike Leigh, at the National
This play sold out before it had a title. Leigh is famous for gathering a troupe of actors and improvising the play during rehearsal. This particular play turned out to be about a family of secular British Jews who are shocked and horrified when their grown son becomes devout and even *gasp* says his daily prayers. I have lots of respect for Leigh but 2000 Years felt like a small, sad tempest in a teapot; I'm sure it is because I am a Los Angeleno who has had lots of exposure to Jewish culture and especially to Jewish families that this didn't feel at all fresh or new (despite au courant references to Katrina and the Gaza pull-out.) Leigh didn't say anything about being Jewish in an Anglo world that Woody Allen didn't say better and funnier 20 years ago, and since religion is not quite the four letter word in America that it is Britian, the mishegaas over the son's religious awakening felt especially forced to me. A watchable play, with some really great acting, but worth skipping.
Ducktastic directed by Kenneth Branagh
We really wanted to see this. And it got some good reviews. So imagine our surprise when the producers announced that the show was closing early and all seats were just ten pounds.
As it turns out, ten pounds was rather steep. A really, really confused show - a cross between a Christmas panto, a magic act and a sketch comedy run amuck. Plus live ducks. My husband is convinced that the show came into being after someone muttered "duck knows" instead of its ruder cousin, only for another person to say "Eureka! What a great line on which to build a West End musical!"
It had some moments: Sean Foley is an incredibly gifted physical comedian, and I enjoyed his rubbery dances. Some of the illusions were spectacular (others, merely stupid). And I'm a sucker for live animals on stage, even large white ducks.
But since I'm not British, the cross-dressing, the faux nudity and the really bad puns were just lost on me. Sorry, Kenneth.
God of Hell by Sam Shepard, at Donmar Warehouse
I am a fan of Shepard's writing. But God of Hell is not one of his strongest efforts. It hits you over the head with a frying pan, and then just to make sure you get the message, it hits you with a side of beef, several plant pots, electric shock torture and finishes off with a nuclear bang.
Shepard's play - more like a rant - is a warning about the neo-cons leading America into a totalitarian future decorated with stars and stripes. And I hear ya, Sam. I'm not too happy about the neo-cons, either. But this the play is so dissonant that the message assaults the audience almost as much the neo-con character in the play assaults the military experiment escapee.
Lesley Sharp is very good as Emma, the one character who resists the neo-con's seductions and/or tortures. But overall, all I can say about the play is thankfully it was only a one-act.
We also saw two Broadway musicals this year, both more than worth the price of the ticket: Spamalot (and we paid exhorbiant ticket broker fees) and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Norbert Leo Butz is my new theater crush.
We have two more plays before the end of the New Year: the Royal Shakespeare Company's Great Expectations at Stratford-Upon-Avon and Patrick Stewart's one-man A Christmas Carol. And we've already got tickets for next year: more from the RSC (this year they're doing the Complete Works of Shakespeare, and we've tickets to a few of them), Resurrection Blues at the Old Vic, Once in a Lifetime at the National, and finally Billy Elliot in March. I love living in London!
Since the last theatre entry, we've seen:
Guys and Dolls, with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski, co-produced by Donmar Warehouse
This was a TERRIFIC production. I've always liked Jane Krakowski, and thought she stole the TV series "Ally McBeal" from all those stick figure girls who got all the newsprint. She was born to play Miss Adelaide, the burlesque dancer who just wants Nathan Detroit to make an honest woman out of her after being engaged for fourteen years. Adorable and sexy, she lit up the stage. The headlining star was Ewan McGregor, who has a pleasant voice and is far from difficult on the eyes (as millions of female Star Wars fans can attest). His Skye Masterson was appealing enough, and he turned up the sexual heat in the Havana nightclub number. But Krakowski and Douglas Hodge, who played Detroit, really shone. Score another steal from the big name star for Krakowski. One of my favorite West End musicals of the year.
Twelfth Night, Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park
Shakespeare in the park, London style. An absolutely gorgeous production, in which Regent's Park is turned into a tropical Spanish island colony. And there's a parrot. And they serve sangria at the bar. Not a difficult night out at all. Oh, and there's shipwrecked siblings, star-crossed lovers, lots of cross-dressing, and did I mention the parrot? OK, I might have had more sangria than was good for my comprehension of Shakespearean language. But it's hard to go wrong watching theatre in a beautiful setting on a lovely summer night.
Aristocrats by Brian Friel, at the National
A dysfunctional Irish family gathers at the ancestral pile as their father withers away. Gina McKee was v. v. good, but the play was sloooow, I had worked a long day, and, well, I was asleep long before the father died.
Theatre of Blood with Jim Broadbent, at the National
This was my husband's favorite play of 2005 (so far). A re-imagination of the 1973 Vincent Price MGM film, the stage play was a collaboration with Improbable Theatre. Broadbent played Edward Lionheart, an over-the-top Shakespearean actor who disappeared after a particularly vicious public dissing by seven theatre critics. Several years later, those same critics find themselves invited to an abandoned theatre. Each critic has an invite that is specifically tailored to flatter their pretensions. They soon learn that Lionheart is out to exact revenge, picking them off one by one in gruesome, gory and laugh-out-loud scenarios taken from Shakespeare. Campy but stylish fun, pulled off with panache.
Mary Stuart by Friedrich Schiller, with Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter, at Donmar Warehouse
Absolutely amazing acting, and my favorite play of 2005. We saw it in the very intimate setting of the Donmar Warehouse (it has since transferred to a larger venue), which really emphasized the personal in the politics played between the two Queens and cousins, and between Elizabeth and her courtiers. The play isn't historically accurate - the most riveting scene, in which a disheveled, passionate, impulsive Mary, Queen of Scots meets the impeccably groomed and emotionally controlled Elizabeth I, never happened - but it's theatre at its most compelling.
Henry IV, Part 1 and Part 2, with Matthew Macfadyen and Michael Gambon, at the National, directed by Nicholas Hynter
This production received mixed reviews and I'm not sure why, because I was riveted from the opening: King Henry standing on a battlefield still smoking from the conflict, with distraught women crying over their dead kinfolk in the background.
I sometimes have a hard time listening to Shakespeare's language as I grew up reading his plays instead of seeing them performed. I have no problem with his words on paper, but spoken Shakespeare is rather difficult to follow. Not this play. The language felt fresh and immediate, as current as the nightly news. This was helped by the production design, which was spare and elegant, suggesting medieval England but also the 21st century.
Both Macfadyen and Gambon have big Hollywood movies out now, but while Matthew Macfadyen's Prince Hal shared some of Mr. Darcy's mannerisms, Gambon's Falstaff was 180 degrees from Dumbledore.
HMS Pinafore by Gilbert & Sullivan, Open Air Theatre at Regent's Park
I drank less sangria this time (it was later in the summer and starting to get cold at night). In 7th grade, I was in the chorus of the school production of Pinafore, but either I've forgotten much of it or it was radically shortened (and cleaned up - don't remember all the baby switching) for our budding adolescent attention spans. And this production turned Deadeye Dick into a comic one man Greek chorus, breaking the fourth wall to explain the Victorian in-jokes. All good fun, cheerful and colorful.
The History Boys by Alan Bennett, directed by Nicholas Hytner, at the National
The History Boys will be transitioning to Broadway soon, and the play returned to the National for its run-up. I enjoyed this play, very much, even if some of the jokes and references were completely lost on me. Set in a grammar school (aka high school) in Northern England in the late 80s, the play is a rumination on education, coming of age, sexual identity and moral trade-offs. A group of male students are earmarked by the headmaster as "Oxbridge" prospects. However, the school has a terrible track record at prepping students for their entrance exams. The headmaster hires a teacher with Oxbridge credentials to ready the boys for their exams. However, the new teacher, who coaches the students to give the answers the examiners want to hear, conflicts with the boys' regular teacher who wants to teach them to think for themselves via a solid grounding in the classics. It's a very smart play, very funny play, very moving play. Highly recommended, although I'm curious how well it will transfer to the States - our high schools are very different. And even after 18 months in Britian, my husband and I missed quite a few jokes that had the rest of the audience in the aisles, while we found otherselves the only ones laughing in other spots.
2000 Years by Mike Leigh, at the National
This play sold out before it had a title. Leigh is famous for gathering a troupe of actors and improvising the play during rehearsal. This particular play turned out to be about a family of secular British Jews who are shocked and horrified when their grown son becomes devout and even *gasp* says his daily prayers. I have lots of respect for Leigh but 2000 Years felt like a small, sad tempest in a teapot; I'm sure it is because I am a Los Angeleno who has had lots of exposure to Jewish culture and especially to Jewish families that this didn't feel at all fresh or new (despite au courant references to Katrina and the Gaza pull-out.) Leigh didn't say anything about being Jewish in an Anglo world that Woody Allen didn't say better and funnier 20 years ago, and since religion is not quite the four letter word in America that it is Britian, the mishegaas over the son's religious awakening felt especially forced to me. A watchable play, with some really great acting, but worth skipping.
