Today's blog entry has been dictated by our cats, Sunny and Mystery, who are shunning us upon our return to the house we used to all share.
Just who do you think we are, some bottomless pits of patience and forgiveness?
You think you can leave us (albeit with nice people who fed us and cleaned out our box) for nine months (which is about six years in Human Time) and then waltz back into our lives and everything will be the same, as if you never left?
All the time you were gone we missed you. We tried to contact you, but couldn't reach you. It was like you were in some far-off land where we could not follow. Sure, your journey was important to you, but we lost our connection.
And now, you expect us to be happy to see you? To come when you call, and sleep with you, and sit on your lap and let you pet us? We were so so lonely for you when you weren't here, and all the hurt and emotional pain you caused by the way you treated us are just too much for us to overcome.
So do not be surprised that we spurn your efforts at reconnecting. You think you can put out fancy treats and make that kissy noise we used to like. But you have changed, and we don't know you any more.
So, as the song goes, you can say you're sorry, and you can try and pay attention to us, but "its too late to apologize, its too late." We have to protect ourselves from the pain of the inevitable rejection, and we shun you. Hmph! We flick our ears and twitch our tails at you, and then show your our backsides as we leave you to ponder your cat-less fate.
Love and Light
- BlogMama
- London, NW8, United Kingdom
- A "recovering academic", I have left the world of research and teaching Psychology. My current focus is on offering hypnotherapy, Reiki, and spiritual support for clients and hospice residents. I like to express myself through the arts, especially drama (the quirky-comic relief part),stand-up comedy, painting, and the fiber arts.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Suitcase saga
Ah, the vagaries of international air travel.
The pre-arranged cab came to A Flat on Abbey Road early. They tend to do that in London, whereas in Belmont we tend to wind up looking out the window and getting agitated. The cab service knew enough to send a station wagon. We each had two bags, a carry-on, and a computer bag, so we were riding pretty low to the ground on our way to Heathrow.
Check-in was a breeze. Actually, it was quick bag drop, as we had checked in on line the day before. We were sent to the shorted security line, which was unfortunate, as they chose one of Hubster’s bags to go through. He wound up waiting an extra twenty minutes for them to hand-screen it. I never learned what the issue was, as TeenE and I were busy trying to get into the Executive Club lounge. Of course, that didn’t work either, as the membership is Hubster’s and he wasn’t with us. When he finally did join us, they wouldn’t let all three of us in as the member can only bring in one guest. So, he was left with Hobson’s choice: He could bring in his wife, OR his minor teenage daughter. You can guess who wound up sitting out in the main terminal with the hoi polloi. Of course, the other options, that of letting Wife AND Daughter into the exclusive lounge, and sitting in the terminal himself, was not considered, nor was having all three of us reject their stupid policy and sit in the terminal in mute protest. It’s OK, I didn’t want to sit in their stinking Executive Club lounge anyway. As it was, when the gate was announced I got there fifteen minutes ahead of them anyway.
Our aircraft was a 747. I haven’t flown on one of those in a long time. That is a big bird that takes quite a thrust to get it off the ground. As soon as our ascent started, and within a moment of the landing gear being retracted, we were into major turbulence. I have never had turbulence that strong, and never ever upon taking off. We were bouncing so hard that a seat nearby was squeaking like we were in a ’72 Chevy on a country road. It was grip-the-armrest time, and I know that I was not the only one whose mind turned to those poor people on the Air France flight from Brazil whose plane broke up over the ocean and whose clothes were sucked off their bodies when the cabin depressurized. The three of us were all sitting in separate areas of the plane so there wasn’t even a chance to grab for a familiar hand. I was just about to check for the whereabouts of the barf bag when it stopped after about two minutes.
Upon our arrival, we heard Hubster’s name being called over the intercom for “a message”. One of his bags, the one with his medications, no less, had not left London. It would be on a later flight and would be delivered to our home at BA’s expense.
Son picked us up in the minivan, and we were delivered to 78 Oliver by our awesome firstborn. We arrived to find that NeedhamSis had made sure we had cooked chicken in our fridge, along with a large chunk of cake with our nephew’s face on it. He just graduated from Needham High, in time to allow his High School principal to move to London to be TeenE’s High School principal at ASL next year.
It is VERY VERY strange to be back in our house. It took so much physical and emotional effort to get out of here last summer that think I overcompensated, as I have never felt homesick for the house.
The cats are shunning me, the garden needs weeding, and I am looking forward to seeing friends and family during the next month.
The pre-arranged cab came to A Flat on Abbey Road early. They tend to do that in London, whereas in Belmont we tend to wind up looking out the window and getting agitated. The cab service knew enough to send a station wagon. We each had two bags, a carry-on, and a computer bag, so we were riding pretty low to the ground on our way to Heathrow.
Check-in was a breeze. Actually, it was quick bag drop, as we had checked in on line the day before. We were sent to the shorted security line, which was unfortunate, as they chose one of Hubster’s bags to go through. He wound up waiting an extra twenty minutes for them to hand-screen it. I never learned what the issue was, as TeenE and I were busy trying to get into the Executive Club lounge. Of course, that didn’t work either, as the membership is Hubster’s and he wasn’t with us. When he finally did join us, they wouldn’t let all three of us in as the member can only bring in one guest. So, he was left with Hobson’s choice: He could bring in his wife, OR his minor teenage daughter. You can guess who wound up sitting out in the main terminal with the hoi polloi. Of course, the other options, that of letting Wife AND Daughter into the exclusive lounge, and sitting in the terminal himself, was not considered, nor was having all three of us reject their stupid policy and sit in the terminal in mute protest. It’s OK, I didn’t want to sit in their stinking Executive Club lounge anyway. As it was, when the gate was announced I got there fifteen minutes ahead of them anyway.
Our aircraft was a 747. I haven’t flown on one of those in a long time. That is a big bird that takes quite a thrust to get it off the ground. As soon as our ascent started, and within a moment of the landing gear being retracted, we were into major turbulence. I have never had turbulence that strong, and never ever upon taking off. We were bouncing so hard that a seat nearby was squeaking like we were in a ’72 Chevy on a country road. It was grip-the-armrest time, and I know that I was not the only one whose mind turned to those poor people on the Air France flight from Brazil whose plane broke up over the ocean and whose clothes were sucked off their bodies when the cabin depressurized. The three of us were all sitting in separate areas of the plane so there wasn’t even a chance to grab for a familiar hand. I was just about to check for the whereabouts of the barf bag when it stopped after about two minutes.
Upon our arrival, we heard Hubster’s name being called over the intercom for “a message”. One of his bags, the one with his medications, no less, had not left London. It would be on a later flight and would be delivered to our home at BA’s expense.
Son picked us up in the minivan, and we were delivered to 78 Oliver by our awesome firstborn. We arrived to find that NeedhamSis had made sure we had cooked chicken in our fridge, along with a large chunk of cake with our nephew’s face on it. He just graduated from Needham High, in time to allow his High School principal to move to London to be TeenE’s High School principal at ASL next year.
It is VERY VERY strange to be back in our house. It took so much physical and emotional effort to get out of here last summer that think I overcompensated, as I have never felt homesick for the house.
The cats are shunning me, the garden needs weeding, and I am looking forward to seeing friends and family during the next month.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Walrus was Paul
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Massachusetts arrival minus 2 days.
We must get the Flat on Abbey Road ready for viewing by possible new tenants while we are away. So what do I decide to do once up and dressed on Saturday morning? "Hoovering? Dusting? Scrubbing the shower stall? No! Taking Hubster's shirts to the cleaners, of course!
I thought I'd combine this trip with the purchase of a Grande Iced Vanilla Latte at Starbucks, drop off an overdue library book, and donate some too-tight shoes to the Hospice Charity Shop.
