Busy Last Day After Six O'Clock

We walked back for the last time over the bridge, through Trafalgar Square, up the Haymarket to Piccadilly Square and over to Shaftsbury Avenue and up Rupert Street to number 52. We knew we had to pack now before we took a rest and the BIG dinner party Richard had promised us.

The packing was easy. We both had carry-on roller bags and I had my faithful knapsack and Judy had her large pink-and-black zipper shoulder bag plus her purse plus the laptop. What did we have to pack? My clothes, her clothes, gifts for the three grandchildren, the play scripts and theater programs from the ten plays, the new "winter" clothing we bought because the weather was so cold and windy, three umbrellas, six pairs of shoes, a bag of chocolates from a VERY fancy chocolate store that Richard had bought for us, AND two boxes of lightbulbs for European sockets that we needed for a table at home, AND four (maybe six) boxes of Evergreens (Judy's favorite Dutch cookie/crackers-dry as the desert). Somehow, we did it. We actually were able to zip the bags closed. Oh, I almost forgot the toiletries and Kindle and even the kitchen sink, BUT NOT MY WEDDING RING.

We took a short rest, texted with Alice to meet us at 6:30 at Piccadilly and that was that. Except that Richard had told us that Hakkasan reserved the table at 7:30 and we HAD to leave at 9:30. This is unheard of in Europe, in my opinion. We have eaten in restaurants where you made a reservation for 7:30 and stayed until midnight. No rush, no problem. Okay, we decided this was a fancy-shmancy place and the crowds to get in were huge.

We met Alice as planned in the wind and cold and waited for Richard to join us at the apartment. We got his text: "Stuck in a bus and will meet you at the restaurant. Take a cab. Don't be late." No problem, we jumped in a cab and told him: "Hakkasan  Restaurant." We figured such a fancy place must be well-known in London. "What?" he asked. "Hakkasan. It is on Hanway Place I think," I told him. He set off. Richard had said it was right off Tottenham Court Road near Oxford Street. I looked it up on my IPhone and found the street. "Yes, Hanway Place it is," I told the driver. "I know it." he answered. And we drove off up Shaftsbury to Oxford Street. Now, at the end of the road, just as you enter Oxford Street, there was a red light and the driver stopped. A man on a bicycle next to us, tapped on the cab window and the driver opened it. "Do you know the fast way to Marylebone?" the cyclist asked. "NO." the driver said. "Thanks." the cyclist said. A funny way to begin the evening for sure.
Okay, the cab crosses Oxford Street and at the first street on the left, the driver stops and says, "Here it is." We pay and get out.

We see a street sign that says: Hanway Street. It is one way the wrong way, and that is why the cabbie stopped. We walk down Hanway Street. NO restaurant. And the end of the street, the road turns to the right. No street name. It is 7 o'clock at night, a bit cold, a bit windy and the neighborhood is deserted. EXCEPT for a sort of hippy reading room/library with strange types standing on the street. Judy doesn't like the look of the place. "Maybe we have to go back," Alice suggests. "Back to what?" I said, "There is no restaurant on the street we just came from." Judy said, "Let's try this street on the right." It looked deserted. Empty factories. Strange names like "Ethiopian Handbags" or "Johnson's Printing". NO Hakkasan. And NO street name. But, we walked down the street and there at the end, under a street light, like a character from the film Casablanca, was a large person. "Hey, it's Richard," I yelled. "Hello."

"Let's go," he said, "it is here around the corner." We turned a sort of corner into a dead end alley and there were two cars, both Bentleys and three or four men standing in front of the restaurant entrance. The men wore long black overcoats with white shirts, black pants and black shoes. They were NOT smiling. In fact, they were a bit threatening. They reminded me of a visit we had made to Moscow. There, a good friend, Sergei, told that he knew the BEST Ukranian restaurant in Moscow. We would love he said. We went with him to the restaurant which had a HUGE wooden door with little screened windows in it. Outside in front of the door where a couple of black cars AND three men all wearing black clothes and (obviously) armed to the teeth. They were NOT smiling and, in fact, they were a bit off-putting. Once we got inside (and it was LOVELY) and ate dinner (it was DELICIOUS) and drank vodka (it was cold and sweet), we had fun. And Hakkasan reminded me of Moscow.

I think I said something to the "boys" at the door, like: "Hey, you guys look like Ukranians!" No one smiled. They got heavier and darker. So, I said, "C'mon, you either come from the Ukraine or from Gruzia (Georgia)." Judy grabbed me and said, "Richard, let's go NOW into the restaurant!" No one smiled. So, I pointed to one guy and said, "You MUST be Gruzian!" Judy was tugging on my arm. And, guess what he did. He pointed to the third guy and said, "HE comes from Tblisi, not me." By this time they were actually smiling (sort of) and they had taken their hands out from behind their backs and were in a James Bond position to strike me down like a blade of grass. Judy was tugging on my sleeve at this point and that was the introduction to this fancy restaurant.

Downstairs was a gaggle of fancy ladies and men all taking our coats and giving us the professional eye-over (are they rich or not?). We were taken to our table and sat down. Fancy place. Very modern and chic and good looking. Friendly waiters. Helpful people. I glanced at the table to our right. There were three people there: one beefy man from the Caucus' Mountains with a neck the size of a tuba and with his necktie NOT pulled tight and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Next to him was a GIGANTIC woman dressed like an Uzbeki or Turkemeni in a very expensive "native" dress. Across the table from them was a man dressed in a suit that he had bought ONLY for the trip to the West. They were not smiling or laughing. They were very very serious. A dessert came of some kind of little somethings on little plates. The big guy reached out with a little spoon in his immense paw and scooped up whatever it was in one scoop and it was gone. I mean the WHOLE DESSERT was gone. The others didn't get a thing. Nada. It was almost funny. Some more stuff came and they each ate something or other and I stopped looking (staring is more like it).

 As you can see, this is a fancy GOOD restaurant. We decided to have cocktails. I think I remember that Richard and I had a Golden Destiny(cucumber, Zubrowska Bison Grass Vodka, and Apple Juice). That was our first. Our second was (I think) Kumquat Mojito (Kumquats, Lime, Mint, Mandarin Liqueur, and Diplomatico Reserva Rum).

We opened the menu. After all, this was supposed to be Richard's gift dinner to us. Here are three examples of items on the menu. No joke. Real menu items.
1. Peking duck with Royal Beluga caviar (whole duck with 16 pancakes and 30grams of Royal Beluga caviar; second course with a choice of XO sauce, black bean sauce or ginger and spring onion): EngPd 235 ($382)
2. Braised supreme dried whole Japlanese abalone (with morel mushroom and sea cucumber-24 hour notice required): EngPd 418 ($678)
3. Braised dried whole Japanese abalone (in royal Supreme stick with goose feet, sea cucumber and Thai asparagus tip): EngPd 208 ($337)
I actually laughed out loud. "Richard, you are NOT going to pay for this meal. Even if these are uniquely expensive, the rest of the menu must be costly. And we brought Judy's colleague, so it is a fourth person. Let's just split the bill and forget about it, okay?" He agreed.

Here is a sample of the "good" part of their menu:

Notice the Stir-fry ostrich? I wondered how they got a dog-gone ostrich INTO a wok. Seriously, the meal was fantastic. Really delicious. Alright, so it cost about $900,000,000, but it was worth it. I think this is the first time I have eaten in a Michellin starred restaurant and now I know why it is worth the prices.

We left happily full and although it was so noisy that we had to shout to be heard across the table, it was enjoyable. The table on our left had three YOUNG people at it, two girls and one boy. They looked Swedish and I kept thinking how young people could afford to eat there. When one girl stood up to go to the bathroom, she bumped into our table and said, "Sorry". She was a lovely blond Scandanavian girl about 25. She was wearing a sort of low cut dress but it was draped and had an old-fashioned look to it. Anyway, when she turned to apologize, we noticed that her entire right arm from shoulder to wrist was completely tattoed with a sort of Norse snakey thing. It was intense: a huge tattoo. (I don't like tattoos, excuse me for being old fashioned, but a fad is one thing and a FAD is another. I am hoping to see somebody with the tattoo of F-A-D tattooed on them somewhere.) I asked her about it, what it meant. She said, (what they all say): "I just like it." Wow.

After we left the restaurant, and the tough guys made comments to us about Georgia and the Ukraine, we walked down Oxford Street to take Alice to the Tube. She had been up since 4 in the morning and was tired. We kissed good bye to her at Oxford Circus tube station and it was about ten at night. What to do?

Busy Last Day Up To Six O'Clock

This was the beginning of the weekend AND the last full day in London. COLD AND WINDY. What are the plans? Sleep late? No way!
First of all, Judy's close colleague from The Hague and Amsterdam, Alice, is arriving early at Heathrow. We plan to meet her about 10 at the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus and bring her to the apartment, let her drop off her bags and relax with her until we have to go to the matinee at the Cottesloe Theatre at the National on Southbank.

