Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 148

The Goat

Rapture has returned. It's a beautiful Easter morning - rain predicted but not happening yet - and I, cosy in this bright little room. Just had a huge breakfast downstairs, smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, and surprisingly good coffee, and ended up chatting with the woman at the next table, a Brit married to an American, living near Detroit, who's doing a lot of the same London things I am. Much discussion of "Don Juan." And then - what are the chances? - it turned out she is taking the same Air Canada plane from London to Heathrow on Tuesday. So my new BFF Chris and I will go out to the airport together.

It also turns out that not everything is closed today, in fact, a lot is open as usual, and much of the rest will open at noon. So much for a contemplative day walking and working. My list of possibilities is long, including the British Museum, which will be flooded, walking across the Thames on the Millennial Bridge, going to a church service nearby or to a choral evensong at St. Martin in the Fields, seeing a new movie about Emily Dickenson ... stop writing and get out there, woman!

But first, last night, another play - "The Goat, or who is Sylvia?" by Edward Albee, starring Damian Lewis and Sophie Okonedo, at the Haymarket. On the way, I needed dinner and was desperate for a salad, have been living on bread, but could not face a crowded restaurant, simply had a tuna sandwich at Pret a Manger and delicious it was too. When I get home, it's lettuce for days for me.

Walking through the West End at 7 p.m.- insane. Impossible to move, seven trillion people. So I was very relieved to get into the theatre and make my way to the impossibly elegant bar, all cream walls, delicate filigree detail, a jewel-box. Stood against the wall, took a sip of my red wine, put it down on the convenient shelf, feeling sophisticated, with it, here I am, London, in this pretty place with my glass of wine. When somehow - how? - I moved my arm and knocked the wine over, smashed the glass, splattered wine all over the beautiful cream walls, broken glass and red wine filling my purse. So much for sophisticated and with it. The nice bar lady helped me clean up and gave me another glass while I mopped at my coat, soaked in wine. Sigh.

The play is bizarre - about, yes, a man who falls deeply in love with ... a goat and is having sex with her, to the horror of his loving wife and son. It's a difficult part, balanced between anguish and comedy, and Damian Lewis is a superb actor who pulled it off. Okonedo is brilliant too, as is the rest of the cast. A fantastic production of a difficult, melodramatic play. Afterwards, you really know you've been at the theatre. Very glad I saw it, even if I was in the second row, looking up, practically on the stage. Great actors, these British, the best on the planet.

What joy - it started at 7.30 with no intermission, so I knew I'd be out of the West End before the rest of the theatre crowd started pouring out, a huge relief. I walked home through the mad streets, wonderful to turn right along Little Russell Street and find myself in serene Bloomsbury.

Happy camper, over and out, into the Easter streets.

P.S. My coat, luckily, the one dowsed in red wine, is a dark brown Uniqlo, and nothing shows today, not a single splatter. Miraculous. A shout out to Uniqlo and its lightweight down gear, which has made travel far, far easier. I am what the French call frileuse - always cold - and the wind in London has been bitter. But I've never been cold in my layers from Uniqlo, sometimes 3 at once - vest, jacket, coat. Thank God for dark brown and down.

Harriet's movie, Regent's Park, Bloomsbury

Last night I went to the Everyman Cinema on Baker St. to see Harriet's movie, The Sense of an Ending. The ticket was expensive, and I saw why - it's like a club, you can get food, cappuccino, wine, served to you in your big, luxurious seat. I curled up and enjoyed the film. It's odd, a bit laborious and slow, I found, and when I got home I had to google to figure out bits of the plot; readers of the book won't have that problem. Some of it, actually, didn't make much sense. But it was a joy, while in London, to watch a film that takes place in London, recognizing landmarks, shops, busses, feeling almost familiar and at home.

What's most powerful about the film, and I say this 100% objectively, is Harriet's performance as the protagonist's ex-wife. Her face is infinitely expressive, her eyes, her mouth, I just wanted to watch her forever. She is a hundred times better than Charlotte Rampling, who I felt was phoning it in, doing her mysterious woman schtick half asleep. Harriet Walter was as alive as anyone I've ever seen on screen.
Over our coffee, I was amazed when she told me she remembers our school production of the "Three Sisters" and how she thought I was a wonderful actress. When I look at her career, I wonder what would have happened if I'd stuck with acting. But no ... I could not and would not have. She's a born actress, to her fingertips, though she's also a terrific writer. Mucho talento, as the Spanish say.