I hit the library and the shop, then strolled on up the Hi street, stopping in both Boots (the Chemist) and a small independent pharmacy in search of hair-do combs for keeping the hair off the face. I had no luck in either shop, so I dropped off and picked up shirts and prepared to quench my thirst. Alas, the queue at Starbucks at 11:30 am on a Saturday was out the door and I was carrying a heavy bundle of shirts, so I had no patience for the wait. Off I trundled toward Circus Road. I figured that I'd stop by the street the new flat is on and take a photo of the front of the building. As I was about to cross the top of Cavendish Ave, who should appear there but it's most famous resident, Sir Paul You-Know-Who. He was wearing HUGE dark glasses and had his "don't bother me" mask on. I decided that this time, the FOURTH sighting, I would not cast my eyes to the ground in response to his Jedi Mind Trick, so looked right at him and allowed a slight smile to curl one lip. His hair was a bit shaggier but the dye job still a bit obvious. I hope mine is not that bad... He could see my bundle of shirts that I had slung over my back, so I hope that he realizes I belong in the neighborhood, if I even register at all on his "faces in the crowd" radar. He was being tailed by two "traffic warden" types in yellow vests, who were in the neighborhood due to the REALLY BIG CRICKET GAME being played at Lord's Cricket Ground at the end of Sir Paul's street. I don't know if they were tailing him on purpose or just happened to be there. Of course I will always respect his wish to be left alone, but it still gives me a big boost to pass him on the street.
I went to Elm Tree Road and took the requisite photos, then slogged back across Circus Road to the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth. Their pharmacy is open until 1 pm on Saturdays, and I needed to score another pair of travel/support socks for my painful leg veins. As I entered, I saw the World's Most Popular Pediatrician, who, despite my hoping to duck in undetected, said "Is that Mrs. BlogMama?" Yes, it is. I managed to see the neighbourhood's two highest-status celebrities within 100 yards and five minutes of each other. I had to wait in the queue until the patient in front of me had finished their business with the pharmacist. She remembered me from the day I bought my first pair of support socks as I was leaving for my vein scan, so we chatted for a bit while we transacted business.
Upon leaving the pharmacy and heading out toward Grove End Road, there was that ubiquitous doctor again, chatting with Cashier Extraordinaire K, who is another one of my weekly cake-recipients.
I mentioned my brush with the world's most famous dyed mop of hair, and the doctor wanted to know if I had taken his picture. "No, I am MUCH too cool to take his picture!" I replied, glad that I hadn't whipped out my camera and taken a shot of Sir Paul's retreating back. We all discussed the upcoming move from Abbey Road to Elm Tree Court, and I assured them both that I would still be in prime cake-delivery territory, as well as being able to hear the cries of "Well hit, Sir, Very Well Hit" from Lord's Cricket Ground while there is a match in play (most of May and June, it seems, which also means that the gym is closed). I learned that the doctor's secretary used to live in the building to which we are moving, AND that there was an armed robbery recently of patrons of an upscale restaurant up Abbey Road while Sir Paul was eating there. Hubster and I had just been there last weekend with MomA and her husband. It's a good thing we eat early; we were the first table to be seated and the first to vacate...
There's always something happening on Abbey Road! I returned to the flat in triumph with Hubster's shirts and few tales to tell...
Massachusetts arrival minus 2 days.
We must get the Flat on Abbey Road ready for viewing by possible new tenants while we are away. So what do I decide to do once up and dressed on Saturday morning? "Hoovering? Dusting? Scrubbing the shower stall? No! Taking Hubster's shirts to the cleaners, of course!
I thought I'd combine this trip with the purchase of a Grande Iced Vanilla Latte at Starbucks, drop off an overdue library book, and donate some too-tight shoes to the Hospice Charity Shop.
I hit the library and the shop, then strolled on up the Hi street, stopping in both Boots (the Chemist) and a small independent pharmacy in search of hair-do combs for keeping the hair off the face. I had no luck in either shop, so I dropped off and picked up shirts and prepared to quench my thirst. Alas, the queue at Starbucks at 11:30 am on a Saturday was out the door and I was carrying a heavy bundle of shirts, so I had no patience for the wait. Off I trundled toward Circus Road. I figured that I'd stop by the street the new flat is on and take a photo of the front of the building. As I was about to cross the top of Cavendish Ave, who should appear there but it's most famous resident, Sir Paul You-Know-Who. He was wearing HUGE dark glasses and had his "don't bother me" mask on. I decided that this time, the FOURTH sighting, I would not cast my eyes to the ground in response to his Jedi Mind Trick, so looked right at him and allowed a slight smile to curl one lip. His hair was a bit shaggier but the dye job still a bit obvious. I hope mine is not that bad... He could see my bundle of shirts that I had slung over my back, so I hope that he realizes I belong in the neighborhood, if I even register at all on his "faces in the crowd" radar. He was being tailed by two "traffic warden" types in yellow vests, who were in the neighborhood due to the REALLY BIG CRICKET GAME being played at Lord's Cricket Ground at the end of Sir Paul's street. I don't know if they were tailing him on purpose or just happened to be there. Of course I will always respect his wish to be left alone, but it still gives me a big boost to pass him on the street.
I went to Elm Tree Road and took the requisite photos, then slogged back across Circus Road to the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth. Their pharmacy is open until 1 pm on Saturdays, and I needed to score another pair of travel/support socks for my painful leg veins. As I entered, I saw the World's Most Popular Pediatrician, who, despite my hoping to duck in undetected, said "Is that Mrs. BlogMama?" Yes, it is. I managed to see the neighbourhood's two highest-status celebrities within 100 yards and five minutes of each other. I had to wait in the queue until the patient in front of me had finished their business with the pharmacist. She remembered me from the day I bought my first pair of support socks as I was leaving for my vein scan, so we chatted for a bit while we transacted business.
Upon leaving the pharmacy and heading out toward Grove End Road, there was that ubiquitous doctor again, chatting with Cashier Extraordinaire K, who is another one of my weekly cake-recipients.
I mentioned my brush with the world's most famous dyed mop of hair, and the doctor wanted to know if I had taken his picture. "No, I am MUCH too cool to take his picture!" I replied, glad that I hadn't whipped out my camera and taken a shot of Sir Paul's retreating back. We all discussed the upcoming move from Abbey Road to Elm Tree Court, and I assured them both that I would still be in prime cake-delivery territory, as well as being able to hear the cries of "Well hit, Sir, Very Well Hit" from Lord's Cricket Ground while there is a match in play (most of May and June, it seems, which also means that the gym is closed). I learned that the doctor's secretary used to live in the building to which we are moving, AND that there was an armed robbery recently of patrons of an upscale restaurant up Abbey Road while Sir Paul was eating there. Hubster and I had just been there last weekend with MomA and her husband. It's a good thing we eat early; we were the first table to be seated and the first to vacate...
There's always something happening on Abbey Road! I returned to the flat in triumph with Hubster's shirts and few tales to tell...
Hello Old Friend
Hello Old Friend.
“As I am strolling down the garden park I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique, I had to bend down just to have a peek.
Hello Old Friend, It’s really good to see you once again.” By Eric Clapton
I'm still on a Clapton theme here, despite living on Abbey Road, which is more appropriately affiliated with the Beatles. Oh well.
We are preparing to go back to our hometown in Massachusetts for a while. Hubster will take a week from work. TeenE and I will be there for a month, after which I will take her to camp, and then fly back to London to get the household ready for our next move to a quieter location a few streets from here.