She texted (we like texting) us from Heathrow so we knew exactly when she hit the ground. We showered and waited for her to text that she was on the tube from the airport. We had guessed she would arrive at Piccadilly at about 10, so we could go slowly. Incredibly, at 9:30, the text came in: "I'm at Eros." Wonderful. We threw on all our "winter" clothing and rushed downstairs (the dangerous, curvy, steep steps in the building). Out the door, say good morning to the lady from the Strip Joint next door ("It's raw today, dahlin"). Down Rupert Street, right on Shaftsbury and there was Eros. But where was Alice? A zillion tourists, all making photos. Skimply clad girls advertising night clubs. No Alice. Italians shouting, British dressed like it was summer, teens from around the world, school groups and me and Judy. No Alice. We texted: "Where are you?" Answer: "In front of the statue." We looked. No Alice. There are two statues on Piccadilly: Eros in the center and another one at the head of Haymarket.
This is the Four Bronze Horses of Helios statue created by sculpture Rudy Weller in 1992. "Maybe she's there," Judy said. We turned to look and there, right in front of us, was Alice, all smiles and dressed in typical Dutch gear, ready for a blast of Artic air. Someone dressed sensibly at last. Big hugs and kisses all around.

We walked back to Rupert Street. Alice and Judy talked on and on and I pulled her overnight bag. At the apartment, we warned her about the steps, but she said, "Haven't you ever been in Amsterdam? These are nothing." But I still carried her bag upstairs. We spent an hour or so just relaxing, after all, she had been up since 4 in the morning and was tired. And then, it was noon and time to eat.
Off toBalans  cafe on Old Compton Street for, guess what again: eggs benedict and a bloody mary for me and an English breakfast for Judy and I think Alice had an English muffin. At about 1:30, we walked Alice back to Piccadilly so she could catch the tube to her hotel in the Kensington neighborhood. We invited her to join us for dinner that night and, happily, she agreed.

On our minds was the early morning trip to Heathrow by Underground on Sunday. It was Easter weekend and the schedule was changing for the holiday. It "looked" like the trains would leave early, but it was not clear. We asked the man in the Pakistani market if there was a good mini-cab company on the street and he said, "For sure. go to the one two doors down the street. They are very good." So, we went. There was a door on the street and a long corridor. No person at all. The only furniture was a red kitchen chair at the end of the corridor and a red light over the chair and stairs next to the chair going down to somewhere. It looked exactly like a whorehouse, not a cab stand. And, there was no one around at all. We shouted hello, are you there? No one answered. I said, "Judy, this can't be right. I don't like the looks of it." But, she went down the corridor half way and shouted, "HELLO." And, we suddenly heard a voice, "I'm coming." A man came up the stairs and we told him that we wanted a cab to go to Heathrow Terminal 4 tomorrow morning leaving Rupert Street at 7:15 early. "Of course," he said, "It will cost EngPnd 40." (the usual fare for a taxi is EngPnd 65, so this was cheap.) "Is it a good car?" "Yes, you will have a private car and driver as you want." We shook hands and told him to thank the man in the market for recommending him. "My father started this business 35 years ago and we are known for our good, prompt service. No problems." That was that, and we were relieved to have made the decision to take the minicab, and not worry about having to move the suitcases up and down the escalators in the Underground.

Now it was an easy (cold and windy) walk over the Hungerford Bridge to Southbank.  I got the tickets and we had to exit the main building to get to the Cottesloe theater. It was around the corner. We followed the signs: "Around this corner to the Cottesloe" and "Just around the next corner to the Cottesloe" and "15 feet to the Cottesloe" and "COTTESLOE" entrance. First things first, "Where's the toilets, please?" The doors to the theater had not been opened yet, it was only 2:00 and the show started at 2:30. We had a chance to stand quietly and wait and enjoy the crowd. The play was about Trinidad after World War II and the people in the lobby were definitely from the Caribbean. It was like being in The Netherlands and seeing a play about Surinam or Curacao. Some of the people looked to be the right age to have come to London after World War II and others were a younger generation.

When the door finally opened, we were ushered to our seats (PIT section G 29 and 30), which turned out to be the FRONT ROW of the theater. Here is Judy sitting with the railing and the black and white tiles for the bedroom in front of her. We couldn't be closer unless we sat on the stage. It was wonderful.

 The set showed the courtyards of two adjoining small cottages in Port of Spain, Trinidad. Above one cottage was another apartment. The other cottage consisted of two small apartments, side by side on ground level. Right in front of us was the bedroom of the main male character, Ephraim, played by Danny Sapani, who looks uncannily like Errol John, the author, who died in 1988. Errol John's life is interesting: his father was an international cricketeer and toured England in 1923. Errol tried commercial art in Trinidad, but soon switched to acting and finally moved to London in 1950 and was lucky to be cast in a play directed by Peter Hall, the famous National Theater director. Errol played in many classical Shakespeare plays. In 1957, a play competition was started that asked for plays to be entered on "the period since the last war." Errol John, MOON ON A RAINBOW SHAWL won First Prize.

The play was purchased for production, but it was immediately decided that there were no black actors in Britain that were capable of performing the difficult main parts. So, actors from America were hired. They were given no support from the management of the theater company and the play was considered too outrageous to be performed in London. It wasn't until December 5, 1958 that it came to the West End theater, The Royal Court. The American actors were still in the cast, by the way.

What is the story? Simple and complex all at once. Ephraim represents the unmarried Trinidadian who works for the local bus company. His neighbors are the Adams family, Charlie (father, no job, no future), Esther (teen, sweet and an innocent), and Sophia (mother and very strong person, hard-working and motivated). Also, upstairs is a prostitute, Mavis, always on the prowl for money. The person living in the second apartment is Rosa, a lovely 20 year old lady, who works in the store of the owner of the apartments. That's all there is. Five main characters. Simple.

Except: Rosa is pregnant by Ephraim. Charlie has stolen money from the shop of the owner. Rosa is hunted by the owner for sex. Suddenly, all is dark and complicated. The story unfolds. Ephraim is leaving Trinidad for London and a new beginning. Rosa and Sophia beg and demand that he either stays to take care of her and the baby, or that he takes her with him.

Ephraim is packing his suitcase when Rosa tells him she is pregnant. She moves to embrace him and this is the scene.

EPHRAIM: DON'T TOUCH ME! So don't think a little trap like you could ketch me-just by sayin' yer going to have a baby fer mey. When that boat whistle blow! - It mean I leaving all this behind! Listen to me, Rosa! I got a life to live! Awright! So I stay here, to what end? That is not for me! Outside somewhere in the world I feel for certain sure it got more for me than this! Don't bring that damn baby nonsense to me. I'm a big man. Not no damn little boy. Ready to get myself tie-up the minute some woman tell me she makin' child. So if that is your plan to ketch me - this is one big boy that sorry. That plan ent go work at all.
ROSA: Yer is a damn worthless nigger! Do you think I want a man like you to marry me or to father my child? You go! You go wherever the hell you want to go! And when the time come so for yer to dead - I hope yer dead like the bastard you are.
EPHRAIM: THANKS! An' if that is all yer have to say fer goodbyes! Goodbye! (He throws her out of the door and continues throwing clothes into the suitcase.)

At the intermission, Judy was crying. AND the girl sitting next to her was crying. Judy said, "Go ahead and cry. It's alright." And she began talking with the girl, who was American it turned out and was studying theater in London for a semester. She was African-American and was very moved by the play. We talked about learning to act and she told us about her studies in Georgia. Her reaction to the strength of the script and the power of the acting was also seen in the Caribbean audience. I noticed one man well into his sixties who was stony faced all through the play until the end when Ephraim stormed off the stage. The penultimate scene moved him and I could see him start clenching his fists and leaning forward tensely. The lady next to him put her hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

This is the scene that moved him, between Ephraim and  Sophia, the "mother".

SOPHIA: When you first asked Rosa! And she didn't know what to do! Was to me she come! As if she was my own daughter! I had to tell her HOW! So that you could be the first!
EPHRAIM: SHE LIKED IT, LADY!
SOPHIA: (slapping him across the face): MORE THAN YOU? And now yer takin' up yerself to God knows where! - to leave her alone in this stinkin' yard. Yer know WHAT will come of her?
EPHRAIM: I don't give a damn! No blasted woman go TRAP me here!
SOPHIA: Is no trap! Is true!
EPHRAIM: (grabbing his suitcase to go) So what? The baby born! It live! It dead! It make no difference to me! (he rushes off)

The play ends with Ephraim gone, Rosa pregnant with his child and alone AND suddenly a voice is heard from her apartment, calling her to come inside. And the voice is that of the Landlord who has been chasing her from the beginning of the play. Sophia collapses and cries and the curtain drops.

What a play to see at the end of such a wonderful week. One little dip in ALL NEW PEOPLE, but for the rest, an outstanding and moving week of excellent theater.

Friday All Day Long, What a Journey, Part Two

It was late in the afternoon and we still had a bit of time before we had to go to the theater, so we returned to the apartment on Rupert Street to relax with Richard. The Apollo Theater is at the foot of Rupert Street and Shaftsbury Avenue, so it was perhaps a two minute walk.

There had been a poster outside the theater door that said, "The show is four hours long with one intermission." The starting time was therefore at 7:00. This seemed to mean that we wouldn't get out until 11:00, which is very late for London. But, when we got to the door at about 6:30, the notice said, "The performance will last three hours." Ah ha! Good, that meant final curtain at 10:00, which was the perfect timing. It turned out that the director had decided to cut one hour of the script. Looking back, what he cut were the lengthy poems read by the cast. I don't think we could have lasted a full four hours, knowing what we experienced in the performance.

The Apollo Theatre has an interesting history.

 We had seats in the Stalls section, downstairs, in Row 5 right in the center, so close enough to see the actors breathe, but still far enough away to enjoy the magic of the show. We had some familiarity with the play, but had never seen it performed, so we were excited.

This is an auto-biographical story. Eugene O'Neill's father was a touring actor and the family went with him on his rambling career. The family would be described today as "disfunctional" and the anger, alcohol, drugs and fighting were part of his childhood.