This morning, I did some excruciating work, cutting the bits of the memoir my editor Colin Thomas wants cut - over 6000 of my precious words. And though momentum has been gained and the story moves along more quickly, I think something is also lost, so there's work to be done figuring out how to fix it, still. At least, as always, the first third of the book. It was a painful chore; glad it's begun.

As my reward, a walk in Regent's Park, as beautiful as it gets on a cool, cloudy day.


There are black swans with red beaks in the picture above. The British sure know how to do parks. Stunning, welcoming, glorious.

Christopher and Cristina have new guests arriving early tomorrow morning; time to clean the apartment, vacuum, wash floors and sinks, make sure no trace of me is left except a few gifts and a jug from Selfridge's to replace the vase I broke, and take the bus across the city to my hotel in Bloomsbury. I'm so grateful to my hosts for five nights there. With the Canadian dollar as it is, three nights in my small room at the Penn Club, including a hefty chunk of tax, is costing $600. Mind you, I have the luxury of my own bathroom and two bright windows overlooking a garden. It's cosy and simple, a Quaker hotel in a great location with a big breakfast, and I love it. I can hear birds, and the sun is pouring in.
Otherwise, I have been as thrifty as possible  - including not one full restaurant dinner through the entire trip. Tonight, another play. Tomorrow, Easter Sunday, everything is closed and it's supposed to rain, so I'll work and walk. Monday, I hope to take C and C and their daughter Marina for lunch and then I have a booked ticket to see the David Hockney retrospective at Tate Britain. And that's it. I fly home early Tuesday. Anna just sent me pix of her boys in the alley outside their house, engrossed in tossing pebbles down a drain. It looks like so much fun. I can't wait to join them.

Good Friday

I've regained my sense of humour and love for this magnificent city. Yes, it's still grey and cold, as it always is, and yes, it's unbelievably, insanely, crowded. But it's also stuffed with treasure and beauty, history and tradition and style. And it's still not actually raining. Yet.

This morning was museum day - off to the National Gallery to be there as it opened, clever me. Arrived at five to ten, to find hundreds of people in a queue by the entrance. Curses, foiled again! I stood in line as the queue shuffled forward, one by one, and decided, no, this will take at least half an hour, I'll go to the Portrait Gallery instead and try again later. So I headed there, when, on the other side of the building, I saw another door with people walking in. Sure enough, it was another entrance, empty, no one. I just walked in and there I was in one of the greatest museums on earth, my own favourite. There were tears. For a minute, I had one of the central rooms all to myself. By the time I left, every room was jammed. It's a gorgeous building full of gorgeous work, spanning hundreds of years. Just beautiful. Van Gogh's chair
Vase of flowers by Bosschaert the Elder, 1609
The Magdelane reading, Rogier van der Weyden, 1438 One of my favourite paintings of all time - Botticelli, 1480. When I was at theatre school here in 1971, I was reading an art book when I was struck by this painting and saw it was at the National Gallery. I put on my coat, got on a double-decker, and in less than an hour was standing in front of the real thing. I love this young man, so grave with his calm, direct gaze looking right at us, hundreds of years in the future. Every time I come to London, I go to visit him. 
Had a coffee, saw more art till my feet hurt and the crowds - oh the school trips, giant packs of bored teenagers charging through - were too big. Outside, they were preparing for a Good Friday pageant featuring, they warned us over loudspeakers, a realistic re-enactment of the crucifixion, parental advisory in effect. Of all the things I do not want ever to see, that is top of the list. That's a troupe of Roman soldiers, getting ready to round up Jesus, I guess. 
Off to the National Portrait Gallery, another huge favourite. An amazing coincidence - as I entered one room, I saw two familiar faces - my friend Penny and her friend Steve, spending a few hours in London before returning home after a family visit! Penny is almost the only person I know in England, and there she was - what are the chances of that encounter? She is researching an anti-slavery activist with roots in Sheffield, where she lives, and showed me a painting of the first huge anti-slavery meeting in England with her lady in attendance, plus Mrs. Byron and all sorts of British gentry. I told her I envy this culture, that not only produced extraordinary people but also great artists to memorialize them for eternity. Here are two famous faces:  The virgin queen
Neither a virgin nor a queen. A portrait called "Mike's brother" - the painter was a friend of Macca's brother Mike. Be still my beating heart.
I ploughed through the massive crowds, got the tube home, had lunch and rested, went out again. I broke a glass vase here and have been trying to find a replacement, decided, bravely, to go to Selfridge's, which has everything. I guess Good Friday is shopping day in London, because that's what the entire city is doing today, including, it looks to me, the entire Saudi royal family swathed in head to toe black cloth. Here are some pix from my walk:
a park nearby
 The crammed sidewalk outside Selfridge's on Oxford Street
Just inside, the most lovely thing: a display of luminous photographs of birds by Luke Stephenson. People were charging by - I stopped to look and was nearly trampled. I don't know how he achieved such detail, but the pictures are stunning.