Although I am looking forward to seeing friends and family, I am preparing myself to miss A Flat on Abbey Road and all my favorite parts of London. When we have gone to the US for even just a week or two, I have found myself “homesick” for London, and for my friends and life here. I know TeenE has felt the same way. Perhaps we tried so hard to steel ourselves for not being too homesick for Belmont that we overcompensated, or perhaps we just really feel “at home” here now. I do know I am somewhat reluctant to leave my routines and my environs at this time of year when the weather and gardens are so glorious. Ben Johnson wrote "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Blogmama writes "When a woman is tired of London it's just because her feet hurt."
In order to fill up my psyche with enough of London’s gardens to get me through the next month, I went out for an explore on Wednesday. The weather was in the mid-60’s F, with bright sunny patches punctuated with rolling clouds. I wasn’t sure how my problematic shin and ankle would hold up. Usually walking is good for moving the blood back up the leg through the deep veins, but sometimes things back up and with no warning my foot and ankle will be on fire. I wanted to make sure I was never too far from a bus that could get me back to the flat, so I eschewed the relative wilderness of Hampstead Heath for the refinements of the city parks.
A quick run past Starbucks took me down St. John’s Wood High Street and along Prince Albert Road into Regent’s Park. I noticed that the Mock Orange (Philadelphus) was in bloom, all along the road, and the fragrance was heavenly. I took the shortest route possible towards Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, pausing briefly to admire the Waterfowl Collection floating around in a brackish pool. Perhaps the pool was more cack-ish than brackish. I regretted not bringing along any sunscreen and was glad that I had remembered a bottle of water.
I made my way into the circular Rose Garden and was stunned to see a wall of blue delphinium in every color clear blue; shading from royal blue through to ice blue and lavender. I have a special spot in my heart for delphinium, and had them as boutonnieres for the groom and groomsmen in our wedding. I stopped to take some photos, then made myself comfortable on a bench and took out my knitting. I am STILL working on the “magenta doily vest” project that got so much attention on the bus in Kerry, Ireland. I am 5/6ths of the way around the center medallion with the border piece, so it won’t be too much longer. Just as I got settled, the sun was obscured by clouds, which played chase for the next half hour or so. As the wind got stronger, so did the scent of the 10,000 roses in the immediate vicinity. I hope to remember that scent every time I wear my magenta doily-vest.
I had to rip out about 16 rows of knitting from the night before, so once that was all re-knitted I packed up the “doily” and went over to the little island that is accessed by a gate. A photo op ensued as a pair of black swans did there “necks into hearts” mating dance with swan calls as soundtrack. Of course I couldn’t get the camera ready in time so only have a photo of the male swimming away in a huff.
I wasn’t quite done with my nature time so decided to take a route out of the park that I had never seen before (in this lifetime, at least J) so I headed north up the Broad Walk and came out on Prince Albert Road near the zoo and the base of Primrose Hill. The legs and feet still felt great, so I puffed my way up to the top of the hill and took in the panoramic view of the city. The green grass, the wind, and the strong sun cast a sleeping spell on me, so I took off my shoes and (support) socks and stretched out. I was not the only person in full communion with the grass of Primrose Hill that day.
My reverie was interrupted briefly by a fluffy golden Shi-tzu named Sunshine, who was off-lead and befriending everyone with a rucksack in hopes of scoring a snack. S/he had no luck with me so went on to the next admirer.
The hum of voices speaking in a dozen different languages was punctuated by the sound of a mower growing ever closer, so I decided to get out while I was still relatively relaxed. My head was fuzzy from all the sun and wind and I picked my way back to St. John’s Wood gingerly so as to keep the feet in good form. I had the feeling that I was homesick for London and I hadn’t even left it yet!
“As I am strolling down the garden park I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique, I had to bend down just to have a peek.
Hello Old Friend, It’s really good to see you once again.” By Eric Clapton
I'm still on a Clapton theme here, despite living on Abbey Road, which is more appropriately affiliated with the Beatles. Oh well.
We are preparing to go back to our hometown in Massachusetts for a while. Hubster will take a week from work. TeenE and I will be there for a month, after which I will take her to camp, and then fly back to London to get the household ready for our next move to a quieter location a few streets from here.
Although I am looking forward to seeing friends and family, I am preparing myself to miss A Flat on Abbey Road and all my favorite parts of London. When we have gone to the US for even just a week or two, I have found myself “homesick” for London, and for my friends and life here. I know TeenE has felt the same way. Perhaps we tried so hard to steel ourselves for not being too homesick for Belmont that we overcompensated, or perhaps we just really feel “at home” here now. I do know I am somewhat reluctant to leave my routines and my environs at this time of year when the weather and gardens are so glorious. Ben Johnson wrote "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Blogmama writes "When a woman is tired of London it's just because her feet hurt."
In order to fill up my psyche with enough of London’s gardens to get me through the next month, I went out for an explore on Wednesday. The weather was in the mid-60’s F, with bright sunny patches punctuated with rolling clouds. I wasn’t sure how my problematic shin and ankle would hold up. Usually walking is good for moving the blood back up the leg through the deep veins, but sometimes things back up and with no warning my foot and ankle will be on fire. I wanted to make sure I was never too far from a bus that could get me back to the flat, so I eschewed the relative wilderness of Hampstead Heath for the refinements of the city parks.
A quick run past Starbucks took me down St. John’s Wood High Street and along Prince Albert Road into Regent’s Park. I noticed that the Mock Orange (Philadelphus) was in bloom, all along the road, and the fragrance was heavenly. I took the shortest route possible towards Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, pausing briefly to admire the Waterfowl Collection floating around in a brackish pool. Perhaps the pool was more cack-ish than brackish. I regretted not bringing along any sunscreen and was glad that I had remembered a bottle of water.
I made my way into the circular Rose Garden and was stunned to see a wall of blue delphinium in every color clear blue; shading from royal blue through to ice blue and lavender. I have a special spot in my heart for delphinium, and had them as boutonnieres for the groom and groomsmen in our wedding. I stopped to take some photos, then made myself comfortable on a bench and took out my knitting. I am STILL working on the “magenta doily vest” project that got so much attention on the bus in Kerry, Ireland. I am 5/6ths of the way around the center medallion with the border piece, so it won’t be too much longer. Just as I got settled, the sun was obscured by clouds, which played chase for the next half hour or so. As the wind got stronger, so did the scent of the 10,000 roses in the immediate vicinity. I hope to remember that scent every time I wear my magenta doily-vest.
I had to rip out about 16 rows of knitting from the night before, so once that was all re-knitted I packed up the “doily” and went over to the little island that is accessed by a gate. A photo op ensued as a pair of black swans did there “necks into hearts” mating dance with swan calls as soundtrack. Of course I couldn’t get the camera ready in time so only have a photo of the male swimming away in a huff.
I wasn’t quite done with my nature time so decided to take a route out of the park that I had never seen before (in this lifetime, at least J) so I headed north up the Broad Walk and came out on Prince Albert Road near the zoo and the base of Primrose Hill. The legs and feet still felt great, so I puffed my way up to the top of the hill and took in the panoramic view of the city. The green grass, the wind, and the strong sun cast a sleeping spell on me, so I took off my shoes and (support) socks and stretched out. I was not the only person in full communion with the grass of Primrose Hill that day.
My reverie was interrupted briefly by a fluffy golden Shi-tzu named Sunshine, who was off-lead and befriending everyone with a rucksack in hopes of scoring a snack. S/he had no luck with me so went on to the next admirer.
The hum of voices speaking in a dozen different languages was punctuated by the sound of a mower growing ever closer, so I decided to get out while I was still relatively relaxed. My head was fuzzy from all the sun and wind and I picked my way back to St. John’s Wood gingerly so as to keep the feet in good form. I had the feeling that I was homesick for London and I hadn’t even left it yet!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
HOT FLASH!! new flat located!