Ducktastic directed by Kenneth Branagh
We really wanted to see this. And it got some good reviews. So imagine our surprise when the producers announced that the show was closing early and all seats were just ten pounds.
As it turns out, ten pounds was rather steep. A really, really confused show - a cross between a Christmas panto, a magic act and a sketch comedy run amuck. Plus live ducks. My husband is convinced that the show came into being after someone muttered "duck knows" instead of its ruder cousin, only for another person to say "Eureka! What a great line on which to build a West End musical!"
It had some moments: Sean Foley is an incredibly gifted physical comedian, and I enjoyed his rubbery dances. Some of the illusions were spectacular (others, merely stupid). And I'm a sucker for live animals on stage, even large white ducks.
But since I'm not British, the cross-dressing, the faux nudity and the really bad puns were just lost on me. Sorry, Kenneth.
God of Hell by Sam Shepard, at Donmar Warehouse
I am a fan of Shepard's writing. But God of Hell is not one of his strongest efforts. It hits you over the head with a frying pan, and then just to make sure you get the message, it hits you with a side of beef, several plant pots, electric shock torture and finishes off with a nuclear bang.
Shepard's play - more like a rant - is a warning about the neo-cons leading America into a totalitarian future decorated with stars and stripes. And I hear ya, Sam. I'm not too happy about the neo-cons, either. But this the play is so dissonant that the message assaults the audience almost as much the neo-con character in the play assaults the military experiment escapee.
Lesley Sharp is very good as Emma, the one character who resists the neo-con's seductions and/or tortures. But overall, all I can say about the play is thankfully it was only a one-act.
We also saw two Broadway musicals this year, both more than worth the price of the ticket: Spamalot (and we paid exhorbiant ticket broker fees) and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Norbert Leo Butz is my new theater crush.
We have two more plays before the end of the New Year: the Royal Shakespeare Company's Great Expectations at Stratford-Upon-Avon and Patrick Stewart's one-man A Christmas Carol. And we've already got tickets for next year: more from the RSC (this year they're doing the Complete Works of Shakespeare, and we've tickets to a few of them), Resurrection Blues at the Old Vic, Once in a Lifetime at the National, and finally Billy Elliot in March. I love living in London!
2005-09-10
On Being an Expat and Watching a Disaster From Afar
I have gone through so many emotions since Katrina hit the Gulf Coast.
I love New Orleans. I've visited the city many times. It's hard to put into words, but when I am in the city, my soul feels at home. I'm not necessarily a believer in past lives, but if I did have one, it was in New Orleans - that's how much I respond to the city on a molecular level.
So merely as someone who loves a place that has been damaged and hurt, I weep.
I also care a great deal for animals. I am so upset that the Aquarium of the Americas has lost most of its aquatic collection, and so very thankful that the animals at the Audubon Zoo and Center for Reproduction of Endangered Species have mostly survived and are healthy. My thoughts and prayers are with the good people of the Humane Society, ASPCA, Noah's Wish, the LSU Veternary School, Best Friends, Alley Cats Association and others who are working to rescue pets, strays, wildlife and farm animals from the damaged area. The Humane Society banner for donations is above. If you would like to donate to the Zoo and Aquarium, the Lincoln Park Zoo is spearheading fundraising efforts here: https://www.lpzoo.org/hurricane/relief.html
Above all, I am an American citizen who is deeply ashamed of her country's leadership. Ashamed and angry. The images on the television screen were shocking, disgusting and appalling. The British press consistently wonders why Sri Lanka, Thailand, India and Malaysia - all much poorer countries with far less resources - were able to give a much higher standard of care to their tsunami victims than the richest, most arrogant country in the world could give to victims of an event for which there was ample warning. British Superdome refugees are arriving home and going on television to choke up about the unspeakable horrors they witnessed.
But I guess Bush thought it more important to stay on his vacation and sing and joke with a country-western star than to worry about the people of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast. Considering that the only thing that seems to stimulate him is oil, the fact that he let one of the major oil producing, refining and shipping areas get to its deplorable post-hurricane condition really speaks badly for how other, much less important when it comes to oil, areas of the country will fare in a different emergency. Meanwhile, Rumsfeld took in a San Diego Padres game and Condi shopped for shoes in New York City and went to see Spamalot (about another deluded would-be monarch) while people suffered the stuff of apocolyptic nightmares. Lives were lost needlessly thanks to the Bush adminstration and FEMA's criminal negligence and incompetence.
I am so, so mad. And tearful. But now, mostly mad.
If you don't think that Bush's actions are affecting how people in other countries see ordinary Americans, think again.
Last weekend, my husband and I went on an organized tour to the Champagne region of France. We traveled with 36 Brits, ranging in age from mid-twenties to around late sixties. On our first night, we gathered for our comparative champagne testings. A family, two parents with two grown daughters about my age, arrived too late to get a table that would seat all four together. So the parents came to sat at our table. One of the daughters came over to introduce herself.
My huband said his name, and she said, while moving on to shake my hand, "Oh, do I detect a Northern Irish accent?"
I said, "No, we're American."
"Oh, American!" And she dropped my hand as if I had said, "No, I have leprosy."
She - and the rest of her family - didn't say another word to us all weekend. The other tour members were polite to us, but we would catch snippets of discussion about Katrina - and how terribly the Americans were dealing with it - all weekend long. The conversation would die as soon as they realized we had entered the space.
They were nice, intelligent, educated people. And the waves of disgust emanating from them toward the United States was practically visible.
One of the things I miss most living abroad is having a shared culture with the people I encounter. Knowing proper line (or queue, as I say now) etiquette. Knowing what expectations to reasonably have vis-a-vis customer service. Cultural in-jokes. Above all, I miss not being judged simply on my accent. (The Brits, on the other hand, have accent-judging down to an art. Not just American/Australian/Indian subcontinent/etc., but Essex vs. the north vs. Cornwall vs. posh public school vs. S London, etc)
But right now I feel out of step with my culture, with my country. How can any reasonable individual with a modicum of ethical awareness support the current adminstration? And yet, so many people apparently do.
Katrina has made me a woman without a country to call my own. I'm truly an expat.
2005-08-09
I've been cloned!
Or rather, my ATM card has been.
This is after my husband's ATM card was cloned a month ago.
It seems rather excessive to us (not to mention creepy and a bit scary.)
You have to understand that getting a bank account in Britain is one of the most bureaucratic processes around, especially for newcomers. First, to get a bank account you must have a home address. This is fine and dandy except when you are trying to rent or buy a home, which you can't do without a bank account. It's a situation Joseph Heller would be quite proud of.
We solved that one through the magic of corporate housing. But I feel for anyone who moves over without being on the company dime (or tuppence).
Next step: fill out the application for a bank account. You also need to have a lawyer testify in writing that he/she has examined your passports and that the copies you are sending with the application are, indeed, facsimiles of the actual thing. This is a problem if you don't happen to have a lawyer or two handy. Luckily, I work next door to one, so voila! Problem solved.
The application has to be mailed. No bringing it to a branch; must go through the post. And the reply? Also comes by post.
Off we sent our application. And after several weeks, a letter finally came informing us that we're now the proud co-owners of a British bank account. Would we like an ATM card? Then please, mail this card back. Oh, and the checks are being mailed under separate cover.
OK, when I put my husband on my bank account in California, we physically went to a local branch. We filled out some paperwork in the branch. We talked to the nice accounts officer who hit a few keys on her computer keypad, then stuck a blank ATM card in the card reader and had my husband punch in his PIN. We walked out of the branch with ATM card, checks, and joint account. We then went to his bank branch and repeated the process. Done in one day - oh, what a miracle it seems now!
Back to Britain. A week or so later, the checks arrive. Then, glorious day of days (because I was getting tired of all the conversion charges on my US account from using my US ATM card to withdraw cash) our British ATM cards arrived.
But no PIN.
We had to, yes, you guessed it, mail back a confirmation of card receipt slip (no calling an 800 number equivalent, no taking it to a branch for activation). Then, once the bank received our confirmation by post, and only then, would they mail us our PINs.
It's a painful process. P A I N F U L.
We received our PINS, changed them to something we would remember more easily, and life went on.
Then my husband's card was cloned. A few weeks later, mine was cloned.
Back in January, the government made a big fuss about "chip and PIN." All businesses are supposed to use, from the start of 2005, new technology that allows customers to "sign" for their credit/debit card purchases with their PIN. Big media campaigns told us to make sure all our credit cards have the requisite chip and to know our PIN.
It's August, and we're still being asked to sign for card purchases.
Merchants don't ask to see i.d. as there is no real government-issued standard. Many people don't drive in London so using drivers' licenses as ID is not really feasible. Passports are also not mandatory (although many more Brits than Americans have them). Tony Blair is trying to introduce a national ID card but that's a whole 'nother hot political potato. So when chip and PIN aren't used, merchants rely on checking the signature on the card with the signature on the slip.
