Wednesday, 9 July: Summer Abroad, Day 68: London Again, Day 14

1) No, I didn’t ask myself “Why not experience rush hour on public transportation as long as I’m here?” But that’s the way the cookie crumbled this morning. The most alarming part of it was at the beginning, waiting for my District Line train at Gloucester Road. A man on another platform was ranting about something, probably in violent language I just couldn’t understand (but it was English). He looked to be in his fifties, dark hair cut so short you could comb it with a washcloth, wearing a baggy pair of blue shorts with his shirt draped over one shoulder, exposing 95% of his cask-sized torso. I could not tell if he was having a mental health episode or was just hoppin’ mad about something.

2) As usual, I made my train quite early, at Charing Cross for Sevenoaks. It doesn’t matter whether they tell you to keep left or right when going up or down stairs, because people do both. Be prepared!

3) The train was nearly isolated at first, but other passengers came on at Waterloo East and subsequent stations. And I passed the journey reading, at last, the UK edition of William Hanson’s Just Good Manners. And my goodness, it is turning out to be a treat.

4) To my relief, there was no difficulty getting a taxi at Sevenoaks for today’s destination: Knole, one of the stateliest of the Stately Homes of England, for generations the home of the Sackville/Sackville-West family (more on that later). I had never been, but certainly had heard about the house, and about both Vita and Eddy Sackville-West.

4a) The approach is entirely urban, until it isn’t. From a busy and narrow urban street, your taxi turns into a drive next to a school, and almost immediately you’re in woodland. And you drive, twisting and turning, through woods and fields until you get to the gate, drive through more woods and fields, and then you get to the parking lot and the entrance to the house. It’s quite something!

5) Curiously, Knole is celebrating Peter Rabbit and Beatrix Potter, though I could not figure out a connection between Knole and Potter. Walking up to the entrance, though, I felt like the ground had been decorated with “smart pills” in honor of the occasion. Do you know that joke? I think Mother told it to us when we were little. Of two little children, one was lamenting that he wasn’t very smart. “Well,” said the other, “you need to buy one of my smart pills for a nickel! Then you’ll be smart!” So the nickel and the pill were exchanged, and the first child started eating the pill. “Hey!” he cried. “This tastes like rabbit doodoo!” “Now you’re gettin’ smart!” came the reply.

5a) Don’t blame me, Mother told me that joke, I’m sure of it. I can just see her smiling and laughing now.

6) First stop: the Great Hall, hung with some beautiful portraits of former Earls and Dukes, and contemporary copies of famous paintings of George III, George IV, and Queen Charlotte given by the monarchs to the Sackvilles. (The G4 was a copy of his portrait by Lawrence, who I had just finished reading about in The First Celebrities.) And this presented my first problem with Knole: all the paintings are lit in such a way that they cannot be photographed well by tourists. There’s always a shiny white reflection someplace.

6a) The vivid and beautiful stained glass somewhat makes up for this.

La Baccelli. Remember dahlings, she’s made of plaster.

6b) Going through a small door into the Great Staircase, I happily recognized La Baccelli, the full length reclining nude statue of the mistress (!) of one of the Sackvilles, a Venetian ballerina. My English friends introduced me to this work on the program Hidden Treasures of the National Trust, which undertook to restore it. Unsurprisingly, the family had it hauled to the attic after the death of her lover, the Third Duke of Dorset. But now she’s where she ought to be seen, and she looks marvelous for her age.

6c) Just about everywhere there were guides eager to answer questions and share the Joy of Knole. At the top of the stairs I had a pleasant chat with the gentleman guide, particularly over a painting hanging in a passage of a moneylender going over his books with the Devil. Apparently it’s called The Miser.

6d) Next, a long gallery full of portraits in identical frames of Tudor monarchs and their advisors. It’s a beautiful room, and off it in two directions were bedrooms and other rooms, all with their interest. One was called the Spangle Bedroom, because the bed coverings were all embroidered with sequins!

6e) But the next room made me gasp, the ballroom, hung with portraits of later Dukes of Dorset and Earls of Sackville, moving from the late 17th to the early 19th century. Thank goodness someone asked the nice guide who they all were. Next, the Reynolds Room, dedicated the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was highly favored by the Third Duke (La Baccelli’s lover).

6f) The Cartoon Gallery was not a celebration of Disney or animé, but of Raphael, whose cartoons for a set of tapestries were purchased by Charles I, and eventually given to the Sackvilles. (Membership has its privileges, dahlings.) A corner of this gallery had been used to make a royal bedroom, with some pretty spectacular contents.

7) And that was it for the house! It’s such a big house I was rather expecting more, but my feet were just as well to continue the adventure elsewhere. Which turned out to be the Tower over the entrance. But once you climb up that precarious corkscrew stone staircase, I was not prepared to find a small suite of room that belonged to Eddy Sackville-West before World War II. Quite comfortable and unassuming, with a fire screen by Duncan Grant (who was Eddy’s lover for awhile), it was completely delightful (except for the stairs).

7a) Now Eddy was such a piece of work Nancy Mitford based the character of Uncle Davey on him in The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate. His cousin Vita (famous for being Virginia Woolf’s lover), resented that primogeniture allowed Eddy to inherit her childhood home, and she wrote this after dining there in 1923: “[Eddy’s] rooms are rather awful . . . it made me cross; it was all so decadent, theatrical, and cheap. My lovely Knole! And Eddy himself mincing in black velvet . . . I don’t object to homosexuality, but I do hate decadence. And it is a nasty fungoid growth on Knole of all places.” #dramaqueen

7b) I did go all the way to the top to see the views. Relieved my acrophobia didn’t kick in too much.

8) At that point Daddy was hongry, and set out for the Brewhouse Café, which seemed to be the only concession at Knole. And I think they weren’t expecting so many people, because there were a lot of people in line. Two ladies at the other end of a picnic table were very welcoming, and we waved off the wasps together.

8a) Waiting in the long line at the café, I remembered that in the novel The Thin Man one of the character’s nicknames is “Gnome, pronouncing all the letters.” And I thought, if you pronounce all the letters of Knole, you get “cannoli,” and they should add some to their menu.

9) Now, how exciting — the conservation lab in the old barn was open to visitors, and I was delighted to trek up there and see what was being worked on (from other National Trust properties): a two-piece rosewood cabinet with super-intricate ivory inlay that I’d be glad to have in my home; paintings and their frames, and a pine chest from 1820 with its original paint and gilding. The volunteer guide there was a complete delight, has been in that lab for visitors since they opened in 2016, and clearly Knows Her Stuff.

10) My dogs were barkin’, but I still put ’em to work because this was one of the rare days for a private view of the Sackville’s private gardens, and I had a ticket. Many beautiful features, vistas, plots and plans. Diamond-shaped beds of lavender, a circular herb garden planted in pie wedges, a pond (with a tennis ball in it), a woodland bed of astilbe. And at the back, a large oak tree missing one mighty branch, flinging itself against the brick wall as though it was an ocean wave in a storm.

10a) The with the summer heat and the wonderful, indescribable smell, I kept thinking of The Draughtsman’s Contract and wishing some of those living statues would turn up to enliven the scene.

11) After visiting the shop (I only bought one book!), the dilemma of how to get back to the train station presented itself, as there’s no cab stand at Knole, and I don’t use ye Yber. (Ye Lyftte is unknown here.) The visitor center staff were kindness itself, providing the numbers to call . . . and then calling them themselves when I kept getting “The number you called cannot be completed as dialed.” I love them.

11a) While I waited for my taxi I enjoyed watching the deer come close to the house to graze, including in the parking lot.

12) Lucky me, I got to the station in time to take an earlier train back to the city. And a nice man on the platform directed me to what turned out to be the express; I had come in on the local. I passed the time reading my new book, Adrian Tinniswood’s A Noble Tradition, his followup to The Long Weekend, about the trials and tribulations of English country houses in the 20th century. It’s already wonderful.

13) Alighting at Charing Cross, I took a chance that Rules would be open and could squeeze me in for an early dinner. And I was right. My Friend Who Knows Vienna also knows London, and Rules had been one of his recommendations. And rightly: the Rules cocktail is quite splendid, and I enjoyed pea soup with bits of goat cheese, chicken, leek, and mushroom pie; and my first strawberries and cream of the summer.