The news doesn't get any hotter than this!!
We have put a deposit on a flat.
Our current lease expires at the end of August.
We require a third bedroom, a quieter location, and quiet neighbors.
We had been afraid that to achieve all of this at about the same price as we are paying now, we would have to decamp to a location farther north than our present one a stone's throw from the American School.
One day last week I was sitting at the Abbey Cafe having a cappucino with MomA. A "lettings agent" drove up and got out of his lettings-mobile to get a coffee from the cafe. MomA recognized him as someone who had been involved with her search for an accessible ground-floor flat. He introduced himself to me and gave me his card. He was in a rush to go take some photos of a property nearby, but would be back in his office within a half hour. I was told to stop in anytime.
Half an hour later, there I was in his office. We chatted a bit. I learned that the property of which he had just take the photos was a unit in my building, and in fact was the one right next door to mine, which was just vacated by a 92-year old woman whose daughter had finally found her a spot in a Polish-speaking care home. The agent then told me what his original career was, and it was as an actor in musical theatre. He mentioned the name of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, "Starlight Express".
My jaw dropped open. At the urging of Hubster's mom and dad, he and I had seen Starlight Express on our honeymoon here in London in the summer of 1986. We had wanted to see CATS, but couldn't get tickets for the night we wanted, so "settled" for this other show. It was FANTASTIC! I didn't think a musical about singing train-cars could be good, but this one was! It had been partially based on the original Thomas the Tank Engine books by Rev Audry. Each actor, on roller skates, no less, personifies an engine or a coach. The engines are Greaseball, an Elvis-type Diesel engine, Papa, and Rusty, who are steam engines, AC/DC, an androgenous electric engine, etc. Some of the coaches are Dinah the dining car, Ashley the smoking car, Belle the sleeping car, Dustin the hopper who is filled with aggregates ("Aggregates are really great-- Aggregates never complain!") and CB the caboose. Each car has a story and song that moves the plot along, and the show is punctuated by races between the different types of engines, each of whom is paired with a coach. Poor Rusty the outdated steam engine dreams of a Higher Power to help give him the strength he needs to win the race. He finally has a vision of the Starlight Express, the Midnight Train who gives strength to all who call on it.
We bought the soundtrack (on cassette tape!) and listened to it ad nauseum. It was another one of the selections that we always played on road trips, especially after our Son was born. Son was into trains anyway, so a musical about them was just the thing to entertain us on long car rides.
When a travelling version of the show came to Boston, Hubster and I went to see it. It wasn't nearly as good as the original, as they producers had taken away the ramps that went around and through the audience, on which the races took place, for insurance reasons. In 1999 when we were here in London on holiday with both Son (then aged 11) and TeenE (then aged 6) we went again. And now, here I was ten years after that, face-to-face with an actor from the original production!
With in a week, Mr. Starlight Express had found a property for us which had not even been entered into their computerized system. It "ticked all our boxes", so we had a look at it this morning, and gave him a deposit check directly.
If all goes well, our new location will be around two corners from the American School, a stone's throw from the Starbucks on St. John's Wood High Street, within spitting distance of the hospice at "John & Lizzies" hospital, three properties from Sir Paul's back garden, around one block from the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground, super-close to the 139 and 189 buses on Abbey Road without having them going by under the windows all night long, and one minute from Bus stop E from which we board the #46 to Paddington Station when we go off to Heathrow Airport. Lets hope that all the assorted paperwork goes through and we are able to be in residence in our new home by mid-August!
We have put a deposit on a flat.
Our current lease expires at the end of August.
We require a third bedroom, a quieter location, and quiet neighbors.
We had been afraid that to achieve all of this at about the same price as we are paying now, we would have to decamp to a location farther north than our present one a stone's throw from the American School.
One day last week I was sitting at the Abbey Cafe having a cappucino with MomA. A "lettings agent" drove up and got out of his lettings-mobile to get a coffee from the cafe. MomA recognized him as someone who had been involved with her search for an accessible ground-floor flat. He introduced himself to me and gave me his card. He was in a rush to go take some photos of a property nearby, but would be back in his office within a half hour. I was told to stop in anytime.
Half an hour later, there I was in his office. We chatted a bit. I learned that the property of which he had just take the photos was a unit in my building, and in fact was the one right next door to mine, which was just vacated by a 92-year old woman whose daughter had finally found her a spot in a Polish-speaking care home. The agent then told me what his original career was, and it was as an actor in musical theatre. He mentioned the name of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, "Starlight Express".
My jaw dropped open. At the urging of Hubster's mom and dad, he and I had seen Starlight Express on our honeymoon here in London in the summer of 1986. We had wanted to see CATS, but couldn't get tickets for the night we wanted, so "settled" for this other show. It was FANTASTIC! I didn't think a musical about singing train-cars could be good, but this one was! It had been partially based on the original Thomas the Tank Engine books by Rev Audry. Each actor, on roller skates, no less, personifies an engine or a coach. The engines are Greaseball, an Elvis-type Diesel engine, Papa, and Rusty, who are steam engines, AC/DC, an androgenous electric engine, etc. Some of the coaches are Dinah the dining car, Ashley the smoking car, Belle the sleeping car, Dustin the hopper who is filled with aggregates ("Aggregates are really great-- Aggregates never complain!") and CB the caboose. Each car has a story and song that moves the plot along, and the show is punctuated by races between the different types of engines, each of whom is paired with a coach. Poor Rusty the outdated steam engine dreams of a Higher Power to help give him the strength he needs to win the race. He finally has a vision of the Starlight Express, the Midnight Train who gives strength to all who call on it.
We bought the soundtrack (on cassette tape!) and listened to it ad nauseum. It was another one of the selections that we always played on road trips, especially after our Son was born. Son was into trains anyway, so a musical about them was just the thing to entertain us on long car rides.
When a travelling version of the show came to Boston, Hubster and I went to see it. It wasn't nearly as good as the original, as they producers had taken away the ramps that went around and through the audience, on which the races took place, for insurance reasons. In 1999 when we were here in London on holiday with both Son (then aged 11) and TeenE (then aged 6) we went again. And now, here I was ten years after that, face-to-face with an actor from the original production!
With in a week, Mr. Starlight Express had found a property for us which had not even been entered into their computerized system. It "ticked all our boxes", so we had a look at it this morning, and gave him a deposit check directly.
If all goes well, our new location will be around two corners from the American School, a stone's throw from the Starbucks on St. John's Wood High Street, within spitting distance of the hospice at "John & Lizzies" hospital, three properties from Sir Paul's back garden, around one block from the gym at Lord's Cricket Ground, super-close to the 139 and 189 buses on Abbey Road without having them going by under the windows all night long, and one minute from Bus stop E from which we board the #46 to Paddington Station when we go off to Heathrow Airport. Lets hope that all the assorted paperwork goes through and we are able to be in residence in our new home by mid-August!
Monday, June 1, 2009
I See GOD, preceded by ARC Angels
Monday, May 25, 2009.
Unlike the family in South Wales who recently saw Jesus in the goo left on the cap of a bottle of Marmite, I had a more personal encounter with the divine last week, and it occurred at the Royal Albert Hall.
The Allen family of Ystrad, Rhondda, Wales, UK, whose mother/grandmother is seriously ill, were comforted recently by the appearance of a face-like blob of brown yeasty goo which manifested itself as they were making sandwiches . "People might think I'm nuts, but I like to think it's Jesus looking out for us” said Claire Allen, daughter of the ill woman, the South Wales Echo reported, after she and her husband and children agreed that the blob of goo WAS a sign from God.
