THE LONDON TIMES
(Clever title, eh? Before the lawyers start calling, this in no way refers to a newspaper printed in the United Kingdom.)
The first day of March was the first day of my vacation time, although it really began the day before with the trip to the airport and the flight over the ocean. The flight was largely empty and so the triumph I had felt at getting an exit row seat evaporated when I realized that one could pretty much almost any place you wanted. There was a car waiting for me at the airport, and I got to the Jesuit Missions house in Wimbledon in good time. (Although there was a moment at the airport when the driver announced he had forgotten his wallet and did I have any money? Not English money, but I did have a credit card, which the parking ticket machine accepted. And I learned an interesting fact, in England you don’t have to carry your driving license. If the police stop you and you don’t have it, you simply go home and get it and at some point drop by the local station and show them that you have it. I wonder how that system would work in New York? Yeah, I’m laughing too.)
The Jesuit Missions house has offices on the ground floor and bedrooms for visiting missionaries and Jesuits upstairs, with a kitchen and a living room and a chapel. There was only one other person in the house, and he was leaving the next day, so essentially I had the house to myself. Since my last visit the house now has wireless, so I can take the computer into the living room and work there. My first day was spent just walking around Wimbledon, I bought a few small items - a newspaper, a couple of books, some grocery items, and I met the new people on the staff. Those who have been regular readers of past Missives may remember Tony Montfort, the layman who was head of Jesuit Missions for some 41 years. He had retired since my last trip, and is now engaged in fighting cancer, pretty close to a full-time job. Not exactly what he had planned, but he is (according to the doctors) doing very well. Father Tim Curtis, a Jesuit who has been in Guyana for many years, is the new director, I have known him for years. Alan Fernandez is still there but the rest of the staff is new and they all seem very good and excited about the work. It has changed but it continues to be a neat place, and very welcoming.
I went into London proper the next day. I love London. My first visit was in March of 1966 (dear God, that was 41 years ago! That thought will keep reoccurring to me, almost always accompanied by an exclamation mark.) and I have been back many times, each with a different adventure. I wandered through Trafalgar Square, where a young soprano with a tape accompaniment was singing in front of the museum, with a little pot out to collect contributions. Down in the center of the square there were large inflated figures with people inside - something to do with the upcoming Olympics although the connection for me was a little vague. I went to a movie in the afternoon - I’m not a big movie goer, but Helen Mirren had just won an Academy Award and it sounded like a film I wanted to see, so I went to see The Queen.
I was disappointed. She was very good, and the script was good but I rather wish it had been less about the late Diana person and more about the larger scope of what it is to be the Queen of England. In our increasingly politically correct entertainment industry, I wonder if that influenced the vote. Certainly the Al Gore film was not the best film in the documentary category, but it had the most politically correct message, and the same can certainly be said about the Best Song winner. I found myself wondering if Helen’s selection was weighed because of the Diana connection (I think Diana was on screen more than Helen.). Hers was certainly a very strong performance, and I have seen none of the other candidates in that category. But I think I had expected something more.
One of the reasons I chose London as a stop is because I have so many friends there, and I fully expect not to be able to see all of them. Not for lack of trying, but just because people and schedules and time and I’m sure I won’t be able to touch every base. Anyway, I spent a large part of one day with Elsie, a friend from Nigeria. She had been on the board of the Loyola Jesuit School at one point and had been a help when we were first setting up that school. She is Irish as well as Nigerian, and has moved at this point to London, where she is working and has pretty well settled down. I don’t think she will be going back to Nigeria (which is true for many Nigerians I have talked with who have left the country. Part of me can certainly understand it - and yet, there is a part of me that is also a little sad when I hear that.)
Here I am outside Trockadero. Inside, thousands of teenagers and about to be teenagers. Enough to give you bad dreams.
