London Chinatown and The Elixir of Love

We just came back from buying tickets for Elixir of Love at the Colesium. I was remarking to Wyona that we were in the line-up at 4:30 and it was 5:30 when we walked back in the door. What I was thinking about is that first you have to scan the London Theatre Guides to see what is playing from drama, theatre, musicals. Then find out who can go on which day. Next make the trip to the theatre that morning of to get discounted seats, or try to pick some up at Leicester Square. Add to that, meeting there if you have to be there in person to get the cheaper seats.

The woman at the ticket wicket explained to us that she needs ID. Wyona and I were complimented that the woman think we looked that old. She explained that there are many concessions: those over 65; those who belong to the Actor’s Guild; students; the unemployed. How does a person have ID to show they are unemployed, Wyona asked. The woman said you get a card saying you are in that category.

Being unemployed and being able to pay£35 for a ticket to the opera seem like mutually exclusive propositions to me. For The Elixir of Love, Wyona and Greg got tickets in the dress circle. I was in the stalls – A22. How close do you think I was to the conductor? I could see his profile for the whole concert, the movement in his hands, the expressions on his face, his crouching, leaning, weaving, mouthing of the words. When I got home, I demo-ed some of the moves for Wyona and Greg for they were in the balcony. Yes, said Greg, I was watching the conductor as well.

“You have my husband’s seat,” said the older woman in a seat next to me. “I turned it in the day before last when I could see he couldn’t come. His mother is sick. Or says she is.”

“Too bad. How old is she?”

“Ninety-four.”

“I hope she has enjoyed many such concerts as these in her lifetime.” What else was there for me to say?

“Oh no! She would never come here. Thinks it is a complete waste of time and money.”

The music started. The curtain went up. The production was first done in Stockholm, created for their national orchestra. Rossini’s Elixir of Love, modernized. The story line is essentially the same but the text now in English; the setting 1950’s Texas; the costuming included hair rollers for the women and jean overalls for the men; the heroine’s wig was reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe’s blonde coiffure; the charlatan actually uses phrases from Elvis Presley’s songs and mimes his hip gyrations and foot work. The seargant chews gum when he isn’t signing. His jaw was still going at the end of concernt bows.

I couldn’t not stop laughing at all of this, though no one else on my row appeared to find it amusing. “That’s the British for you,” I thought. However the audience did warm up to other humour.

In the second act when scene was on the outside of the restaurant and the bathroom stalls were visible, a woman stood in the line-up to the toilets, crossing her legs and doing a dance as she waited her turn for the bathroom. After the first verse of a song by the chorus, the sound of a toilet rushing brought ripples of laughter. After the second verse, the same flush, and more laughter. By the time the third flush was heard, the audience was warmed up to the potty humour and loved the fact that the woman came out of the restrooms with her dress tucked up in her pantyhose at the back. Pointless lavatory sequence. That is what the reviewer called it. I am with the reviewer on that one.

Not fair to tell all of this, and not say the voices soared and the tenor’s love song brought a quiet hush to the house – a nice beginning for a Valentine weekend.

Love,

Arta

We can get to Billy Elliott by taking the London bus #88 for one stop and the Victoria tube line for 3 stops – leave the house at 2:10 and be safely in our seats by 2:30 pm. Tonia has gone to Egypt, so for this week the set of four tickets has turned into events for 3: Wyona, Zoe and me.

Zoe and I took the C2 home. She stopped to pick up a pair of gloves that were in the middle of the road as we went to get on the bus. I was frantic, trying to move her along, telling her that someone else had dropped those gloves, and that we should leave them there. I was seeing cars whiz by us, and I was nervous.


As Wyona says when we run across streets, “Greg won’t let us live this dangerously when he is with us.”

a>Zoe’s mind couldn’t be changed. She picked up those gloves. I forgot about the incident until we were half way home. She had a look of utter amazement on her face when she was going through her purse and pulled out a second pair of gloves, just like the ones she had on. I didn’t think we had travelled over the area where she picked up the gloves, but she was right about one thing: they were an exact match with the gloves she does carry in her purse.