O'Neill died in 1953 and ordered his third wife to inform Bennet Cerf, the publisher, "LONG DAY'S JOURNEY INTO NIGHT is to be published 25 years after my death - but never produced as a play." His widow decided to defy this order and have the play produced. "He was tortured by it," she said. This was the dedication he wrote to her: "Dearest, I give you the original script of this play of old sorrow, written in tears and blood." It is a funny piece of history that the first performance of the play was in Sweden, in Swedish, because O'Neill has so ordered in his will.

Not only a very strong script, but better still: VERY strong actors! David Suchet and Laurie Metcalf as James Tyrone (father) and Mary Cavan Tyrone (mother). Richard recognized Laurie Metcalf, "She comes from Chicago. I've seen her in productions at the Steppenwolf Theater. She is excellent." Judy and I had never heard of her (or of Steppenwolf).

David Suchet, on the other hand, was world famous. Of course, the Hercule Poirot character on TV is perhaps the most well known, but he has been in many West End productions and is an Associate Artist and Governor of the Royal Shakespeare Company. He has acted in many classical Shakespeare plays, and more than 20 films. David has also had a huge success on TV and won many awards for his acting, including the Best Actor BBC Award for THE LIFE OF FREUD. And, typically for British repertory actors, he has been in many radio dramas. This would be our first time seeing him act in person on the stage.

Okay, so we sort of expected an evening of good theater. And, an evening of excellent acting. And an outstanding script. But we were not prepared for this play. It was so strong, so moving, a complete surprise. At intermission, a man seated next to us, as he stood up, said, "Unremitting tension." Boy, was he right. There was not a moment where you could sit back and relax. Every word was a sword, a spear, with a direct hit. The family was broken, but glued together. A failed, alcoholic father, a morphine addicted mother, an older brother also an alcoholic, and the younger brother without any direction, just angry and defeated. 

Here is a brief synopsis of only one encounter between the brothers in Act Four to give you an idea of the tension. The older brother comes home drunk and cries about his failures. He gets cruel and says of their mother: "Where's the hophead?" The younger brother punches him in the face and they both end up crying. In their drunken tears one brother accuses his parents of poisoning his mind against his other brother, hoping he would die, so that the inheritance would be saved. This leads to accusations between them both, and a final drink to reconcile them to their fate. And, this is only one single moment in the play. After the final curtain, we and the whole audience were on their feet. It was a spectacular performance. The play is intense and the actors made a perfect interpretation of the script. We loved it, but, in fact, it was Unremittingly Tense. We almost couldn't speak as we left the theater. Just a "good night" and Richard went one way and we went up Rupert Street to calm down.

Here is the complete review of the play by the Theater Critic of the London Guardian Newspaper. And so we did: we saw it.

End of Friday.

Friday All Day Long, What a Journey, Part One

It was a lovely day in London-town. This was the day we were going to meet with Richard for lunch and then the theater. We set off at about noon again and headed up Charing Cross to Foyle's Book Store. Foyle's has been Number One in all British bookstores for years and is presently number sixteen on the list of best stores in London. It is a treat to go to their Charing Cross main store. For years, we would head for Foyle's and browse. Books were piled up on the floor, in the halls, and behind desks. But, you could go to any Foyle's Information Desk and ask, "I'm looking for a book about the plants in Central Uzbekistan that shows photos of...." Before you could finish, the person might say, "That is PLANTS THAT HAVE SHAPED HISTORY, by Alesandra Kutchnikov, printed in 1993 by Penultimate Publishers in Aberdeen, and is in Aisle Three, travel section, fourth shelf. It has a green and purple cover. I loved it."

Many years ago, I was a School Tour Guide for Senior Classes in London. I had a special GREAT STORES OF LONDON tour that lasted half a day. First, we would go to Hamley's Toy Store on Regent Street. At the door, on the sidewalk, I would ask each student to give me one shilling. Then I would give them these orders (and a paper and pencil): "Go inside and find the craziest, funniest, most interesting, wierdest, BEST toy you can find. Write down the name and description of the toy and why you loved it. When you return in one hour, I'll read the entries and give the "winner" (my opinion) all the shillings. Have fun. See you exactly in one hour." It was great!

The next stop was FORTNUM AND MASON'S on Picadilly Street. This was the most expensive food store in London, founded during the reign of George III during the American Revolution. It was the store that supplied the foods for Stanley, for example, on his quest to find Dr. Livingstone. It was the famous store whose food boxes were seen on the heads of African porters as Englishmen explored the "Dark Continent". I remember seeing a bunch of grapes there that cost 1 English Pound EACH! The best aristocratic families would have their wines and foods delivered to their estates. A fancy store where the employees wore "pink" hunting jackets, like footmen. The same routine: "Give me your shillings and go inside and find the MOST expensive and crazy item you can spot. But, this time, only 30 minutes. You have to rush. Look hard and fast. May the best snoop win." I am trying to remember what won, but I really can't. Maybe a jar of Lady Fitzwarren's Plum Jam for EngPounds 40.

And finally, FOYLE'S for books. The same routine. The same shillings. The same rules: "Here you have only 45 minutes (but you can return later if you want during free time). Find the single craziest title you can and rush back." At this point, I remember a policeman stopped the group and asked what we were doing. It must have looked like a street gambling scam, I guess. I showed him the paper with the directions to the students, and explained the purpose of the "game". He laughed and said, "You'll need more than 45 minutes in THAT store, I'm sure." And off he went. This time I remember exactly what book won the prize: TROPICAL DISEASES OF THE ANUS, by some professor. WITH photos it said. And the winner, a charming young girl who was so innocent and cute that snow wouldn't melt in her mouth. She surprised us all with her winning choice. My god, did we laugh.

But, we are grandparents and today was the day to shop for the three grandchildren: Manami age almost 3, Samuel age soon to be 17, and Max soon to be 15. Foyles must be the perfect store. And in we go and immediately come to a complete halt. TOO DAMN BIG! Where to begin? Like zombies, we go into the Children's Section. "I'll look in the science-fiction section for the boys. They like strange tales of many-headed Kaluchians invading Earth and using the Gamma-Delta Paralyzing Ray to subdue their hapless victims. And Time Travel. And experiments that go wrong. And The Future Landscapes with all human life destroyed and Zombie Robots Running Amok In Empty Fields, While Human-types Live In Underground Cities Deep In The Core," I said. "That'll be easy."
Judy went to the section of books to be read to a child. The Picture Books. The lovely charming books about Ants and Flowers and Sweet Choo-Choo Trains, and Roly-Poly Badgers and all Light and Joy and Humor (with a teeny bit of philosophy and morality smuggled into the text: "Mrs. Chipmunk always worried about Chippy and Chappy. "Where, oh, where did those naughty little chipmunks go?") Guess who found the first (and best) books? Of course, Judy.

We found three books, and I can't remember any of them now. Except one was so beautiful that we just had to buy it. It was written by an American/Japanese lady wanted her daughter to learn Japanese words. Since Manami's mother is Japanese (and our son not) this seemed perfect. It was so pretty and thoughtful. Each page had several items with the English AND Japanese names attached to them. The items were chosen carefully. The drawings were beautiful. The book had a hard(but padded) cover and it was simply delicious to hold. Judy knew that Manami would love it (of course, so would her parents). We paid for the books AND got a Foyle's cloth bookbag also. Why not? Cute.

Now, the older grandchildren, the boys. What to do for them? A book? Nope. So, what? Then Judy had a great idea: "This is the year that the Olympic Games will be held in London. I'll bet there are loads of stuff advertising that. Let's go look." We walked to Piccadilly Square and there Judy spied a store. "Lillywhite's! Perfect." I asked her how she knew that Lillywhite's was the right store for us. "Because it is a huge sports store, that's how." But, how did she know that? It didn't say: HUGE SPORTS STORE. See, here is the secret information shopping network that women have. Lillywhite's home page says: "The finest sports store in the world, Lillywhite's of Piccadilly Circus in London is the oldest and largest specialist sports store in the UK. Lillywhite's is known principally as a high end sports retailer, offering an extensive range of specialist of sports clothing and equipment." And, it IS what it says it is. Three, maybe four stories of nothing except sports stuff. Every single British football (soccer) team has shirts and shorts there. All the international football (soccer) teams are represented. American basketball teams are there. Every sport (Rodeo: nope) is there. And also a section of Olympic shirts. We found two for the boys. For Samuel, a swimmer, a tee shirt with an Olympic swimming emblem and for Max, a tee shirt with a fancy Olympic emblem. All done. Safe again.

Now it was time to head for home and meet Richard at our arranged time of 1:30.

We returned to Rupert Street, dumped the gifts, met Richard, and headed for lunch. "What do you want to eat?" he asked. That's the kind of question that demands an answer, right? What DO we want to eat? Italian? Lebanese? Indian? "Nothing too heavy." "Oh," he said, "I know the perfect place. Dim Sum. Is that good?" We said yes and headed off into Chinatown. He walked very deliberately down one tiny street, across into another tiny street and said, "I think it is here. Yes, that's it." We crossed the street to the restaurant. "Hmmm, it looks closed," he said. "Maybe it is the wrong place. Now I'm not sure."It DID look dark and closed. There were a couple of people looking at the menu at the door and suddenly, they just went in. "I guess it is open," he said. Hmmm. I guess so.