We met for lunch - at an Indian place where else? - and then we went down into the West End. Elsie had talked of going to a movie but it turned out she had seen pretty much everything there was to see. We wandered through a couple of places, (I had never been inside Trockadero, and somewhere here there is a picture of me outside of Trockadero - it’s really designed for teenagers, so the appeal is limited) she bought some Chinese spices and then we headed back for a Jamaican dinner with her son and his wife and their son. (If you were hoping for culinary theme here, I think you’re out of luck - Indian lunch, Chinese shopping, and Jamaican dinner, with one Nigerian side dish.) He has just finished 15 years in the French Legion, (now THERE is a resume credit you don’t see every day!) and he is adjusting to life back in England. (Man, in that company the subject of MY re-adjusting doesn’t stand a chance.) Interesting folks and a lovely night.
Here I am with Elsie just before the magnificent dinner. Had to be before - afterwards, it was hard to stand.
The next day - a damp Sunday in London - I went over to the Lavender Hill area (for those who are fans of Peter Sellers, yes, there IS a Lavender Hill, with or without mob) and had lunch with Keith and Chris Gale, well-known for many years in any number of missives, going back probably to the second or third number in the group. He has lost a bunch of weight and looks very good, she looks great as well, and we had a lovely lunch at home. (Of course, any meal that includes a large hunk of lamb has more than halfway won my heart anyway.) For those who do not know him from earlier episodes, Keith is Jesuit-educated and a great fan of the Society. Credit to the Society as well, for he can talk knowledgeably about a range of subjects, and continues to be curious and reads a lot and continues to amaze me with what he has read and even more what he has retained.
(NOTE: There are no pictures here of Christine and Keith, because the pictures I took of them are so bad that if I posted them here, I would lose two very dear friends. Trust me - they look great.)
There was an announcement on the telly that a small airline, one of the BA subsidiaries, had been sold to a budget airline and the first thing they were doing was to cancel about a thousand flights. Now I am flying to Austria on a small BA subsidiary, but turns out it was not the same one. From the high drama perspective, I was a little disappointed. But from the “how nice to keep things working smoothly” department, a sigh of relief.
Another name from the Nigerian days now in London is Patricia Shour and her family, and again, readers of back editions of the Missives know her well. (Come on people, the sub-text here is that if you haven’t read the earlier editions, you really should. Get with the program.) One of the things I have learned over the years about the Lebanese - and even especially when dealing with the Shours - is that they are incredibly generous, and where food is concerned, we are constantly seeking the more, in quality and quantity. If a Lebanese orders food for eight, probably means there are four for dinner.
The apartment where they are staying is fairly breath-taking, and the boys have grown into startling young men. Several people joined us for dinner and when we went to get a cab, we found a replica of a 1930’s square can, with two jump seats in the back and lots of room. I was going to use the camera I was loaned (which can take pictures) but when we pulled up at the restaurant, Cipriani’s for those who like to keep track of these things, there was a crowd of papparazzi waiting outside. I don’t know who they were waiting for, but I was intimidated - I mean, to take out a camera phone and take a picture of a cab in front of THAT group? Not me. So we just went in.
Now that this is a place that has a crowd of photographers hanging around outside the front door should tell you something about the place. And if it did, you would be absolutely correct. It is exactly that kind of a place. Great food - several kinds of pasta which we shared, and octopus slices, veal chop, lamb chops, liver, kidneys - and everyone sharing everything in the true Lebanese style. At the end of the meal, in spite of my saying I would just take a tube, they insisted I take a cab (actually a private car) to Wimbledon, so I rode back through the evening rain in something approaching splendor. The problem with those moments is that when the occur, all too rarely, there is never anyone around to see you.
The next day I got to take Tony Montfort out to lunch. Now in the days when he was Director of Jesuit Missions, that would be an headline announcement. Tony was notorious for not letting anyone else pick up a check. Lovely place, terrific food - there was a couple there when we arrived, and I was sure I knew them, but not sure enough to interrupt. Nigerian, and I know I know them - I wonder who they were.