13a) The room itself was quite English, yellow walls and lamplight against the white sunshine of the afternoon outside. At a window table near me an interesting trio held forth in Italian: two men (one obviously devoted to working out, the other in a dark suit with no tie); talking with an 11-year-old girl. The suited gent took a video call on speakerphone.

14) Post rush-hour traffic on the Underground was unremarkable, and I’ve been writing this ever since. Tomorrow, the Tower of London!

Sunday, 6 July: Summer Abroad, Day 65: London Again, Day 11

1) Sometimes, when you’re awake earlier than you’d like to be, you just have to recognize that you won’t get back to sleep anyway and you might just as well get up. Sure, it was 7:00 AM, but I hadn’t turned out the lights until after 1:00 AM . . .

2) The forecast indicated a gray day, and since I always say that colors pop on a gray day, I pointed my shoes in the direction of Kew Gardens. I remembered that E.M. Forster story (I just had to look up the title, “Arthur Snatchfold”) with the milkman who enlivens a garden out of bloom by appearing in a yellow shirt, and put on mine — though I expected to see some wonderful flowers.

3) Leaving the hotel I turned right instead of left (to go to a different Tube station), and was surprised by a sculptural interpretation of a painting I saw in New York back in March: Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer Above the Sea Fog. Isn’t that fantastic?!

4) On the Underground, I felt fortunate to get a seat in a different car from those two women watching videos without earbuds in the station. Until I realized I was sitting a couple seats away from someone who was listening to some sort of foreign language podcast without earbuds. Annoyed, I turned to my right and . . .

4a) . . . and was so disappointed that the offender was an extremely beautiful man who Ought to Have Known Better. Think of Clark Kent at age 45, wearing a gray T-shirt with the neck cut out (remember how we did that when Flashdance came out?) to emphasize his clavicles, and slutty little glasses, listening to some irritating Slavic-sounding podcast. I was so demoralized I had to turn back to The First Celebrities.

5) Kew Gardens is a rural station, and to get to the gardens from the station you have to take a walkway over the tracks to the other side, where there’s a tree-lined square surrounded by little storefronts. A farmer’s market was in full swing, helped along by a fairly large jazz band playing . . . playing . . . what is that Ricky Martin song that ends “and just forget about it”?

6) Kew Gardens, extensive and impressive, drew me first to the tropical greenhouse, which is exactly what I think a greenhouse out to be. The plantings outside masterfully combined colors. A border of dusty miller and geraniums made me think of the floral efforts of years past to realize the school colors of ye Instytytte; cardinal red is easy enough, but the floral world doesn’t include much silver gray, and dusty miller is not always easy for centerpieces.

6a) Warm and clammy inside, I felt overdressed, and remembered General Sternwood’s unhappiness in his orchid house in The Big Sleep*. “Do you like orchids? They are nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men. And their perfume has the rotten sweetness of a prostitute.”

Influencers at work. How on earth was I going to get past them?

6b) Occasionally on this trip I’ve come across influencers out to create content. Today’s was an Asian woman dressed up as Flopsy Mopsy Bobbsey with her crew. Nothing a good brisk “Excuse me” couldn’t get me out of.

6c) Several places I noticed plaques for the audio guide, but today I had come just to see and be, not to learn and do.

7) More exuberant plantings and color combinations as I continued in the direction of Kew Palace, observing all the family groups with young children. The sun was starting to flash out now and then, and the day was feeling a little warmer.

This is the rear elevation.

8) Palace? It’s a four-story house! In fact it was first known as the Dutch House, but this was George III’s principal home during the years of his mental illness. It’s maintained now in some part as a means to have a wider conversation about mental illness — which is healthier than the old way, which was just not to talk about it at all.

8a) I hadn’t known that G3 played the flute, and they have his transverse flute made of china on display. Will they some day invite Lizzo to play it?

From the King all the way down to baby Amelia.

8b) One of the most novel museum displays ever was to provide a family portrait of sorts of all the G3 family as dressmaker’s dummies.

8c) As at Hampton Court, they use china on the dinner table to help tell the story of life in the palace. I think it’s very effective.

8d) During his illness, G3 lived on the ground floor and in a wing that is no longer there, and Queen Charlotte and four (?) of their daughters lived on the upper floors. The most moving artifact there was the chair in which Queen Charlotte died, in the room where she died.

9) Interesting as the palace was, I was more drawn to the gardens behind it: a parterre, and a “nosegay garden” full of sweet-smelling flowering plants, complete with a few bees and butterflies. I could only have wished that they had a maze.

The palace seen from the nosegay garden.

10) By this time it was midday, and I was ready to be sustained. A reasonable walk brought me to the Brasserie Restaurant, across an ornamental lake from the tropical greenhouse. I was shown to a table inside, which later became dominated by a party of ten, and served an excellent cauliflower soup and schnitzel (after all the schnitzel I had in Vienna). Just wonderful.

11) Didn’t expect my lunch timing to help me avoid a rainstorm, but when I left it was apparent there had been a lot of rain . . . and sprinkles were still sprinkling. And we don’t complain about it, because the grass is scorched already.

12) Teenage geese caught my eye, goslings that just hadn’t completely grown up yet, strutting about and pecking at the lawns and pavement.

13) It would have been a shame to have gone all the way to Kew and not seen the Great Pagoda, so I headed in that direction, discovering new bits of information about the garden along the way. The pagoda tower itself is quite impressive, especially with the dragons added back to its many eaves in 2018. But my towers days ended at Sagrada Familia in 2022, and I was content to scan the bottom floor and look up the stairwell.

14) The temperate greenhouse led me from Raymond Chandler’s General Sternwood to Tennessee Williams’s Violet Venable. Aside from that Flopsy Mopsy lady and a very nice woman in a wheelchair, I saw a lantana, which brought me right back to Oak Park Elementary School. So if I wake up screaming tonight, you’ll know why.

15) The roses behind the tropical greenhouse I had missed earlier, and now I got to enjoy them fully, especially their scent.

15) Rounding the corner, I got the bonus of a setatue of a sweet white greyhound. A father and son were playing hide and seek next to it.

16) They have quite an extensive shop, but I didn’t feel like carrying anything extra, and retraced my steps all the way back to London.

17) And there, I fell into my little bed like a stone and sawed gourds for almost two hours. Then, it being Sunday, I thought I ought to go find out what this “Sunday Roast” thing was I’d seen advertised at so many pubs. Being very sleepy still, I just drifted into the first pub I passed on High Street. I made do with a double gin and tonic and ordered a steak for my Sunday Roast, which was quite good. I sat at my somewhat unsteady table ploughing through both my dinner and The First Celebrities — in the latter case the story of Lady Charlotte Bury, whose decline from the beautiful daughter of a duke to a lady who had made two unfortunate marriages for love, then became a novelist out of financial necessity, and then published her correspondence (and that of her friends!) about George IV and his family (!) — well, it’s quite a tale.

18) Tomorrow, the Imperial War Museum!

*The novel. In the movie the line ends “ . . . rotten sweetness of corruption.”

Fri-Sat, 4-5 July: Summer Abroad, Days 63-64: London Again, Days 9-10

1) Friday I just didn’t leave the hotel until evening, so there’s nothing to report except that I recorded my annual reading of the Declaration of Independence.

2) But in the evening I headed off to Spitalfields, where I had been invited for drinks before dinner with an old Boston friend and his husband. After some confusion, Craig and I ended up meeting at Liverpool Street Station to walk together to a charming little house across the street from a large church.

3) The four of us sat in a tiny brick-walled garden heavily grown with jasmine and other vines, sharing a bottle of red wine and sparkling talk in the golden evening, picturesque as all get-out.

4) Then it was off to dinner, which we found after a walk of (to me, a stranger in the neighborhood) many twists and turns. Our destination was a Spanish place that specialized in delectable small plates — and more red wine.

5) And then we enjoyed a nightcap at a nearby pub, which I’m afraid was very noisy indeed.

6) Saturday was London Pride, and Craig and I had arranged to meet at Green Park. The Underground was crowded, but not only with Pridegoers. In fact at one station a woman got in wearing a 70th birthday tiara with a matching sash, accompanied by two younger women.

7) Props to London Pride right off the bat for excellent signage. At the exit to Green Park I passed more than one sign that said KEEP MOVING. I wish I had taken pictures . . . but I had to keep moving.

8) Craig and I met just past the barriers and staked out a spot on the parade route. And in contrast to other Prides I’ve attended, it kicked off at 12:03 PM, only three minutes late, with the traditional motorcycle contingents.