An orange-cheeked waxbill. As beautiful as anything at the National Gallery.

I managed to get something like the broken vase - what a shop, there's everything, I confess I did hang around the stationary section for a bit - and then walked home. Now more resting and a few glasses of wine before going out again to a local cinema to see my friend Harriet's just-released movie, The Sense of an Ending. I bought my ticket in advance, and was shocked: it cost 17 pounds 50. That's nearly $30. For a movie. This town is absurdly expensive anyway, and with the low Canadian dollar, it's crippling. There will be no more shopping. 

thursday pix

Canada! From sea to shining sea, I can't wait to see you again. Last trip, I scattered a handful of my mother's ashes around the corner on the front steps of Canada House, to symbolize her Englishness and embrace of Canada. So when I go to London and Paris, I get to visit my parents.
Trafalgar Square, in all its emptiness, with the dome of the National Gallery and the beautiful spire of St. Martin in the Fields.
The West End in all its fullness
The curtain at the theatre last night, Wyndham's, one of the grand old theatres of the West End, quite lovely, even if the play wasn't.

Don Juan in Soho

Those of you following this trip are about to get a break from rapture. Yes, I was ecstatic throughout France, but right now there is a dearth of rapture in these here parts. I am tired and crabby and I want to go home. I know, lucky woman, with a free flat in one of the most exciting cities in the world,  just tell her to buck up. And I will, I know I will.

But the headline in the free evening paper was something like, "London expects record crowds for Easter," and I groaned out loud. That means the hundred million people who are already here will be joined by many more over the weekend, impossible as that is to believe. There was a moment tonight - I'd just come from a not very good play, was in the tube which was hot, crowded, and incredibly loud, and I nearly stepped on the beautiful little beagle belonging to the homeless man sitting slumped on the floor behind me; beside him were 2 young Oriental women with bags and bags from the most expensive designers. And I thought, This is hell.

I'll get over it. It's cold too, that doesn't help, there's a sharp biting wind and the sky is grey.

However. How to handle London, Lesson #1: be there when things open. This morning I had to shop, so I was out the door by 9.15, got to Marks and Spencer just after it opened. First stop: underpants for me. Then to Hamleys, which calls itself the biggest toystore in the world, though it's another slice of hell if you're over 5 - there are young people everywhere there to entertain and show how the toys work so you're more eager to buy. I wanted a kite. In Paris there was a kite store near the Place d'Aligre with great kites in the window, Batman and ones with great swirly tails, and I thought, a brilliant gift for my grandsons, light and fun. But it was closed the two times I tried to go, so I decided to go to a kite store in London. Well - there isn't one. And Hamleys only had two kites, so I bought one and a few other things for the kids and got out, found things on Oxford St. for Anna and Sam and walked back home.

Tomorrow I wear nice new underpants. TMI?