One of the truly great men of our time, Tony Montfort.
After a rest at home, it was time to head off for the evening show. I came all the way from New York to see Wicked in London. (I never claimed to be sensible.) The theatre is right next to Victoria station so I got my ticket - the 30 pound ticket cost me 44, with a delivery charge (I picked it up) and handling charges. That’s almost 30 bucks. Ah well - walked around for a little, went into the theatre - nice seat in the center, although way up in the top. Good sight lines, but during the first act, the woman in front of me kept leaning forward and when she did, she wiped out the whole center part of the stage. I talked to her an intermission and she was very embarrassed. But I had a good second act. Treated myself to an ice cream, mostly for the tradition of it. Lovely show - they wrote the Glinda part for Kristin Chenoweth, you could hear her in the whole part. (Which added a lovely dimension for me, since I think she is one of the greates things to happen to musical theatre since... I don't know, notes? Sings, acts, is drop dead gorgeous - yup, I'm a fan.) The show raises some interesting issues - it would be a good show for a class group to see and spend some time talking about - and I will be interested to read the novel, which came out before the play. I miss the real vibrato in the voices, lots of loud flat tones that only vibrate at the end of the breath. But it was a very emotional time and worth every cent. Train back - walked home - watched tv and wrote and bed.
Wednesday, March 7 - For reasons I cannot identify, I find myself in a real funk this morning, very depressed, out of sorts, sad and hopeless. I realize it - but I don’t know where it came from. Had cereal and coffee, watched tv, did some writing. Weather holding good. Went into London and went to Harrods and bought a present for Kyra for her graduation. What I had originally wanted wasn’t in stock and the Waterford people at the factory couldn’t tell me when one might be available - so I went with something else that they actually had. (I can't say what it was in case she reads this before she graduates. But it's very nice.) I browsed for a wedding present for Ralph and Sabrina, and saw a very large rhino for something over 7,000 pounds. (That would be in the neighborhood of $15,000 - plus shipping.) I took a picture. Went to the theatre and got my ticket for the evening G&S performance. Found a bookshop and got a German book for light reading, and went to see The Last King of Scotland.
Brilliant - Forrest Whittaker is scary. The counterpoint - the hero, if you will - the young Scot who goes to Uganda as a new doctor for the adventure and gets as much adventure as you could want - he’s not a nice guy, and you tend to lose sight of that in the greater evil that was Idi Amin. But he tried to seduce the other doctor’s wife, he does seduce one of Amin’s wives (and ends up getting her pregnant, and causing her to be horribly killed). He is responsible for the death of at least one of the ministers of state - and just because he is beaten badly at the very end and manages to escape does not redeem him, at least in my slightly jaundiced eye. He is no hero. There really is no hero in this film, just bad and badder.
Strolled back to the English National Opera and went in early. Beautiful old theatre, with gold filigree everywhere around the ceiling, statues of gods and goddesses with chariots and horses and what-not. The audience was itself a minor show, lots of older people, one family right in front of me, Mom and Dad, two boys, grandparents a regular family outing. When the overture started, Mom and Dad were holding hands and bouncing together in time to the music - it was a very sweet moment. The set and costume design sort of mod campy, minimalistic but well done and neither a great addition to the show nor a distraction from it. Chorus was good but muddy - they used the surtitles whenever anything was sung and for those who did not know the show, probably just as well. I certainly would not have understood some of the singers without the help of those printed words over their heads. Soloists were good but again, nothing outstanding. Sometimes the character work gets sacrificed to a great voice, or vice versa - in this case, neither was outstanding. No one was bad, several were good but no one really blew you away, with either the acting or the singing. A gentle trip home.
And when I checked my email, I learned that Ralph Mylius had died. (There is a section here about Ralph - I won’t repeat myself here, but somehow I do believe that the funk I was in was somehow connected to his dying. I tried calling Sabrina but could not get through. Awful.)