Except, when, they don't.
Or when the card is cloned and the counterfeit card is signed with the counterfeit signature.
The most sophisticated card cloning technique is to surreptiously attach a card reader gizmo on an ATM machine. The user does his ATM banking as normal, but the gizmo captures the card number and PIN. A new card is then forged and before the owner of the bank account realizes it, the account is cleaned out.
Thankfully, we weren't the victim of that scam, although the ATM nearest to us did have a card reader gizmo attached to it some months ago. You can still see the holes where they drilled into the cash machine to attach the gizmo. No, our scam was a bit more pedestrian, and a lot more common.
A worker at some store we shopped at apparently copied down our card number and names, then used the information to create a new card. They didn't have access to our PIN, so they couldn't take cash out of our account. Instead, they used the clone card to make small purchases at supermarket-type stores, then asked for £50 cash back on top of the purchase. They would then repeat this at tens of stores a day, obviously knowing which clerks don't ask for chip and PIN.
On my husband's cloned card, they got £800. On mine, it's over £1000.
The bank caught on, in both cases, rather quickly and deactivated our cards. Unfortunately, I found out access was denied when I hit the sales to buy clothes for a business trip and my card was refused at the till. Oops.
The bank was very nice about the identity fraud and they reimbursed us for the stolen funds with expediency (the stores ultimately take the loss). However, this means we need new ATM cards.
They're coming.
In the post.
This is after my husband's ATM card was cloned a month ago.
It seems rather excessive to us (not to mention creepy and a bit scary.)
You have to understand that getting a bank account in Britain is one of the most bureaucratic processes around, especially for newcomers. First, to get a bank account you must have a home address. This is fine and dandy except when you are trying to rent or buy a home, which you can't do without a bank account. It's a situation Joseph Heller would be quite proud of.
We solved that one through the magic of corporate housing. But I feel for anyone who moves over without being on the company dime (or tuppence).
Next step: fill out the application for a bank account. You also need to have a lawyer testify in writing that he/she has examined your passports and that the copies you are sending with the application are, indeed, facsimiles of the actual thing. This is a problem if you don't happen to have a lawyer or two handy. Luckily, I work next door to one, so voila! Problem solved.
The application has to be mailed. No bringing it to a branch; must go through the post. And the reply? Also comes by post.
Off we sent our application. And after several weeks, a letter finally came informing us that we're now the proud co-owners of a British bank account. Would we like an ATM card? Then please, mail this card back. Oh, and the checks are being mailed under separate cover.
OK, when I put my husband on my bank account in California, we physically went to a local branch. We filled out some paperwork in the branch. We talked to the nice accounts officer who hit a few keys on her computer keypad, then stuck a blank ATM card in the card reader and had my husband punch in his PIN. We walked out of the branch with ATM card, checks, and joint account. We then went to his bank branch and repeated the process. Done in one day - oh, what a miracle it seems now!
Back to Britain. A week or so later, the checks arrive. Then, glorious day of days (because I was getting tired of all the conversion charges on my US account from using my US ATM card to withdraw cash) our British ATM cards arrived.
But no PIN.
We had to, yes, you guessed it, mail back a confirmation of card receipt slip (no calling an 800 number equivalent, no taking it to a branch for activation). Then, once the bank received our confirmation by post, and only then, would they mail us our PINs.
It's a painful process. P A I N F U L.
We received our PINS, changed them to something we would remember more easily, and life went on.
Then my husband's card was cloned. A few weeks later, mine was cloned.
Back in January, the government made a big fuss about "chip and PIN." All businesses are supposed to use, from the start of 2005, new technology that allows customers to "sign" for their credit/debit card purchases with their PIN. Big media campaigns told us to make sure all our credit cards have the requisite chip and to know our PIN.
It's August, and we're still being asked to sign for card purchases.
Merchants don't ask to see i.d. as there is no real government-issued standard. Many people don't drive in London so using drivers' licenses as ID is not really feasible. Passports are also not mandatory (although many more Brits than Americans have them). Tony Blair is trying to introduce a national ID card but that's a whole 'nother hot political potato. So when chip and PIN aren't used, merchants rely on checking the signature on the card with the signature on the slip.
Except, when, they don't.
Or when the card is cloned and the counterfeit card is signed with the counterfeit signature.
The most sophisticated card cloning technique is to surreptiously attach a card reader gizmo on an ATM machine. The user does his ATM banking as normal, but the gizmo captures the card number and PIN. A new card is then forged and before the owner of the bank account realizes it, the account is cleaned out.
Thankfully, we weren't the victim of that scam, although the ATM nearest to us did have a card reader gizmo attached to it some months ago. You can still see the holes where they drilled into the cash machine to attach the gizmo. No, our scam was a bit more pedestrian, and a lot more common.
A worker at some store we shopped at apparently copied down our card number and names, then used the information to create a new card. They didn't have access to our PIN, so they couldn't take cash out of our account. Instead, they used the clone card to make small purchases at supermarket-type stores, then asked for £50 cash back on top of the purchase. They would then repeat this at tens of stores a day, obviously knowing which clerks don't ask for chip and PIN.
On my husband's cloned card, they got £800. On mine, it's over £1000.
The bank caught on, in both cases, rather quickly and deactivated our cards. Unfortunately, I found out access was denied when I hit the sales to buy clothes for a business trip and my card was refused at the till. Oops.
The bank was very nice about the identity fraud and they reimbursed us for the stolen funds with expediency (the stores ultimately take the loss). However, this means we need new ATM cards.
They're coming.
In the post.
2005-08-08
I (heart) London
I may give the impression in this blog that I don't enjoy London, or the British.
Not true!
Oh, there are things that tickle my funnybone, and my sarcastic bone, and my seeing red bone (Decca Aitkenhead, I mean you). But overall I LOVE London, and if I tease, or throw barbs, it's because I care.
Things I love:
Walking along the South Bank at sunset, taking in the free performances on offer at the National Theatre, Royal Festival Hall complex or the Tate Modern
Rows of white stucco Georgian townhouses with brilliantly colored front doors
Wandering down a side street and discovering, thanks to a blue plaque, that someone you admire once lived there
Rowing on the lake in Regent's Park
Watching small children feed the swans and ducks in St. James's Park
Going for a jog along Rotten Row in Hyde Park and imagining what a scene it must have been during the Regency era (or at least it was in all the Regency romance novels I read)
Pubs with beer gardens in the summer
Pubs in general
Gastropubs especially
Black taxis. Best damn taxis and taxi drivers in the world.
The ease and expediency of the tube, even if I do complain about using it in summer
Selfriges
Walking through Holland Park and spotting foxes, rabbits and peacocks
Sitting on the top deck of a double decker bus and getting a new perspective on the streets
Bookstores. Especially Foyle's.
Rows of red brick Victorian terraces, with brightly blooming flowerboxes
Wagamamas
Outdoor opera and theatre
The National Theatre
TKTS
Time Out, most weeks
British women's magazines: always a new one to pick up when I need something with which to kill an hour or so, and somehow not nearly as annoying as their American cousins
Museums: The V&A, The National Portrait Gallery, The National Gallery, Tate Britain & Modern, Royal Society of Arts, The Museum of London, The London Transport Museum, etc. etc. etc. We've become a member of most of them and couldn't be happier about it.
The no-nonsense attitude of Scotland Yard - I admire them so much after watching them handle persnickety journalists during the London bombing investigation
The list will go on - almost every day there's at least one new thing that makes me grateful to be here. Do I miss the States? Often. But we're not ready to go home. We'll see if we ever are.
Not true!
Oh, there are things that tickle my funnybone, and my sarcastic bone, and my seeing red bone (Decca Aitkenhead, I mean you). But overall I LOVE London, and if I tease, or throw barbs, it's because I care.
Things I love:
Walking along the South Bank at sunset, taking in the free performances on offer at the National Theatre, Royal Festival Hall complex or the Tate Modern
Rows of white stucco Georgian townhouses with brilliantly colored front doors
Wandering down a side street and discovering, thanks to a blue plaque, that someone you admire once lived there
Rowing on the lake in Regent's Park
Watching small children feed the swans and ducks in St. James's Park
Going for a jog along Rotten Row in Hyde Park and imagining what a scene it must have been during the Regency era (or at least it was in all the Regency romance novels I read)
Pubs with beer gardens in the summer
Pubs in general
Gastropubs especially
Black taxis. Best damn taxis and taxi drivers in the world.
The ease and expediency of the tube, even if I do complain about using it in summer
Selfriges
Walking through Holland Park and spotting foxes, rabbits and peacocks
Sitting on the top deck of a double decker bus and getting a new perspective on the streets
Bookstores. Especially Foyle's.
Rows of red brick Victorian terraces, with brightly blooming flowerboxes
Wagamamas
Outdoor opera and theatre
The National Theatre
TKTS
Time Out, most weeks
British women's magazines: always a new one to pick up when I need something with which to kill an hour or so, and somehow not nearly as annoying as their American cousins
Museums: The V&A, The National Portrait Gallery, The National Gallery, Tate Britain & Modern, Royal Society of Arts, The Museum of London, The London Transport Museum, etc. etc. etc. We've become a member of most of them and couldn't be happier about it.
