London

We have made a commitment.

For as long as our health and bank account permit, we are committed to an annual trip to London’s West End to catch the latest theater. Yes, yes, I know, the hardships we endure are daunting. But look, someone must uphold the cultural standards of civilized society.

As it turns out, it’s rather remarkable how easy it is to just zig instead of zag, and by the time you can say Piccadilly, you find yourself coming out of a tube station in the middle of Covent Garden. For example, did you know that there is a Chunnel (the train that goes under the English Channel) from Brussels to London? And do you know how close Brussels is to Mainz? It was impossible not to notice how convenient it would be to just take a bit of detour on our way home to Valencia from our visit with Mark. Showing enormous restraint, we limited ourselves to just two evening performances. It turned out to be an entirely satisfying detour.

Finding our Marbles

With two full days to enjoy, we decided to revisit some old favorites. And, since it had been many decades since we had been to the British National Museum, we started there. Britain was the greatest empire on the planet during a century or two of vast scientific exploration and discovery. The enormous wealth and reach of the empire resulted in a staggering collection of artifacts, representing all areas of the globe, that is so vast – more than 2,000,000 objects – that the museum has admitted to having a less than accurate record of what, exactly, they own. Our interest had been particularly piqued by our visits to Athens from where the infamous “Elgin Marbles” were famously relocated to London for “safekeeping” more than 200 years ago. Strolling into the vastness of the museum we headed straight for the enormous hall where these famous carvings are displayed in their own, purpose-built space.

I have only a vague recollection of having seen these sculptures in my mid-twenties. It is testimony, I suppose, to my ignorance, at the time, that the experience was not particularly imbedded in my memory. Today is different. I am so grateful for the privilege. This art was created in the 5th century B.C. to decorate the exterior façade of the Parthenon and is as vibrant as any you may ever hope to encounter. On those pieces where the detail has survived the wear and tear of millennia, you feel as though the figures might suddenly break free of their marble bonds and go bounding down the hall. There is a naturalness and ease in the depiction of each character. The Greeks sought to perfect an aesthetic of expressiveness and grace that set the standard for art and was obsessively copied by the Romans. After the decline of Rome, it would be over 1,000 years before Europe would finally emerge from the creative darkness of the Middle Ages and rediscover the genius of these Greeks.

Art for the People

The following day, we chose to make our way across the Blackfriars bridge over to the Tate Modern. As we wandered in and out of the exhibit spaces, we enjoyed comparing impressions, likes, dislikes, and speculating on which pieces of art might look nice in our entryway.

Our tolerance for museums beginning to wane, we decided a glass of wine would be just the thing and made our way to the 10th level observation floor where a rather unassuming coffee bar enjoys one of the most spectacular, 360-degree views in all of England. Talk about a work of art!

The West End

Our theater experience was also satisfying and stimulating. First up, a dramatization of a dilemma once faced by Sidney Poitier titled “Retrograde.” Early, while he was still a struggling young actor, a huge career defining contract was offered to Poitier in exchange for denouncing his friends in the burgeoning civil rights movement of the mid-1950’s. Playwright Ryan Calais Cameron immerses us in Hollywood’s climate of racism and McCarthy era paranoia with dialogue that grabs your attention with humor, intellect, and subtlety. In the end, Poitier turns down this deal with the devil and wins a best actor award less than a decade later.

We were really looking forward to seeing “The Years,” a highly acclaimed play that has won several awards. There was a lot to unpack from this experience. The play is a stage adaptation of a life-spanning memoir by Annie Ernaux who won a Nobel Prize for literature in 2022. It is, perhaps, unavoidable that attempting to reduce a narrative spanning most of the twentieth century into a two-hour stage play would feel rushed and chaotic. Even the cadences of the actors felt accelerated to cram the whole thing into the allotted runtime. That said, it is a provocative, emotionally charged recap of our shared cultural journey that left us debating and discussing late into the night.

After the final curtain, we elected to grab a take-away fish and chips and stroll along the Thames to our Blackfriars hotel. London was so kind to us on this trip. We walked along under a nearly full moon, every bench along the waterfront occupied by a couple – lovers enjoying the balmy, moody flow of the river, unwilling to break the late evening spell.

Till next year, mi amore!

As I write, the French countryside is slipping by at 190 MPH. I look up from my tablet frequently so as not to miss a glimpse of a passing chateau, hilltop castle, or gothic church tower as we hurtle down the Rhône Valley. We’re on the homeward leg of a quick trip that began with a flight to London at the beginning of the week from where we then hopped on an evening train to Paris for a couple of nights, before heading south on this train. We’ll have dinner in Barcelona ( . . . castle) before climbing aboard another high-speed coach for the final leg down to Valencia.

The planning for this jaunt was all rather spontaneous, resulting from a casual dinner conversation ( . . . hill town) one evening about how much we miss live theater – our beginner level Spanish being wholly inadequate to the task of comprehending, let alone enjoying, teatro Valenciano.
“We should hop up to London,” Bonnie says. I don’t actually remember if it was her or me that said this, but I’m going to credit her as the one most likely to want to hop about anywhere, anytime. (. . . vineyards!)
“Yeah, okay,” I must have replied. “I would love that!” Minutes later we’re online reading reviews of the latest shows, and checking our hotel options. Before you know it, I have tickets to four shows over three Westend days in mid- February. “Will you be my Valentine?”

In the weeks leading up to this trip, our expat friends in Valencia wanted to hear the details of our plans. We went on at some length extolling the wonders of British theater, even going so far as to modestly insult a Manhattanite with a lifelong passion for Broadway. We have a seriously romanticized recollection of the Westend. ( . . . Mountains! . . . wait, what mountains?) So, unsurprisingly I suppose, we had a decidedly mixed experience. Would you believe Londoners are just as eager to offer weak musical kitsch for tourist dollars as Broadway? Worse, it turns out that contemporary audiences are apparently enraptured by rock concert levels of amplification and the same bubble gum pop that turns adolescents into cultural icons. ( . . . seriously, Ed, do you hear yourself? When did you transition to geezer?)

I will spare you any more groaning about the state of musical theater in the world, however, and turn my attention ( . . . clouds of pink blossoms) to the one bit of “serious” theater we enjoyed.

I booked seats to “The Hills of California” with some trepidation. Opening at the Harold Pinter Theater just a week or two before our trip, this is the premiere of a brand new drama with only the reputation of the playwright to recommend it. (Well, there is also that title.) The author, Jez Butterworth, has been celebrated for another effort titled “Jerusalem” which the Guardian declared to be “unarguably one of the best dramas of the twenty-first century.” As I read of Mr. Butterworth’s accomplishments and credits, I began to understand, once again, how far out of date I have drifted. ( . . .aah, red clay tile roofs – must be in Provence) This guy is a superstar playwright and screenwriter! Tony awards, Critic’s Circle awards, Hollywood star directors, this retirement thing has come just in time. I have so much catching up to do!

I’ll spare you a retelling of the plot points and production details beyond the basic conceit: four sisters are attempting to process the emotional trauma of their childhoods as they gather for the first time in many years to say goodbye to their dying mother. Suffice it to say that we laughed and cried and talked for hours about what we had seen. It was brilliant, our faith in the magic of live theater was replenished, and even without the two musicals, the moldy Agatha Christie performed in an actual courtroom, a visit to the Petit Palais, or the underground Paris jazz club on our last night, the trip would have been entirely satisfying on the basis of that one evening of great art. (. . . flamingos – not making this up – pink flamingos – along the Med . . . )

My god, I love retirement.