8a) The joy of the day! The exuberance, and the expressions of protest. And the wide variety of delegations, from every corner of our community, expected, and surprising. The rainbows, the costumes . . . and then the umbrellas, as a light rain began. I’m afraid my view of the parade was blocked for awhile.

The B, free!

8b) And then the parade itself was blocked for awhile. A long while. Now, I’m used to this at Prides, but we were facing the same delegations for quite a bit of time. And one of the most interesting moments happened during this period. A pink balloon shaped like the letter B escaped from someone’s hand and went sailing up in the wind, up and down in front a building across the street. At one point it got caught in some scaffolding and we thought its flight was over, but another gust freed it, we all cheered . . . and then it drifted out of view over the roof. “B free!”

Apparently this was the vehicle that was vandalized and stopped by the protestors later in the parade.

8c) Later we found out from a volunteer and a couple ladies in front of us that the delay had been caused by a couple protestors who had glued (or otherwise attached) themselves to one of the lead vehicles in the parade.

8d) But Craig and I hung on, having seen a marching band in the distance — and for me any kind of parade needs at least one good marching band. And then there they were! Turns out they were leading several military contingents, including the Royal Navy among others.

9) Not too long after that — after the passing of someone dressed rather convincingly as her late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II — Craig and I decided to head off for lunch after two hours of the seven-hour parade. Through Green Park, past the Palace, we ended up at a French place called Something Antoinette for a lovely brunch. We ended up comparing English and American eggs over my salmon Benedict.

10) And then we bid each other farewell at St. James Park station; Craig returns home tomorrow, while I remain here another week. It’s been really nice to have a close friend at the ready after two months of travel.

11) It will not surprise you to learn that a NAP was in order, but at 6 I forced myself up and went off to dinner at a French place near my hotel: mushroom rillettes, fish with hollandaise and broccolini (only they call it tenderstem broccoli or some such), and then a chocolate praline torte a la mode. And a rosé negroni — how novel! — quite delicate in fact, but with too much of a hint of grapefruit for me.

11a) The First Celebrities kept me occupied through dinner, particularly the Duke of Buckingham and Chandos. Two things stood out to me: a) his extreme profligacy, and b) the author’s comments on the duke’s account of an 1827 voyage: “. . . the book is just the vivid miscellany a travelogue should be, informative and entertaining, moving rapidly from scene to scene and topic to topic, structured only by the author’s personality and itinerary.” While the first is certainly a warning, the second is what I hope my own account of the last couple months has been.

This school group was in front of us for much of the long pause caused by the protest. Here they are doing the Macarena. Not the sign, the reassurance we all want: YOU ARE VALID.

Thursday, 3 July: Summer Abroad, Day 62: London Again, Day Seven

1) Getting up at 9:00 AM with a headache, the consequence of having stayed up so late the night before — well, let’s just say it colored my morning. And really, the rest of the daylight hours. I wrote my pages in a crowded breakfast room, spent the rest of the morning reading and writing, and only went out to collect my shirts from the dry cleaner and grab a sandwich.

2) With the help of a brief nap and a couple Tylenol, I put myself together for my Big Night at the Opera, Carmen at Covent Garden. There haven’t been many opportunities for full canonicals since I left the Queen Mary II May 12, but the opera is always one. And if I do say so myself, I looked splendid.

2a) Back in 2022, I found a wonderful bottle of cologne in Granada because I wanted to take the scent of Spanish orange with me after that remarkable trip. Three years later, I couldn’t even coax the last drop out of the bottle. Farewell, scent of Spain! I still won’t forget you.

3) I indulged in an early dinner at the Ivy on Kensington High Street. I thought it would be easier to eat near my hotel rather than hunt around restaurants near Covent Garden with everyone else going to the opera. And my gamble paid off: a lovely little dinner of shredded duck (basically tuna salad with duck) and pickles, a minute steak, and two negronis. And then it was off to the Underground with The First Celebrities, Kensington High Street to Earls Court, change to the Piccadilly Line, and straight on to Covent Garden.

4) This was only my second performance at Covent Garden (the first was Aida in 2023). My first descriptions of it came from Clemence Dane’s gigantic novel The Flower Girls (as much as I enjoy it, I can’t recommend; it’s just so long and meandering), and it still thrilled me to recognize how accurately she described it, with all the pink lampshades on the balcony sconces, and Uncle Paxton’s choice of the best seat in the house: front and center of the top balcony.

4a) This time I noticed another detail from the novel, a staircase divided by a brass rail.

No photography during the performance.

4b) But my own seat was the level three balcony, second row center. I had a superb view.

5) It’s my fate in life to arrive early to sit on the aisle so I can stand aside for everyone in the center of the row arriving in the 90 seconds before the curtain goes up. I accept my fate gladly, knowing I’ll be out of the theatre more quickly than they.

6) My first encounter with Carmen was when I was in college and someone gave me a double LP of the entire opera with Regina Resnik as Carmen and Joan Sutherland as Micaela. And it’s so beautiful you wish Georges Bizet had lived to write another; there’s nothing like Carmen. This would be my first time to see it live.

7) The house was agreeably full. During the overture I heard a murmur of familiarity through the house when the Toreador theme was played.

8) Carmen is an opera about people operating on the fringes of society — factory workers, smugglers, possibly corrupt cops — which feels easy to forget when set with lots of Period Quaintness or Spanish™ accessories like fringed shawls, fans, and tortoiseshell combs. Not this production. Set in the early 1970s, lots of overalls and cotton shifts, polyester shirts with long collars, short shorts, stripes, bright colors. On her first entrance, Carmen looked like Rosie the Riveter, but with a red rose tied in the knot of her red bandana. All the sets — the police station, Lillas Pastia’s desolate roadhouse, the mountain warehouse of the smugglers, the dry weedy ground outside Escamillo’s dressing room — looked like desolate sun-baked Hell.

8a) This concept was never more vivid than in the presentation of Micaela, not as a beautiful but shy village maiden, but as a 1970s nerd girl with big glasses, center-parted long hair, and an ugly plaid skirt.

8b) Carmen’s costumes captured what we think of as Spanish™Style, but with a sleazy 1970s twist: a wrap dress with flounces that malfunctioned easily, a leather miniskirt with a red blouse, bell bottoms with a midriff-baring ruffled top.

9) The children’s chorus, so important to Carmen, got an additional workout by introducing the last three acts with letter placards spelling out the time, e.g. “Deux semaines plus tard.”

9a) I have an ambivalent relationship with supertitles, but acknowledge how helpful they are.

10) Smuggling never sounded so light and airy as it does in the quintet in Act II. But the active presence of guns on stage cut through that dainty illusion. (I can’t tell you all the ways.)

11) The death of Carmen did not involve a gun, or a knife, and was difficult to watch.

12) And speaking of Don José, the action in Act I made clear how little his fellow officers thought of him, which surprised me. He was the most polished and put together of them all, until Carmen’s flirtations forced him to loosen his tie. His look only degraded further throughout.

13) But possibly the most startling innovation was the silent presence of the spirit of Don José’s mother, dressed in black dress and sweater as many a Spanish peasant widow, a constant presence in the life of her son. She participated in the action once, to great effect.

14) Human emotion is clumsy, and this production did not hide from that clumsiness.

15) Going to the theatre can be clumsy, too, but most of us try. I was seated one in from the aisle, and at the start of Act I a young woman, lost and confused, asked if the vacant aisle seat was taken. “Not by me,” I said. With only one intermission, that could have been thorny for whoever did have that seat. And we found out during the Act II overture, when latecomers were seated (a hubbub): an older, ponderous woman both unhappy and anxious, and apparently accompanied by two men seated nearby but not together.

15a) The opera may have been sung in French, but that still doesn’t give you the right to speak Italian on a speakerphone in the men’s lavatory. Just astonishingly bad manners.

15b) And during the Act III overture, after intermission, an usher had to speak out loud to tell someone to stop recording or otherwise using their phone. It was startling.

16) The curtain calls were rapturuous and enthusiastic, especially for the leads. But I was interested to note how the ladies handled their bows in their 1970s costumes. The singers who played Frasquita and Mercedes (I can never remember which is which) took different approaches: the first took her time marching on stage and bowed from the waist; the latter almost hurried to her place, and gave a traditional curtsy in her minidress. Micaela, in what could have been a postulant’s uniform, curtsied and blew kisses, while Carmen, in bellbottom jeans, ran to the center of the stage and bowed from the waist, hands on her knees. The joy she communicated!