Thursday, March 8 - One of the problems about letting one’s hair grow longer than 1/2 inch is that it has to be cut. With a short hair style, I can take an electric slipper and put in the appropriate blade and run it all over my head in every direction until the hair stops falling and I’m pretty well done. Every now and then clip along the edge. But with longish - longer - hair, something professional is occasionally required. And today was the day. I went into London and found a cheap barber shop and had a proper haircut. Ran a few errands, walked around a bit and finally found a spot in the sun at Leicester Square and read and smoked a cigar - I watched people see the empty seat next to me and start over, then spot the cigar and swerve in another direction. Met Pauli around 4 and we went in to see Apocolypto - fantastic. Photography is breath-taking, strong plot, great faces. The whole thing is done in Mayan, with subtitles. Gives it a quasi-documentary feel. The parallels within the film are intriguing - chasing the tapir through the bush and the chase that is much of the last third of the film - ripping the entrails out of the tapir, and ripping the hearts out of the living sacrifices at the temple. The escape over the waterfall and through the water and the woman in the well – the re-appearance of the animal trap - and on and on. We took a bus back to the Shours, had drinks, others came and joined us including three young women, Claudia (a cousin) Carina and Lysa (Patricia’s best friend and the woman who had been with us on Monday) joined us at the restaurant, a Lebanese place, very good food. Finished around 11:30 and they sent me back to Wimbledon in a cab. Raining all the way - several road closures, the poor driver (name of George) had an awful time finding a way.
Friday, March 9 - Off to Southsea. Those who read my story about leaving Nigeria and heading to Kwaj might remember a sojourn to visit some friends in the Portsmouth Southsea area, friends who not only came to visit me on Kwaj but came twice! (For those who have read the Kwaj missives.) Now I am returning the visit. English trains are fascinating, and in spite of all the well-advertised problems and complaints (the Scottish Rail System is on strike as I write this, and there are threats the strike could spread south if things don’t get resolved quickly), they are still a wonder to this American’s eye. An announcement - “We regret to announce that the 10:32 to someplace unpronounceable with stops at several places whose names I cannot understand will be delayed by approximately six minutes. We apologize for the delay and any inconvenience this might cause.” Now really. If Amtrack ever ran a train within six minutes of the announced arrival, there would be champagne in the corporate offices. If they ever apologized for a train being late, passengers would faint. You ask a rail employee a question, whether the track for a departing train, the route to another station, the reason for a delay - by heaven, he either knows the answer or trots off and finds out for you. He doesn’t shrug and say he doesn’t know, he doesn’t refer you to someone else - he gives you or gets you the answer. So using the British trains - except that they seem somewhat expensive to my poor pocket book - is still rather fun. The trains are clean, the station stops are all announced before arrival and again on arrival, there is lots of easy to find information at every station and at every platform and at every track - this is not a bad system.
First stop - we went to the fish shop and bought a huge live crab, some clams and a large Dover sole. What’s a Dover sole doing in Portsmouth you ask? Fulfilling its heavenly purpose for existence by providing supper for wandering Jesuits and friends. We dropped the crab off at a Chinese restaurant where they cooked it and we went home for a coffee and a visit and then back to the restaurant for lunch. Huge crab, when he’s cooked and looking at you slightly cockeyed and a little surprised, sitting on an only marginally larger plate, on a bed of angel hair pasta, covered with a lovely sauce. (Large enough to be a doorstep for the door on a cathedral church. ) A cold beer and a wipe for the sticky hands afterwards and just a little slice of heaven in southern England. There is no way to eat crab except with your hands - and I don’t care of you’re in a Maryland Crab Shack with a plastic table cloth or a Chinese restaurant in Southsea with a crab slightly larger than an American football - hands is the way to go. And go we did. We ended up with two pieces left over, which we wrapped up and took home for Mark, who was returning that afternoon from a week in Canada. We talked about going up in the Portsmouth tower (yes, Portsmouth has a tower, not quite as big as the CNN tower or the one at Niagara Falls and certainly not in the class of the Empire State Building - but still, it is a tower and it is the pride and joy of Portsmouth) but every time we made a move, the clouds came in and darkened the sky, so instead of the tower, we went to see Alex Bentley, Kemi’s tailor.
