June is Bustin' Out All Over, Milady

Julia and I had tickets to see the Rogers and Hammerstein musical "Carousel" at the Savoy Theater in London on Friday evening and so had planned to ride the train into town shortly after noon. But first, the biweekly visit of the Bookmobile to its appointed spot outside the village hall (just across from Julia's house - you can see it from the kitchen window in the picture below) insured that we would be able to pop in for a cup of tea with the village locals before heading off to town. When we arrived, we received an enthusiastic reception from several familiar and friendly faces (Sue had even brought her sweet dog, Ruby) and were soon able to find a couple of empty seats around the cluster of tables pushed together in the middle of the hall. Many of the ladies were drinking coffee, but I opted for tea instead and paired it with a tasty classic oat digi bicky called a "Hobnob" All sorts of local news was batted about the table until Mary was prevailed upon to regale the group with stories of the village from half a century ago, including a charming tale of a woman named "Miss Pink" whose fatherless child had caused a stir with the local Ladies League. The conversations continued along at a lively clip until gradually, one by one, the ladies began excusing themselves to away and conduct some pressing errand or other. Time to quit shilly-shallying about and get on with the day's business!
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After we'd helped wash up the tea things, Julia and I returned to the Malt House and assembled all the items we'd need for an afternoon and evening in London, including maps to several places we had a mind to visit. Julia also packed a huge tome to read in spare moments on the train - a selection SHE had made for her book club but one in which she still had a mountain of pages to read before the meeting, less than a week away. The book was about a historical figure named William Wilberforce who was instrumental in turning the tide in how we think about slavery, someone Julia admitted to having the biggest crush on, even though he was born in the 18th century. While Julia gulped down the text, I amused myself more than adequately by watching the quiescent English countryside streak by the window, my eye resting for a single perfect frozen moment on the sight of a glossy auburn fox sitting contentedly on a grassy embankment near the track, gazing intently at the passing train.

Shortly after we arrived at Waterloo station, Julia's eldest son Hamish (say: HAY-mish) met us and escorted us to a wonderful cafe he knew of nearby, where Julia and I enjoyed a delicious late lunch and Hamish hovered over a yummy looking coffee with milk drink. I ordered a crisp fermented apple cider to compliment my meal and it was mighty tasty. Why on earth do people have the impression that English food is bad??? I just don't get it.
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After lingering awhile over an enjoyable lunch, the two of us left Hamish to rejoin his classes (he's studying law) and took a bus to the bustling Covent Garden area in pursuit of some excellent poking around. Covent Garden is packed with interesting little shops, restaurants, pubs, something to interest absolutely anyone. In the Market square area, there's usually a nonstop parade of street performers vying for the attention (and financial consideration) of passing shoppers, amazing their audience with feats of derring do and sorcery. As we wandered about, I entreated Julia to duck into several shops with me in pursuit of shiny objects seen or imagined from the front door. We struck pay dirt at one place - every single thing in the shop had an accent of glitter at the very least, if not a solid covering. It was full of girly things, sparkly and bright and glamorous and nothing else! I fell in love with a garland of bright pink butterflies iced with orange and topaz glitter accents and before I knew it, Julia had snatched it up and bought it for me, beaming proudly as she handed the box to me and said, "Unfortunately I wasn't around for your 14th birthday, but I can still give you your present." I loved that so much. It's a wonderful example of the joys of Julia.
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One of the stops I was insistent on making since we were in the vicinity was to the pantheon of cheese, the pinnacle of fromage, the halls of Mount Curd - Neal's Yard Dairy. Neal's Yard began in 1979, initially pursuing the business of producing artisan cheeses. They soon decided, however, to quit the production end of the business and focus on distributing the products of other dairies. They have since become one of the world's most important distributors of artisan cheeses (500 tons a year!). Their strategy is to procure small batches of exquisite hand made cheeses from British and Irish dairies, store a good bit of them in a mysterious old London warehouse near the Thames to age, and then dole them out to the the faithful and lucky in a little shop near Covent Garden.

As soon as you enter the shop, you're greeted by plucky cheese purveyors who encourage you to taste absolutely anything you like. When my server asked me if I knew what I wanted, I responded with exaggerated seriousness that I was looking for was a cheese that would make me cry. Without skipping a beat or changing expression, he asked drolly, "Cry like 'boo hoo I'm sad', or cry like 'oh, I'm so happy!!'?"
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I like a man that can understand a woman's needs. I left with three gorgeous wedges of cheese at a fraction of the price I'd have paid at Central Market and as fresh as I would ever experience them. Sighhhhhhhhhh.

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As we meandered through the lanes and alleys of Friday evening London toward the Savoy theater, the light began to fade, pooling here and there in great golden glowing patches.

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The streets were alive with people walking in every direction, pressed forward by the tantalizing scent of diversion, minds visibly occupied with the logistics and rewards of their rendezvous. Julia and I found a nice little pub less than a block from the theater where we could relax and have a drink before the show. I chose a Sapphire and tonic, Julia an erudite glass of red wine. I had a plate of bread crumby English sausages dipped in a sharp ochre colored mustard, Julia a small plate heaped with golden chips dancing around a tub of tomato sauce. It was that kind of day and I loved it.

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The Savoy is a classic old London Theater, last extensively remodeled in the early 1930s and still gleaming with bold silver art deco accents. Julia and I took our seats and indulged in the ancient pleasure of watching people while we waited for the curtain to rise.

I don't know why it didn't occur to me at any time prior to the first actor uttering the first words of his first line: those poor Brits were going to have to produce an obscure regional American (Maine) dialect from the late 1800s, one that most Americans couldn't even come close to imitating correctly and it was going to be a massacre. After the first scene, I had fully gained a new respect for every British subject that has ever had to sit through an American production of My Fair Lady. I was particularly appalled when the police officer arrived to chide Billy at the fair, walking onstage wearing a BOBBY'S hat, quipping with a heavy Cockney accent, "G'day, Guvnah!" Horrors.

Obscure regional dialectical atrocities aside, I thoroughly enjoyed it, singing along quietly in the dark, marveling at the audacity of the dream ballet sequence and crying buckets of big sloppy tears at the appointed times. It's such a dark, dark musical, Carousel - a rarity if you think about it. Apparently it was Rogers and Hammerstein's favorite collaboration. And rightfully so. You'll Never Walk Alone is a good enough song to be a whole career! Uh-oh. I think I just outed myself as a musical geek. Oh well - quelle suprise.

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After the theater, Julia and I wandered back toward the tube station, musing on the dark messages that had been sung so soaringly to us. We wondered how we should react to the outdated concept of glorifying a wife who uttered a sentiment such as "When he hits me it feels like a kiss!" Happily we have a modern disdain for the beating of women that makes it feel a bit archaic and awkward.

As we reached the station and began the long descent down the thrillingly steep escalators of the London Tube, I was greeted by a site that made me feel old. For as many years as I've been riding the London Underground, there has always been a long row of framed handbills - shows, fashion, food, little ads of all sorts - posted in carefully relegated intervals from top to bottom. Well, the modern age has arrived and lo and behold the cardboard inserts have disappeared, replaced by a row of glaring monitors nestled into the same exact footprint, pixels replacing glossy four color printing. The visual impact of a long sloping row of identical images stretching out over a trajectory that had to be three or four stories long was mighty impressive even to a jaded antimarketing fanatic like me. Very Blade Runner.

Julia and I scooted on home on the late train and were in bed shortly after midnight - well pleased with a delightful day.