My own encounter with a manifestation of the divine took place several days earlier at a concert by blues and rock guitarist Eric Clapton. Readers of a certain age may remember the graffiti that used to pepper London in the mid-1960’s, which famously declared that “Clapton is God”. The graffiti is said to have appeared in the underground station in Islington, north London, and soon was spotted in other areas of the city and the world.
I married into Clapton fandom. Before that, I had been aware of EC’s music and loved both it and his contributions to songs by George Harrison and the Beatles, especially “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. I didn’t really own any of his recordings, however, until I bought the “Crossroads” boxed-set compilation for Hubster, on tape cassette, no less, for his very first “Father’s Day” gift in 1988. That was when my true appreciation for Clapton’s guitar genius really began to grow, and I’d like to think that all the hours we spent listening to that music with baby and toddler “Son” in the back seat of the 1988 Chevy Nova might have had some influence on his own musical talent.
When Clapton announced last winter that there would be two weeks of concert dates at the Royal Albert Hall in May, I was ecstatic. Son might be visiting us then, I was informed, so I tried to score some tickets for the guys to go. Unfortunately, the tickets I could find were about 200 GBP apiece, roughly 350 dollars each at the time. As we had only recently left the rolls of those “between jobs”, I decided to let it go.
The dream of scoring Clapton tickets awoke again in April. Several weeks before, Hubster’s dad had passed away after a long illness. I thought that an evening out at the Royal Albert Hall listening to one of our favorite musicians of all time and space would be just the thing to cheer us up. A brief stint trolling the listings on “Gumtree”, London’s answer to CraigsList, showed me that someone had spare tickets in the 4th Row!! I wrote to the person, and received a price quoted at 120 GBP per ticket. After running it by Hubster, he was still of the mind that it was too much money to spend. I reluctantly told the gentleman to release the tickets to whoever was next in the queue. I was secretly afraid that the tickets would be fakes, and Googled the guy who was selling them. He was listed on a professional development website as an employee of L’Oreal. Was I worth it? Evidently not.
A few weeks later, Hubster was watching a Clapton documentary on telly. “Clapton is coming!” he said in a reverential tone. “Yeah, and we could have been there, in the FOURTH ROW”. I was not happy. I guessed it was just not meant to be.
On the Thursday before the 3-day “late May Bank Holiday Weekend” (which kicks off the summer season here as Memorial Day does in the US) I received an email from an address that looked familiar. It was from my “new best friend”, Nir Malka, of L’Oreal employment fame. It turned out that he didn’t trust the guy who wanted to buy the tickets not to just turn around and sell them at a huge profit. His friends were all busy due to the bank holiday weekend, and he and his wife were going the night after the long weekend. He wanted the tickets to be used by REAL Clapton fans, and would sell them to me at FACE VALUE, which was 75 GBP each. He wrote that I seemed to be a nice person. Did I want the tickets? I didn’t hesitate long. YES!! If Hubster still felt HE wasn’t worth it, I’d sell his ticket (at face value to a real fan). I made a plan to meet Mr. Malka at the South Hampstead Tube station, a few bus stops up Abbey Road. It was if there was some kind of force orchestrating the whole thing.
As I waited at the station I checked out every guy that exited from the Tube. My Googling had revealed that Mr. Malka was Israeli and a Clapton fan. How old would he be? He could have been any of the scores of middle-aged men emerging from the stairway. After a 10-minute wait, someone approached me. He turned out to be a lot younger than I expected. I asked him if he worked for L’Oreal, and indeed he did. He and his wife had just moved to London within the last year. He told me that when he had Googled me, my participation in a Spiritual Art Show had turned up, along with a photo of me, TeenE, and a paintings I did of a mountain in Scotland and of Glastonbury Tor. We did “the deal”, knowing all the while that our tickets-for-cash exchange was being captured by security camera. (You have to have a street-vendor’s license in order to sell tickets on the street in London—this is to prevent scalpers.)
I re-boarded the 139 bus and sailed down Abbey Road in utter triumph. I was afraid to tell Hubster what I had done, as I sensed that in his current mood he would not be amenable to spending the money that way. I was correct. After a heated “discussion”, I decided to sell his ticket by posting a sign in Starbucks. Surely SOMEONE in NW8 would want to spend 75 pounds on a ticket to hear Eric Clapton FROM THE FOURTH ROW! I made up the sign, and then heard Hubster say resignedly “Oh I’ll go……….” Now don’t trouble yourself too much there, Sir!
So we went. On Bank Holiday Monday afternoon I got decked out in floral dress. “You’re NOT going to a garden party!” TeenE announced. She convinced me to let her be my stylist for the evening. She picked out a black short skirt and a white short-sleeved silk top embellished with some black silk roses around the neckline. Necklace and earrings of silver and topaz were added, the full makeup (with “rock-chick” eyeliner) was applied, my hair was teased and put up with combs, I removed my support hose, put on black tights and my and my extra-cool black pointy flat shoes and I was ready to Rock and Roll!
Off we went on the Jubilee Line and the Number 9 bus. I found “our seats” in the Section A, row 4, seats 9 and 10. We were early enough to have time to grab a bite and a beer in the bar before the opening act. When we returned to our seats, our coats and brollies had been moved across the aisle to an EVEN BETTER LOCATION. It turned out seats 9 and 10 of Section A, Row 4 were at the corner of the stage, angled in such a way as to have a completely unobstructed view, being in the second row of a diagonal set of 3 seats. Hubster even had space to stick his feet out in the aisle, and there were NO HEADS in front of either of us!!! Thank you again, Nir Malka! He had tried to describe to me the magnitude of the awesomeness of the seats, but I just hadn’t comprehended it!
The opening act was called “The ARC Angels”. They were a very good blues-rock group from Austin, Texas. You could tell that they “hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck”, as Grandad used to say. They even played an old McCartney tune from the RAM album, called “Too Many People”. I marveled at the fact that even though they were very, very good, the audience seemed so laid back as to appear uninterested. Oh well. Even after the lead singer wished us all a Happy Bank Holiday there was hardly a “woo!” to be heard.
After the Arcangels left the stage there was a short “interval” where the roadies set up the stage for Clapton. Finally, as the guitar god took the stage, the audience erupted into a smiling mass of applause and ovation. Then, it quickly re-seated itself and settled politely into a quiet listening attitude. It turned out that the audience behavior I had witnessed before was due to cultural mores. Most members of the audience refrained from tapping their feet, nodding their heads, or “chair-dancing”. They listened almost stock-still. I couldn’t do it. You could tell who the Americans and other non-British were: we were tapping, and nodding away, albeit no less raptly. Dancing in the aisles was strictly forbidden by the ushers.
The different levels of the Royal Albert Hall are arranged almost like reverse tiers of a wedding cake. The floor in front of the stage is divided into four sections of chair seating, surrounded by what I would call a sloped “loge” section. Above that, the lower boxes, and multiple tiers of boxes and sloped loges rising above that. Finally, up at the top, a gallery of Standing Room Only. THOSE folks were allowed to dance. We were treated to over two house of blues and rock that transported us into another realm. I had tears rolling down my face during “Wonderful Tonight”, which is about how much a husband loves and adores his wife.
One thing that I had remembered to bring with me when getting ready was “protection” of the aural variety, and I was certainly glad of it. Our seats, being there in the angle between the stage and the side of our section, were approximately eight feet from an enormous set of amplifiers. I used the earplugs in both ears for the Arcangels, but decided that I would be sacrificing sound quality for decreased decibels. During Clapton’s performance, I kept IN the left earplug, which faced not only the stack of speakers, but certain permanent hearing damage had I not used “protection”. The right ear was angle back toward the rear of the hall and did not require any prophylaxis. It was a little odd to leave the hall after the concert with only ONE ear ringing.