Alex - He is not as tall as the tower, but much more fun, and no admission charged to get into the shop. While Kemi had a suit fitted - actually she had two suits fitted - fitting suits is not just a job for Alex but something of a hobby, gives him lots of opportunity to chat with people - I visited with his wife and played with their two dogs and tried on hats. He had some nice hats - and when the visit was over, and we were leaving, I discovered that Kemi had liked the way I looked in one of the hats and had bought it for me. I also liked the way I had looked, so I was very pleased. Somewhere there should be at least one picture of me wearing the hat and you can decide for yourself if YOU like it. It’s a dark green fedora, not the grey Irish cap I have worn for several years. (When we got back to the house, I found that Mark had a hat exactly like the one I had picked - no wonder she thought it looked good.)
Alex got talking, and we learned about his family history - turns out he is Jewish (which Kemi had not known) and his grandfather had been a Jew in Berlin all during the war, hiding out under false papers and with the help of many friends. But at one point he had gotten tired of the hiding and the solitude and turned himself in. He died in Auschwitz a couple of weeks before the war ended. His great grandfather was a Russian Jew and his mother one of the French aristocracy - he was an architect and designed the notion of putting a window in the roof, a design feature that bears his name - the idea was not just to provide light, but also to avoid the then prevalent tax based on the number of windows one had. I can’t remember all the details of the family history but his father had been a tailor before him for many years on the same street where he is now working - something like 40 years on one side of the street and then they moved and 27 years on the other side. He had been for one year the Mayor of Portsmouth (or was it Southsea?) And during the year, when he hired someone to run the shop for him, he made more money than any other year, because the man (who didn’t really know anything about tailoring) simply assigned prices and if people argued, shrugged his shoulders, and they usually ended up paying.
Mark came in shortly after we got back - Kemi was upstairs working and I was watching a cricket match on television (Who laughed? I love cricket, and understand enough of the game to enjoy it, although I am by no means an expert, never having played it. I think it is one of those games you cannot fully understand until you have spent some time on the pitch yourself.) We visited for a little, and then headed up to a local pub, to meet some local pub types and have some local pub beer and smoke a pub cigar (that was my department) and munch of pub chips (I never knew that you could get sweet prawn marinade chips - they’re actually not very nice, but the British have evolved crisps, as chips are called over there since they say chips when they mean French fries, but you knew that, didn’t you? into a number of odd and unusual flavors and some are rather fun but sweet prawn marinade aren’t) and it was great fun. Home for razor clams - I had never had razor clams - and some very nice wine - and then the Dover sole we had bought at the fish place. Dover sole is a mysterious creature, and this one was obviously enchanted - by a wicked wizard. Kemi is (usually) a wonderful cook and has produced some truly amazing meals over the years I have known her. So the fault had to lie with the Dover sole - which you probably could have taken out and attached to the tire on a car and gotten another couple of thousand miles. Now between one meal and another, I had no need of one more bite of food, so that the sole was not a success was also not a disaster - not even a misfortune. And we staggered off to bed, because the alarm had to go off the next morning at 4, so we could leave by five, to catch the chunnel train to France. Lovely hot shower before going to bed.
Saturday, March 10 - Alarm at 4 - off in the dark and the cold. Mark’s car is a top of the line Audi - heated steering wheel, heated seats- automatically closing trunk lid and doors, on board navigation system and screens in the back seat so you can show a DVD to the kids while you travel. (There are lots more gadgets but you get the idea.) Lovely to ride in, and I imagine it must be great fun to drive. A diesel, smooth ride, very quiet, lots of power. We got the train site in time to visit the bathrooms and buy a newspaper and then the call came to board so we drive through the maze and onto the train. Now I have to report, oh you security conscious worriers, that England is not terribly interested in the people who are leaving - might be a different story coming in, but no one even looked at a passport on the way out, or in France. There is a system of random pull you over to check you but no one looked at us twice. About a 25- minute ride, you sit in the car and think lovely thoughts. (Of course while we were in the queue waiting, we watched tv - another gadget, tv in the car - and watched a giraffe being born. Talk about globalization.)