After Billie Elliott, we split up, Zoe and me heading home, Wyona heading to the Coliseum to get tickets for an opera tonight. Tonight Glen asked us on the phone how we are affording all of these West End Performances.

I asked essentially the same question to Wyona tonight when I asked her how long you have to live here until you feel that London is your town. “Oh, about 3 years,” she said. T

he truth is – sometimes the tickets are £2 pounds, and sometimes £20 pounds. If the tickets are more than that, we make blood oaths with each other never to tell the real price. Seniors get concessions 3 hours before the performance at the Colesium. At the Savoy, unsold tickets can be purchased one hour before the performance. Front row seats are available for £25 for Sister Act at 10 am the day of the performance. So much to remember!

Tonight, Wyona jumped the cue of younger people who were lined up for the seats that are sold to all, one hour before the performance. Seniors get the same tickets, 3 hours before the performance. So ... an around about answer to the question of where all of this money comes from – though an old memory from two years ago did surface for us tonight. The last time we saw Lucia de Lammermour, we got the tickets from the Colesium box office. When the clerk told us they would be £60 pounds each we choked. Both of us were shaking our heads from east to west, saying no, we couldn’t afford it, and we were whispering to each other, when will we ever get this chance again. We committed to never tell anyone the price of the tickets. We both remembered making that promise to each other.

Wyona and I are physically stronger now that we have been here 3 days. We are losing enough of our jet lag that we can do two shows in the same day now – without a bag of wine gums to keep us awake. I hate eating those little beasts, but they do stop a person from nodding off.

I was to study up on Donizetti’s Elixir of Love, the show at the Colesium. I made a date with Wikipedia and U-tube, where I get most of my information these days. So my research for the evening performance was done.

“I want my money back,” I whispered to Wyona after the first 3 minutes of the performance. She started to giggle.

“Arta, I was hurrying so fast I didn’t even look at what I was buying. I just said, give me two tickets for tonight and the woman at the ticket wicket showed me where they would be. At least I know that – those seats down there at the front of the dress circle are ours.”

When the hero began singing to the heroine and calling her Lucia, we knew we were in the wrong opera. Our heroine should have been called Adina if we were watching Rossini’s The Elixir of Love.

Our timing was two minutes off tonight on the way there. We had to sit at the back of the balcony until we could get to our good seats when the lights came up. Actually the timing was fine, it was the two sisters who were a bit off. We couldn’t run the same marathon with the same time that we had run at noon. Wyona was sucking air coming up from the tube at the Trafalgar Square subway – we just can’t run the escalators and the halls at top speed at 7 pm.

Juli McCue gave me a gift a couple of weeks ago, an RCA Digital Voice Recorder. What has taken me so long to get it turned on is that I needed personalized lessons to get it going. Having none, I have been reading the instruction manual that came with the gift. That was my morning’s – loading the Digital Voice Manager onto my computer, and figuring out how to turn on the record button and how to manage the files.

I have to admit, it is exhilarating to pull that machine out of my purse, speak a few words into it, and slip it back into its place – much faster than taking notes with a pen and pencil. I am not quite up to thinking of clever things to say into the recorder. Today I was practising saying the names of the bus stops into the recorder as Zoe and I rode on the top of the double decker bus home.

I was saying the names of the bus stops into the recorder?

Pathetic.

Love,

Arta

London, Oliver

The Thrill of the Flight
February 9, 2010-02-09

I didn’t feel the surge of excitement about this trip until I went to the garage to bring in a large suitcase and its matching carry-on, at which point. Not thinking about a trip is a survival technique – keep my mind focused on what has to be done before the trip and don’t let a hint of anticipatory pleasure enter my consciousness. When I cracked the seal of that bubble by bringing in the luggage, my heart just started pounding and I was wondering if I was going to make a trip to the hospital instead over a heart attack. By the time Wyona and Charise picked me up, I was packed and calmed down.

