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West End and Beyond

The great Russian writer Konstantin Paustovsky astutely noted, “A sense of nature is one of the foundations of patriotism”. During the pandemic, while everyone was communing with nature, camping and hiking, I most assuredly was not. I visited one national park (with mixed success) https://oldladywriting.com/2021/06/11/i-went-up-north-once-once/, did not take down my old lady bicycle from the ceiling of our garage where it has been hanging for about twenty years now, and did not take up “hiking” as a hobby. I waited and bided my time in a Midwestern suburb until an opportunity to travel to London presented itself.

I saw five plays in seven days, which is my ideal vacation under any circumstances. Now that the original production of “Les Miserables” has been replaced (not permanently, I fervently pray) by the abomination that is the 25^th anniversary version, my London dance card is emptier. I must clarify that at the West End, I try to see shows that I am unlikely to see anywhere else. Unless Sir Patrick Stewart, Sir Ian McKellen, or the not-yet-knighted David Tennant or John Simm are appearing in “Jersey Boys” or “Book of Mormon”, I am catching those when they come to Detroit. On this trip, I even wandered out of London, to Bath and Richmond. The theater scene even outside of the West End was breathtaking.

And here they are, in order of appearance. Spoiler alert: all were great.

Number One: “Only Fools and Horses”—a delightful new[ish] musical to welcome us back to the West End. I actually researched the current offerings for about five minutes and this one jumped out at me as something that will never make it to the US, being as it is based on what is apparently a cult favorite English sitcom from the 80’s that is not part of the BBC America repertoire. The fact that I missed many inside show references did not diminish the enjoyment. The shady dealer older brother, the earnest goofy younger brother, the slightly demented grandad, various other comical yet lovable characters inhabiting their corner of London, catchy tunes, fun choreography, heartwarming story, and the evident delight of the audience made me want to go out and find the original TV show. This was met with zero success during the trip, but thank God for Brit Box.

Number Two: “Magic Goes Wrong”—the latest installment in the “Goes Wrong” series by Mischief Theatre company. We saw “Peter Pan Goes Wrong” at the London Apollo a few years ago (“Magic”’s current home), and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life. The woman who sat next to spouse actually confessed that she wet herself laughing, which is neither surprising nor shameful given the level of creative absurdity that starts even before the curtain goes up. The element of surprise is gone once you have seen one of their shows—I mean, you know that everything that can go wrong will—but it is still a hilarious great fun. Penn and Teller created the magic side of it, so there is some actual legitimate magic alongside the bumbling tomfoolery. I suppose *that* is the surprise.

Number Three: “Blue/Orange”—a snapshot of the British mental health system (which seems as woefully deficient as the American one), full of dark humor and unnerving exchanges, with racial tension in the mix. On a Tuesday evening, the little theater in Bath was packed, which did my heart good. In this version, the character with the most authority of the three was played by a Black actor, which shifted the power dynamic to an intriguing level. Like “Art”, this is a play I would want to see again and again to continue to analyze its many nuances.

Number Four: “Abigail’s Party”—a 70’s comedy of manners. I saw it once before, in Belfast, and wondered then why such a juicy acting opportunity is not presented in the US. On second viewing, I have to concede that, while there is tremendous joy in period costumes and set, the play is very British. It is not just a play set in a specific decade, but in a specific place (I, of course, appreciate every Demis Roussos reference). But I still think that the crafted written characters can stand well enough on their own, and you do not have to be British or have lived through the decade to appreciate this powerful dark[ish] satire of the middle class pretenses. It is a bit of a precursor to “The God of Carnage”, to my mind. (And how many Yasmina Reza can one post contain?)

Number Five: “Private Lives”—which needs no introduction. I am well familiar with this play both on its own and through “Moon Over Buffalo”. Like “Art” (there I go again!), I have seen it in three countries—and like with “Art”, I traveled to England to see Nigel Havers in it. Of course, he was marvelous as Elyot, as he is in everything he does—and Patricia Hodge as Amanda was an extra treat.