From the station it was about another six hours to Eric’s - we stopped one for diesel and a rest stop - naturally the men’s room was being cleaned so we waited and we waited and finally into the Ladies - where I discovered, a little late in the overall process of things that the stall I had selected had no toilet paper. Sigh. Now, being an old experienced international traveler, I can deal with this sort of thing. But - sigh.
After another little bit we stopped and had something to eat, and I have to report that the whole atmosphere of the French roadway rest stop is very different than we have in the US. The snack bar (HA!) has a salad bar, a huge display of fresh bread and rolls, wine and beer available along with the diet Coke and espresso, and a hot area where you can get roast chicken, steak (cooked to order) ham carved from the bone to your preference and a dessert table to die for. I had a small quiche and salad and a bottle of water - hey, we’re on our way to visit a chef, why should I fill up with restaurant food, no matter how good. The atmosphere of the place was not the hurry up and get out move very quickly mood one gets on the turnpike - there were families having lunch I suspect had come from the surrounding community rather than on their way to or from somewhere. (That’s the kind of construction that does not bear analysis, since any time you are going to some place, you are also coming from some other place.)
After a long trip or a long day, different people relax in different ways. Kemi (in the middle) obviously does it with her eyes closed. Mark likes to look at something that isn't moving (since he did all the driving). And Eric's wife is just fascinated looking at the other two.
We got to Eric’s around 3:30, visited for a little, chatted with his wife, who was on her way out for her afternoon shift working at a local home for elderly people, I gave him his hat and mug (I didn’t know what to bring a French chef as a gift, so I brought along a NY City Police Department cap, and a matching mug - I figured it was a pretty safe bet that these were things he would not already have), we had a tour of his house (three bedrooms, living room and dining room, small but nice kitchen, porches on the front and back, a huge garden area in the front, and a cellar underneath the whole house. He has done a lot of work on it - although he kept telling us how much work there was still to be done - and then we went out to a local market to do some shopping for things to take back to the UK - including a very nice bottle of single malt for the priest (that would be me). (The French supermarket - aisles and aisles of wine. Lots of fresh foods - but lots of very elegant packaged food as well. The usual toiletry and household goods departments, but it was a very large and very well-stocked place. Expensive - you can drop E100 very quickly. But the fun thing is that you can ask for help in any department, and suddenly there will be a cheese expert, for instance, to help advise you on your purchases.) Back to the house for a drink and some more talk, and cheese and fresh bread - both baguette and walnut bread. Mark took a short nap, and then when Emi (Eric’s wife) came back, dinner - ahem - ready?
Snails with garlic and butter as a starter, and then king prawns fried in a light sauce - more finger food - for another starter. (Fresh baguette and walnut bread throughout) Then fish and rice and spinach - a white wine with the starter and a red with the entree. There was more cheese and fruit - at which point Kemi faded away completely and headed for the bedroom and Emi disappeared because she had an early shift in the morning and was going to be leaving the house by 6 - and then Eric brought out a Baked Alaska. (This is the point where I say that it was a proper baked alaska, the kind you had when you were a boy - or a girl, depending - all made from scratch, no store bought things added to the top, or short cut things added to the sides - the final flame burning away merrily inside a half an egg shell inserted into the center of the fresh-made meringue - lovely, lovely, lovely. I know, I know, at this point my cholesterol is around 3000 but I’m on vacation. I’ll make it up when I get back.) Bed was lovely too.
Arguably the most perfect Baked Alaska I have seen (or tasted) in years.