17) A rarity, I had a clear shot at the exit, and I did all but run for it when the curtain finally started coming down. And didn’t meet any obstacles until I was down two floors. That never happens.

18) What a night! And what a throng trying to get into Covent Garden station! At least there were lifts.

19) Back on Kensington High Street, I impulsively decided on a post-concert drink at the Ivy. “We just closed,” the hostess whispered to me. “Just one negroni!” I pleaded . . . and she ushered me into the bar. And it was lovely.

Wednesday, 2 July: Summer Abroad, Day 61: London Again, Day Six

Wednesday is best summed up in three parts: Morning, Death, and Life.

MORNING

1) I went down to the breakfast room in shorts and a T-shirt for coffee and to write my pages at a table in the little back room. At the table closest to the entrance a woman was arranging a plate with three color-coordinated greeting cards and two or three flat packages; I figured it was for someone’s birthday.

2) And then I spent the rest of the morning in bed, writing, and brooding a little, and knowing I needed to do something on this unplanned day. When I found out that Isambard Kingdom Brunel was buried at Kensal Green, that settled it.

3) When I’ve gone out on almost any given day since Paris, I’ve worn my pen on a chain and carried my journal, a notebook, and occasionally whatever I’m reading. Today was no different, only I celebrated that the heat had finally broken by putting on a long-sleeved shirt over my T-shirt. The day was cloudy with spatterings of rain, so I left my sunglasses in my room.

DEATH

1) Getting out at the Kensal Green Tube stop felt like I was arriving in a little-used part of the city. The West Entrance to the cemetery was about a five-minute walk away. While Brompton Cemetery, which I visited a few weeks ago, is fairly bustling with people, Kensal Green is more like Forest Hills at home. There’s almost no one there, but you’re never really alone.

Old and new together — but must be mostly new, as they are all so upright.

2) A few things about Kensal Green. First, old and new graves are mixed together much more than I expected; I can only imagine that the office changed their criteria for open space, and some of them looked as if they’d been parked in former pathways. The contrast was a little jarring, glossy black or white granite with gold lettering cheek by jowl with grayed marble.

2a) Second, I don’t know if the ground is extra unsteady or what, but almost everything seems to be off-center or tilting one way or the other.

2b) Third, there must be an Advanced Decay setting someplace, because even graves of this century already looked like they’d been there for a century.

2c) Finally, like Brompton, the cemetery is letting some sections revert to “Natural Areas:” “This area has been left in a more natural state because the cemetery is working with various agencies to encourage wildlife and biodiversity in the grounds.”

3) With no map and only a vague idea that I ought to find the Dissenters Chapel, I wandered a bit until I found an arrow. Whaddya know, there’s HRH the Duke of Cambridge! Passing one mausoleum across from him, I was startled when half a dozen birds flew out of it! Then, walking down a long grassy path, I saw at the end of it a freshly mown space inhabited by a flock of pigeons. I will admit to having made one especially firm step to set them airborne.

4) A U-turn brought me to what I now know was the Anglican Chapel (acting and appearing as a ruin), where many of the pigeons I had disrupted had landed on the cornice . . . where they could eye me ominously. But I paid them no mind, nor the two workmen who had rounded the corner in a truck, continued down the avenue at the back and . . .

Princess Sophia, from the side. Note that big ol’ weed.

5) . . . and found someone I’d been looking for, The Princess Sophia, fifth daughter of George III. A few years ago I had read Princesses, a joint biography of all six daughters of George III. The king had not wanted any of his daughters to marry, and only one did during his lifetime. Sophia’s reputation was blackened by having given birth to an illegitimate child, and until just now (when I looked it up) I wondered if that was why she was buried here and not with the rest of the family. Turns out she wanted to be close to her brother, the Duke of Sussex, who apparently was buried on the other side of the avenue and who I missed entirely.

5a) Sophia’s monument sprouted some Weeds of Impressive Size. Someone ought to do something about that.

The full epitaph of John St. John Long.

6) Continuing, I found a most curious epitaph that sounded a bit like a slam. It concluded “Stranger, as you respect the receptable for the dead (as one of the many that will rest here), read the name of John Saint John Long without comment.” What on earth?! I just had to look him up; he was a quack doctor who falsely claimed he could cure tuberculosis, was brought to trial twice, and acquitted once.

Harold Pinter.

6a) Stepping behind Dr. Long’s memorial for more photos I found a beautiful white marble Orthodox cross carved in shallow relief, and then on the ground . . . wait . . . Harold Pinter, what are YOU doing here?! A flat marker flush with the ground, already aged with lichen (and he only died in 2008). “Playwright — Nobel Laureate — Beloved Husband of Antonia Fraser.” His location is almost as obscure as e.e. cummings’s grave at home.

7) My wandering had taken me to the Main Gate (I had entered through the West Gate), where at least I found a grid map of the cemetery that numbered all its sections. And showed me the true location of the Dissenters Chapel, where I went right away. And there was someone else I’d read about: Jind Kaur, Maharani of the Punjab, the grandmother of Princess Sophia Duleep Singh. (Remember I saw portraits of Sophia’s father and eldest brother at the NPG.) I knew she would be there, but it was still reassuring to have found her.

The Reformers Memorial.

8) I saw an obelisk with names inscribed all the way up to the top, which seemed unusual. That’s how I discovered the Reformers Memorial, “erected to the memory of men and women who have generously given their time and means to improve the conditions and enlarge the happiness of all classes of society.” Among other listed were Harriet Martineau, Beatrice Webb (but not her husband Sydney, as far as I could tell), John Ruskin, William Morris, and Elizabeth Fry. A beautiful and necessary reminder.

9) At this point I had a rough idea where to look from Brunel from Find A Grave Dot Com. As I walked along, I noticed that some new grave sites also included wooden benches (obviously not provided by the cemetery), and that several had a rosebush planted by them. While others were decorated with a profusion of silk (or possibly plastic) flowers, pinwheels, and large floral letters.

10) At last, I found Brunel. Because of his reputation and achievements I expected a fairly grand monument. But no, it was just a rectangular block of white stone, quite plain, with the names of his parents, himself, his wife, his oldest son and his wife, his youngest son, and his niece Lilian (who had been born well after his death). And on each side was engraved the name of a great-great-grandddaughter, the youngest of whom died in 2009. It’s a marvelous thing, a family plot.

11) From a cool gray day with bits of mist, the sun had come out as I continued. I had been observing the, shall we say, jumble of graves — not just because many of them were toppling over onto each other, but the different styles, languages (I saw graves in Greek, Russian, Chinese, Latin), and expressions. The informal “Dad and Mum” and “Granddad” were used quite frequently on newer graves. At one point I saw a 19th-century obelisk that had fallen over and broken, showing that it was a hollow column. The top of one side, “In Ever Loving Memory,” was nearly covered by ivy, and within a few years it will sink entirely into the earth. My entire visit to this cemetery underlined for me our common humanity, and that regardless of our individuality, we will all merge together in the earth, anonymous but to whatever spark of awareness our souls retain.

12) I sat awhile on a bench in a large pavilion memorial to a young Indian boy, fairly new, before setting off to find two remaining graves: Marigold Churchill and Wilkie Collins. The trek to find the former led me past roped-off areas with signs warning of Giant Hogweed, “a biennial weed. The sap can cause skin irritation . . .” That led to a bit of backtracking, but then I did find little Marigold, the fourth child of Winston and Clementine, in a large plot for one toddler under a large tree with low-hanging branches. (I learned today that Marigold was reinterred with the Churchill family at Bladon in 2020.)

The lavender is absorbing this grave. What a way to go!

13) The search for Wilkie Collins led me back over ground I had covered, to the Anglican Chapel (which the pigeons had already left). I found one grave entirely covered by a giant lavender bush. I rubbed a couple of the flowers between my fingers to smell the lavender, and saw the bees enjoying it as much as I. (I really must get some lavender at home.) But where was Wilkie?! Turns out all the paths on Gyygle Myps are not paved. I saw a well-mown grass path, said “Well, someone famous must be down there,” and the someone famous was Wilkie Collins, author of The Woman in White.

14) I spent another ten minutes or so rambling in a different section of the cemetery before leaving, the grass paths reminding me of Louisiana, and the discovery of the grave of a well-known gunsmith.