It was the NEW WORLD CHINESE RESTAURANT at No. 1, Gerrard Place. (that's from the paper cover for the chopsticks. After the meal, I asked the head waiter if I could have some chopsticks to take home. Richard said, "Why do you want chopsticks?" See, I was right!) The meal was excellent, with the trolley ladies coming along with delicious food. Everything we tried was delicious. We told Richard that our son, Peter, loved to eat chicken feet. Richard is a big fellow and has lived all over the world, but he said, "Chicken feet is one thing I won't eat. I don't like the way they taste. No chicken feet for me." And we agreed.

When we finished and were out on the street. What to do. We had time to kill since the play didn't begin until 7:30. "What do you think about the British Museum?" Richard asked. A good idea, so we set off. Now you have to  understand that when he strolls around London, each of his steps is two and a half of a normal person's stride. AND, to make matters more interesting, he walks through London as if he were a taxi driver, NEVER taking a direct route.

We went down Newport Street to Newport Court. It was a sunny day and people were sitting on the grass. A young couple walked by us and the boy had a tee shirt from FLORIDA STATE and, of course, I said, "Really? Florida?" He told us no, but the girl came from Cornell and in fact, so did he. Well, Richard's daughter, Lily, is a student at Cornell, so we had a good fun laugh about meeting strangers randomly. Off we went down Great Newport Street to Longacre, up Neal Street to Shorts Gardens,  to Macklin, up Smarts to High Holborn, up Grape to Little Coptic, to Little Russell and finally left on Museum right to the front door of the British Museum. That was our little jaunt to settle our lunches.

There is a new atrium dome over the inside courtyard at the Museum. It is spectacular. All glass with the light from outside filtering in. There are large stone steps curving up to the balcony level. It feels like you are inside a peaceful cave of light. All the tourists milling around, children running, cameras flashing and still you don't feel crowded at all. We decided to go directly to the Egyptian display rooms and look at the mummies. Of course, the mummies are amazing. The display explains how the mummies were made and what materials were used and why. You got an education about Egyptian religion and politics as well. The faces of the children watching the mummies were the best. They had studied Egypt in school and now, there in front of them, were real "live" mummies. I could hear them telling their parents, "See, this is about Aton and here is the sign for Upper Egypt and here is the Jackal god." It seems obvious now that this technological generation of children can still be amazed by the technology of the ancient world.

But, it was the next room that got to me. It was the CLOCKS AND WATCHES room. Suddenly I was face to face with the Cassiobury Park turret clock built in 1610. Amazing! The clock was right there to see with all its original (restored of course) parts. The caption explained it all. This was fascinating stuff. Each clock (or watch) only has a basic 5 part assembly: the source of the energy, the wheels, the catchment, the dial and the face. The idea (genius) is that the source of energy(pendulum, hand winding, gravity) turns the wheels, but to keep them from spinning out of control, you need a catchment that flips back and forth only allowing the energy to be released at a set rate. This is transferred to the face and the dial. It sounds so simple and is so very complicated. How long, I wonder, did it take the monks to come up with all the ideas AND the technology.

 

 We spent a pleasant hour in the Museum and decided to go to a place for afternoon tea and cakes, just to fill us up before the theater. Again, the watchword was "Something Light." Oh, yeah. We ended up at Patisserie Valeries on Frith Street, established in 1926 by, guess who, Madame Valerie herself. She came to London on a mission to introduce fine Continental Patisserie to the English. That is what the brochure says, but the truth is that she was a spy for the French and they had decided the perfect way to ruin the English "stiff upper lip" was to fill English bellies with delightful and very fattening pasteries. I had something I think that was a Double Chocolate Apple Cake with Absinthe, that had been banned by the European Commission on Human Rights. I loved it. 

End of Part One

"Old Students" and the Old Vic

This is the email we got from a former High School student of mine, who had gotten a degree in Theater Lighting Design and has his own company in London, where he works  as a Lighting freelancer.
"How the devil are you old chap? Married 50 years already. I thought you were still 30! At the moment I will be in London, except for the 1st of April where I have to go to a friend's wedding. Of course my schedule keeps on changing as is the nature with the freelance world, so it may be best to touch base when you know whats what! What shows are you going to see? You will have just missed Aida which I am doing at the royal Albert Hall at the moment. As far as I know I won't be working on any theatrical type shows then, so unfortunately don't think I will be able to get you in to see anything that I am doing. Anyway let me know what your plans are. It would be lovely to see you! I haven't seen you in ages! All the best, Will (William Gallegos, Production Electrician and Rescue Climber)"

William was one of two students who were the technical crew at the American High School of The Hague where I taught theater for 39 years. The other is Chris Pistols, who is a Senior Lighting guy at a company in Texas. These two fellows were inspirational to me, their teacher. I would design a set and do some basic lighting and they would walk in, look around and say, "Do you mind if we change a few things?" Of course I would agree. They would then come in after school and sometimes work ALL NIGHT (with the collusion of the security team) to make GOOD LIGHTING. Everything they did was perfect. And they were fearless (some would say stupid). Without anyone knowing about it, they would hang from lighting bars, swing off HIGH ladders, crawl along beams and generally re-do the whole system. They would program the lighting board with all kinds of fancy stuff and then go home to sleep. No matter what I said, they dis-obeyed. No matter what I did, they improved upon it. No matter what I thought was good, they would nod and smile and do it better. I learned more from them than they learned from me, that's for certain. And both of them have gone on to excel in their professions. It makes me proud to have been their teacher/student. I am pretty sure I would have gotten a C from them on my Lighting Design report card.

William is also typical of the kind of students I taught in The Hague. His father is British and his mother is French. Many of my students came from these "mixed salad" families. I even taught two sisters whose father was Japanese and mother was Polish. I taught three sons whose father was from Kenya and mother from Italy. I taught Greeks, Russians, Americans, Brazilians, Spaniards, Icelanders, South Africans, Koreans, Scots and, of course, Dutch. I think there were 40 nationalities represented in the school and perhaps 35 languages. It was very exciting work.

We met William at Strada Restaurant right over the bridge at Charing Cross. He had told another former student to join us. Katie Gouder also graduated from the American School in 2004 and now worked in London for a large international company. Katie is also typical of international students, one parent is Scots and the other is Canadian. We had a great lunch with Bloody Mary drinks and Italian food. Of course, Katie did not touch a drop of alcohol. She told us that her employer had a ZERO TOLERANCE policy about drinking during the working hours. There were even surprise tests given to employees to see if there was any alcohol in their blood. This was news to us, considering that the pub lunch with a pint is ingrained in the British culture. We had one hour to relax and laugh about old times at school and life in London. William explained that it was financially better to be an independent operator than work for a company. He said that the work was demanding, with long hours late at night, but he loved it. Katie told us that she was working until she could decide what to do next in her life. Katie is a wonderful author and we hoped that she gets back to her writing soon.

After lunch, Katie returned to her job and William walked us down Waterloo to The Cut where the Old Vic Theater is located. We had thought it was too far away to walk, but William took us right there in 10 minutes. We picked up the tickets for the evening show and he walked us to his bus stop. We said good-bye and walked back to Rupert Street.

When we crossed the bridge, we happened to pass the Korean National Tourist Board office. Judy walked inside, but before I could enter, four young German children, ages 13 or so, asked me a question. "Sir, can you please tell us where the Hard Rock Cafe is?" One of the girls had been chosen to practice her English. I laughed and looked at her map. The others crowded around. One was a boy and he had a huge smiling face. He said, "Good evening!" The girls whispered, "Good MORNING." "OH," he said, "Good MORNING!" We all laughed. I said, "Listen, I am a 72 year old grandfather. Why would I know where the Hard Rock Cafe is. I'm old." The first girl said, "The Hard Rock Cafe is for ALL ages." We had a good laugh at that. I pointed up the street to Trafalgar Square and said, "There are many policemen there who can give you good directions to Hard Rock Cafe. Enjoy yourselves. Good bye." They said good bye, except the boy who said (this is the truth) "Good Evening!" They walked on and I entered the store.

We had our tickets in our hands, so we could take a nap and not worry about eating before the show. Anyway, a package of M&Ms would tide us over at the theater. We took a slow walk over the bridge and down Waterloo to The Cut and went into the theater.

THE DUCHESS OF MALFI was written by John Webster in 1613 and is a pure Jacobean tragedy, filled with mystery, anti-Catholic ideas, sexual powers, murder (on AND off the stage), and a strange mix of women's rights and family ties. The program says: "The Duchess of Malfi is defined by her fertility. The abiding impression of THE DUCHESS OF MALFI may well be of rotten bodies, corruption and stench. There is a notion that this play might need a health warning to be enjoyed."

The set was all black and dark with a large walkway over the upstage area. Side entrances lined with pillars and a curtained alcove stage center were the complete set. The play opened with a Dance of Death by hooded and robed "monks" carrying candles. The music was somber and eerie. Smoke filled the stage, so the dancers looked as if they were floating. The mood was dark and deadly.

Eve Best played the Duchess of Malfi. Eve has won many awards for her acting, including Best Actress for the Broadway run of A Moon for the Misbegotten. She represents the best, in my opinion, of the tradition of British repertory theater. Not only has she acted on the stage of the National Theatre, but also in the Young Vic, the Globe, and inthe movie The King's Speech, Eve played Wallis Simpson.

 This is a photo of Katie Gouder and me at lunch that afternoon.