I couldn’t find Zoe in the car because she was in the back of the station wagon, surrounded by suitcases – one to the left of her, two to the right and one on her lap, perpendicular. Obstructing her view to the front and my view to the back (and her) as well. I only heard a small high voice, “Hi, Arta.”

On the drive out to the airport Wyona called back to her, “How are you doing back there, suitcase girl.” She didn’t answer, which was later to cause us our first problem. Charise and I unpacked the car at the unloading zone, yanking out the 8 suitcases and Wyona putting them on three trolleys. Zoe was still in the back seat when that was all over. I couldn’t coax her out of the car. Neither could Charise.

“She called me names,” she said, head down and pointing to Wyona.

“Oh no,” I thought. “She is mad at her mother, this woman who is taking her to London and we haven’t even entered the airport. And all of this after her counting down, first the days and then the hours until we were to leave.”

Wyona and I are hoping this doesn’t portend a difficult holiday for us and on occasion we say to each other, “Where is suit case,girl?” but we never say it loud enough for her to hear.

Zoe made her displeasure visible, pouting, pushing the cart with one hand, pushing it sideways at a 45 degree angle, scratching at her scar -- and all of this was happening when we were in the elite line. I watch Wyona’s coping skill: eye contact to lay down the law, and then, appear to not notice until Zoe’s own mechanisms find equilibrium. The clerk checking us in followed Wyona’s suit.

When Zoe is not her usual self she sometimes needs food. Wyona headed to that most glorious of food facilities, an airport fast food court. Fries and chicken strips are Zoe’s ambrosia – or at least she that feast helped her to talk to us without pouting.

Having some time on our hands, and being curious, Wyona checked out the Elite Lounge. She has a new status on her Auroplan mile card, upgraded from prestige to elite. The Lounge was just to the left after we got through security. Wyona could take in one guest and the second one would cost $25. Zoe doesn’t really eat or drink anything that was in the lounge: the soup, the salad, the vegetables, the wine. They had no fries and chicken strips in there.

And to continue speaking of food, we had 3 choices for meals and between us we ordered them all. The vegetarian meal was a shot in the dark, an upgrade from a child’s meal for Zoe – and was delivered as rice and a dahl curry. The bun that had seen better days but was the choice Zoe made of what was before her. The beef -- an Ethiopian stew. I ordered the chicken which came with microwave pasta – a crime punishable wth a fine, if not a prison sentence. The salad was stone-cold peas and icy cubed squash fushion – not a piece of lettuce in it.

I can’t believe my kids used to complain about the food I would feed them. If only I could have known I could strike terror to their hearts, I would have threatened them, “Be nice to me or I will feed you flight food.”

The Coke was good. That is what kept me awake for the nine hour flight. I asked for red wine with my meal. I like to tuck it in my purse, to keep it for Janet when she joins us in London. Unfortunately the steward cracked the seal for me. He must have spotted that my arthritic fingers wouldn’t do it on their own. I hope the wine is still good when Janet gets here April 24th.

I was wide awake, long into the flight. In fact, I was the only passenger on the plane still awake. Me and a few crying babies, those poor little things who make visible the discomfort all of us feel when packed into a plane. The rest of the passengers had spread out over the empty seats and were sound asleep.

I was glued to the movies on the screen in front of me. I didn’t feel up to any dramas: this was a holiday after all. I looked through the menu for the comedies. Because I am an avid reader of reviews, I knew exactly what I would be seeing in the movies, even knew the spoilers and whether the movie had been reviewed as a good one or a bad one. New York, I love You (2009); The Graduation (2009) and A Serious Man (2009).