The no-nonsense attitude of Scotland Yard - I admire them so much after watching them handle persnickety journalists during the London bombing investigation
The list will go on - almost every day there's at least one new thing that makes me grateful to be here. Do I miss the States? Often. But we're not ready to go home. We'll see if we ever are.
2005-07-11
Picnic at the Ambassador's Residence
Last Sunday, the American Society in London held a picnic to celebrate Independence Day at Winfield House, otherwise known as the US Ambassador's residence. The party was off by six days as Fourth of July was A) a Monday and therefore a proper work day in Britain and B) the embassy staff had to spend the weekend prior to the Fourth gearing up for the G8 summit in Scotland.
Winfield House is a beautiful Neo-Georgian mansion built in the 1930s by "poor little rich girl" Barbara Hutton, the heiress to the Woolworth fortune who numbered Cary Grant among her many husbands. It sits on 12 acres of private gardens inside Regent's Park in North London. During World War II the Royal Air Force used the mansion and grounds to house a balloon unit, and when Hutton returned to the house after the war she sold the now much worse for wear property to the US government for $1. It's been the home of the US ambassador ever since.
Sunday was hot, sunny and bright, with just enough humidity to push the heat into uncomfortable. We took the Tube, fairly empty for a Sunday, up to Baker Street, then walked past the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia shops to Regent's Park. The paths through the park were crowded and the mood rather festive - bombs may have gone off a few days ago but that's the last thing to stop Londoners from enjoying rare moments of shining sun.
To get to Winfield House, we needed to walk up a street that had been closed to car traffic. At the bottom of the street was a very large mosque. Standing on the corner was a policeman in his distinctive tall, rounded hat, white shirt and billy club. I couldn't help but be struck by the proximity. Was the policeman there to protect the mosque from hate crimes? Or the partygoers attending a very USA-centric event from extremists? Or both?
At the top of the street, there were more policemen/women. So there were concerns about the party, after all. I felt for the Met officers; I'm sure they had better things to do than babysit a bunch of Yanks. And it was HOT on the asphalt; I was sweating in my light cotton shirt and floaty peasant skirt. Those poor bobbies in their dark hats and kevlar vests, standing full bore in the sun.
Attending a picnic at a US Ambassador's residence is like boarding a plane: you must hold your own ticket, in your own name; your name is checked against your passport; your bag is searched; and a metal detector is the official welcome gate to the party. However, the food was much better at the end of this security process than it normally is on a plane. Instead of sandwiches made the day before and served on a tray the size of a paperback book, we were able to choose from hamburgers, hotdogs, steak, barbeque chicken, salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and ice cream. Oh, and crepes. 'Cause nothing says Fourth of July better than a crepe just like the street vendors back home in Paris make. Not to the mention that the chicken and steak were provided by Outback Steakhouse. At least the French had something to do with the American Revolution - namely, their help pushed the Americans into the win column. The Aussies, on the other hand...the connection is lost on me. But the chicken was excellent, even if sadly there were no Bloomin' Onions in sight.
We grabbed food and looked for the nearest shady spot. Luckily, there were plenty of grassy space under leafy trees, and we had prime people watching opportunities. My favorite sightings? Three young boys, tearing away, racing around the lawn. One was dressed in a homemade Uncle Sam costume, blue cotton tails flapping behind him. A young girl, about six, dressed in a flowery sundress, chatting with the two policemen armed with sub-machine guns. An incongruous but oddly sweet image. Too hard to put into words but the sight encapsulated all the things I felt: hope for the future as embodied by the young girl; joy in communication with others, regardless of accent; the sadness of seeing machine guns at a picnic filled with children, so much a statement of the current times.
We enjoyed wandering the gorgeous grounds of the Winfield House - even the port-a-potties were class acts, set in a wooded glade, with vases of fresh-cut flowers and posh hand lotion in the loos. Our d'oh! moment came when we were trying to identify the various state flags flanking the entrance to the house, and even competing with others trying to do the same: the task became much easier once we realized the states were in alphabetical order, and then we all fell down laughing when we saw the ID markers at the base of each flagpole.
The charge d'affairs (the new ambassador has yet to move in) gave the requisite speech of the day; because the date had been pushed back, what should have been a Anglo-American celebratory event now reflected the pain and horror of last Thursday. I didn't necessarily agree with the words; I'm not a fan of the current US administration. But I do hope the Fourth of July picnic in London goes on for another 111 years, and that the policemen who attend future parties will be able to relax their grip on the weaponry. And come enjoy the shade instead of boiling out on the street.
Winfield House is a beautiful Neo-Georgian mansion built in the 1930s by "poor little rich girl" Barbara Hutton, the heiress to the Woolworth fortune who numbered Cary Grant among her many husbands. It sits on 12 acres of private gardens inside Regent's Park in North London. During World War II the Royal Air Force used the mansion and grounds to house a balloon unit, and when Hutton returned to the house after the war she sold the now much worse for wear property to the US government for $1. It's been the home of the US ambassador ever since.
Sunday was hot, sunny and bright, with just enough humidity to push the heat into uncomfortable. We took the Tube, fairly empty for a Sunday, up to Baker Street, then walked past the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia shops to Regent's Park. The paths through the park were crowded and the mood rather festive - bombs may have gone off a few days ago but that's the last thing to stop Londoners from enjoying rare moments of shining sun.
To get to Winfield House, we needed to walk up a street that had been closed to car traffic. At the bottom of the street was a very large mosque. Standing on the corner was a policeman in his distinctive tall, rounded hat, white shirt and billy club. I couldn't help but be struck by the proximity. Was the policeman there to protect the mosque from hate crimes? Or the partygoers attending a very USA-centric event from extremists? Or both?
At the top of the street, there were more policemen/women. So there were concerns about the party, after all. I felt for the Met officers; I'm sure they had better things to do than babysit a bunch of Yanks. And it was HOT on the asphalt; I was sweating in my light cotton shirt and floaty peasant skirt. Those poor bobbies in their dark hats and kevlar vests, standing full bore in the sun.
Attending a picnic at a US Ambassador's residence is like boarding a plane: you must hold your own ticket, in your own name; your name is checked against your passport; your bag is searched; and a metal detector is the official welcome gate to the party. However, the food was much better at the end of this security process than it normally is on a plane. Instead of sandwiches made the day before and served on a tray the size of a paperback book, we were able to choose from hamburgers, hotdogs, steak, barbeque chicken, salad, corn on the cob, watermelon and ice cream. Oh, and crepes. 'Cause nothing says Fourth of July better than a crepe just like the street vendors back home in Paris make. Not to the mention that the chicken and steak were provided by Outback Steakhouse. At least the French had something to do with the American Revolution - namely, their help pushed the Americans into the win column. The Aussies, on the other hand...the connection is lost on me. But the chicken was excellent, even if sadly there were no Bloomin' Onions in sight.
We grabbed food and looked for the nearest shady spot. Luckily, there were plenty of grassy space under leafy trees, and we had prime people watching opportunities. My favorite sightings? Three young boys, tearing away, racing around the lawn. One was dressed in a homemade Uncle Sam costume, blue cotton tails flapping behind him. A young girl, about six, dressed in a flowery sundress, chatting with the two policemen armed with sub-machine guns. An incongruous but oddly sweet image. Too hard to put into words but the sight encapsulated all the things I felt: hope for the future as embodied by the young girl; joy in communication with others, regardless of accent; the sadness of seeing machine guns at a picnic filled with children, so much a statement of the current times.
We enjoyed wandering the gorgeous grounds of the Winfield House - even the port-a-potties were class acts, set in a wooded glade, with vases of fresh-cut flowers and posh hand lotion in the loos. Our d'oh! moment came when we were trying to identify the various state flags flanking the entrance to the house, and even competing with others trying to do the same: the task became much easier once we realized the states were in alphabetical order, and then we all fell down laughing when we saw the ID markers at the base of each flagpole.
The charge d'affairs (the new ambassador has yet to move in) gave the requisite speech of the day; because the date had been pushed back, what should have been a Anglo-American celebratory event now reflected the pain and horror of last Thursday. I didn't necessarily agree with the words; I'm not a fan of the current US administration. But I do hope the Fourth of July picnic in London goes on for another 111 years, and that the policemen who attend future parties will be able to relax their grip on the weaponry. And come enjoy the shade instead of boiling out on the street.
2005-07-09
Recovery and press post mortem
The pulse of London, at least in the West End, feels back to its usual hyperkinetic self.
The busses and tube trains are operating almost at normal capacity; the Circle, City & Hammersmith, and portions of the Picadilly Line remain down. But the Central line, which is my usual conduit into the city, is running fine. The trains have been lightly occupied during the day, but last night it was standing room only.