So, “GOD?” you say? Does she really think he’s GOD? “A” god, yes, a “guitar god”. One who has mastered his craft in such a way that the hand of “God” seems to be present, spark of the divine that exists in all of us, but that only a few kindle and stoke until we are able to present our true lights to the world. An article in Christianity Today claims that Clapton’s favorite hymn while growing up was "Jesus Bids Us Shine":
Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light,
Like a little candle burning in the night;
In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.
Throughout his life, Eric has succumbed to addictions to both heroin and alcohol, and has overcome them. He has faced the unimaginable tragedy of the death of his young son, yet still had faith enough to remarry at over 50 and to start a young family. To sum it up his own spirituality I’ll quote Clapton himself from the song “Presence of the Lord”:
I have finally found a place to live
Just like I never could before
And I know I don't have much to give
But soon I'll open any door.
Everybody knows the secret,
Everybody knows the score.
I have finally found a place to live
In the presence of the Lord.
May his music continue to inspire us to connect with something greater than ourselves for many, many generations.
Unlike the family in South Wales who recently saw Jesus in the goo left on the cap of a bottle of Marmite, I had a more personal encounter with the divine last week, and it occurred at the Royal Albert Hall.
The Allen family of Ystrad, Rhondda, Wales, UK, whose mother/grandmother is seriously ill, were comforted recently by the appearance of a face-like blob of brown yeasty goo which manifested itself as they were making sandwiches . "People might think I'm nuts, but I like to think it's Jesus looking out for us” said Claire Allen, daughter of the ill woman, the South Wales Echo reported, after she and her husband and children agreed that the blob of goo WAS a sign from God.
My own encounter with a manifestation of the divine took place several days earlier at a concert by blues and rock guitarist Eric Clapton. Readers of a certain age may remember the graffiti that used to pepper London in the mid-1960’s, which famously declared that “Clapton is God”. The graffiti is said to have appeared in the underground station in Islington, north London, and soon was spotted in other areas of the city and the world.
I married into Clapton fandom. Before that, I had been aware of EC’s music and loved both it and his contributions to songs by George Harrison and the Beatles, especially “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. I didn’t really own any of his recordings, however, until I bought the “Crossroads” boxed-set compilation for Hubster, on tape cassette, no less, for his very first “Father’s Day” gift in 1988. That was when my true appreciation for Clapton’s guitar genius really began to grow, and I’d like to think that all the hours we spent listening to that music with baby and toddler “Son” in the back seat of the 1988 Chevy Nova might have had some influence on his own musical talent.
When Clapton announced last winter that there would be two weeks of concert dates at the Royal Albert Hall in May, I was ecstatic. Son might be visiting us then, I was informed, so I tried to score some tickets for the guys to go. Unfortunately, the tickets I could find were about 200 GBP apiece, roughly 350 dollars each at the time. As we had only recently left the rolls of those “between jobs”, I decided to let it go.
The dream of scoring Clapton tickets awoke again in April. Several weeks before, Hubster’s dad had passed away after a long illness. I thought that an evening out at the Royal Albert Hall listening to one of our favorite musicians of all time and space would be just the thing to cheer us up. A brief stint trolling the listings on “Gumtree”, London’s answer to CraigsList, showed me that someone had spare tickets in the 4th Row!! I wrote to the person, and received a price quoted at 120 GBP per ticket. After running it by Hubster, he was still of the mind that it was too much money to spend. I reluctantly told the gentleman to release the tickets to whoever was next in the queue. I was secretly afraid that the tickets would be fakes, and Googled the guy who was selling them. He was listed on a professional development website as an employee of L’Oreal. Was I worth it? Evidently not.
A few weeks later, Hubster was watching a Clapton documentary on telly. “Clapton is coming!” he said in a reverential tone. “Yeah, and we could have been there, in the FOURTH ROW”. I was not happy. I guessed it was just not meant to be.
On the Thursday before the 3-day “late May Bank Holiday Weekend” (which kicks off the summer season here as Memorial Day does in the US) I received an email from an address that looked familiar. It was from my “new best friend”, Nir Malka, of L’Oreal employment fame. It turned out that he didn’t trust the guy who wanted to buy the tickets not to just turn around and sell them at a huge profit. His friends were all busy due to the bank holiday weekend, and he and his wife were going the night after the long weekend. He wanted the tickets to be used by REAL Clapton fans, and would sell them to me at FACE VALUE, which was 75 GBP each. He wrote that I seemed to be a nice person. Did I want the tickets? I didn’t hesitate long. YES!! If Hubster still felt HE wasn’t worth it, I’d sell his ticket (at face value to a real fan). I made a plan to meet Mr. Malka at the South Hampstead Tube station, a few bus stops up Abbey Road. It was if there was some kind of force orchestrating the whole thing.
As I waited at the station I checked out every guy that exited from the Tube. My Googling had revealed that Mr. Malka was Israeli and a Clapton fan. How old would he be? He could have been any of the scores of middle-aged men emerging from the stairway. After a 10-minute wait, someone approached me. He turned out to be a lot younger than I expected. I asked him if he worked for L’Oreal, and indeed he did. He and his wife had just moved to London within the last year. He told me that when he had Googled me, my participation in a Spiritual Art Show had turned up, along with a photo of me, TeenE, and a paintings I did of a mountain in Scotland and of Glastonbury Tor. We did “the deal”, knowing all the while that our tickets-for-cash exchange was being captured by security camera. (You have to have a street-vendor’s license in order to sell tickets on the street in London—this is to prevent scalpers.)
I re-boarded the 139 bus and sailed down Abbey Road in utter triumph. I was afraid to tell Hubster what I had done, as I sensed that in his current mood he would not be amenable to spending the money that way. I was correct. After a heated “discussion”, I decided to sell his ticket by posting a sign in Starbucks. Surely SOMEONE in NW8 would want to spend 75 pounds on a ticket to hear Eric Clapton FROM THE FOURTH ROW! I made up the sign, and then heard Hubster say resignedly “Oh I’ll go……….” Now don’t trouble yourself too much there, Sir!
So we went. On Bank Holiday Monday afternoon I got decked out in floral dress. “You’re NOT going to a garden party!” TeenE announced. She convinced me to let her be my stylist for the evening. She picked out a black short skirt and a white short-sleeved silk top embellished with some black silk roses around the neckline. Necklace and earrings of silver and topaz were added, the full makeup (with “rock-chick” eyeliner) was applied, my hair was teased and put up with combs, I removed my support hose, put on black tights and my and my extra-cool black pointy flat shoes and I was ready to Rock and Roll!
Off we went on the Jubilee Line and the Number 9 bus. I found “our seats” in the Section A, row 4, seats 9 and 10. We were early enough to have time to grab a bite and a beer in the bar before the opening act. When we returned to our seats, our coats and brollies had been moved across the aisle to an EVEN BETTER LOCATION. It turned out seats 9 and 10 of Section A, Row 4 were at the corner of the stage, angled in such a way as to have a completely unobstructed view, being in the second row of a diagonal set of 3 seats. Hubster even had space to stick his feet out in the aisle, and there were NO HEADS in front of either of us!!! Thank you again, Nir Malka! He had tried to describe to me the magnitude of the awesomeness of the seats, but I just hadn’t comprehended it!
The opening act was called “The ARC Angels”. They were a very good blues-rock group from Austin, Texas. You could tell that they “hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck”, as Grandad used to say. They even played an old McCartney tune from the RAM album, called “Too Many People”. I marveled at the fact that even though they were very, very good, the audience seemed so laid back as to appear uninterested. Oh well. Even after the lead singer wished us all a Happy Bank Holiday there was hardly a “woo!” to be heard.