This time, I was determined to meet him, waited at the stage door, and was shocked when he actually came out—and there was no one to converge on him but me and the trailing spouse. You would think that I would have used this opportunity to shine with my witty repartee and winning personality. You would be wrong—I have no such gifts. Spouse said that I should have prepared and rehearsed a speech. Son asked if mentioned how much we appreciated his performance in “Art”. But of course not—I blurted out that I came all the way from Detroit to see him on my birthday (sort of endearing), and went on for a bit about how much I loved him in “Chariots of Fire”. While I did not mention that I have literally seen the film over fifty times in the theater and can recite it verbatim (which is apparently more annoying than charming, as my family tells me), I inanely informed him that I have a “Chariots of Fire” luggage tag on my suitcase. https://oldladywriting.com/2021/09/27/adventures-of-a-suitcase/ What a dork! Having followed Nigel Havers’ career for forty years, having even read his autobiography twice (“Playing with Fire”; highly recommended), that was the best I could do under pressure. Well, I suppose I could have done worse. (Someone, please tell me how I could have done worse!) I am consoling myself that I excel in a more intimate discussion setting. Next time, next time…

Honorable mention: Upon returning home, I had the opportunity to see “Pretty Woman” the musical. My assessment of the show: the seats at the Fisher Theater in Detroit are the most comfortable ones.

Gratuitous images of Shakespeare’s Globe, which was closed, and the filming of an episode of “McDonald & Dodds” in Bath.

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Adventures of a Suitcase

Whenever I see my suitcase arrive at the luggage carousel, I am genuinely surprised. No, really, I literally speak to it. I say something along the lines of “Welcome, you made it!” or “Fancy meeting you here!” or “Thank you for not getting lost” or I might even greet it in the language of the country where we landed and say “Bienvenue” or “Quelle surprise”.

I never expect my suitcase to arrive at the same time and place as me. And so, its simultaneous appearance unfailingly brings joy. You would think that I have experienced significant luggage loss. You would be wrong. There were those two times in the late 90s when my suitcase was delivered to my house a day late, full of dirty vacation laundry. It was still under the Northwest regime. Funny, everyone who flies always says that whichever airline has the monopoly in their town is notorious for losing luggage, and I, too, used to say, Northwest always loses luggage, even though it only happened twice. But I digress.

The most recent and most dramatic missing suitcase saga took place when I flew to Budapest to meet my sister. Yes, I was meeting my one and only sister for the first time ever at age forty, a momentous and exciting and life-changing event, but the fact that my suitcase remained at the transfer location of the world’s if not worst, then the most inconvenient airport[1] threatened to ruin everything.

This fashion bad accompanies my sister and me in all the photos of our first day in Budapest

Like a complete travel neophyte, which I am most assuredly not, I packed all my clothes and personal belonging into my checked luggage, and all the gifts for my sister and her family into the carry on. We were spending almost an entire week together—toys for my niece could have waited. My own clean underwear and eye makeup remover could not. I actually cried all night—a fact of which I am decidedly not proud, but for some incomprehensible reason cannot stop from telling everyone[2]. We got up in the morning, promptly found Marks and Spencer and I purchased some clothes I still wear. The fact that I managed to not get hurt while shopping there was a bonus. [https://oldladywriting.com/2020/11/02/the-first-spanish-trip/]

I have had more bad luck with luggage literally not completing the trip with me *without* getting lost. One time, spouse and I were flying to Malta, if memory serves, and at the very start of our journey, right in Detroit Metro airport, were seized with uncontrollable hatred for one of our suitcases. At that point in time, we possessed one suitcase with wheels. The other one had no wheels [ https://oldladywriting.com/2021/04/10/meet-me-in-sistine-chapel-or-rome-second-try/%5D. It suddenly struck us both as an unforgivable deficiency. We spontaneously purchased a suitcase with wheels and repacked. I stuffed the now empty wheel-less suitcase into the garbage bin of the ladies room, and worried, until we boarded our plane, that airport security will suspect it of being one of those strategically abandoned bags.