15) Was that man filming me on the Underground?

LIFE

1) I got back into my room about 5 PM, and made the mistake of lying on my bed. After arranging to meet Craig for dinner, I set the alarm for 45 minutes, which passed without me knowing it. Rising heavily, I took my time to put myself back together to head to his side of the Thames.

1a) And I brought with me only what I’m reading now, The First Celebrities: Five Regency Portraits, by Peter James Bowman, one of the books I picked up in Bristol. An appropriate choice, a book about fame and celebrity, after seeing the results of both in a cemetery.

2) Craig and I sat on his balcony over a glass of wine and talk about the future before we set off for a little Italian restaurant his sister has recommended, Legare. And indeed, it was wonderful: burrata pugliese, spaghetti burro, and a lovely bottle of red, and the staff were so lively and pleasant. And our table talk was lively and pleasant, too, and hopeful. Which we all need right now, wouldn’t you say?

Tower Bridge after dinner.

3) We walked along the Thames a little after dinner, and then it was time for me to get back on the Underground to my Final Hotel. Which leads to my final observation that it was the Night of Voluminous Skirts. At the table next to us was a young heterosexual couple. The young woman was quite beautiful, long blonde Alice-in-Wonderland hair, and dressed in perfect simplicity: a white cotton top that exposed a little midriff and one shoulder, and an enormous matching skirt that could have been a circus tent. The perfect look for summer; she must have been channeling the late Millicent Rogers.

3a) Then, walking to London Bridge station, I saw another young woman in a white top, wearing another very large skirt, this time of orange or coral with one large ruffle, and rising in a slight V in the front. I immediately remembered a ballgown one of the girls wore in the Cotton Candy Players production of Cinderella (in which I played the court magician). It’s so odd how things pop up in my head.

3b) Finally, on the Underground, another young woman basically wearing a knee-length white tutu over black tights, and a spiked bandeau in her hair, as though she was fleeing a punk Giselle.

4) I ended up staying up quite late, until 1:45 (!), and I am feeling it this morning.

Tuesday, 1 July: Summer Abroad, Day 60: London Again, Day Five

1) Kensington High Street reminds me a little of Centre Street in JP, my own town center. Everything you need is there: a bank, a hardware store, a post office, a dry cleaner, a pharmacy, a convenience store, a stationer, a few restaurants, even a house museum*. I feel at home here.

2) It has been hot, and even though I woke early, I started the day late in the morning with errands. I had no plans, and I started to get that feeling that if I didn’t do something, I was going to fall into a Bad Mood. Solution: book an afternoon ticket to Westminster Abbey.

3) That meant noon lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant, and the Circle Line from Kensington High Street to Westminster. And taking it all at a stately pace because of the heat.

4) A lot of tourists were sitting around wherever they could find shade around the Abbey. One group appeared to be a gathering of old veterans or something, and I was reminded of some of my old reunion classes as ye Instytytte.

4a) The lines to get into the Abbey are nothing like those to get into Notre Dame. I sat on a bench under a tree near the first checkpoint, assessing crowd movement and interest, and decided to take a chance and try to get in 15 minutes before my time. My gamble paid off.

5) Tourists first walk outside the church to a large side entrance, the North Porch. After that, barriers loosely guide one through the North Transept, the North Aisle, down the center of the nave through the choir, through the Ambulatory (which includes Henry VII’s Chapel), out the Ambulatory into Poet’s Corner, down the South Aisle, and then out the Western Door. Looking at a floor plan, I now realize I missed the cloister, but there’s a reason for that . . .

Haphazard.

5a) Long story short, it’s beautiful. Full of memorials, reeking of history (and a couple particular tourists), it all feels timeless, thoughtful, but haphazard.

5b) And not quite as full of people as the Mona Lisa gallery was at the Louvre, but . . . but it could have been.

5c) If Fame is guaranteed by a memorial in the Abbey, I do feel that those with floor plaques got the short end of the stick. Some of them have been worn to illegibility by centuries of feet, while others are obscured with racks of folding chairs or corners of signs.

5d) All these incredible monuments in the North Transept, triumphs of the sculptor’s art, and I found myself asking “Who on earth are these people?” At least I recognized the names of 19th-century prime ministers, whose statues were clustered together: Canning, Disraeli, Gladstone, Peel.

Brigadier General Hope’s memorial.

5e) How’s this for an epitaph? From the monument of Brigadier General Hope, “erected by his diƒconsolate widow,” who was so disconsolate she forgot to include his first name:

“To thoƒe who knew him

His name alone conveys the idea

Of all that is amiable in the human character:

Diƒtinguiƒhed by ƒplendor of family,

A cultivated taƒte for letters

And ƒuperior elegance of manners . . .”

5f) Another delightful innovation was the monument to Dr. John Blow, “Doctor of Musick” long associated with the Chapel Royal. His epitaph concluded “His own Muƒical Compoƒitions, (Eƒpecially his Church Muƒick) are a far nobler Monument to his Memory than any other can be raiƒ’d for Him.” And to illustrate it, the bottom of his monument is two pages of music, “A Canon of 4 Parts.”

5g) To walk from the nave into the choir was a beautiful experience, a realization that yes, I’m really here in this place. Its red lampshades and blue walls made it feel quite protected from the rest of the Abbey. And yet I was far from alone.

5h) Moving through the Ambulatory things started to feel more crowded and more medieval. The little chapels had only one entrance, and once I did have to mutter “There’s more room for you in there when we get out” at some impatient tourists. It’s just like riding the T . . .

Braids to the wind!

5i) But then I found the tombs of Elizabeth I and her sister, “Bloody Mary,” which was one of the most important reasons I was there in the first place. I don’t know why I thought Bess had been buried with her cousin and rival Mary, Queen of Scots (more on her in a moment), but in fact she shares a tomb with her half sister and rival Mary I. While their tombs are beautifully realized, what moved me most was the floor plaque at the entrance: “Near the tomb of Mary and Elizabeth, remember before God all those who divided at the Reformation by difference convictions laid down their lives for Christ and conscience sake.”

5j) Then came the Henry VII Chapel proper (Bess and Mary are buried in the side chapel on the left), which includes some pretty spectacular modern stained glass.

Mary!

5k) And at last, my beloved Mary, Queen of Scots, whose tomb is in the small chapel to the right. (And who, I gather, was brought there by her son, James VI and I, which I read about only last month in Queen James). Mary has been special to me ever since Mother and Daddy got us the World Book Encyclopedia in third grade. I was thrilled to discover her surviving embroidery at the V&A in 2019 (and again this year), and now here I was at her final resting place.

5l) Conservators were working on the tombs of Edward III and Richard II and there was a dear little sign explaining what they were doing that concluded “Please do not disturb, thank you.”

The head of the man at left obscures the small memorial to Jane Austen.

5m) Then I happened into the famous Poets Corner. Fancy America making such a memorial space available in the National Cathedral! (Perhaps they do?) In the Current Moment they’d probably be chiseling out particular writers. But here I recognized many names (not that I’ve read them all). I was specially delighted to see the master of the limerick, Edward Lear, memorialized.

5m.i) But most special was C.S. Lewis. My loving cousin Susan (may she rest in peace) gave us The Chronicles of Narnia when I was in junior high school, and later Daddy and I read some of his other books, including Surprised by Joy, The Four Loves, and The Great Divorce.

5n) At this point I had a moment of confusion, but then realized that access to the Queen’s Jubilee Galleries (for which I had a separate ticket), was through Poets Corner. And up a looooong and winding staircase, I staggered into the triforium, which is “an interior gallery, opening onto the tall central space of a building at an upper level,” that has been converted into a small museum of different aspects of the Abbey’s history. No photographs were permitted, alas — I caught myself almost taking a picture once, but I recollected myself — but what I remember most are the funeral effigies of the Stuart monarchs (who even knew they were a thing?!), Mary II’s coronation chair, Margaret Beaufort’s book of hours, and other amazing illuminated manuscripts. And the humidity. The triforium was open to the Abbey below, and I could feel my acrophobia kicking in. I was happy to take the elevator back down.

5o) Back in Poets Corner, I noticed a memorial figure with a particularly flamboyant pose parting two curtains. And I thought, “Mmmmm, gurrrrlllll . . . take your bow.” Turns out it was the great actor David Garrick, and that’s exactly what he was doing.