After the Arcangels left the stage there was a short “interval” where the roadies set up the stage for Clapton. Finally, as the guitar god took the stage, the audience erupted into a smiling mass of applause and ovation. Then, it quickly re-seated itself and settled politely into a quiet listening attitude. It turned out that the audience behavior I had witnessed before was due to cultural mores. Most members of the audience refrained from tapping their feet, nodding their heads, or “chair-dancing”. They listened almost stock-still. I couldn’t do it. You could tell who the Americans and other non-British were: we were tapping, and nodding away, albeit no less raptly. Dancing in the aisles was strictly forbidden by the ushers.
The different levels of the Royal Albert Hall are arranged almost like reverse tiers of a wedding cake. The floor in front of the stage is divided into four sections of chair seating, surrounded by what I would call a sloped “loge” section. Above that, the lower boxes, and multiple tiers of boxes and sloped loges rising above that. Finally, up at the top, a gallery of Standing Room Only. THOSE folks were allowed to dance. We were treated to over two house of blues and rock that transported us into another realm. I had tears rolling down my face during “Wonderful Tonight”, which is about how much a husband loves and adores his wife.
One thing that I had remembered to bring with me when getting ready was “protection” of the aural variety, and I was certainly glad of it. Our seats, being there in the angle between the stage and the side of our section, were approximately eight feet from an enormous set of amplifiers. I used the earplugs in both ears for the Arcangels, but decided that I would be sacrificing sound quality for decreased decibels. During Clapton’s performance, I kept IN the left earplug, which faced not only the stack of speakers, but certain permanent hearing damage had I not used “protection”. The right ear was angle back toward the rear of the hall and did not require any prophylaxis. It was a little odd to leave the hall after the concert with only ONE ear ringing.
So, “GOD?” you say? Does she really think he’s GOD? “A” god, yes, a “guitar god”. One who has mastered his craft in such a way that the hand of “God” seems to be present, spark of the divine that exists in all of us, but that only a few kindle and stoke until we are able to present our true lights to the world. An article in Christianity Today claims that Clapton’s favorite hymn while growing up was "Jesus Bids Us Shine":
Jesus bids us shine with a clear, pure light,
Like a little candle burning in the night;
In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.
Throughout his life, Eric has succumbed to addictions to both heroin and alcohol, and has overcome them. He has faced the unimaginable tragedy of the death of his young son, yet still had faith enough to remarry at over 50 and to start a young family. To sum it up his own spirituality I’ll quote Clapton himself from the song “Presence of the Lord”:
I have finally found a place to live
Just like I never could before
And I know I don't have much to give
But soon I'll open any door.
Everybody knows the secret,
Everybody knows the score.
I have finally found a place to live
In the presence of the Lord.
May his music continue to inspire us to connect with something greater than ourselves for many, many generations.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
It's Not Easy Being Green
Day One: In which I travel to Ireland, do a “bit o' pinning”, meet many Murphys, and rendezvous with Son in Killarney.
After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.
Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.
In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.
Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.
In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.
The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.
My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.
At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.
I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.
The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.
Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.
Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.
The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.
I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.
We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.
What a happy day!
After the fifth call from Son asking me if I’m planning to rendezvous with the Guilford College Choir’s concert tour of Ireland, it begins to dawn on me: he really does want me to come. I held off making any definitive plans, however. My procrastination turned out to be a good thing; half of the choir group was delayed in the US by Delta Airline’s admission that the plane they were supposed to be on had a flat tire. They were flown from Raleigh, NC, to Atlanta, GA, to await the next day’s flight to Dublin. I learned of this late Sunday night, at a time when I was assuming they were in the air over the Atlantic. When the phone ring and it was Son, I became a little alarmed until I heard the whole story.
Son told me the entire itinerary wouldl be pushed back by a day. I was skeptical of this because of the hotel logistics, but after consultation with Hubster, I decided to make flight arrangements. It cost only 39 Euros to fly from London’s Heathrow to Cork. At this point, I was assuming that I would rendezvous with the group at Blarney Castle on the following Sunday, after they toured and perform in Dublin and Waterford. If I were to fly to Cork on Saturday, and then back from Shannon in western Ireland on Tuesday, my return fare will be zero Euros. Yes, that’s right, Zero. This does not include taxes and fees, which come to about thirty Euros. If I wanted to check a bag, that would be another twenty Euros. Seat assignments cost two Euros if you choose to sit in the middle of the plane, seven Euros if you want one of the seats in the front, or in an exit row. I decided to travel light and sit in steerage, which is what I imagine my great-grandmother Katherine Kirwan (Bahlke) did when she fled the Irish Potato Famine and arrived in the US with her brother at the age of 16.
In planning my itinerary, I allowed only a short transfer time between landing at Cork airport and departing Cork by train on my way to Killarney. In the interim between buying the plane ticket and actually leaving for Ireland, I have discovered that the group will be at Blarney Castle on Saturday instead of Sunday, and that there probably will be no time for me to meet them there. I figure it’s OK if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone, as I already have the gift of gab, perhaps thanks to “Nana” Katherine Kirwan Bahlke. Fortunately, everything went according to plan. I left A Flat on Abbey Road at about 9 am, and headed out to Circus Road and the #46 bus to Paddington. The Heathrow Express train that was boarding at the platform closed its doors just as I passed through the barrier; so I got to take my time getting on the train across the platform and stowing my luggage. Fifteen minutes after departing Paddington Station I arrived at the connection to Terminal One at Heathrow, home of Aer Lingus.
Once at the Heathrow stop, I ran like a rat in a maze as I made my way down a very long tunnel in the general direction of Terminal 1. I passed through security, at which there was NO LINE, and had so much extra time that I decide to sign up for IRIS, the eyeball identification system that is supposed to help speed one through Immigration on the way back into the UK from international destinations. The last time I tried to sign up on my way out of Heathrow, I was told that even though I am a resident of the UK, I did not have enough qualifying flights in my passport to be allowed to use the system, and anyway, that TeenE would not be able to use the service. They didn’t seem to believe me at that time that I don’t always travel with TeenE, but this did not deter me from trying again This time it worked! They took digital images of my irises both without and with my glasses on, gave me a piece of paper, and I was off. Once again, there was no wait. I now had over an hour to kill in the departure lounge before my 12:15 pm flight.
In the Heathrow system, everyone for all the flights congregates in a general waiting area replete with duty-free shops and snack and coffee emporia. Never one to assume that there will be food on a flight, I loaded up with provisions: I figured a sandwich, a bottle of water, and a grande latte would tide me over on the one-hour flight into the unknown. Of course, I had already packed granola bars and chocolate bars in my bag, so there was no danger of starvation. I suspected that I would not have time in Cork to get lunch as I tried to make a 2:25 pm train. After stocking up, I then repaired to the seats to await the posting of my gate. Departure gates are not announced until about a half hour before boarding is to begin. Once I was informed of my departure gate by both the monitor and the disembodied voice, I went on the most amazing journey. I was upgraded from a rat in a maze to a hamster in a HabiTrail cage. Moving walkways helped shorten the travel time on the straight-aways, but it took at least fifteen minutes to navigate the semicircular glass tunnels that connected the different “pods” of gates. It was a mixed crowd of tourists, business people, and Irish returning home at the gate.
The Aer Lingus flight was efficient and non-eventful. All announcements were made first in Gaelic, then in English. I hadn’t expected that; I just never even gave it a thought. I had scored a window seat so that I could watch the takeoff and landing, but the cloud cover obscured everything. All I saw was the wing.