A word about Eric - I met him when I visited Mark and Kemi on my way through in 2004, when I left Nigeria for good and headed for New York and then on to Kwajalein. He was the head chef at Truffles - could be he was running, or helping to run the place, I don’t remember. He is French, but a British citizen - his father had been with the Free French during the Second World War and had been given citizenship in gratitude for what he had done for Britain. His English is quite good, and he has worked at a variety of jobs all around the world, through many different careers, two previous wives, and he has definite opinions about many things. I found him delightful on my visit and we had stayed in touch, and he and Mark and Kemi are very close, and so this visit seemed a perfect chance to re-visit. He is about my height - probably a couple of years older, with a slightly balding crown and long hair on the sides and back. He has more jokes and stories ready for the odd moment than most Masters of Ceremony, and he is full of odd facts and histories (factual) about any number of things. Conversation with Eric is both entertainment and education, and eating with Eric - when he is the cook - is a delight to the tongue. The palate. All the senses. He is not thrilled with where he is at the moment - although he chose it - but the house is proving to be more work than he had anticipated and the surrounding community less stimulating than he had hoped and when his wife is ready to retire, I suspect the house (which by then will be in terrific shape) will be sold and they will move to a yet too be determined location. It could be in France, although I think there are other countries under consideration. There are pictures somewhere in this blog.
Here is Eric standing outside his house, thinking about all of the things he needs to do.
I don't know if he is coming or going - but then again,I often have the same problem with myself.
Sunday, March 11 - Eric went out go collect the croissant he had ordered yesterday from the local bakery as I was getting dressed (7:15 or so) and as I opened the shutters - yes, they use shutters - the vista was chilly and foggy and beautifully mysterious. And since I knew he was going to get fresh made croissant, it was even nicer. Coffee - email check - and fresh croissant with a tangelo and nice people. Around 9 we headed off for the Abbey.
For those with Google satellite connections or a bizarre interest in geography, we are in the southern part of France, east of Angers. There was a deep and exotic mist along the way, the sort of thing from which you would not be expected to see strange creatures emerging. There is a river along which we drive, and there was flooding in the river (I don’t know the name of the river - look it up) We passed Saumur where the trained horses are, like the Lippizaner in Austria, and Eric reminded us of a story I had previously heard, of the cadets riding out against the tanks in the second world war. Very dramatic and foolish and of course, tragically unsuccessful. We also passed the Mushroom Museum (we did not go into the Mushroom Museum, which leaves us free to imagine what would be included in a mushroom museum - THERE is something to occupy your thought for a while) and along the river there are les maisons des troglodytes - You know what a troglodyte is? A cave dweller. (If someone calls you a troglodyte, it is not usually a complimentary thing.) But here they have these great cliffs of a very hard chalk, and the walls of local castles and buildings are made from this. They dig into the cliffs to carve out the rocks, and what they have done is continue to carve in and build houses inside the cliffs - troglodyte houses - with beautiful almost Georgian design fronts, but except for the facade, everything else in the house is inside the cliff. Cool in the summer, well well insulated and therefore easy to keep warm in the winter, easy to make burglar proof (the only way anyone can come in is through the front door). Fascinating, and there are lots and lots of them. Some have built out, so there are rooms in the cave and rooms that stand outside. But it is a fascinating use of a natural resource. There is a small castle in one town along the way, looks like a miniature Walt Disney event. Ah France. If only they had mastered the art of politics like the art of baking bread. But I digress.
We arrived before the abbey had opened, and so in the best local mode, retired to a nearby cafe for a cup of coffee and the chance to sit and watch the locals. And let the locals watch us.
Fontevraud Abbey - This is the abbey, where Richard (the Lion-Hearted) and Henry and Eleanor are buried, and there are some pictures of it and us in it. There is a web site for those with a burning desire to know more about the place (http://xenophongroup.com/montjoie/fontevra.htm)
Those with theatrical background, think The Lion in Winter. Wonderful play - and those are the central characters. Saw a wonderful production with Katherine Hepburn as Eleanor.