 The play has a violent end. Bosola, a villain, has been hired by the brothers of the Duchess to murder her and her children. The reasons why are steeped in darkness and mystery, but simply put, she has married against their wishes. The real Duchess of Malfi was murdered and tortured and her husband stabbed to death on the streets of Milan. The last scene shows Bosola and his helpers, strangling the Duchess and rushing off stage to kill her two sons. One brother, a Cardinal, is poisoned by a prayer book that he has used to poison her maid, who dies.Her younger brother enters and struggles with Bosola who kills him. BUT....before he dies, Bosola  is fatally stabbed. It was tragic, but I had a tremendous urge to laugh: I mean, after all, Two brothers killed, the Duchess killed, her two sons killed, her maid AND her maid's children killed, AND the killer killed. It was like a picnic of death. Bodies everywhere. Of course, I didn't laugh. There were a lot of similarities with RIGOLETTO. I guess we had managed a balance of slapstick comedies and classical tragedies on this trip.

We walked back to Rupert Street,  had our usual bread and cheese snack, watched ITV about smugglers at Sydney Airport and went to bed. Two days and two plays to go.

Wednesday is Matinee Day Part Two

Yippee! Covent Garden Opera House: The ROYAL OPERA HOUSE, where THE ROYAL OPERA presents royally staged operas! The ROYAL OPERA HOUSE FOUNDATION is chaired by The Countess of Chichester and Lady Young of Grafham, along with Sir Simon Robertson and Dame Gail Ronson (DBE: it means, I think: Dame of the British Empire; or maybe Don't Be Early). The Patron is HRH The Prince of Wales, Lord Sainsbury of Preston Candover and Dame Vivien Duffield. The building also house the ROYAL BALLET, quite royal, since its patron is none other than the one and only HM The Queen and the President is HRH The Prince of Wales (again, so busy) and the Vice President is The Lady Sarah Chatto. Dame Monica Mason (DBE) (world famous ballerina) is the Director.

Joking aside, this is one of the most famous and most beautiful and grandest performing centers in the world. It sits on Covent Garden Square, and overlooks Covent Garden Market, filled with cafes, cutsie-pie shops, performing street acrobats, magicians, artsy-craftsy stalls, and pick-pockets galore.

One of the nicest parts about going to Covent Garden is that we actually know one of the Principal dancers at the Royal Ballet. Our daughter-in-law, Rie Ichikawa, is a Soloist at the Boston Ballet AND one of her former colleagues is a Principal Dancer at the Royal Ballet: Sarah Lamb. So, in a sense, we know Sarah.

We entered the Opera House, got our tickets for the show and followed the usher's directions to the correct entrance. The ticket reads: RIGOLETTO, Wednesday, 04 April 2012, 7:30 PM AND states that our seats are in the Amphitheatre Right (Please Mind The Stairs), row F, seats 58 and 60, with NO armrests. (Latecomers cannot be admitted). It also said that "people with fear of heights should be warned". A lot of information for a theater. Once we had taken the VERY long escalator to the Amphitheater level, we had enough time to enjoy the "Amphitheater Bar" with a special champagne cocktail and a plate of Italian crudite. We took the food (and the bread, delicious) and had a gin and tonic. We sat at a long table next to a couple (English) who had just returned for vacation from teaching in an international school in Indonesia!! So interesting.

There are 100 Singers on the Royal Opera list, including Ji-Min Park, Hanna Hipp, Christophoros Stamboglis, ZhengZhong Zhou, Ekaterina Siurina and Placido Domingo (all clearly British, except Hanna). There are 20 conductors on the list, such as: John Eliot Gardiner, Yves Abel and Colin Davis.  The Royal Opera Chorus has 56 members under the direction of Renato Balsadonna. The Orchestra of the Royal Opera House is a full size symphony orchestra with (for goodness' sake) a Cor Anglais player: Alan Garner, who is, by the way, the ONLY Cor Anglais player AND the Section Principal. Go for it, Alan!! And, finally, the technical staff has a full office group AND A Senior Costume Supervisor AND a Head of Hats and Jewellery (Janet Steiner) AND a Head Armorer (Robert Barham) AND a Flys Manager (Andy Collett). They must have magnificent New Year's parties.

The Program Notes has A Quick Guide to RIGOLETTO.
POLITICAL DYSTOPIA: David McVicar's production of RIGOLETTO reveals unflinchingly the corruption at the heart of the court of Mantua. Rigoletto is the Court Jester and his appearance is inspired by a grotesque insect, and the lavishly-clothed courtiers and Duke happily engage in brutal orgies and later cruelly taunt both Rigoletto and his daughter Gilda.
A PROVOCATIVE SUBJECT: RIGOLETTO is based on the controversial play LE ROI S'AMUSE by Victor Hugo which was banned from the French stage for nearly 50 years.
GENESIS AND PREMIERE: Verdi began work on the opera in 1850 and the premiere was on 11March 1851. Verdi described it as his best opera, even though he wrote some 10 after it.
The Program concludes: "We hope the soaring, beautiful lines of Verdi's music will not only make your hearts swell, but also your tears run in an intense evening of emotional workout."

So, high expectations, right? I mean, the lovely, grand Opera House AND John Eliot Gardner as conductor AND Ekateria Siurina, the lovely Russian soprano as Gilda. She was the only "name" I recognized in the cast to be honest. She was born in Ekaterinburg and studied in Moscow. Ekaterina has sung the role of Gilda many times, in Berlin and Paris recently for example. But, she is a world-famous soloist and it was exciting to watch and listen to her in RIGOLETTO.

The story of RIGOLETTO has many political overtones, since it was based on the controversial Victor Hugo novel. Basically, it tells of an "evil" and sarcastic Court Jester who makes fun of everyone and even goes so far as to ridicule a Count Ceprano, whose wife is the "forced" mistress of the Duke of Mantua. This cruelty is spun back on Rigoletto himself, because he has been hiding his lovely daughter, Gilda, from public view. He is afraid that the Duke will force himself on her and so he keeps her locked in his dirty house, far away from public view. Of course, the Duke discovers the beautiful girl and seduces her by lying that he is a poor student. She falls in love. When the truth is revealed to Rigoletto, the action builds up to the murder of Gilda, who has disguised herself as a boy in order to spy on her "love", the Duke. Thus, Rigoletto is served a dinner of his own making. A tragic end to Gilda's life and to Rigoletto's happiness.

We left the opera transfixed by the singing and the acting. Although the stage is immense and the set was a huge, frightening wall of steel, it was the intimate scenes and duets that caught us.  The famous La Donna Mobile aria was superb. The opera was a grand experience. We walked back slowly from Covent Garden to Rupert Street and had our usual late dinner of bread and cheese.

Wednesday is Matinee Day Part One

Wednesday is the second Matinee Day in London. We had loved the Saturday combo of ONE MAN, TWO GUV'NORS and COMEDY OF ERRORS, and were looking forward to today's shows.
We arrived at the Duke of York's Theatre which is just down St. Martin's Square around the corner from Trafalgar Square, so an easy walk from Rupert Street.

The Program from the show

 The Duke of York's theater was opened in 1895 and its first big hit was a one-act play titled MADAME BUTTERFLY, by David Belasco. Incredibly, Puccini was in the audience and loved the play so much that he turned into his famous opera. Since it opened, there have been a string of smash successes at the theater, which still has (even after renovation in 1979) a Victorian feel about it: plush seats, velvet curtains, a huge highly decorated proscenium arch and gilt box seats.
When we got to the box office to pick up our tickets, we still had about one hour to kill, so we went across the street and ate a pre-theater lunch at a sandwich and salad restaurant. We returned to the theater and bought a bag of M&Ms and went to our seats right smack in the middle of the Stalls section, which is the main seating close to the stage. We were in Row H (8 rows back), seats 11 and 12, so absolutely in the center. Perfect seating. The people next to us were a young Trinidadian couple. She told us that it was her 30th birthday and that she was studying in London to get a certificate as a School Head (principal) and hoped to go back to Trinidad to start her own school. She said, "Did you come to see Zach Braff?" We had never heard of Zach Braff (the author of the play) but she said, "Everyone LOVES Zach Braff. He is so very funny." We smiled dumbly.
When we looked around at the matinee crowd we suddenly noticed that we seemed to be among the oldest people there. A LOT of teens were piling in. We guessed that Zach Braff was a bit hit on American TV or movies.
His biography says: "Zach starred in OZ with James Franco and Michelle Williams; he played Dr. John 'J.D.' and played Dorian in NBC's comedy Scrubs. He has acted in The Broken Hearts Club, the Manhattan Murder Mystery, and Dreamworks' The Last Kiss. This is his first full play script."
The story is simple: The dead of winter in Long Beach Island, New Jersey. Charlie (Zach Braff) has hit rock bottom and is about to hang himself as the curtain opens. The door opens and Emma, an English eccentric real estate agent enters and saves him. Her boyfriend, the crazy fireman, Myron, comes to help. They are interrupted by the entrance of a gorgeous and completely stupid prostitute, Kim, comes in, sent by Charlie's best friend as a gift to "cheer you up. I'll do anything you want, but stay away from my asshole."
This is not a complex story, and the characters are very one-sided. The fireman is a stereotypically American "tough guy"; the English girl is ditsy without being real and the hooker is just plain dumb. It is not a good play. There are very funny moments and the audience loved. We enjoyed the afternoon, but this was definitely on the bottom of the list as far as we were concerned.
It's funny, but with a poor script, and characters that are comic versions of "funny people", the play didn't have substance. Comparing it to ONE MAN, TWO GUV'NORS, which is a pure and honest bit of Commedia del 'Arte, and a slapstick miracle, this play was hollow. The word FUCK brought the most laughs in the audience, as in: "I don't give a fuck if you hang yourself, just don't leave the fucking clean-up to me. Have a little fucking self-respect. And even if you don't respect yourself, at least show me some fucking respect."
After the show, many people in the audience rushed out to the sidewalk near the Stage Door, just to get a photo of Zach Braff and maybe his autograph.
We walked back to the flat to rest up for the opera that night. A sort of rainy, drizzly day in fact. We went to a store and bought two tiny umbrellas for EngPd 5 for the pair. Perfect for the walk to Covent Garden later that night.