Did more flaneusing in the afternoon - down Chiltern Street which has the big foot shoe stores that make me wish my big-footed mum were around to go there, how thrilled she would have been, and Marylebone High Street to buy gifts for my hosts. And then off to a coffee shop in Holgate to meet my old theatre schoolmate Harriet Walter, whom I'd not met face to face since leaving LAMDA in 1972. I saw her on stage with the Royal Shakespeare Co. in NYC once, left a note for her and she wrote back, and we've exchanged emails since as I followed her spectacular career and read her wonderful book about acting, Other People's Shoes. And she read my memoir and said nice things about it - we are the same age and she understood about the time and place. She's now a Dame, is in the new movie "Sense of an Ending," has been playing male leads like Prospero in Shakespeare plays done with a cast of women. An accomplished actress and person, and, it turns out, utterly nice and beautiful, as she was in 1972. We didn't have long, she was off to an audition for an American TV show, but I sense we will meet again. We admired each other's acting work back then, and now she wants to do more writing.

I had time to kill before my evening show, so wandered through the crowds, down through Covent Garden. London has street performers on every corner and in every square, musicians in the tube, jugglers and magicians and comedians in the streets, big crowds gathering. So I wandered and looked, went for a rest in the serene St. Martin in the Fields - no music, unfortunately, and the National Gallery was closing. So I went back to the little Italian restaurant where Penny and I had supper, where for 7 pounds you get a glass of wine and free snacks. I had two glasses of wine.

The play was "Don Juan in Soho," based on the Moliere play and with snippets of Mozart's music - an update of the story of Don Giovanni, about a dissolute rich Londoner now. I got tickets months ago not because it stars David Tennant, who I gather is a huge star here, but because it had a rave in the Guardian. The theatre was sold out. But it's a dog's breakfast of a play and a production, not worth it. What made the whole thing worthwhile was the gentle old man sitting next to me; we talked before, during and after, he a Scot who loves going to the theatre. He told me that senior citizens in London get free busses and tube rides, and after 9.30 in the morning, can also get regional trains for free. We had a great chat.

Four more days. It seems long. I will of course come back to London, but never again, I think, for this long. But here's the good news: it's not raining.

P.S. And now I just read about Trump's bomb, and my heart is sick. Criminal lunacy. Oh the world is in such trouble. Time to go to bed and pull the covers over my head.

I send my love to you all.

Jewish Londoners on stage

By 6.30 p.m. yesterday, I'd had it with London. I set off to go back down to the West End, to walk around on a lovely evening and to eventually meet Penny at 6.30 at the theatre near the Thames. Just looking out of the top windows of the bus, I was floored by the crowds - Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly Circus, down to Westminster - insane, zillions, trillions of people. London makes Paris look like a dear, underpopulated town. The complications of running this place boggle the mind. And yet - it works, the transit system is phenomenal, tube, busses ploughing through, the shops and restaurants jammed everywhere - it works, but it's insane. And by early last evening, I declared that this was my last visit to London, that I would not come here again. (Click to enlarge. Top two pix taken from the front window of a double-decker bus.)
Luckily, I found the beautiful Embankment park near the theatre and sat for awhile, admiring the swath of tulips. London is blessed with huge, magnificent parks everywhere, and they're well used. Life savers.
Fell in love with this tree, and felt better about life.
And then Penny arrived and we saw a fabulous piece of theatre last night and again this afternoon, and I fell in love with London again.

David Baddiel is apparently a well-known British comedian and media star. I'd never heard of him, but was anxious to see his play "My Family: not a sitcom", a one-man show about his crazy family. It was superb - hilarious and very moving, the true story of his selfish, crazy, funny mother and angry father who now has Alzheimer's, skillfully told with enormous humour but also anger, sensitivity, and grief. He told us the truth, though I do think he could have said a bit more about how having such difficult parents affected him. People are shocked when I tell stories about my mother's inappropriate sharing - but Mum had nothing on David's mother. A very good show, inspiring me in my telling of family tales. Must try to be funnier.