The stores in Oxford Street, in the midst of the half-yearly sales season, are doing brisk business. Women in burkas and head scarves search the half-price rails next to teenagers in skimpy tank tops and mini skirts. You hear ten different languages from every corner of the globe for every one overheard conversation in English.
The line at TKTS was short but bustling; we saw As You Like It in a fairly full theatre (the play has had so-so reviews so I doubt even before the terrorist attack it played to sold-out audiences. I'll save the review for my next theatre round-up but let's just say Jude Law probably doesn't need to worry about demand for Sienna Miller's acting services causing too many separations in their future).
No one on I saw on the tube or the bus seemed overly concerned or worried about lightening stricking again, although the papers today made references to worried commuters. It's in the back of your mind - how can it help not be? - but I caught few side glances or appraising looks despite carrying a backpack. But then, I doubt I look like anyone's conception of a bomber.
In fact, if I didn't read the papers or watch the news, I'd be hard-pressed to tell London was the scene of a recent terrorist atrocity. There's a lot of talk about the British resiliancy, the British "suck it up" attitude, the British "just get on with it" reaction to adversity. It's all true. The Brits also seem to be innate pessimists, which serves them better in times like this - it's just confirmation of what they already expected, so why moan about it?
And then there's the British press.
It's incredible to me that journalism here is such a blood sport. And I mean sport. There's little regard for "who, what, when, where, and how;" it's much more fun just to make stuff up and apologize later if you get caught. Press objectivity is an oxymoron (along with customer service and good Mexican food); opinion is presented as fact and vice versa. Events are personalized and told through a subjective lens. For world events, I read US newspapers such as the NY Times, LA Times and Wall Street Journal or else I'd have no topline, objective summary. For British events, I have to read two newspapers just to get a balanced, complete view: The Times, which is considered to be conversative, and The Guardian, which is considered to be liberal. If I just read one, I'd only have a very skewed, one-sided perspective. And neither of them is the most read paper in Britian - that distinction belongs to the tabloids such as The Sun and News of the World, which don't even pretend to be hard news outlets. Pity the Brit whose conception of the world is formed by these papers.
The busses and tube trains are operating almost at normal capacity; the Circle, City & Hammersmith, and portions of the Picadilly Line remain down. But the Central line, which is my usual conduit into the city, is running fine. The trains have been lightly occupied during the day, but last night it was standing room only.
The stores in Oxford Street, in the midst of the half-yearly sales season, are doing brisk business. Women in burkas and head scarves search the half-price rails next to teenagers in skimpy tank tops and mini skirts. You hear ten different languages from every corner of the globe for every one overheard conversation in English.
The line at TKTS was short but bustling; we saw As You Like It in a fairly full theatre (the play has had so-so reviews so I doubt even before the terrorist attack it played to sold-out audiences. I'll save the review for my next theatre round-up but let's just say Jude Law probably doesn't need to worry about demand for Sienna Miller's acting services causing too many separations in their future).
No one on I saw on the tube or the bus seemed overly concerned or worried about lightening stricking again, although the papers today made references to worried commuters. It's in the back of your mind - how can it help not be? - but I caught few side glances or appraising looks despite carrying a backpack. But then, I doubt I look like anyone's conception of a bomber.
In fact, if I didn't read the papers or watch the news, I'd be hard-pressed to tell London was the scene of a recent terrorist atrocity. There's a lot of talk about the British resiliancy, the British "suck it up" attitude, the British "just get on with it" reaction to adversity. It's all true. The Brits also seem to be innate pessimists, which serves them better in times like this - it's just confirmation of what they already expected, so why moan about it?
And then there's the British press.
It's incredible to me that journalism here is such a blood sport. And I mean sport. There's little regard for "who, what, when, where, and how;" it's much more fun just to make stuff up and apologize later if you get caught. Press objectivity is an oxymoron (along with customer service and good Mexican food); opinion is presented as fact and vice versa. Events are personalized and told through a subjective lens. For world events, I read US newspapers such as the NY Times, LA Times and Wall Street Journal or else I'd have no topline, objective summary. For British events, I have to read two newspapers just to get a balanced, complete view: The Times, which is considered to be conversative, and The Guardian, which is considered to be liberal. If I just read one, I'd only have a very skewed, one-sided perspective. And neither of them is the most read paper in Britian - that distinction belongs to the tabloids such as The Sun and News of the World, which don't even pretend to be hard news outlets. Pity the Brit whose conception of the world is formed by these papers.
2005-07-08
Under attack
On a pretty September morning nearly four years ago, I woke up in my one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, took a shower, got dressed, and turned on the television.
On a split screen, one side showed smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the other showed smoke pouring out of the Pentagon.
"What film is this?" I thought, and I started clicking through my mental index of action films with buildings on fire. As a former film studies major and current entertainment industry employee, it's a pretty comprehensive list.
Then Dan Rather came on the screen. "Dan Rather was in a movie?" I wondered aloud, and even as it slowly began to sink in that I was watching live, actual news footage and not a fictional film, I still ran through movie titles in my head.
That's how surreal the day felt to me. I even kept my early morning dental appointment. As the hygienist and I silently watched the events unfolding on the small TV mounted above the dental chair, my cell phone would ring. And ring. I would interrupt the hygienist's work to speak to friends, relatives, my staff. It wasn't until work was cancelled for the day that I finally understood that the world had changed. And it would never be quite the same again.
Although, y'know, you live your life. It goes on. So today, I woke up in my London maisonette, got dressed, kissed my husband goodbye, went to the gym, showered, got dressed again, and got on the Tube. As I passed through the turnstiles the message board caught my eye: three stations closed due to "power failure:" Bank, Westminster and Liverpool Street. Station closures are common enough that I didn't give it another thought except to note that three seemed rather excessive and, with the successful Olympic bid now counting down a clock, I hoped Transport for London would be able to sort that out in the next seven years. I got off at my regular tube stop and walked to work, unaware that the next station on the line would be the scene of a bomb attack.
I'm safe, my husband is safe, my co-workers and friends are safe, and I am incredibly grateful to be able to type these words. I'll be angry soon, but for now I am just happy that everyone I care about is healthy and accounted for.
It's back to feeling surreal; I'm watching it on the television like I did four years ago, even though the events are much closer geographically this time. The shock and horror diminish the further in time we get from the bombs; the news has gone from covering breaking events to talking heads sorting through the scant available evidence, trying to make reasonable the unreasonable, trying to enforce an order on chaos. The talk in the hallway has shifted from hushed murmurs to excitable chatter to impatient wondering about when can we go home? How will we get home?
****
They lock our building down until around noon. The police evacuated the buildings across the street, but told us to stay put. See, we have blast proof glass; the guys across the street just have the normal break-y kind. Ah, the advantages of working overseas for a US company - you automatically think you will be a target. Members of my staff tried to go next door, to see the colleagues who work there, but were refused entry even with their security passes. However, they said that Number 38 busses were lined up and down the street. The rumor is that the police are checking them for explosives since apparently it was a Number 38 that blew up in Russell Square, just 'round the corner.
Sirens scream past.
There are only three kinds of sandwiches left in the canteen downstairs. It's been raided by the locked-in employees who would normally go elsewhere for substenance. I'm starving. My Starbucks latte and low fat carrot cake are long consumed memories; they were eaten pre-bomb news and so it feels like I last ate an eon ago. I take the most appealing of the bunch: chicken and pesto on white sandwich bread. When I get the sandwich upstairs to my desk, I discover the bread has been buttered. WTF??? Butter on a chicken and pesto sandwich??? While I have long known of the British penchant for buttering their sandwiches regardless of filling, this throws me. Badly. I've lost my equilibrium for even the most trivial of matters.
I could have had the fish, the featured hot meal of the day.
But I couldn't face eating a trout with skin, tail fins, and bones still intact. Not today.
****
At 3:30, Human Resources finally gives us the all clear to go home. There's been little enough work done, although there has also been little panic or moaning. I have a feeling no one will call the emotional health hotline number with which HR kindly provides us. We start to make travel plans. Some of us will walk to the nearest open train station or to home itself. One brought his bicycle to work and can pedal home. Another will meet her partner at his work and then bum a ride from a friend. Still another gets a ride in a senior executive's car service. I'm walking.
The streets are crowded. I've never seen the sidewalks so full. Rivers of humanity, flowing through London with the strength of the Thames exponentially multiplied. I'm jostled and bumped, flotsam in the current.
I left my work tote at the office, but the gym bag is strapped to my back - Monday will be difficult enough without dealing with damp, sweaty clothes left to ferment for three days. It's heavy, thanks to the book, water, and wedge espadrilles I threw in. But the Nikes are on my feet. I'm now sold on going to the gym - thanks to forcing myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m., I missed being trapped on the tube and now have comfy shoes for the four mile walk home. I will never bitch about my body's refusal to keep weight off without working out again.