Menier Chocolate Factory

When we used to visit London, we always tried to go the Donmar Warehouse to see avant-garde theater. Donmar WAS a warehouse at one time and became famous for the strong modern theater and the physical relationship between the audience and the stage. You felt like you were in a temporary seat placed between pillars of a warehouse. The stage was small and very close to everyone. We saw some spectacular plays at Donmar. One play was about an English retired soldier who rented his apartment to an African female refugee. Of course, they ended up in bed together, but that was when he found out that the "charity work" he had done as a volunteer in Africa had resulted in a bloody war between tribes. And, in fact, he found out that he was directly responsible for her killing her own brother and parents. His actions in Africa had caused her to be captured by a rebel army and turned into a killer. She described graphically how she had been forced to hack off the hands of her parents. It was a very powerful piece of theater, condemning so-called do-gooders who are blind to the reality of their actions in the field.
The play at the Donmar had been sold out for months and the only thing to do was come to box office on the day we wanted to go and hope that a couple of tickets were available. The play was Farquhar's THE RECRUITING OFFICER, a play from the 1700s, very old, but very topical at the same time. No way to get seats unless we stood in the rain.
The London Theatre Guide lists all the playhouses in the West End theater district. And there we read about the Menier Chocolate Factory. Huh? A chocolate factory putting on plays? Sounded Donmar-ish.
Here is what the brochure says: "Housed in a converted chocolate factory in London's busy Bankside, the Menier has been a full time producing house since 2004, and comprises a theater, restaurant, bar and rehearsal space. We have won the Peter Brook Empty Space Award AND the Best Theater Foodie Experience Award."
The play would be ABIGAIL'S PARTY by Mike Leigh, one of Britain's most successful playwrights.
It sounded GREAT. I called for dinner reservations, but all the tables were booked.
We decided to have an easy day with another long walk and late lunch at the local Fred's Cafe and then a nap.
It was raining in the afternoon and since the theater was on the other side of the river and seemed far away, we went to the corner of Shaftsbury Ave and hailed a cab. I love London cabs and cabbies. They take a test of all the streets in London and never seem to go the straightest route. They zig-zag in and out of small streets, between narrow buildings, around road blocks and suddenly end up exactly where they should have been in the first place. I guess the idea is that they know all the short cuts to avoid traffic.
The London cabbies remind me of my father, who learned to drive as the driver of a fruit and vegetable truck. He would always say that second gear was unnecessary, "Just rev up fast enough to jam into third gear." And, he hated with a passion, Red Lights. He would go well out of his way to avoid a red light. For example, his apartment was about one mile from his office. It was easy: turn right out of the driveway, turn right at the first traffic light, turn right at the next big traffic light, and turn right at the second light and you were there. But not him. He would turn right out of the driveway, turn right at the first traffic light and THEN turn into the driveway of the Mass Mental Health Hospital, drive around the back of the laundry delivery area, down the alley way to the back street, turn left at the front of the hospital, turn right at the park, drive the back street by the delivery entrance to the Children's Hospital and through the workers' parking lot and end up in front of his office.
By the time we got to the Chocolate Factory, it was pouring rain. We jumped out of the cab just as a girl on a bicycle rode up. She was soaked to the skin and laughing. "I'm late for dinner," she gleefully bleated. The three of us went inside and it was perfect. A lovely atmosphere. Lots of people at wooden tables eating dinners. We went through the restaurant and asked for the box office, which was located up three short stairs near the door to the art gallery. I glanced at the exhibition, which was packed with people drinking wine and pretending to look at the art. This resulted in me not noticing the hand railing on the steps. I whacked the back of my left hand and the skin tore and it began to bleed quite a bit (and it hurt) (and when I looked down all I could think of was that my hands looked exactly like my father's hands when he was in his eighty's and ninety's). At the box office, which was in the bar, I got the tickets AND the girl gave me a "plaster for your bruise." In the USA, I am sure I would have been forced to sign a document that I released the theater from all responsibility to pay for my cut hand. I went to the Gents' to clean the cut and put on the bandage and when I got back, Judy had found a seat on a bench. I decided enough was enough and asked the bartender to make a good strong gin and tonic (Judy had a tonic). We sat down to relax and wait for the show.
A "nice young lady" asked if she could sit next to us. Of course. We began to talk (I talk to everybody, Judy says) and it turned out that she was writing a children's book, so that was interesting to hear her story. It was about her childhood growing up in France.
Finally, into the theater which was a traditional small theater. Maybe seating for 200 people that's all. We had no idea what to expect in the play. I had bought a copy of the script, but hadn't read it yet. Sometimes I like to read the script before I see a play, especially if it is a classical piece.
The program notes say: "ABIGAIL'S PARTY is not a sitcom, nor an extended comic sketch. In form and substance it is an extremely cunning version of a typical comedy. It is more akin to Greek tragedy than to most television comedy." What does THAT mean, I wonder. Is it a laugh or a cry?
The director says, "ABIGAIL'S PARTY was evolved from scratch entirely by rehearsal through improvisation." Judy groaned, "I wish you hadn't read that."
The story is simple: a party at Beverly and Laurence' house, with guests Angela and  Tony and Susan, a single mother with a teenage daughter: Abigail. Susan has been convinced to come to the party, "because the teens don't want a stodgy old mom hanging about while they're having fun." What makes the play so good is that the married couples "hate" each other and Beverly ends up doing a slow, sexy, dance with Tony. Angela is a nurse and doesn't drink, but ends up completely drunk on gin and tonics, "Oh, I'll have just one teeny one more. That can't hurt, can it. I mean we live right across the street." By the end of Act One, Angela is completely drunk.
Meanwhile, Susan's daughter, Abigail, is having the party of her lifetime two houses down the street. The music from the party blasts all over the neighborhood and Susan begins to worry that things are getting out of hand. She wants to go home and check things out, but she is convinced to "let the kids enjoy themselves." By the end of the play, both married couples are at each others throats, and Susan is on the phone screaming for Abigail to "please, please answer the phone."
The level of conversation has increased to shouting level. Everyone is on edge. Beverly is dancing a slow, sexy dance with Tony, which causes friction for their spouse. Beverly is angry and when Laurence decides to start a debate (in a loud, aggressive voice) about ART, this is what happens.
BEVERLY: For Christ's sake, Laurence, give it a rest!
LAURENCE: Give what a rest?
BEVERLY: Nobody is interested.
LAURENCE: Oh, yes, they are!
BEVERLY: Oh, no, they're not!
LAURENCE: D'ya know something, Beverly? You're ignorant.
BEVERLY: Oh, so I'm ignorant, now, am I?
LAURENCE: Now? You always have been!
BEVERLY: It's not a question of ignorance, Laurence, it's a question of taste!
LAURENCE: Taste? And what would you know about taste?
This dialogue is very funny to see. Laurence is red faced and shouting and out of control. Beverly is in a quiet, sarcastic mood that drives Laurence crazy with anger. She parades around the room, in a very provocative, sexy manner that adds to his anger. By the end of the play, Laurence has suffered a fatal heart attack. Nurse Angela has stopped giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation and is having a leg cramp. Her husband Tony is desperately massaging her leg while she screams in pain. Beverly is sobbing hysterically. And, Susan is on the phone, shouting: "Abigail. It's mommy here.....ABIGAIL!"
And the curtain goes down. We are drained again. What a wonderful play and a great cast.
Now it is time to go back to Rupert Street. We ask where the Underground is and follow people three easy blocks down the street to the station. We buy the wrong tickets(day passes instead of single tickets) but jump on the train and get back to Piccadilly Square easily.
Up to the apartment, and a late night snack of "stick" bread bought at the French bakery and cheddar cheese. Bed time.

It's time to say "Thank You"