I didn’t know the last comedy was written by Joel and Ethan Cohen until I saw the credits roll by. Have you seen the movie. It opens with the most curious of Jewish folktales. Roger Ebert says

[b]eginning with a darkly comic prologue in Yiddish, A Serious Man inhabits a Jewish community where the rational (physics) is rendered irrelevant by the mystical (fate). Gopnik can fill all the blackboards he wants, and it won't do him any good. Maybe because an ancestor invited a dybbuk to cross his threshold, Larry is cursed. A dybbuk is the wandering soul of a dead person. You don't want to make the mistake of inviting one into your home. You don't have to be Jewish to figure that out.

Ebert’s is right about one thing – the prologue is a fabulous hook to the movie, and the reason I didn’t turn off the film and go to sleep.

Only one piece of luggage was leaking by the time we got to the elevator in the flat – not bad for the bumps they had taken along the way. I laughed outloud when I was at the top of entrance to the Picadilly Underground and Wyona was at the bottom. An elegantly suited man brought up a piece of luggage, left it at the top of the stairs, got eye contact with me and said, “The woman at the bottom of the stairs said to just leave this at the top of the stairs,” and off he marched to his board meeting.

We left the luggage at 96/100 New Cavendish Street, London and went to get evening performance tickets for Oliver. One short nap later, we were in the theatre – beautiful box seat tickets at same-day discounted prices. We have never been in the theatre with such an amazing view of the proscenium arch. Zoe got nervous quite a few times, starting with the boys in the orphanage not having enough food. Tears as sliding down her cheeks when Mrs. Sowerberry, the co-owner of the mortuary business sings, “It’s your funeral”. And when Bill Sykes kills Nancy, Zoe’s distress is manifest by sitting straight up, rocking back and forth -- with her hands shaking. Wyona knows to sit by her and squeeze her whole body when she sits up straight and and then takes her hand and squeezing them. Zoe responds by squeezing back with her beautifully manicured hands. And then by choosing the Oliver CD as the set of songs she wants to hear the next day.

At one point in the dialogue of the show, Fagan turns to the people sitting in the expensive seats in the audience and says, “There are the rich people who come to the theatre”, and he stretches his arm all across the length of the theatre where the costly seats are found.

“And then there are the poor”, he says, pointing to the second and third balconies, and again he stretches his arm along the length of the theatre to the people in the gods, the highest, cheapest seats in the theatre, occupied by the poorest of the poor.

He continues, “Then there are the ostentatious people who sit in the boxes. They are the bankers, ... the ones who got bonuses this year. They can afford to bring their families.” And he points to us. We are pleased that he cannot see through our disguise.

There are 48 children in the cast – a lot of children to manage on stage. And in that final scene, where Fagan, now penniless, retreats, the street urchins are still following him, the youthful actors at their best – loving the stage work and hamming up their parts to the last possible moment. Hard to let them go.

Wyona and I have been talking about the themes of the musicals we have been seeing – asking why some of them capture such dark moments of history – Oliver mirroring Dickens story of orphanages and poor houses; Les Mis with Victor Hugo’s view of the French revolution. And then at yesterday’s matinee we saw Wicked, Gregory Maguires’ alternate reading of an American piece of fiction. We wonder why it has the same attraction, since it doesn’t originate in a dark European past, or out of our collective histories.

Do you think its charm comes from thinking about untold histories? Like the movie, A Serious Person, do we go to the theatre to see what happens when we invite the wandering soul of a dead person over our thresholds.

I can’t put my finger on it, yet.

Arta

London, Wicked

Because I Knew You / I Have Been Changed for Good
February 10, 2010

There were four women on the C2 double decker bus essentially going to Victoria Station, thugh heaed there at different times of the day. Tonia and Zoe split up with us, going more quickly totheir destination. They headed to get matinee tickets for Wicked on the tube – faster for them and they were going to get the £25 front row seats – first come, first served, one each, you have to present yourself at the ticket wicket in person to get a ticket.

Wyona and I headed out to the West End, to Aldwich, to get tickets for Lion King, so that Zoe could see that performance in the evening. And then we hoped on the Central Line to see if we could get Senior Tickets for Wicked’s Matinee.