The Cork airport was tiny, on a par with Tri-City airport in Johnson, Tennessee, or Asheville, North Carolina. There were two immigration agents, one for European Union passport holders (including the Irish) and one for Non-EU. I was third in the queue for the Non-EU, and was chomping at the bit to get through, given my tight train connection. It was now 45 minutes to train departure. Unfortunately, the couple at the head of the queue had not secured whatever paperwork they needed to enter, so they took ten minutes of processing. Meanwhile, the majority of our flight were EU, and they ALL passed through the other line by simply waving their passports at the man. When they were all through, that nice man beckoned to those of us in the sluggish queue to come on over. Two questions and an entry stamp later, I was in.
There was no queue at the taxi rank, and the kind Irish gentleman driver told me that he’d have me at the train station in under ten minutes, which was correct. He explained to me that all of the election posters that plastered the town (complete with larger-than life photos of the candidates) were for the upcoming European Union parliamentary elections. I don’t know much about EU politics, but I know that immigration to the UK is easier if one holds a passport from an EU country than one from the US of A. Just after I entered the train station, the skies opened and the rain began to fall.
My destination by train was Killarney, on Ireland’s west coast, in the county of Kerry. I had purchased the train ticket online, at a cost of twenty Euros, and just had to wave the ID number of my transaction at Miss Murphy behind the counter and I was presented with a full page itinerary with a peel-off ticket emblazoned with a holographic security strip. I was impressed by the high-tech ticket. Of course, the train on which I rode was just an ordinary train, but the scrolling LED announcement board presented the information first in Gaelic, then in English. The announcer did the same. I learned that “Corkaigh” is Cork and “Malla” is Mallow.
We passed through beautiful spring-time countryside. I have decided that the Irish invented the color green. There were so many shades of it interlocking and blending in the landscape that it was hard to tell where “mossy green” ended and “grassy green” began. I sat at a table and drank in the landscape, which consisted of undulating green hills, grey cloud-laden skies, small cream colored homes dotting the hills, and bright spots of mustard yellow provided by the blooms of the gorse bushes. Once in a while a grey stone wall would hem in some ecru sheep
We passed by Blarney Castle on our way to Mallow, where I had to change trains. Just in case the Guilford College Choir was out there somewhere, I waved.
At Mallow, two young fellows entered the train and decided to sit at my table, which was surrounded by four seats. The one nearest to me had breath heavy with whiskey (the “water of life”, in Gaelic). They were sports fans going to Killarney to watch a football match on TV as they must have been in a “Blackout” area for the match. Perhaps they were Scottish. I’ll never know. They kept complaining that “after all, they’re playing in our country” and seemed very bitter about the necessity of their journey. Whiskey-breath had an accent so heavy that even if I discounted the fact that he was slurring his speech, I could not understand him at all. I had pulled out my knitting and the complicated pattern for a drop-stitch scarf that required a lot of counting, so I hoped they wouldn’t try and engage me in conversation.
I’m sorry to report that this ploy failed. Whiskey-breath, who fancied himself a comedian, turned right to me and asked me a question. “Blah blah blah blah pinnin”. I ignored him. He came back with it again. This time I looked at him. He could have been Quentin Tarantino’s love child. I’m sure the look on my face must have been “Are you talking to me?” He tried to communicate with me two more times. Aha! He was making a comment about my knitting. He had been saying “I can see that this one likes a bit of pinning”. I guess that is what they call knitting in Ireland or wherever he was from. I tried to make it clear that I could not understand what he was saying. His friend, Stripe-Shirt, translated for him “She doesn’t understand what you are saying”. I told them that I was working on a complicated pattern, and that if they noticed that my lips were moving as I knitted, they’d know that I was counting and couldn’t really talk. After another stop or two they moved across the aisle, to my great relief.
I took another cab from the Killarney train station to the Best Western Eviston House Hotel, centrally located on “New” Street in the shopping district. The Guilford College Choir had not yet arrived, but their guide had phone from the coach and they were expected shortly. After being checked in to my room by a Ms. Murphy, I decided to go over to the Tourist Office around the corner and pick up some area information and maps. By the time I got back, the coach was parked and a horde of fresh young faces was disembarking. Son glimpsed me through the lobby window and I was greeted with a big bear hug.
The choir had an hour and a half before they had to reboard the coach in concert dress for their Saturday evening performance. Sunday’s “gig” was to be at an Alzheimer’s unit of a “Care Home” affiliated with a church just outside of Killarney. When the parish priest heard that this was happening, he invited the choir to sing a Saturday night Mass. I asked the tour guide if it would be OK for me to ride with them to the service, and she introduced herself to me. Her name was Odile Murphy, and she is one of the nicest people ever. She said not only would it be all right on Saturday night, but that if I wanted to join them on their morning trip to a local scenic spot the next day, that would be fine, too.
Son and I scarfed down some sandwiches from the Subway across the street, and then sat in the lobby chatting before he had to go upstairs to change into his tux. All 60 of us boarded the coach and then the mist turned back to rain as we headed out of town toward Killcommon. Ms. Murphy came over the PA system with an announcement: “We’d like to welcome Doug’s Mom to the tour bus”. This was answered by a resounding chorus of “Hi, Doug’s Mom”. I stood and waved, and told them, my name. They all laughed and I replied with some witty banter. Son poked me with his elbow to get me to shut up so I did. Meanwhile, Ms. Murphy reminded us that “Kill” means “stream”, and I thought of the instances in New York State where it is used in the same way “Fishkill”, “Peekskill”, etc.
Killcommon was an uncommonly beautiful spot. It was now half past seven in the evening, and the sun was nowhere near setting. The rain stopped as we disembarked the coach. We entered a modern church built in the round, with the part behind the altar made of bentwood staves like the inside of a prow of a ship. Between the staves there was a gorgeous patchwork of colorful stained glass illustrating animals, people, and natural motifs from the Bible and from Ireland. Mass was packed; either a show of support for the choir (who had been added on with very short notice) or that is just what one does in Ireland on a Saturday night.
The choir sang with no instrumental accompaniment. Their sound was breathtaking in the perfect acoustics of that church, and I was moved to tears by the beauty of the whole experience. I remarked to someone later that it was the first time I had ever been to a mass that was not a wedding or a funeral. They sang about four selections during the service, and one could tell that the congregation was not used to such…lengthy… musical offerings. They were eager to be on their way after the hour was up.
I was wondering if they would all disappear, or if there would be a “coffee hour” at 8 pm. Fortunately for the choir, most of whom had not eaten anything, there was a generous spread of “tea” at the Rectory across the street. Several generous women stood by to refill our tea cups and pass around the plates of sandwiches and homemade sweets. We all felt warmly welcomed. At about half past eight I was ready to return to the coach and walked outside to take in the evening. It was chilly, so I boarded just as the mist returned.
We returned to the hotel and Son changed out of his tux. We found the last two seats in the pub just as the musical act was warming up. The pub, called Danny Mann’s, bills itself as Ireland’s Most Famous Pub. I’m not sure if it’s true, but they do offer live music most nights, and Saturday night’s group was The Molly Maguires. They played an entertaining mix of traditional Irish vocal music. Son and I enjoyed some Carlsburg (I know, it’s not Irish, but I hadn’t developed a taste for Guinness yet) and I chased it with a shot of Jameson whiskey, served neat, with water on the side, in honor of my Dad. God forbid that a bartender or waiter should pour the water into the whiskey glass! I decided to carry on the tradition, sans ice.
By a quarter to eleven pm, I was well and truly ready for bed. I knew that the “young people” would be up much later, so said my goodbyes. Son walked me to my room, and we agreed to meet up in the breakfast room the next day. I slept well, and was only awakened once by the sound of some merrymakers singing their way down the street. You could hear the sound getting fainter and fainter as they made their way out of town.
What a happy day!
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