Here are Michael and Peter, our sons, somewhere on one of our summer drives from The Hague to Agia Trias in Greece. This is a very typical photo. We pulled a caravan behind our VW station wagon and drove the 5,000 plus kilometers every summer. We would leave our house early one morning (Judy would say, "Don't tell me what time we are going to leave, just wake me up and I'll go peacefully." These were the days WAY before video games, before personal music devices, before DVD players, before SUVs. These were the days when you got up and drove until sunset. We made it a rule never to drive at night, so that meant we started looking for a camp ground in the late afternoon. A typical day would be leave after breakfast and drive until a new stopping place.
Here's the trip:
Day One: depart The Hague and camp that night in Germany, probably near Stuttgart.
Day Two: Drive into Austria and camp before the Loibel Pass (14 degrees of steepness: "Do NOT attempt this pulling a heavy caravan." said the sign posts.
Day Three: Over the Loibel Pass into Yugoslavia and camp in Llubliana (a really lovely city, very old fashioned and interesting)
Day Four: Drive to Zagreb and camp. We would then go to the Gypsy Market in town and look at (or buy) gypsy clothing which consisted of a large skirt, an embroidered apron, and an embroidered blouse. Many times there were sweat stains on the blouses.
Day Five: Drive to Slavonski Brod where suddenly you were in a completely other landscape: much more dry.
Day Six: Drive to Beograd, the capital. Here it was a rough camp just outside the city on the main highway.
(Oh, the Main Highway! This deserves a special note. It was called The National Highway and there were stone portraits of Marshal Tito and sometimes groups of teenagers wearing red bandanas and using shovels and rakes to "build the road." For many kilometers, the road was only two lanes and you could be stuck behind a very old truck going 20 kilometers an hour. We actually passed one on a hill and the driver was sitting OUTSIDE the cab with the door open smoking a cigarette. There was a large brick on the accelerator!!! There were a million Turks driving home from Europe to Turkey, with Ford Econoline vans filled with several family members AND a TV, refrigerator and furniture tied on the top. This was a dangerous drive because drivers with fast BMWs or Mercedes would try to pass by driving in the left lane INTO the oncoming traffic and then zip back into line. There were burnt out wrecks every kilometer or so.)
Day Seven: Drive to Nis, the capital of the water buffalo kingdom and completely different people.
Day Eight: Drive to Skopje, the capital of Madedonia (and Titov Veles--the poorest town in the country)
Day Nine: GREECE at last. We would go directly to Agia Trias, our favorite village and hit the camping there. Finally, finally a swim. Finally, finally good food and we could rest.
The vacation was usually the whole summer and then the drive back.
As the family got older, we sold the caravan and did the trip in THREE DAYS! We drove fast and furiously through Germany and slept the first night in Austria. We hit the National Yugoslavian Highway the second day and drove as far as we could, almost to the Greek border. And then, on the third day, we would cross into heaven. Even Michael and Peter had opportunities to drive in Yugoslavia, which changed their perspectives on road safety.

Anyway, they grew up in Europe and went to the Haagse Montessori Lyceum in The Hague. They spoke Dutch with their friends and at school, and, in effect, became Dutchies. Or, Haagenaars. Now they are grown men, husbands, fathers and (still) sons. They decided to help us celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary with a paid trip to London. This was a perfect gift for us: we love London, we love theater and we love going cheap (on them). A funny part of the story is that Michael was in London on business and departed Heathrow on the exact morning of the day I arrived. The timing was too tight for us to meet at the airport, since he had to check in right while my plane was landing. But, we thought about it for a while before we decided it was impossible.
So, thanks boys. A perfect gift.

No Hot Water

Bright and early up. Bright and early stayed in bed. Bright and early turned on the TV for morning shows. What is hot is a show about the Customs Officers at Sydney Airport in Australia and/or the Luton Airport in England. It shows people trying to smuggle contraband items on the flights. Everything from a Bird's Nest "cake" from China to immense quantities of cigarettes in duffle bags. Also, cocaine smugglers who swallowed lots and lots of condoms filled with drugs. In fact, one man has the "honor" of holding out for a grand total of 48 days in a special cell at Luton with bags and bags of cocaine in his system. He refused x-rays, he refused food and only drank a bit of water now and then. 48 days, can you believe it? The Customs Officials were amazed at his strength of character. Finally, he gave in after one of the officers brought in a pizza to eat while on duty. The smell of the food broke the dam and he started wanted (and eating ) food. His "food" came out finally. Amazing stuff for early morning TV.
At about 10, we decided to shower and head out. Guess what? There was NO hot water, and almost NO water pressure. Judy decided "no shower for me", but I had decided to think of this as a camping trip and jumped in. It was freezing! I would turn it off, lather up, turn it on, rinse off, turn it off, lather another bit and repeat. I even shampooed my hair IN A HURRY.
We decided that the owner, Pieter, had to be informed and so sent him a text: NO HOT WATER. PLEASE ADVISE.
Within 5 minutes he had answered: I will send a maintenance man right over. That was good. It was about 11 and we wanted to get lunch/breakfast. Five minutes later, Pieter texted again: I am in the neighborhood, so I will come over in 5 minutes. Good news for us. We waited and then there was a tiny knock on the door and there was Pieter, in the flesh. A nice young man, with a big smile and full of apologies for the water. "I don't know what happened, but I will certainly refund you for this day. The maintenance man will be here to see what is wrong and hopefully, fix it fast." We were quite impressed with Pieter. A good, friendly host, on top of things. So, we all three left the flat and we went off to eat.
We didn't have to be at the theater until evening, so we took another long walk. We had our "winter gear" on, and the sun was shining, so we could stroll around. This time we decided to walk up Regent Street from Picadilly and go to Hamley's Toy Store.
Hamley's is the kind of children's toy store that is geared for adults, in my opinion. I think there are five floors, with things like Arts and Crafts, Magic, Trains, LEGO by the zillions, costumes, dolls, stuffed animals, and the odd board game. Magicians work every floor. One man was demonstrating a flying sort of spaceship that zoomed overhead, returned to him and with his hand he was able to make it hover or zip away or go up or go down or go crazy. One girl was demonstrating an art project with "magic" markers that made a single color (blue) and with another one, you could turn it into yellow for example. "One swish of the magic marker and you have a completely different color. See, my drawing changes every time I choose another color." I mean it is an adventure just to go into the store.We were immediately in a good mood. It was FUN to be there. Very crowded and lots of children running from this demonstration to that table, to another section and their parents or grandparents saying, "Well, Hermione, I think you have quite enough of those Princess necklaces already. Why not look at the Bumblebee tiara. That's cute." Or, "Brendan! Put that truck back instantly, you could break it if it drops.....Brendan, what did I tell you? Now, put back the pieces and let's hurry to the next floor before....." Or, (me to Judy), "This would be great for Manami, she loves to draw, doesn't she?" "Yes, but a 500 piece oil pencil set with its own easel and apron is a bit too big to put into our suitcase....AND it costs EngPd 250. Maybe this set of six markers is better." Me: "Yes of course, what was I thinking."
We spent one hour in Hamley's and managed to get out without breaking our bank or our weight limit. The only disappointment was that they no longer carried the famous puppets we had brought the boys when they were younger. They had a dragon and a clown and a princess AND a skeleton that all came apart into his many bones.
After this, we walked to Trafalgar Square to the National Gallery for a quick look at the Victorian HUGE paintings and then off to the National Portrait Gallery around the corner. The Portrait Gallery is one of our favorites museums in London. We went to the Modern Portraits section and there were amazing pieces of art. One was of a famous actress and it was made of constantly changing colored waves of color. Of course, there was a portrait of the Royal Princes with their Royal Faces and family history of pomposity (they make us sort of desire a return of the guillotine: Down With Royalty and all that).
We ate a sandwich in an Italian cafe and hit the sack for a late afternoon nap at 5.
The play this night was Alan Ayckbourn's ABSENT FRIENDS, first produced in 1974. In his author's notes, Ayckbourn says, "This play is far more claustrophobic, almost oppressive than others I have written. It is a play for a small intimate theater where one can hear the actors breathing and the silences ticking away." The Harold Pinter Theatre was a perfect place to see this play because no matter where you are seated, you are close to the stage.
The story is quite simple: a party is being given for a man whose wife died in a drowning accident. His two best friends and their wives are the hosts. It is a quiet theme for a play. It is filled with small, silent pauses and lines that make you laugh and wince at the same time. For example, the hostess (Diana) is "slightly fraught and smiles occasionally, but it is painful." Evelyn is a young mother, "slightly expressionless" and absolutely bored with life and her husband. As the play opens, Evelyn is reading a magazine and rocking her baby in a pram. She is without life. Here is the dialogue.
DIANA: Should he be covered up as much at that, dear?
EVELYN: Yes.
DIANA: Won't he get too hot?
EVELYN: He likes it hot.
DIANA: Oh, I was just worried he wasn't getting enough air.
EVELYN: He's all right. He doesn't need much air.
These lines don't seem funny at all, but in the way they were delivered, the audience laughed out loud. The boredom of Evelyn, the nervousness of Diana were a perfect mirror image of the entire play.
The party's main guest is Colin, whose wife drowned. He is a very peculiar fellow, who manages not to notice that the things he says are very very hurtful to people. His two buddies reject him completely during the play and want nothing to do with him. The marriages of the three couples are very rocky and there is massive fighting going on between them. Diana, the hostess, finally cracks under the stress and there is this lovely monologue at the end of Act Two.
DIANA: People used to say "You can't join the Mounted Police. You're a little girl. Little girls don't join the Mounted Police. Little girls do nice things like typing and knitting and nursing and having babies." So I married Paul instead. Because they refused to let me join the Mounted Police. I married him because he kept asking me. And because people kept saying that it would be a much nicer thing to do than....and so I did. And I learnt my typing and I had my babies and I looked after them for as long as they'd let me and then suddenly I realised I'd been doing all the wrong things. They'd been wrong telling me to marry Paul and have babies., if they're not even going to let you keep them, and I should have joined the Mounted Police, that's what I should have done. I know I should have joined the Mounted Police. (Starting to sob) I want to join the Mounted Police. Pleas....(She starts sob louder and louder till they become a series of short staccato screams)."
The actress was almost barking, not sobbing. It was hysterically funny. They manage to manhandle her out the door up to her room. It is almost slapstick, but very sad and painful. On the stage, in a deathly silence is her husband Paul and Colin, the guest. The silence is huge. You laugh quietly afraid to make noise. No-one speaks. Paul is suffering not just because his wife has had a fit, but because he has been unfaithful to her and she has rejected him completely. Colin is oblivious to anything meaningful in life. He is a braying sort of fool.
Finally, after a long and painful silence, Colin speaks.
COLIN: Have you had this trouble before, Paul?
PAUL: Not quite like this.
(At one point, Diana, quite hysterical screamed at Paul to "stay away from me. Don't touch me!')
COLIN: I think you should go up with her, you now. She probably needs you.
PAUL: Oh come on, Colin. You heard her. She doesn't want me within twenty yards of her.
(silence)
COLIN: (in another world) I remember when Carol had the flu. (Carol died drowning) She wouldn't let go of my hand....
PAUL: Col.
(silence)
COLIN: Yes.
(silence)
PAUL: Do me a favor. Just shut up for one minute about Carol, would you. I don't want to hurt your feelings but....(shouting now) NOT JUST AT THE MOMENT!!
Again, very tense scene, with big silent spots. Huge holes, very scary moments of nothing. And then, you just had to laugh. You couldn't help yourself. The situation was so fraught with danger and anger that it was actually funny. I wanted to say, "Stop for a minute. Give me a chance to breathe.
We left the theater exhausted but energized. The walk back to the flat was short and at 11:00 we stopped at the local Lebanese cafe on Rupert Street and had a late snack of meat and tomato stew. And then off to bed. Another day down and out. Another great piece of theater.