Part of the travelling fun in London is watching the underground protocol of those who live here. On a two storied escalator, the more staid stand on the right and the walkers take the other isle, brushing the shoulders of those who are smoothly gliding up the 2 floors as we half-walk half-run up the escalator. I wondered how long Tonia would keep that pace for I could feel the burn on the back of my legs. She craftily slipped into a space on the right hand side and selected a position that has a place for me and for her. Two empty escalator steps. And then she laughs at my gasping for breath and said she learned that trick from Wyona...just move ahead as you are going up until you can find a comfortable place to slip in and stand for the rest of the way.

We met Zoe and Tonia later on Tottenham Court Road where there are blocks of stores all selling electronic equipment. How do you choose which store to go into and buy a camera when there are 2 blocks of such stores, side by side?

Sleazy looking,” said Tonia of the store in front of us. “But I have already checked it out.” She led us right in, and to the camera section. Wyona was driving the purchase, since she had told Zoe that this year we will not be doing a scrapbook of her London trip, but will be taking pictures to help remind us of where we have been. Tonia was busy testing the products with the salesman: asking if there is a wide-angle lens on the camera, does the camera do video, how big is the memory card, what is the difference in function of one camera over another. “My job was to remember that when Zoe picks a product to buy, if it is pink, it is better. The final purchase? A pink FujiFilm FinePix Z30.

The main event today wasWicked. I have guilt when it comes to seeing musical theatre more than once. Why would I see the same thing twice? Yet I don’t feel shame when it comes to participating in other events more than twice. Take church for example. Or going to watch a baptism. Or watching yet another episode of Law and Order. I am practising the next 5 weeks in London, trying to get to these theatres without twitching, without hearing that twinge of conscience that still comes as I am approaching the theatre steps, a still small voice saying, “Haven’t you been to this show once, you wastrel?”

I am using Tonia as my model for eliminating guilt. At the intermission today I asked Tonia to tell me how many times she has seen Wicked. Under 10, but over 5 she said. Wicked. I read the beautiful Wicked: the Grimmerie that is here in the flat. I looked at all of the products that you can buy as mementos of a Wicked visit. I walked to the top of the theatre at the intermission. But best of all is the moment that the curtains open.

I asked Tonia if she ever has a tear go down her cheek during some of the songs. She said not an all out bawl, though “Because I knew you” often gives her an emotional response:

I’ve heard it said / That people come into our lives for a reason / Bringing something we must learn / And we are led / To those who help us most to grow / If we let them / And we help them in return / Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true / But I know I’m who I am today / Because I knew you.

I don’t know what my favourite pick of tunes is – “Defying Gravity” or maybe “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished”. What I should do is go back to the Victoria Apollo Theatre enough times that I can make a definite choice about which is my favourite song. I need practise relieving my guilt about doing something twice.

Wyona is at the other computer tonight, trying to find a way for us to fly from Calgary to the lake when we get back in March. We can go directly to Kelowna for $69. But if we fly through Vancouver, we can go for $39. Add in the fact of her elite status and that means we can have an event together in Vancouver Lounge and fly over the Rockies twice on the way to Kelowna. Nice for me. I get to blog tonight and she plans future travel itineraries for us. The trip beats getting on the Greyhound for the same price.

Verdi's Simon Boccanegra

After doing all of the reading I could before seeing Verdi's Simon Boccanegra, I missed the performance.

This was not true of Moiya or Kelvin, who saw it in different venues -- one in Salmon Arm and the other at the Odeon Cineplex in Calgary. I heard some dialogue between the second and third act, and heard it on the radio as I was driving home Saturday evening. I also heard a few arias before my car drove up into the driveway. Nice, but nothing like what it would have been visually.

Moiya called a few minutes after I got in the house to say it was the best opera ever. I asked her, "Even better than Carmen". She replied, "Carmen is well known. This opera isn't, and it had the most marvellous tenor."

I replied, "The world's best. Placido Domingo. I have never seen him on the screen." Moiya hadn't caught his name, but she did catch the intensity of the singing and the complexity of the themes.