5p) I was sort of unclear where to go next, and then spotted behind a barrier the memorial plaque (in the floor) to Noel Coward, with an epitaph from his own work: “A talent to amuse.” I was trying to photograph it from behind the barrier when someone in priestly robes (a verger?) with a woman and child passed through the barrier. He turned to me and asked “Would you like to come through?” “May I please?!” “You’ll have to let yourself out,” he replied with a smile. And that’s how I got a closer look at Coward, Dame Sybil Thorndike, and John and Charles Wesley.

The murder of Thomas Thynn(e) in Pall Mall.

5p.i) One my way down the South Aisle, I passed that verger type man showing his companions the tomb of someone I’d never heard of, Thomas Thynn(e), whose murder in a coach on Pall Mall is illustrated on his memorial. It looked almost like a scene at the start of Forever Amber!

5q) Not too far away was the tomb of Major John André, the British officer conspiring with Benedict Arnold. He was captured by the Continental Army and executed. I remembered reading about this in elementary school.

But notice how their floor memorial is obscured by the base of a sign. Oopsie.

5r) Before leaving, I paid special attention to the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, bordered with red poppies, where Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother left her wedding bouquet in tribute (thus endearing herself to an entire nation). And also to the wall memorial to Franklin D. Roosevelt, “A Faithful Friend of Freedom.” And Gasped with Recognition at the beautiful floor brass of the Earl and Countess Mountbatten of Burma; I read her biography in Malta in ’22. And took note of William Congreve.

6) So . . . that was wonderful, and exhausting! And it was still so very hot outside. I had no imagination for anything else, and returned to my room via the Underground for a solid NAP.

7) Dragging myself out of bed at 6, I put myself together enough to go down to the street to an Italian restaurant for a negroni or two, insalata caprese, and some sort of chicken dish with potatoes. The Somewhat Flirty Waiter comped me a limoncello to conclude my evening.

*That would be the Loring-Greenough House.

Sunday, 29 June: Summer Abroad, Day 58: London Again, Day Three

Recollected a couple days later.

1) As mentioned on earlier days, the most wonderful unexpected things happen with Craig. I finished my packing in time for us to leave for Sunday mass at Westminster Cathedral. This involved taking the Underground to Green Park (“Hey, I’ve been here!” I said as I recognized the Art Deco statue of Diana at the exit), through which we walked to Buckingham Palace, and then . . .

2) . . . and then our progress was arrested as traffic along the Mall was entirely blocked off for an indefinite period for what I hoped would be a marching band. It was very hot in the sun, but at least we were at the curb (there was a discussion about the different definitions of “pavement”) and we could be first out of the gate when allowed.

A much better view than I had a few weeks ago leaving the King’s Gallery!

3) And then there they were! Unless it’s a waltz, there’s nothing I love more than a good old-fashioned John Philip Sousa-style band, and that’s exactly what we got. I think they even played “Mademoiselle from Armentières.” At least I hope they did. And we got a great view of them as they marched off to our left . . . and again 15 minutes later as they marched back the way they’d come.

3a) In that 15 minutes, more than a few people were getting impatient about crossing the street, especially cyclists. There were some cycling around the Queen Victoria monument in that traffic circle, but not where we were on the Mall. One cyclist tried to muscle through us to the road anyway. “The officers are flagging bikers,” I said. “But what about them?!” he asked, pointed at the cyclists by Victoria. “That’s not my fault.” He went on anyway.

4) There was great rejoicing when the crosswalks were opened again, and Craig and I made tracks to get to the cathedral before mass started. That meant barreling between people posing for photos and their family/friend photographers. “Nobody cares,” I heard one woman lament as we zoomed past.

And here they come again! Craig observed that a good drum major was shift course enough that they could dodge what I recalled the Boston Brahmins used to refer to as “horse apples.”

5) We made the enormous cathedral with a few minutes to spare. The place was quite full. Craig pointed out the Byzantine interior decorations that stop halfway up the walls because they ran out of money (as happens). I actually think it works as it is; how odd, me advocating for restraint! But I noticed most the primary color scheme: the midnight blue walls and ceiling, the columns of yellow marble around the altar with dark green bases, and the red carpet and altar cloth. Sorry, no photos.

5a) Craig also explained that red was the proper liturgical color of the day as it was the feast day of martyrs, Saints Peter and Paul.

5b) When, during the homily, the priest began “Pride is a word that’s in vogue right now,” I silently raised one eyebrow.

5c) The music was beautifully done, and I was lost in thought with my eyes closed when the collection bag made it to our pew. How embarrassing not to be ready!

6) After the service, it was definitely time to think about food, and we ended up at a place not too far away called Bill’s, where I tucked into a full English washed down with an aperol spritz.

7) In the late afternoon, with all my luggage, I sallied forth to find a taxi to my final hotel. A sign of my impatience, I just thought we would never get there. And it was so very hot.

8) My Final Hotel is quite close to Kensington Palace, and my room is small but with a very high ceiling, basic but cozy.

9) Craig met me at the Ivy (quite close to my hotel) for a very swish dinner. It made a nice celebration for the official start to the last leg of my trip.

10) Afterward we took a little stroll through Kensington Gardens in the hopes that the Princess Diana Garden would be open. Alas, it was not; its hours are probably tied to those of the Palace. But it was nice to be in this beautiful, not too carefully manicured public garden.

10a) On one side of Kensington Palace is a wrought-iron fence enclosing an area with a statue of William of Orange. I was surprised to see the gate and the fence on that side covered in signs and tributes of Princess Diana, in advance of her July 1 birthday. There was even a beautiful floral heart made of white flowers with a centerpiece of pink roses and green and white-striped leaves. I was surprised it was permitted, but then when it comes to the People’s Princess, the People are going to have their say no matter what.

Saturday, 28 June: Summer Abroad, Day 57: London Again, Day Two

Recollected a couple days later.

1) Craig was keen for me to see the Borough Market near London Bridge, so after some tea and toast off we went to a Foodie Paradise teeming with people. I was so busy seeing it all that I never took photos! Under and around a bridge, a maze of every kind of food: cheeses, paellas in enormous pans, bushels of baked goods, artisanal oils and vinegars, chocolate, you name it. I am still thinking of some creme brulée doughnuts I didn’t get to try, but I have time to go back.

2) Then we got on the Underground to explore the same kind of experience in Camden Town, at the market there — which turned out to be more like a very large version of Shop Therapy in P’town. And much more crowded, oppressively so. But it was just about noon, and I talked Craig into joining me in a frozen negroni offered by a distiller there. “Frozen negroni” sounded like “negroni slushie” to me, but it was really a pre-mixed negroni in a paper cup with a very large ice cube. Nevertheless . . . not unwelcome.

On the Camden Town canal.

3) About five minutes after Craig pointed out the fresh gull poop on the canal railing and told me not to put my hand in it . . . I put my hand in it.

4) The other advantage of Camden Town was proximity to Primrose Hill, which I had never seen, and the Shakespeare Oak — which was doubly appropriate considering our evening plans. Walking there, we were delighted to find a pub called The Engineers with Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s portrait as its logo (but they were understaffed and only serving food for parties with reservations; I give them points for honesty).

The Shakespeare Oak.

5) Primrose Hill had attracted more people than just us, and we had a nice chat on the summit with a Couple Older Than I from Liverpool who had come down for the day. And I was amused to see a little girl, obviously new to walking, nearly get out of reach of her grandmother (?) as she started to toddle downhill.

5a) We shortly followed suit to the Shakespeare Oak, which Craig explained was not the original Shakespeare Oak, but a replacement that had been planted by no less than Dame Edith Evans Herself. I did my best to remember bits of the Bard I had known — “But if the while I think on thee, dear friend//All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end,” “If music be the food of Love, play on! Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die” — but it’s been a long time since I paid active attention to Shakespeare.

5b) We weren’t the only ones there. I particularly noticed a big ol’ drooling dog, who belonged to a couple Men Younger Than I nearby talking, who clearly wanted someone to Throw the Ball. One of the men, in fact, had a plastic stick with a cup on the end for exactly that purpose, so he didn’t have to touch the ball — which was really good, since that doggie was drooling a tidal wave.

6) A pub called The Albert did for lunch, somehow full of families on this Saturday afternoon. We sat in a sort of anteroom between the pub and the back garden (complete with apple tree), at one of three tables. A father and his little boy were playing cards at one of the other tables until the boy became inconsolable as friends were leaving for home. After that his mother gave him his pillow, and his tears gradually subsided.