Another time, we were traveling from London to Paris via the Chunnel. On the walk to St. Pancras station, one of our suitcases[3], while in possession of all four wheels, unexpectedly lost a handle. I mean, its handle came off and simply could not be reattached without tools—and who has tools in the early morning on an empty street in London while on vacation? Spouse gamely hefted the case and carried it. There is even a saying in Russian, “suitcase without a handle”—awkward to carry, but a pity to abandon. Well, we were perfectly willing to abandon it by the time we arrived at the train station, after many stops and many more curses. In fact, we were looking forward to abandoning it—but not so fast. The replacement model in the station’s store was insanely expensive in pounds, let alone dollars. The handle-less suitcase made its voyage to the continent. We had better luck in Paris, and any embarrassment at packing and repacking our stuff in full view of passers-by in the middle of Gare du Nord was mitigated by relief of finally finding four working wheels AND a handle. A lovely French saleswoman politely inquired if we would like to take our empty bag with us. Never have I said “Non!” with greater emphasis (though I did politely add “Merci”).

Since I neither had the presence of mind to take a photo of that handle-less suitcase nor could find a free image of such an item, please enjoy these photos of St. Pancras Station, London and Gare du Nord, Paris

When my son was going to Austria for a summer exchange, we duly outfitted him with two suitcases. The American group’s chaperone, a personage who generally inspired less confidence and trust in me than my 13 year old, requested printed photos of the luggage to present to the airline in the event of luggage loss. I could not convince her that that is not how any of it works[4], and so I printed the photos of two blue suitcases well in advance of the travel date and congratulated myself on not being hostile or passive-aggressive. Then something made one of the suitcases unavailable to travel, and it had to be replaced. What would you do? Exactly what I did, I bet: put an “X” through one of the images on the photo and write “This one is now black”.

Meanwhile, my very first wheeled suitcase is still alive and relatively well. The zipper broke, leaving it permanently expanded and unable to fit into the overhead compartment [5]. This is an non-issue, because I check it every time I travel because, as we say back in the Old Country, one who does not take risks does not drink champagne.

[1] Paris Charles de Gaulle, as if you had to ask.

[2] See, there I go again. To be fair, of the three people that regularly read my writing, at least two already know this story.

[3] Fun fact—it was the self-same suitcase that was purchased in an airport. It did not last long.

[4] But she was persuaded that a watermelon (1) is neither uniquely American for a cultural show-and-tell in Austria nor (2) can be taken on a plane—and not because it is big and heavy and can break…

[5] See above. Did you notice the luggage tag?

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London Calling

With my love of travel, my love of Gilbert and Sullivan, and my love of “Chariots of Fire”, there is one important location that has not yet been mentioned. It Is a Glorious Thing – Old Lady Writing Did you guess London? If so, you guessed correctly. If not, I cannot fathom what you are thinking.

London was slightly elusive in my younger days. During my college summer in Europe, the Chunnel train was not yet in existence. While the British rail system was covered by the Eurail Pass, the passage from the continent to Albion was not. There was no way I was going if there was an extra charge.

The Royal Family in the “good old days” (At Madame Tussaud’s in London. I love wax museums, and never miss one!)

Around the time of my last college spring break, my mother gifted me with enough free, rapidly expiring airline miles for two tickets to Europe. I could bring a companion. No catch. In what can only be described as a fit of temporary insanity, I invited Grandma. No, really, I was twenty one years old, and I went to London with my Grandma. I am expecting to be rewarded for this in my next life…

And so, I flew to New York, and Grandma and I set out on a cross-continental flight together. Our troubles started immediately when she set off a metal detector. The year was 1990, a kinder, gentler time when everyone could walk on to the departure gates, and TSA was only a vague concept—except in a case of an elderly, five feet tall woman who was bringing not only an apple for her long flight, but an accompanying knife wrapped in a handkerchief. Bizarrely, the TSA agent who confiscated Grandma’s best paring knife agreed to mail it back to her home address in Brooklyn. The potential loss of the knife caused Grandma considerable distress during our vacation, until we were informed by triumphant Grandpa, upon being picked up from our return flight, that the knife arrived safe and sound. No “How was your trip? How is London? Welcome home!”, but “Those bastards did not steal our knife after all!”