Kelvin didn't say much about his experience, only, "I am going again to the encore, March 30."

I guess that really says it all, except for Anthony Tommasini's review.

Arta

Thinking of going to the encore of Carmen Live at the Met

Hello,

If you take your kids to Carmen, Catherine, tell them that the opera opens, well, before it opens there is the curtain, with a slash of lightening through it, red. Then in the last act, that slash of lightening is reflected again in the black lace dress that Carmen is wearing. Just beautiful.

As well, there is a procession of everyone who is in a bull fight and they all walk by and the crowd is waving at them. Again, just stunning.

And do they know about the crucifix. How it stands in for “religion”, and often for Catholicism, but it can mean any part of Christianity. In the last act, Don Jose uses anything in his disposal to convince Carmen to come back to him: religion first (while holding his crucifix, then he gives that up and begs her, etc.

http://www.metoperafamily.org/metopera/history/stories/synopsis.aspx?id=9

A good link to refresh the story in your own mind.

As you can tell, I would love to be at the opera with them ... and you.

I smiled when you said that they picked up on terror of being in a coffin from watching Oliver. I was surprised that it was not the stabbing that hit them but the being enclosed in a coffin. A person never knows what causes terror. I watched for that scene with new interest when I saw Oliver in London last time. Tell Catie, Thomas and Rebecca that what I still have nightmares about is the scene in Disney’s ... can’t remember the name of it. The Headless Horseman.

Icabod Crane. That was one of the characters. I just went out to find out more, to see why I was so afraid.

http://hoosierinanity.blogspot.com/2009/10/darkness-of-disney-14-headless-horseman.html

Now I see others were afraid when I read that some theatres banned it.

Tell the kids that their grandmother was afraid of a cartoon!!

Love,

Arta – who thinks the Headless Horseman is the scariest apparition of all

Creme Brulee-- with cream, from Catherine

I have been enjoying the blog posts about creme brulee. Try this one on for size.

Recipe: Berry patch crème brûlée

This dessert is packed with flavour from blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries.

A medley of berries gives a juicy flavor-packed taste to every biteful of this creamy dessert. A touch of framboise lends a delicious uplift.

INGREDIENTS
2 1/2 cups mixed fresh blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries
6 large egg yolks
1/3 cup sugar, plus 6 tablespoons or 12 teaspoons for topping
1/3 cup mascarpone or sour cream
1 2/3 cups heavy (whipping) cream
2 tablespoons framboise liqueur

PREPARATION
1 Preheat the oven to 275°F. Reserve 1/2 cup of the berries. Place six 5-inch-diameter flan dishes or 6-ounce ovenproof ramekins in a baking pan. Divide the remaining berries among the dishes.

2 In a medium bowl, whisk the egg yolks until pale in color. Whisk in the 1/3 cup sugar until dissolved. Whisk in the mascarpone or sour cream, then gradually whisk in the cream. Stir in the framboise.

3 Divide the custard mixture among the dishes. Pour warm water into the pan to come halfway up the sides of the dishes. Bake in the oven for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the center of each custard still jiggles slightly. Remove from the oven and lift the dishes from the hot water. Let cool briefly, then refrigerate for at least 2 hours or up to 1 day

4 When ready to serve, place the dishes on a baking sheet and evenly sprinkle about 1 tablespoon sugar evenly over each flan-sized custard, or 2 teaspoons sugar over each ramekin-sized custard. Using a hand-held blowtorch, caramelize the sugar by holding the torch about 4 inches from the surface of each custard and moving the torch to brown the sugar evenly. Or, preheat the broiler and place the pan about 4 inches from the heat source; watching carefully, broil until the sugar turns golden brown, 1 to 2 minutes. If the custards have been caramelized by the broiler, refrigerate them for 10 minutes before serving. Garnish the top of the caramelized sugar with the reserved berries.

Makes 6 servings

From the following book: Creme Brulee by Lou Seibert Pappas



Catherine