7) For some reason there was an awful crowd at Camden Town underground, and we chose to walk to St. Pancras, which was ultimately the right decision, despite the heat.

Just before the start of the second half; Shakespeare may have five acts, but this theatre presented them in two halves. Theatre in the round.

8) But the main event of the day was yet to come: the Bridge Theatre’s new production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a once-in-a-generation theatre sensation. I haven’t been so excited by live theatre in such a long time! Days later it’s still the most exciting jumble: Hippolyta presented in a glass case as a museum exhibit, the rude mechanicals costumed in bright-colored workmen’s jumpsuits, the fairies cast as burlesque dancers (male and female), the astonishing acrobatics of most of the cast working with aerial silks, and 1,001 line readings. Listening to the actors, I felt I was hearing the entire play for the first time*.

8a) Which is all the more significant since I played Demetrius with the Little Theatre long ago in Lago di Carlo. I had even forgotten that “The course of true love never did run smooth” came from Midsummer, and one of my favorite throwaway lines from all Shakespeare, Hermia’s “I am amazed and know not what to say.”

9) I was buzzing after the show, and we walked along the riverbank by Tower Bridge among the nighttime crowd — not just from the theatre, from all over — which helped me to come back to myself a bit before ending the day.

*In the words of the late Addison DeWitt, “A dull cliché.”

Monday, 30 June: Summer Abroad, Day 59: London Again, Day Four

I’ll cover the weekend later; apologies for the delay. Too busy living it to write it down!

1) In my dream I had animals, one of which was a large tadpole sort of thing with 1,000 eyes — like that monster in the animations of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. To see it suddenly with all its eyes open was quite a shock!

2) The irony of being so glad to be back in a country where I spoke the principal language is that the Final Hotel’s coffee machine and the original language of the breakfast room attendant are not English. Nevertheless, there was coffee.

3) Kensington High Street feels very familiar after previous stays in London (2019, 2023), which it was a pleasure to reflect on as I walked to my first order of business, a much-needed haircut and beard trim. My barber turned out to be a Sardinian who has been in London for 12 years and England much longer, and we talked a lot about travel, particularly a trip he made to Mexico.

Fresh cut!

3a) I’m very happy with the results; my head looks much more organized.

4) My Interlochen friend Bootsie had suggested I visit Leighton House when I came to London in 2019, which I did — and I loved it. Staying so nearby (it’s on the other side of Holland Park), I went back. Since 2019 they have added a little café and allowed photographs of the interiors. It was wonderful to be there on this very hot day, as almost no one else had decided to visit!

The stair hall as seen through the Narcissus Hall. Lord Leighton very clearly stole my life.

4a) Leighton House, the home of Frederick Lord Leighton, the great Victorian artist, is a little gem of a maximalist Orientalist paradise, celebrating rich colors, tile work, and carving — and peacock feathers. The sound of the little water tassel in the Arab Room communicated coolness. Upstairs in the Silk Room I got to have a nice chat with the guide on duty.

4b) In the temporary gallery they had mounted a small show from the bequest of a collector of Victorian art named Chester French. Something he was quoted saying struck a chord with me: “Edward Burne-Jones’s drawings are beyond everything . . . but I wake o’ nights thinking how mad it is to live with pictures when one’s house is going to decay and civilisation is surely going. And yet, and yet . . . ” I took this as a sign that, during our National Moment, it remains vital to continue to celebrate, create, and safeguard what is beautiful, in the face of everything.

The dome of the Arab Room.

4c) In the little café I had a sandwich and a glass of wine for remarkably little money, and with practically no company at all. I may have to go back there.

5) From there, on a whim, I headed into the Design Museum, where their special exhibition, Splash!, focused on swimming and style over the last 100 years. While there was an awful lot of swimsuits — from “sunback” bathing suits and speedos to burkinis — they also covered architecture, ecology, and politics. A fascinating show.

It’s a towel and a cape!

5a) Feeling my energy flagging, I restored myself with a cappuccino and a chocolate brownie in their top floor Design Kitchen. Just the ticket as . . .

MARY!

6) . . . suddenly I was meeting Craig at the National Portrait Gallery. Poor Craig, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into, because there was something or someone for me to get excited about at every turn. Apparently my Gasps of Recognition were heard throughout, but, well . . . if you can’t get excited about seeing something beautiful unexpectedly, you’re dead inside.

The Coronation Portrait!

6a) There was a gallery of Tudors, basically the casts of The Private Life of Henry VIII and Fire Over England. There was a gallery of Stuarts, including several of the folks I’d just read about in Queen James. Princess Charlotte (first edition)! Queen Adelaide! Ada Lovelace! Queen Victoria’s father, the Duke of Kent! Lord Byron, Mary Shelley, and Dr. Polidori! Mrs. Siddons! Jenny Lind! John Wesley! Fanny Kemble! Pocahantas! Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench! And on and on.

National Treasures!

6b) Her late Majesty by Annigoni!

Maharajah Duleep Singh by Spy.

6c) Earlier this year I read Sophia: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary about Princess Sophia Duleep Singh. And wouldn’t you know it, there were four portraits of people from her life: her father Maharajah Duleep Singh, her eldest brother Victor, and her suffragette friends Christabel and Emmeline Pankhurst.

6d) THAT WOMAN! I certainly wasn’t expecting to see her . . . but that portrait is one of her very best.

6e) I Gasped with Recognition over favorite portraitists, too, when I recognized their work: John Singer Sargent, Giovanni Boldini, my beloved Philip de Lazslo, Sir William Orpen.

6f) I was practically melting down with delight — no, not the heat.

7) After all that stimulation, turns out it was the cocktail hour. We drifted in roughly the direction of Seven Dials, dallying a bit in I forget which square which was broadcasting opening day coverage of Wimbledon. People on the grass and in lawn chairs eagerly watching the action on screen!

7a) We ended up at a standard pub, ordered drinks, and Considered Many Things. One of which, after a bit, turned out to be dinner. And after a bit of wandering, wouldn’t you know it, we ended up back at that food court where the cheese conveyor belt is. But this time we went to a Syrian place for some excellent lamb.

8) Afterward, I wandered to Tottenham Court Road to take the Central Line home. This involved a lovely leisurely walk through Kensington Gardens, which is now my neighborhood park. Joggers, strollers, families, sunbathers (even at that hour), dogs and their humans.

9) I finished out the day sitting in the hotel breakfast room by an open window, writing this, and contemplating all the Big Issues.

The gigantic Sir John Lavery family portrait of the Windsors (minus most of the boys).

Friday, 27 June: Summer Abroad, Day 56: London Again, Day One

Recollected on Sunday evening.

1) My day began unexpectedly early when, rolling to my left side, a millisecond’s familiar gathering of tension resulted in the usual excruciating cramp in my right calf.

2) I showered and dressed and wrote my pages in the hotel lobby’s Caffé Nero.

3) With this my last morning in Bloomsbury, it was also the last convenient day to visit the Warburg Institute a block or two away. (As mentioned in a previous entry, the Warburg has interested me since I read about its 1934 move from Hamburg to London in The Exiles.) So off I went, and was pleased indeed to have the chance. Their special exhibition on tarot cards had closed only days before my arrival in May, which made me sad. But now they had on view an exhibition about artists’ books which offered me a few facets of original thinking I wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

3a) Tech Rant Incoming: Decks of tarot cards were offered for sale in a case in the lobby, and I was interested in getting one. But the attendant at the door said I had to fill out an order online; she couldn’t just take my card and hand me a deck. So I completed an order on the phone and paid for it, showed the completed order to the attendant, and received my new tarot deck (which is great). Later that afternoon, I got an email from “the appropriate department for processing” asking when I could come and collect my order. She was so happy when I explained that I already had it.

Virginia Woolf in Tavistock Square.

4) The time came for me to check out. The day before one of the guys I knew on the front desk led me to believe they could flag a cab for me (one of my phobias), but when I mentioned it to his colleague, she said in the nicest way possible, “You do it.”

4a) The result was that after seven anxious minutes I managed to flag a cab with an experienced cabbie who enjoys debate on issues like religion and philosophy (NB: it’s not my favorite thing), and we had quite a discourse over the din of London traffic. I was kind of sorry my dad wasn’t able to talk with him.