The walk to Marble Arch goes quickly in comradely conversation. I say goodbye to my co-workers, who are off to scavenge a train at Paddington. My husband is waiting for me at the marble monument, near the spot where once grew a tree where the villains, traitors and just plain unfortunates of an earlier London were hung. The street bears the old name of the gallows: Tyburn. It makes me realize that life has always been uncertain - and religion has always been used as an excuse to kill and maim political rivals. I would still rather live in the 21st century with al-Quaeda's cowardly, unmanly and blasphemous attacks than to live in, say, Tudor England during Henry VIII's reformation or his daughter Queen Mary's attempt to reinstate the Roman Catholic Church.
Hyde Park is full of pedestrians. My husband remarks it looks more like a highway than a park path. Sirens continue to scream past.
We run into good friends at our local Tesco. They agree to come over for dessert after we finish our respective dinners. We nurture our friendship over strawberries and cream and share our stories, our near misses. It would be the perfect ending to any other day.
On a split screen, one side showed smoke pouring out of the Twin Towers, the other showed smoke pouring out of the Pentagon.
"What film is this?" I thought, and I started clicking through my mental index of action films with buildings on fire. As a former film studies major and current entertainment industry employee, it's a pretty comprehensive list.
Then Dan Rather came on the screen. "Dan Rather was in a movie?" I wondered aloud, and even as it slowly began to sink in that I was watching live, actual news footage and not a fictional film, I still ran through movie titles in my head.
That's how surreal the day felt to me. I even kept my early morning dental appointment. As the hygienist and I silently watched the events unfolding on the small TV mounted above the dental chair, my cell phone would ring. And ring. I would interrupt the hygienist's work to speak to friends, relatives, my staff. It wasn't until work was cancelled for the day that I finally understood that the world had changed. And it would never be quite the same again.
Although, y'know, you live your life. It goes on. So today, I woke up in my London maisonette, got dressed, kissed my husband goodbye, went to the gym, showered, got dressed again, and got on the Tube. As I passed through the turnstiles the message board caught my eye: three stations closed due to "power failure:" Bank, Westminster and Liverpool Street. Station closures are common enough that I didn't give it another thought except to note that three seemed rather excessive and, with the successful Olympic bid now counting down a clock, I hoped Transport for London would be able to sort that out in the next seven years. I got off at my regular tube stop and walked to work, unaware that the next station on the line would be the scene of a bomb attack.
I'm safe, my husband is safe, my co-workers and friends are safe, and I am incredibly grateful to be able to type these words. I'll be angry soon, but for now I am just happy that everyone I care about is healthy and accounted for.
It's back to feeling surreal; I'm watching it on the television like I did four years ago, even though the events are much closer geographically this time. The shock and horror diminish the further in time we get from the bombs; the news has gone from covering breaking events to talking heads sorting through the scant available evidence, trying to make reasonable the unreasonable, trying to enforce an order on chaos. The talk in the hallway has shifted from hushed murmurs to excitable chatter to impatient wondering about when can we go home? How will we get home?
****
They lock our building down until around noon. The police evacuated the buildings across the street, but told us to stay put. See, we have blast proof glass; the guys across the street just have the normal break-y kind. Ah, the advantages of working overseas for a US company - you automatically think you will be a target. Members of my staff tried to go next door, to see the colleagues who work there, but were refused entry even with their security passes. However, they said that Number 38 busses were lined up and down the street. The rumor is that the police are checking them for explosives since apparently it was a Number 38 that blew up in Russell Square, just 'round the corner.
Sirens scream past.
There are only three kinds of sandwiches left in the canteen downstairs. It's been raided by the locked-in employees who would normally go elsewhere for substenance. I'm starving. My Starbucks latte and low fat carrot cake are long consumed memories; they were eaten pre-bomb news and so it feels like I last ate an eon ago. I take the most appealing of the bunch: chicken and pesto on white sandwich bread. When I get the sandwich upstairs to my desk, I discover the bread has been buttered. WTF??? Butter on a chicken and pesto sandwich??? While I have long known of the British penchant for buttering their sandwiches regardless of filling, this throws me. Badly. I've lost my equilibrium for even the most trivial of matters.
I could have had the fish, the featured hot meal of the day.
But I couldn't face eating a trout with skin, tail fins, and bones still intact. Not today.
****
At 3:30, Human Resources finally gives us the all clear to go home. There's been little enough work done, although there has also been little panic or moaning. I have a feeling no one will call the emotional health hotline number with which HR kindly provides us. We start to make travel plans. Some of us will walk to the nearest open train station or to home itself. One brought his bicycle to work and can pedal home. Another will meet her partner at his work and then bum a ride from a friend. Still another gets a ride in a senior executive's car service. I'm walking.
The streets are crowded. I've never seen the sidewalks so full. Rivers of humanity, flowing through London with the strength of the Thames exponentially multiplied. I'm jostled and bumped, flotsam in the current.
I left my work tote at the office, but the gym bag is strapped to my back - Monday will be difficult enough without dealing with damp, sweaty clothes left to ferment for three days. It's heavy, thanks to the book, water, and wedge espadrilles I threw in. But the Nikes are on my feet. I'm now sold on going to the gym - thanks to forcing myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m., I missed being trapped on the tube and now have comfy shoes for the four mile walk home. I will never bitch about my body's refusal to keep weight off without working out again.
The walk to Marble Arch goes quickly in comradely conversation. I say goodbye to my co-workers, who are off to scavenge a train at Paddington. My husband is waiting for me at the marble monument, near the spot where once grew a tree where the villains, traitors and just plain unfortunates of an earlier London were hung. The street bears the old name of the gallows: Tyburn. It makes me realize that life has always been uncertain - and religion has always been used as an excuse to kill and maim political rivals. I would still rather live in the 21st century with al-Quaeda's cowardly, unmanly and blasphemous attacks than to live in, say, Tudor England during Henry VIII's reformation or his daughter Queen Mary's attempt to reinstate the Roman Catholic Church.
Hyde Park is full of pedestrians. My husband remarks it looks more like a highway than a park path. Sirens continue to scream past.
We run into good friends at our local Tesco. They agree to come over for dessert after we finish our respective dinners. We nurture our friendship over strawberries and cream and share our stories, our near misses. It would be the perfect ending to any other day.
2005-06-21
Hot time in the old town
I know there are worse hells than riding the Central line to work in the summer. But when you are on the train that air conditioning forgot during a heat spell, it's hard to remember to count your blessings.
It's HOT in London right now. I know this is something to be celebrated, for it is not often that this weather comes our way. Judging by the angry red sunburns I spot around the office, it seems that quite a lot people paid homage to the cloudless, bright blue skies over the weekend
But with the sun comes heat. And with the heat comes miserable Tube rides.
The Tube is the mirror image of the New York Subway (or at least, the sections of the Subway that I have ridden.) Everything is reversed. The Tube has expansive platforms but small, almost doll-house sized trains; the Subway has cramped platforms but people-sized trains. The Tube has terrific directional signs but every available surface is plastered with ads; the Subway has maps that require native assistance to read, but its station walls have a minimum of consumer messages. Most important (at least in summer), the Tube has hot, airless trains; the Subway has air-conditioning. NYC wins hands down.
I can't decide which is worse about the Tube in summer: the stagnant, stale air; the ovenlike heat; or the smell of dozens of people with highly individual standards of what passes for acceptable personal hygiene in public. At rush hour, the bodies press against each other, and the heat rises and turns sticky. Of course, I could be stuck in my former hell, a Sig-Alert on the 101/405 interchange at rush hour - even normal traffic patterns on the 101 and 405 are most people's idea of a traffic nightmare - but at least my car had A/C.
However, I take comfort that my commute to work isn't putting ozone depleting fluorocarbon in the air - and that in London, heat is the exception rather than the rule.
It's HOT in London right now. I know this is something to be celebrated, for it is not often that this weather comes our way. Judging by the angry red sunburns I spot around the office, it seems that quite a lot people paid homage to the cloudless, bright blue skies over the weekend
But with the sun comes heat. And with the heat comes miserable Tube rides.
The Tube is the mirror image of the New York Subway (or at least, the sections of the Subway that I have ridden.) Everything is reversed. The Tube has expansive platforms but small, almost doll-house sized trains; the Subway has cramped platforms but people-sized trains. The Tube has terrific directional signs but every available surface is plastered with ads; the Subway has maps that require native assistance to read, but its station walls have a minimum of consumer messages. Most important (at least in summer), the Tube has hot, airless trains; the Subway has air-conditioning. NYC wins hands down.
I can't decide which is worse about the Tube in summer: the stagnant, stale air; the ovenlike heat; or the smell of dozens of people with highly individual standards of what passes for acceptable personal hygiene in public. At rush hour, the bodies press against each other, and the heat rises and turns sticky. Of course, I could be stuck in my former hell, a Sig-Alert on the 101/405 interchange at rush hour - even normal traffic patterns on the 101 and 405 are most people's idea of a traffic nightmare - but at least my car had A/C.
However, I take comfort that my commute to work isn't putting ozone depleting fluorocarbon in the air - and that in London, heat is the exception rather than the rule.