And then out into a beautiful evening, hop onto the tube, home in no time. Penny brought a sleeping bag and stayed the night here. This morning, after our breakfast of Marks and Spencer hot cross buns, a big thrill - we were walking to Swiss Cottage to see our matinee, and I asked if we could go via Abbey Road, which is on the way. I've always wanted to make the pilgrimage to the legendary crosswalk, but never had anyone to take a photo. Well, I did today. I was one of many, lining up to have their photos taken. Poor drivers.
The fab four's most faithful fan
 Sign on a wall nearby
 The Abbey Road studios themselves, and the wall covered with loving graffiti
When we arrived at Swiss Cottage, we found a busy farmer's market right outside the theatre, so we had a picnic lunch bought from the vendors - I had a delicious curry, and Penny had pasta. We could have had Jamaican goat curry, confit de canard, sushi. I read today that something like 300 languages are spoken in London, and I believe it. That's my curry, below, with the chef in the background.
We walked on Primrose Hill, the north end of Regent's Park, a gorgeous green space. Space, air, sweet fresh air, just wonderful, with the city looming on the horizon.
The famous hill. There was a quote engraved in concrete at the top: "I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill. William Blake. 1757." What a culture, that not only produced such a man, but immortalized his words in a park.

We had dessert and cappuccino from the Italian coffee stall outside in the sun at the market, and went in to the Hampstead Theatre to see another terrific piece of theatre: "Filthy Business," again about Jewish Londoners - interesting that's what I ended up choosing. A massive family saga, very Eugene O'Neil, about a family driven by a powerful matriarch who climbed from nothing to owning a business that had both saved and destroyed her family. The power of family ties, the ruthless push of ambition, the incessant nagging and criticizing, all reminded me of my father's Jewish family from New York. But more than that, the play is about refugees and immigrants generally, how desperately hard they work to find a place in the new land, how much we owe them.

 We had a drink afterwards with Penny's boyfriend in the Hampstead Theatre's cafe and bar - an open space more like a community centre than a theatre. I loved this place, which has produced important new work for years. And then my friends went off together on their own trip, and I took the short tube ride home.

Now having a quiet night in, recovering from all this showmanship and fresh air. London is manageable if you can regularly get away from the madness, find green space and quiet rooms, hear yourself breathe.

visiting the past

London is an assault - phenomenally crowded and noisy, construction everywhere, tourist busses, every nationality on earth jabbering at top volume, traffic mind-boggling. After some time figuring out my schedule and checking busses and timetables, I set out this morning on a trip down memory lane. A few hours later, when I happened on a bus that would take me straight back to Christopher's, I got on immediately. Escape to the quiet apartment, to recuperate before the next onslaught.

I got the tube to Barons Court to go photograph the home my British grandparents, my mother's parents, lived in for 30 years, from the beginning of the war until Mum moved them to Ottawa in the Seventies. But first, my friend Harriet Walter told me that our drama school, LAMDA, had moved to Barons Court, so I found it and took a look. It was a tough year for me there, 1971-72. I saw some of the current crop of students; hard to believe I was ever that young and dewy.

Got completely lost looking for 26 Gledstanes Rd., and finally figured out why - we used the West Ken tube stop, not Barons Court. There it was, now a million times more chichi than it was then, when Ma and Pa, poor as church mice, rented a flat on the main floor and the damp, mildewy basement. That basement was being renovated, of course, and I walked down the steep stone steps and peeked inside, remembering how we toasted bread by their gas fire on a long pronged fork, how tiny the fridge was that they barely knew how to use, how freezing cold the bathroom with its trickle of expensive hot water. Not any more.
Percy and Marion used to shop on North End Road, the high street, as they called it, where they knew all the shopkeepers. Now there's a Thai restaurant, an eco dry cleaner, an acupuncturist and reflexologist, the Al-Ghazaleen Supermarket with signs in Arabic, an array of exotic foods, and halal meat. P and M would have had a hard time with that. They had a hard time with the fact that my father was Jewish.

Nearby I found 51 Gwendwyr Road, where I lived for my year at theatre school, and sat often in the little park opposite. The second floor windows were my bedsitting room's. Again, a mixed lot of memories. I had just turned 21 and the school was a huge challenge, even if my grandparents were nearby.
[image error] Got on the tube intending to go to Tate Britain and instead got off at South Ken, just because it was such a lovely day - sharp but sunny. Went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, one of my favourites, a complete jumble of treasure from every country, every period
[image error] and then out onto Brompton Road, where of course I had to go into Harrod's, which is beyond a zoo, just packed - and worth it, too, it's an incredibly beautiful store, every room different, some so ornate it defies belief.
This is where they sell fish.