This picture is really mostly so you can see the hat. Do you like it? If not, keep your opinions to yourself.
I'm not putting in a lot of pictures of the Abbey because there are lovely pictures on the web site. I have some - but you'll have to ask. Mark and me at the Abbey in the garden, and above a picture of the trio taking a break from being tourists.
Home for more cheese and cold meats and fresh bread and then it was time to head off to the ferry. Shorter trip this time - only about two and a half hours driving, on beautiful multi-lane highways with practically no one else on them. Toll roads in France let you use your credit card to pay, so there are fewer staff and quicker pass-throughs. Got on the ferry with no queue - very empty ship, so there was lots and lots of room. Free internet service in the lounge, lots of men watching rugby on tv - chairs to sleep in and decks to walk around in - did I mention that the weather has been breath-takingly beautiful, and everyone keeps commenting on how warm it is for March. I smile, and remind them that they ARE traveling with a priest. (Hey - I’m going to get blamed if it rains, so I might as well take a little credit when the sun comes out.) The ship did not sell newspapers, so no chance to get the International Herald-Tribune with the Sunday puzzle - I’ll try in Wimbledon and see if W.H. Smith has one left over.
There are two dynamics at work on a ferry - make the crossing comfortable for the passengers, and separate the passengers from as much money as possible while crossing. So the degree of comfort - here as in so many places - is in direct relation to how much you are willing to pay. Regular seats, reclining seats, sleeper seats and full cabins. Snacks from machines, snacks from snack bars and regular restaurants with scheduled seating times. Gambling halls - duty free shop - gambling machines - internet wireless connections for a fee - and on and on. I like the ocean and I like ships, so I rather enjoyed the whole thing - but the design of the place is not aimed at my tastes and so they did not get much of my money beyond the ticket. (And let’s be honest, I didn’t pay for that either, I was the guest of Mark and Kemi.) Who spent much of this crossing planning their next trip.
I, with a burning desire to be back in Wimbledon so I could do laundry, went from the ferry to the train station for more travel - the easy trip from Wimbledon to Fratton on a Friday afternoon turns into one of those “You can’t get there from here” moments on a Sunday evening. The ferry docked around 9:30 - and what with unloading cars and getting through formalities (which include John - that would be me, having to get out of the car to fill out a landing card for Customs - on this trip my passport was examined three times - as I thought, they are much more interested in who is coming into England than who is going out), on to the station to catch a 10:42 bus to Petersfield, then a train to Clapham Junction, and another bus to Wimbledon. Thank heaven for the cabs at the station, the notion of walking with bag and computer did NOT fill me with joy, especially since it was now something after 1 of the AM. Kemi thought I was crazy to do a trip like that at an hour like that, but I think I just wanted it done, so I could spend all of the next day making sure I was ready for the next two weeks. The bus to Petersfield came early, the train was waiting for the bus - it was a sad moment when we went thorough Wimbledon on the way to Clapham Junction - but I was in Wimbledon and cab and at Edge Hill by 1:15.
Monday, March 12 - There is (if I have anything to say about it) a special place in heaven for people who iron other people’s clothes. One of the services that Jesuit Mission provides is a wonderful woman who will do your laundry and iron your clothes. (She will also cook dinner for you.) I had said I could deal with my own cooking and washing, but someone to iron the shirts? This is good. And so I was up early to do my laundry so everything could be ready when she came in. David Smolira came in - the former Provincial of the British Province who is now based in South Africa. We chatted for a bit, and I went back to my packing and getting ready and he indulged in British television.
This is a logical place to pause - go get a sandwich, use the facility (remember to check for paper FIRST!) and stretch your legs. Tomorrow morning I am off to Austria for two weeks, so while you go and do whatever it is you do, I will think up a cute title for the next bit, and try to have everything neatly tied up and in place before your return.
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