2005-06-14
Theatre, darling, theatre
Whenever we go back to the States, the first thing my husband and I are asked is: "So, what shows have you seen lately?"
I'm happy to report that we have, indeed, been trying to take full advantage of living in one of the world's premiere theatre towns.
In fact, we've decided to celebrate holidays, British and American, by seeing a show. It started at Thanksgiving. It was the first one away from family for my husband, and I wanted to make it special. So I made us lunch reservations at the Ritz (and very ritzy is was, too, although their pumpkin pie left something to be desired. A pie crust topped by a millimeter of Libby's pumpkin underneath an avalanche of nutmug-infused whipped cream is just not pumpkin pie - sorry but there it is) but the best was saved for later: tickets to see Nathan Lane and Lee Evans in the The Producers. Nathan Lane was in the play but for a short time (filling in for Richard Dreyfuss who had a sore shoulder, or so they said) and I had snagged orchestra tickets the day the substitution was announced.
A London crowd doesn't grant standing ovations to just anyone. They are a very discerning bunch. The actors and the production have to really earn their kudos from an audience that feels that overt displays of emotional response are just not done (that's something Americans do, after all.) But when Nathan Lane and Lee Evans took their final bows, the crowd was on its feet, hands coming together in a blur of sound and motion, cries of huzzah! and bravo! almost drowning out the appreciative but piercing whistles.
The Producers was the best received theatrical production we've seen so far, but we've been lucky enough to see the following:
Oleanna by David Mamet, with Julia Stiles and Aaron Eckhart
A decent production; Julia Stiles was very convincing but Aaron Eckhart less so.
Democracy by Michael Frayn
Very thought provoking and compelling; one of the best experiences I've had at the theatre. Willy Brandt and Germany in the 70s doesn't sound like the most intriguing subjects for a play, and yet the audience is mesmerized. I'm sorry that the NYC production closed after five months; it's a play that I hope lots of Americans get to see.
His Dark Materials part 1 and 2; based on the Philip Pullman novels
A truly jaw dropping set design made this play work for me; the set was two stories high, rotated up and down on a drum, and no two scenes were in the exact same setting. Incredibly inventive costume design and wonderful use of puppets to represent the characters' "daemons" made this a lovely production to look at. Unfortunately, even with six hours of stage time, the story still felt abridged and truncated - but then it was adapted from a densely plotted fantasy trilogy. Neither my husband nor I felt that the lead actress was up to the role, but we saw her understudy on the second night and liked her much better. Definitely worth seeing.
A Life in the Theatre by David Mamet, with Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson
Professor X in his underwear. May I say that Patrick Stewart has very nice legs, and a pretty impressive physique? Oh, and Joshua Jackson in his skivvies was also pretty easy to look at. What, you mean there was a play? Eye candy aside, both actors acquitted themselves quite well. Jackson kept up with Stewart through all the stops and starts of Mamet's dialogue, even if one couldn't stop thinking "Hey, it's Pacey and Picard!!"
Aladdin with Ian McKellen
From Professor X in his y-fronts to Magneto in a dress... The English have a treasured tradition at Christmas time of "pantomime." This has nothing to do with Marcel Marceau and men wearing striped shirts trapped in invisible boxes; instead, a pantomime, or panto, is a children's play, Traditionally based on a fairy tale but involving audience participation, schtick so broad a plane could land on it, and a man in drag, we learned that panto is an acquired taste and it probably helps if you grew up with it. This was our New Year's Eve celebratory play, and while I can think of worse ways to say goodbye to the old year than to watch Ian McKellan dressed up like Shirley MacLaine in her Rat Pack days, I can't think of a more surreal one.
Mary Poppins
Our Valentine's Day play. Highly acclaimed when it opened, Mary Poppins is now overshadowed as the premiere West End musical based on a movie by Billy Elloit. Still, a very great night at the theatre; everything you want from a musical from terrific dancing, charasmatic leads, sing-along songs, and moving emotion. At once very different yet similiar to the Disney film, the play is more adult than its predecesor but lacks some of its joie de vivre. Some songs from the film have been transplanted, others have been reworked or are missing altogether, and new songs have been added. But thankfully for the British audiences, Bert has an authentic Cockney accent (they still haven't forgiven Dick Van Dyke.) The highlight of the play is when Bert really does go "over the rooftops" during "Step In Time" - all in all, a fun evening out.
Madame Butterfly by Puccini
The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden is absolutely gorgeous, even when sitting way up in the balcony. A beautiful production in a perfect setting.
Macbeth (opera) by Verdi
In the summer, the remains of Holland House in Holland Park are turned into an outdoor opera stage (albeit under a tented roof thanks to London's damp summers). It's a small, intimate setting. The production design matched the spare space: a white-washed backdrop that gradually became crimson thanks to an inventive curtain of water that slowly washed away the top coat to reveal the deep red beneath as MacBeth and his lady plot their murderous deeds. Lady Macbeth was outstanding, her husband a little less so, but their amorous, amoral passion burned bright. And nothing beats having a split of chilled champagne waiting for you at intermission.
The Philadephia Story by Philip Barry; with Kevin Spacey and Jennifer Ehle
One has to give Kevin Spacey credit for gutsy choices in his first season as artistic director of The Old Vic: he puts on a Danish play with a title that translates as "sewer," giving the London press lots of headline ammunition for their reviews; he tackles that most English of traditions, the pantomime, with Ian McKellan (not necessarily known for his clowning skills) as the dame; he then picks National Anthems, a very American play about intrigues in white picket fence suburbia; and he follows it up by taking the Cary Grant role in The Philadelphia Story.
The play is well cast; Jennifer Ehle, who I only knew as Lizzie Bennet in the decade-old Pride and Prejudice, was a lovely Tracy Lord. She more than held her own on the stage. Tracy is not the easiest of characters to love; she bans her father from her wedding as a start. But Ehle imbues her with wit and grace, and you can see why three men (four, if you count her father) fight for the love of a heroine who is called cold and unfeeling by her family and loved ones more than once. DW Moffatt, who I only knew from bad sitcoms, was a hale Macauley "Mike" Connors, if rather bland and generic in his approach. Moffat didn't try to be Jimmy Stewart; in fact, he seemed to be channeling Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday." And speaking of Cary Grant... Alas, CK Dexter Haven, we hardly got to know ye in this production. It's hard following in Grant's footsteps. But Spacey's very angry yet inaccessible Dexter was not a step toward creating the role in his own image. His sudden turn on a dime from scary berating ex-husband to hop-skipping around the room happy suitor was especially jarring.
Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward
We got our seats from TKTS for half price, and I'd say that was about right. A fun night, as you expect from Noel Coward dialogue, but nothing incredibly memorable.
Grand Hotel by Luther Davis, Robert Wright and George Forrest; with Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio
The Donmar Warehouse puts on intimate theatre in the (almost) round, and while a musical that in its last incarnation was a huge, splashy Broadway production might seem an odd choice for such a small space it worked quite well. Mastrantonio didn't disgrace herself in the role of the faded ballerina (actually, I thought she was pretty affecting) but the rest of the cast really shown. An interesting, thoughtful production.
Tickets upcoming: Henry IV part 1 & 2 at the National, with Michael Gambon; Guys and Dolls (our 4th of July play) with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski; and Mary Stuart at the Donmar Warehouse. Can't wait!
I'm happy to report that we have, indeed, been trying to take full advantage of living in one of the world's premiere theatre towns.
In fact, we've decided to celebrate holidays, British and American, by seeing a show. It started at Thanksgiving. It was the first one away from family for my husband, and I wanted to make it special. So I made us lunch reservations at the Ritz (and very ritzy is was, too, although their pumpkin pie left something to be desired. A pie crust topped by a millimeter of Libby's pumpkin underneath an avalanche of nutmug-infused whipped cream is just not pumpkin pie - sorry but there it is) but the best was saved for later: tickets to see Nathan Lane and Lee Evans in the The Producers. Nathan Lane was in the play but for a short time (filling in for Richard Dreyfuss who had a sore shoulder, or so they said) and I had snagged orchestra tickets the day the substitution was announced.
A London crowd doesn't grant standing ovations to just anyone. They are a very discerning bunch. The actors and the production have to really earn their kudos from an audience that feels that overt displays of emotional response are just not done (that's something Americans do, after all.) But when Nathan Lane and Lee Evans took their final bows, the crowd was on its feet, hands coming together in a blur of sound and motion, cries of huzzah! and bravo! almost drowning out the appreciative but piercing whistles.
The Producers was the best received theatrical production we've seen so far, but we've been lucky enough to see the following:
Oleanna by David Mamet, with Julia Stiles and Aaron Eckhart
A decent production; Julia Stiles was very convincing but Aaron Eckhart less so.
Democracy by Michael Frayn
Very thought provoking and compelling; one of the best experiences I've had at the theatre. Willy Brandt and Germany in the 70s doesn't sound like the most intriguing subjects for a play, and yet the audience is mesmerized. I'm sorry that the NYC production closed after five months; it's a play that I hope lots of Americans get to see.