The flight itself was an unmitigated nightmare. Grandma, immeasurably energized by full access to me for the upcoming week, decided to start early on what we call “educating” me, but really the better term is “nagging”. I was treated to a seven-hour lecture about the various deficiencies of my character, my appearance, my behavior, my friends both male and female, and my overall prognosis for a productive life. As a graduating university senior heading to an Ivy League law school and holding down two jobs, I naively thought I might have had a right to feel sort of OK about myself. However, I was also overweight and single, two of the most cardinal of mortal sins in The World According to Grandma.

Holiday Inn London – Kensington Forum Hotel |Best Price Guaranteed |Kensington London Hotel (hikensingtonforumhotel.co.uk)

We were staying at the Forum Hotel, now Holiday Inn Kensington Forum. This is important, because this hotel is huge—900+ rooms and 27 stories. Upon arrival, after a sleepless night of “education”, I determined that I lost interest in my travel companion. We had a brief discussion and decided that, in order for each of us to preserve our own mental, emotional, and physical well-being, we will tour the city separately and only share sleeping quarters. I lived in a dorm—I could do it! Grandma was married for 45 years at that point—she could definitely do it! We each had our own money, room key, basics of the English language (some better than others), and I generously gave her one of my maps of London (this was when giant folding paper maps were all the rage). She stormed off. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Here is what I did next: (1) Called my mom as I still do during all important times, or really any time at all. She was supportive, as she generally tends to be. (2) Unpacked my suitcase and staked out my bed. (3) Took a shower, washed and blow-dried my hair, and changed clothes, because I needed a pick me up. (4) Opened the minibar and daringly consumed an adult beverage, because I needed a pick me up. (5) Ate a bar of chocolate, also from the minibar, because, well, isn’t it obvious? (6) Unfolded my giant paper map and determined that the first stop on my tour that day will be Harrod’s, which was the closest landmark to this hotel, and also made the most sense, given how the trip started.

The reason for these boring details is because I want to convey that I was only ready to depart the hotel quite a fair bit of time after Grandma. I mean, all of these activities took a while. I am not sure exactly how much, but long enough that when I heard a tentative knock at the door, I logically assumed that the day’s cleaning crew was arriving. Since this was my first time staying at a place fancy enough to be cleaned (and with a mini-bar—did I mention the minibar?), I grabbed my coat and rushed to the door, on my way toward my adventure in London, yelling encouragingly to whoever was behind the door that I am leaving and they can get down to business.

Behind the door was Grandma. All this time, she was trying to find her way out of the huge hotel, rode the elevator, stumbled on the underground garage, gift shop, and every other floor, but regrettably, never the lobby. She was exhausted, defeated, and ready to make peace.

Thus began my love affair with the West End… [The photo is not mine]

The rest of the week actually went reasonably well, all things considered. We walked a lot (some of it was because Grandma was always a tireless walker her entire life, never having learned how to drive), saw all the main sites, including a day trip to Windsor Castle (where Grandma concluded that the tiny medieval royal beds are far inferior to her Italianate suite back in Brooklyn), and experienced our first (but far from my last) West End musical (“Me and My Girl” at the Adelphi theater). In those days, London was still boasting its terrible cuisine, though to be fair, the two of us, a college student and a Soviet retiree, were decidedly not “foodies”. We ate at McDonald’s and were excited. Once we had pastries at a cafe and felt rather sophisticated. I bought six decks of cards for my collection. I took only twice as many photos. Every night, after Grandma fell asleep, I watched British TV and treated myself to a beverage and chocolate from the mini bar.

It was not my best trip to London, but it was a decent first encounter with an exciting city which I came to know well in subsequent decades. Later, there came many laughs, many discoveries, and many unforgettable theater experiences. This was the slightly inauspicious start.