Emerged into the million-people morass and hopped onto the magic double-decker bus that took me back here. Sat on top, looking down at the crowds. There is so much wealth in London, it seems much more than in Paris or New York - a parade of very expensive cars and clothes. So much energy here. How could the Brits have cut themselves off from Europe? It makes no sense at all. But then it's all about the grandeur of these old nations. I saw Marine LePen briefly on French TV, before I couldn't stand to watch her nasty face any more, and she went on and on about the great nation of France. Make France great again with the Front Nationale. Make Britain great again with Brexit. Deadly.

Penny arrives later today; we're meeting at 6.30 for a drink, going to the theatre and then she's coming here for the night. At the moment, all I can think of is a nap. Oh, and a cup of tea. Because I am half-British, after all.

London

Last night in Nice - a last stroll on the Promenade on a stunningly warm night. Farewell to my dear friend Brucie, the perfect companion on the road. We had a great time together. (click to enlarge)
Nice from the air - you can see just how long the Promenade is, all those people sucking up the southern sun, and on the top right, the peninsula BK and I walked around yesterday. And then ... mountains.

Londres! You can see Tower Bridge if you look hard enough. An easy if cramped flight, a long tube ride into the city, and here, my great luck, Lynn and Denis's son Christopher and his family are away for Easter and have left the keys of their Marylebone flat for me. It's a lovely bright and central place, a true home for five days (after which I move into a hotel for my last two nights). I'm in heaven.

I put on some warmer clothes and went to buy extremely expensive groceries. Guess what was in my basket? British ham, of course. A chunky loaf of wholewheat bread, cheddar cheese, brown British eggs, rhubarb yogurt. When in Rome ...

What a city, so jammed, vibrant, insanely busy and noisy. Tonight, I'm going to stay in and read and mull. Went to the glorious Dault Books on Marylebone High Street, a fabulous old-fashioned bookstore where the salespeople know their books, and bought Lauren Elkin's "La Flaneuse" that I've been wanting to read, about women strolling in cities around the world. And there, on display in a major way, Canadian writer Madeleine Thien's new book. A writer can only dream of a bookstore in London paying that kind of attention. How wonderful for her.
And now, I'm stretched out on Christopher's sofa, listening to church bells and sirens far below, as dusk falls. One week left of my journey. I am full of sights, sounds, feelings ... and tastes.

St. Jean Cap Ferrat

A major hike today for the Bruce and me - off on the 10 a.m. train, ten minutes to Beaulieu sur Mer, and then a long walk along the coast back toward Nice. We bought sandwiches in St. Jean Cap Ferrat - I bought a pain bagnat, salade nicoise on a big round bun, delicious - and then walked. And walked and walked - a tough rocky path, very narrow in parts, much up and down, many stairs. But glorious in the hot sun, stopping twice to eat and rest and admire. We were exhausted by 3 p.m. and faced still a long walk to the train station at Villefranche sur Mer and the train ride back, when lo, there in front of us was a bus to Nice! One euro fifty to go all the way back. One of the nicest bus surprises ever. And then we figured out how to get the tram from where the bus stopped to near our place, using the same ticket.
These are the small boats - we saw many luxury yachts. And fancy villas. Phooey.
Tahiti?
Don't these people know it's the first week of April! The beaches we came on later were packed.
 My tired companion, who has bad knees
The last bit. What colour is the water, asked Brucie, who is colour blind. The only answer: as turquoise as can be.

Everything is closed in Nice on Sunday - we have no bread and not much food in the fridge, but I think we're going to improvise rather than go out and walk again. It's funny - this trip, with so many friends en route, I thought I'd be going out for dinner. When I travel alone, I sometimes eat lunch out - pretty rarely, actually - but never dinner. So I thought I'd be dining in restaurants with Lynn in Paris, with Lynn and Denis in Montpellier, with Bruce in Nice. Instead, not one single dinner out. An occasional wonderful lunch, but mostly homemade meals at lunch and dinner. And lovely they have been too. Though much ham and bread. Much, much ham and bread. Tonight, again.

Now I have out my London tube map, my pounds, my British plug, my directions, have just checked in with British Airways. The weather has been glorious in London and is due to turn cold tomorrow. And now, as they say, for something completely different.

London weather - straight downhill

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