APRIL FOOLS DAY

What is the best (worst) April Fools joke? Well, to cut to the chase: Sunday in London was a lovely, sunny, sort of warm (for Judy: it is COLD) day. We had nothing planned except a dinner with Richard in the evening. We decided to wake up slowly (got going about 11) and then go somewhere for a real English breakfast (you know: greasy eggs and soggy bacon and beans and sausage) in the neighborhood. We hit the street (Old Compton Street) at noon and found a place, (I think called Paul's, but with a restaurant in Miami if you can believe it). The menu was ENGLISH BREAKFAST. How about that? Judy got the two egg breakfast and I got a single egg Benedict with toast AND, because the waiter suggested it: a Bloody Mary! What a good way to start the day!
After breakfast we continued down Old Compton Street to Charing Cross road and turned toward Oxford Street. We had decided to buy some warm clothes because, of course, we we not prepared for the cold windy weather.
Around the corner of Oxford Street and Berners Street we saw a store called Kathmandu, a sort of hikers' and campers' and rough vacations outfitters. They were having a sale, so Judy said, "Let's try it, even though we are not camping or hiking." In the back of the store was the Really Reduced section and we found a zippered fleece liner for a fancy mountain climbers jacket. The liner was reduced to 22.99 EngPds and it was called a Wakefield Jacket v2, silver/medium color. Perfect for me. Light and with a neck that zipped up to my chin. Considering the use I got of it, it was the best clothing buy in the century. I wore it even in restaurant, after all, it looked so chic. Judy even found a white turtleneck that was perfect, but being the World's Best Shopper, she decided to look further down Oxford Street in the big stores like Marks and Spencers.
So, on we traveled. On the sunny side of the street, stopping in (and going out) of several stores. We must have spent a couple of hours relaxing and strolling. When we reached Holle Street, we turned toward the BBC building on Cavendish Square. I had remembered that there was a BBC shop there and wanted to see if they had any CDs for sale. But, we were tired, so, luckily, we found a table secluded from the wind and in a sunny spot in a little Italian cafe. We had tea and a snack and sat there for almost one hour, enjoying people watching. Afterwards, we went to the BBC building to find out that the shop had been closed for "at least 20 years" the guard told us. So back on the hoof and back to Kathmandu for Judy to buy the turtleneck.
We took a long walk back to Rupert Street via the lovely shopping area around Monmouth Square and went into several shops. We got back to the apartment and immediately hit the sack for a nap.
And here is when the "tragedy" began. When I woke up, my wedding ring was GONE. Disappeared. Off my finger where it had been constantly since our wedding. We looked all over the floor next to the bed. I hadn't heard a "click" so I didn't think it had fallen on the floor. We shook out the duvet and it wasn't there. It was a horrible feeling. A sort of April Fools joke at the worst. Nothing to do, not even retrace our steps. It would be impossible to find the ring if it had fallen on the street or in a shop. The only thing to do was to wait and buy one when we got back to Florida.
Richard told us that dinner at Rules was for seven o'clock and to wait for him to come to the apartment to go all together there. We dressed fancy (I wore a bow tie and a jacket and Judy wore her flowery jacket). At seven, there was no Richard, so we waited. At 7:30 there was no Richard, so we waited. "Something must have happened," Judy said. At 7:45 there was a loud ringing of the doorbell. We answered. It was Richard downstairs, shouting, "What the hell is going on? Where are you? Why didn't you answer my text messages? Come downstairs RIGHT NOW." We ran downstairs. He was frantic. "Where have you been? I've been telephoning and texting." We never got any messages for some reason. "Hurry up!" he shouted. "They are holding the table for us." We ran to Shaftsbury Ave and he decided that it was impossible to take a cab because the streets were all going in the wrong direction. "We'll have to walk. Hurry." We started to walk, but in one block it was obvious that HIS walking (he is close to 7 feet tall) is much, much faster than our walking. He hailed a cab and off we went.
When we got into Rules, everyone was happy to see us. The manager said, "I guess you found them. Don't worry, we held the table for you." Okay, peace at last. Our waiter was from Greece and the waitress was Brazilian. Hmmmm: and this the oldest restaurant in London. It was started by Thomas Rules in 1798 and has been in operation ever since. There are 90 employees and about 120 guests a sitting. Rules is THE ENGLISH RESTAURANT: the menu has classic game specialities as well as puddings and oysters.

The cocktails menu is exotic to say the least. Here are some samples: QUEEN OF AUSTRALIA (Southern Comfort Black with Orgeat and Shiraz.) Orgeat is a syrup made from almonds, sugar and rose water. QUEEN OF THE BAHAMAS (Bicardi Carta Blanca, Grenadine & Citrus). QUEEN OF BARBADOS (Mount Gay Rum, Passionfruit, Velvet Falernum & Ginger).
Altogether, we enjoyed the meal and even had a good laugh at the end. We left Rules at about 10:00 and Richard headed home because he was expecting an important Skype call at 10:30. We had a pleasant walk back to Rupert Street and ended up watching BBC go off the air because it had turned all digital, and the TV in the apartment was not set up correctly. Ah well, ITV will do until we fell asleep, a wedding ring poorer.

COMEDY OF ERRORS

National Theatre on the Southbank in the Olivier (Largest) theater

After the matinee of ONE MAN, TWO GUV'NERS, finished at about 5:00, we had two hours or so to relax before heading across the Hungerford Bridge to the Southbank for the evening show. We went back to Rupert Street and took a fast nap. At 6, we left the flat and walked down Haymarket to Trafalgar Square and then to Charing Cross train station and crossed the bridge to the other side of the Thames. Richard was supposed to meet us there at six so we could have a bite to eat before the show. It was windy and cold and we decided then and there we HAD to buy warm clothing as soon as possible. The wind was biting, just like The Hague on a cold day and enough was enough. Decided! Tomorrow was Sunday, but the stores HAD to be open, after all, this is London, city of 10 million people AND it is Easter school vacation.
Anyway, there was Richard and he gave us a big hug and kiss. This was the first time he had seen Judy since she arrived. We went to the little cafe on the third floor and had a salad and some bread. Just enough to keep us going during the show, but not too much. We were afraid that jet lag would knock us out as soon as the lights went out for the performance.
The Olivier theater is huge and beautiful. It is all cement, rough, with the actual forms and shapes of the wooden molds still there. It has a homey look. The seats are large and comfortable, so you feel elegant. We had three seats in the back row of the main auditorium, called the Stalls.
The stage was set with an immense metal and wooden structure, that looked like an apartment house under construction. But, it was a ship in fact. The play opens with the story of a shipwreck and the loss of two sets of twin boys. Two are from rich families and two are servants. So, the comedy is that "Team A" consists of one twin from each group and "Team B" has the other set. The constant joke is that people from the city mistake the members of the team. A necklace is given to a person on Team A who gives it to (he thinks) his servant, but it is the servant from the other team, or maybe not.
What the Program says is: "THE COMEDY OF ERRORS does what it says in the title. It is filled with the classic devices of comedy: mistaken identities, people getting the wrong end of the stick, clowns getting slapped about the head, politically incorrect jokes about fat people and sexy women, and a vertiginous succession of characters coming and out of doors."
After the opening noisy and busy "shipwreck" where the cast ran in and up and down and around the metal structure and the twins were dropped off the ship as infants, the play could begin. Lenny Henry (the husband of Dawn French) played one of the two merchant twins. Lenny Henry is a famous British stand-up comic and has won many prizes for his comedy. He has only begun acting seriously recently and won the Outstanding Newcomer Award for playing the title role in OTHELLO. He is an excellent comic and we could see his face and eyes all the way in the back of the hall. He has a deep voice and he used a Jamaican accent throughout, so he was easy to understand. We actually belly-laughed a couple of times which is amazing considering that this play is several hundred years old.
Also, the National Theatre is famous for its inventive set designs. This one was built on a large revolving stage, so the large (very very large) set pieces could be fully revolved AND rotated AND slid in and out. Houses, street scenes, and interiors were pushed and pulled into place. Every stage change was accompanied by an Italian street band, playing and singing (in Italian/English) funny songs about women and love and making jokes about the characters in the play.
The production was great, and the show was excellent. We only dozed off for a couple of short mini-naps, and so did Richard.
The show ended at 10 and we walked back over the bridge to Soho. Richard knew a French restaurant and we ate a "light" dinner, with a bottle (of course) of wine. Then, off to Rupert Street and bed. What a first day for Judy. A very good beginning to our week of theater in London, provided by our sons. Thanks.