His Dark Materials part 1 and 2; based on the Philip Pullman novels
A truly jaw dropping set design made this play work for me; the set was two stories high, rotated up and down on a drum, and no two scenes were in the exact same setting. Incredibly inventive costume design and wonderful use of puppets to represent the characters' "daemons" made this a lovely production to look at. Unfortunately, even with six hours of stage time, the story still felt abridged and truncated - but then it was adapted from a densely plotted fantasy trilogy. Neither my husband nor I felt that the lead actress was up to the role, but we saw her understudy on the second night and liked her much better. Definitely worth seeing.
A Life in the Theatre by David Mamet, with Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson
Professor X in his underwear. May I say that Patrick Stewart has very nice legs, and a pretty impressive physique? Oh, and Joshua Jackson in his skivvies was also pretty easy to look at. What, you mean there was a play? Eye candy aside, both actors acquitted themselves quite well. Jackson kept up with Stewart through all the stops and starts of Mamet's dialogue, even if one couldn't stop thinking "Hey, it's Pacey and Picard!!"
Aladdin with Ian McKellen
From Professor X in his y-fronts to Magneto in a dress... The English have a treasured tradition at Christmas time of "pantomime." This has nothing to do with Marcel Marceau and men wearing striped shirts trapped in invisible boxes; instead, a pantomime, or panto, is a children's play, Traditionally based on a fairy tale but involving audience participation, schtick so broad a plane could land on it, and a man in drag, we learned that panto is an acquired taste and it probably helps if you grew up with it. This was our New Year's Eve celebratory play, and while I can think of worse ways to say goodbye to the old year than to watch Ian McKellan dressed up like Shirley MacLaine in her Rat Pack days, I can't think of a more surreal one.
Mary Poppins
Our Valentine's Day play. Highly acclaimed when it opened, Mary Poppins is now overshadowed as the premiere West End musical based on a movie by Billy Elloit. Still, a very great night at the theatre; everything you want from a musical from terrific dancing, charasmatic leads, sing-along songs, and moving emotion. At once very different yet similiar to the Disney film, the play is more adult than its predecesor but lacks some of its joie de vivre. Some songs from the film have been transplanted, others have been reworked or are missing altogether, and new songs have been added. But thankfully for the British audiences, Bert has an authentic Cockney accent (they still haven't forgiven Dick Van Dyke.) The highlight of the play is when Bert really does go "over the rooftops" during "Step In Time" - all in all, a fun evening out.
Madame Butterfly by Puccini
The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden is absolutely gorgeous, even when sitting way up in the balcony. A beautiful production in a perfect setting.
Macbeth (opera) by Verdi
In the summer, the remains of Holland House in Holland Park are turned into an outdoor opera stage (albeit under a tented roof thanks to London's damp summers). It's a small, intimate setting. The production design matched the spare space: a white-washed backdrop that gradually became crimson thanks to an inventive curtain of water that slowly washed away the top coat to reveal the deep red beneath as MacBeth and his lady plot their murderous deeds. Lady Macbeth was outstanding, her husband a little less so, but their amorous, amoral passion burned bright. And nothing beats having a split of chilled champagne waiting for you at intermission.
The Philadephia Story by Philip Barry; with Kevin Spacey and Jennifer Ehle
One has to give Kevin Spacey credit for gutsy choices in his first season as artistic director of The Old Vic: he puts on a Danish play with a title that translates as "sewer," giving the London press lots of headline ammunition for their reviews; he tackles that most English of traditions, the pantomime, with Ian McKellan (not necessarily known for his clowning skills) as the dame; he then picks National Anthems, a very American play about intrigues in white picket fence suburbia; and he follows it up by taking the Cary Grant role in The Philadelphia Story.
The play is well cast; Jennifer Ehle, who I only knew as Lizzie Bennet in the decade-old Pride and Prejudice, was a lovely Tracy Lord. She more than held her own on the stage. Tracy is not the easiest of characters to love; she bans her father from her wedding as a start. But Ehle imbues her with wit and grace, and you can see why three men (four, if you count her father) fight for the love of a heroine who is called cold and unfeeling by her family and loved ones more than once. DW Moffatt, who I only knew from bad sitcoms, was a hale Macauley "Mike" Connors, if rather bland and generic in his approach. Moffat didn't try to be Jimmy Stewart; in fact, he seemed to be channeling Cary Grant in "His Girl Friday." And speaking of Cary Grant... Alas, CK Dexter Haven, we hardly got to know ye in this production. It's hard following in Grant's footsteps. But Spacey's very angry yet inaccessible Dexter was not a step toward creating the role in his own image. His sudden turn on a dime from scary berating ex-husband to hop-skipping around the room happy suitor was especially jarring.
Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward
We got our seats from TKTS for half price, and I'd say that was about right. A fun night, as you expect from Noel Coward dialogue, but nothing incredibly memorable.
Grand Hotel by Luther Davis, Robert Wright and George Forrest; with Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio
The Donmar Warehouse puts on intimate theatre in the (almost) round, and while a musical that in its last incarnation was a huge, splashy Broadway production might seem an odd choice for such a small space it worked quite well. Mastrantonio didn't disgrace herself in the role of the faded ballerina (actually, I thought she was pretty affecting) but the rest of the cast really shown. An interesting, thoughtful production.
Tickets upcoming: Henry IV part 1 & 2 at the National, with Michael Gambon; Guys and Dolls (our 4th of July play) with Ewan McGregor and Jane Krakowski; and Mary Stuart at the Donmar Warehouse. Can't wait!
2005-03-17
National Health Service - or not
My husband and I registered with the National Health Service yesterday.
The NHS is Britain's health care system. UK residents are entitled to free medical treatment, provided it's within the prescribed standards and limits. But you can't just go to any doctor; instead, you enroll on the lists of a local GP. Once you're registered, your GP is your first stop for most medical needs. Obviously, if it's an emergency, the ambulance is allowed to go straight to the emergency room without stopping at the GP's office. But all other health concerns must go through the GP first. If you need a specialist - dermatologist, ob/gyn, cardio - the GP writes a referral.
It sounds like a very civilized system, certainly better than the current US one of HMOs/PPOs/Medicare/insurance premiums/skyrocketing out-of-pocket expenses.
But.
If an American doctor gave out the same recommendations re: frequency of tests as the NHS, the American doctor would be sued for malpractice.
Mammogram: Only for women over 50, and then only every three years (!)
Pap Smear: Every three to five years (!)
What, they think cancer cells are on a three year cycle??
And the British government has recently recommended that people only need to see the dentist once every two years (if they aren't experiencing any problems, that is.) Nice to see that stereotypes about English orthodontia will be alive and well for years to come, apparently!
While the referral system sounds quite orderly, it can take months to see a specialist. The people with whom I work schedule their job around their medical appointments, rather than vice versa, because if they miss their appointment that's it for many moons. The newspapers are full of stories about dirty NHS facilities where the MRSA superbug breeds unchecked. Today's Guardian contained a heartbreaking story about a German couple who lost their baby after a normal birth went disasterously wrong because of a shortage of NHS hospital personnel.
Nonetheless, Britain is full of hale and hearty people so obviously the NHS is doing something right. I hope.
Please keep your fingers crossed we stay healthy and accident-free!
The NHS is Britain's health care system. UK residents are entitled to free medical treatment, provided it's within the prescribed standards and limits. But you can't just go to any doctor; instead, you enroll on the lists of a local GP. Once you're registered, your GP is your first stop for most medical needs. Obviously, if it's an emergency, the ambulance is allowed to go straight to the emergency room without stopping at the GP's office. But all other health concerns must go through the GP first. If you need a specialist - dermatologist, ob/gyn, cardio - the GP writes a referral.
It sounds like a very civilized system, certainly better than the current US one of HMOs/PPOs/Medicare/insurance premiums/skyrocketing out-of-pocket expenses.
But.
If an American doctor gave out the same recommendations re: frequency of tests as the NHS, the American doctor would be sued for malpractice.
Mammogram: Only for women over 50, and then only every three years (!)
Pap Smear: Every three to five years (!)
What, they think cancer cells are on a three year cycle??
And the British government has recently recommended that people only need to see the dentist once every two years (if they aren't experiencing any problems, that is.) Nice to see that stereotypes about English orthodontia will be alive and well for years to come, apparently!
While the referral system sounds quite orderly, it can take months to see a specialist. The people with whom I work schedule their job around their medical appointments, rather than vice versa, because if they miss their appointment that's it for many moons. The newspapers are full of stories about dirty NHS facilities where the MRSA superbug breeds unchecked. Today's Guardian contained a heartbreaking story about a German couple who lost their baby after a normal birth went disasterously wrong because of a shortage of NHS hospital personnel.
Nonetheless, Britain is full of hale and hearty people so obviously the NHS is doing something right. I hope.
Please keep your fingers crossed we stay healthy and accident-free!
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