5) My destination was on the other side of the Thames, near Tower Bridge. I mistook where I was supposed to go, and ended up with all my luggage on a green where an American marching band was performing — because who knew, it’s Marching Band Week in London. And they were pretty awesome!

Flag corps is flagging while the band is banding.

6) “Just follow the music” I texted my host. Before long, I heard “Arranged for your arrival!” as Craig came around the corner to collect me — though we stayed a few minutes for more music. Yes, Craig was my weekend host, and as Mammy said in GWTW, “It sure is good to see home folks.” We stowed my luggage and headed off to the Underground.

Cheese!

7) We met a friend of Craig’s at what I think of as the Automat of the 21st Century, Pick & Cheese, a conveyor belt of servings of cheese and other savory type goodies (but 90% cheese). Is this not novel? A little challenging at first to read the numbered metal tags on each glass dome describing the contents while having a conversation, but one does get the hang of it.

Puppets!

8) This was by Seven Dials, where a crowd was gathering as we left. At Craig’s suggestion we lingered to see what all the fuss was about, and it turned out to be a street performance of a stampede of cardboard animal puppets from the new musical Roald Dahl’s Matilda. Completely unexpected, completely wonderful.

9) We kept walking, through Trafalgar Square and down Whitehall. Passing the Raffles OWO (for Old War Office), Craig suggested we go in and take a look. Big surprise, a hotel ambassador took us under his wing and gave us a good 20-minute tour, including a couple of the exceedingly high end suites, the ballroom, and finally their 007 speakeasy in the basement. Lots of history stories, lots of hotel design/development stories — just fascinating.

9a) We stayed for a Vesper martini each in the speakeasy (not on the hotel’s tab), which was perhaps the most succulent martini I’ve had in awhile.

10) By then we had to make tracks to get to our true destination for the evening, a performance of the Verdi Requiem at St. Giles-without-Cripplegate. The sun was really coming down in force at this point in the evening, and approaching the church I noticed outside the line of audience members waiting to get in, and the long line of choristers in black waiting to make their entrance, too.

Milton’s bust at the back of the church (not the statue at the end of our row).

10a) The church itself is of great interest, but the person of most relevance to me that evening was John Milton, who was buried in the church, and whose statue was at the end of our row. I also noticed a wall monument to Sir Martin Frobisher, of whom I had never heard, but was apparently a hero in the battle against the Spanish Armada back in 1588.

10b) The concert itself was powerful, magnificent, delicate, nuanced — magnificent. Watching the ten rows of ten choristers, I was interested to see who expressed the emotions of the music unconsciously through their faces as well as their voices.

11) Following, we had dinner outside at a little Thai restaurant with a very floral gin and tonic for me. This was a day full of unexpected surprises — and the expected events delivered, too!

Weds-Thurs, 25-26 June: Summer Abroad, Days 53-54: Vienna to London

“As the years roll on,

After youth has gone,

You will remember Vienna!

Nights that were happy and hearts that were free,

All joined in singing a sweet melody . . .”

“You Will Remember Vienna,” by Oscar Hammerstein II and Sigmund Romberg

1) On a travel day, one of my limitations is just not being able to think about anything but the travel. That may be why I prefer to book my transport early in the morning. This time, my train didn’t depart until 6:30 PM — and I just didn’t have it in me to consider cramming one more museum or attraction or café into my time. So all I really did during the day was step out for my morning coffee and pastry, finish my packing (straining every seam of every bag), write, and watch Topsy-Turvy from 1999. After all, I was returning to London . . .

2) I figured out how to manage the subway with all my bags all the way back to the train station, but the key, it turned out, was not asking Gyygle how to get to the train station.

3) Wandering the station after getting a sandwich, I spotted the sign “Lounge.” Did I qualify with my ticket? Turns out I did, and I was able to get away from the mob for half an hour, and avoid the pay toilet.

4) The next time I come to Vienna I’m really going to have to study some German before I get there. I felt the lack several times, but especially in trying to figure out where my car and seat were on the train, only to find out that the train on the track was not the correct train, which would be arriving after this one left.

4a) That said, DB does not include carriage and seat numbers on their online tickets the way Eurostar does, and it’s a problem for more people than just me. I know, because several of us ended up in the same car, and we took the advice someone gave me en route to Vienna: just sit down until someone tells you to move.

4b) Auf wedersehn, Wien! I feel like I didn’t get to experience half your charms, but I hope to return.

Somewhere Austro-German.

5) The first leg of the trip was from Vienna to Munich, then Munich to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Paris, and finalmente, Paris to London. A long overnight trip, 20 hours, but believe it or not, I wanted to do this. I just fancied it would be more direct . . .

5a) The attendant from Vienna to Munich served me an excellent schnitzel and was really plugging the white wine, but I knew it would be unwise to overindulge.

5b) Between Munich and Frankfurt — midnight to 4:40 AM — I really wanted to sleep. But the lights were kept determinedly bright, music would leak from people’s personal devices, and one couple behind me would occasionally burst out into German conversation with their Outside Voices.

Munich Station at 5:00 AM.

5c) I had an hour between trains in Munich, a very early-morning hour wandering this very large glass shed jeweled with brightly lit chain bakeries and peopled with tourists, homeless, and half a dozen burly polizei.

5d) Inexplicably, I caught a bit of a second wind between Munich and Paris, mustering enough energy to finish The Greedy Queen (quite interesting, actually) and make some notes for the final leg of my time abroad. The attendant brought me coffee, and then brought me coffee again later.

6) Now Paris . . . Paris was a mob scene. Getting from the Gare de l’Est to the Gare du Nord was not a problem. One takes an escalator to the second level for security for the trains to London. And when I got to the top of the escalator, I was, um, surprised that so many people had to fit into so small a space — and for a train earlier than mine that was supposed to be leaving in 45 minutes. Long story short, it was a cattle call, and it took forever.

6a) When one of those passport scanning machine thingies failed on me after two attempts, I was pulled aside to speak to the UK border control agent personally. But everything was handled courteously.

6b) Once I finally got through security, there was barely anyplace to move among all these shoals of travelers, all with large numbers of bags on wheels — just as I was. And it was especially tough noticing people having to negotiate all this in wheelchairs, with canes, with a knee scooter.

6c) What was announced was that a train had arrived late from London. What was on the email I got later announced “over-running maintenance work.” The result was that an extra train’s worth of passengers was crammed into the waiting rooms, and there was no place to sit.

6d) When my train was called, I was near the start of the group that would enter first, which began with a few people who had mobility issues. I was especially concerned for one elderly man with a cane, unsteady on his feet, traveling with a family group of five or six, and having to get on one of those escalator ramps. He managed it, but it was tense for a few moments.

7) My car was full, and shortly before we started, a Frenchman out of view behind a divider starting having a loud phone conversation in French. And then a second phone conversation. More people than just I noticed it, and I was naughtily considering calling out “Mais non, je t’entends bien!” when he finished his call.

7a) I made notes for my trip until I was served a lovely little lunch — some little bits of chicken in cous cous, a roll with butter, and a cube of something like strawberry cheesecake — and white wine, and then coffee. So of course it’s understandable that I might have slept soundly through most of this part of the trip.

8) The area in and around St. Pancras was just as crowded as the Gare du Nord, but the familiarity of the neighborhood felt so comfortable. Victor, my guy at the front desk, remembered me and upgraded me to a sunny room overlooking the front of the hotel. I promptly fell asleep for a few hours.

9) Tomorrow I collect my other suitcase and change accommodations for the penultimate time on this summer abroad. My return home is becoming visible on the horizon . . .

Tuesday, 24 June: Summer Abroad, Day 52: Vienna, Day Nine

1) I attempted the Café Savoy again, this time for breakfast — but I got there just after 9:30, and they didn’t open until 10 AM, which somehow just doesn’t seem reasonable on a weekday. So I strolled about, and imagine my surprise when I found myself someplace vaguely familiar with a tree and tables and chairs underneath it. My goodness, the Café Sperl! What on earth is it doing here?! I took it as a sign that I should colonize a table outside.

1a) And what a very lovely way to spend a morning, living out the stereotypical American expatriate fantasy of living in Europe: sitting at a café table outdoors writing. (To fulfill the fantasy completely, it should have been a marble-topped table. Details, details . . . ) The air was cool, the sunlight dappling, my little corner fairly protected by shrubs in tubs. And the waiter was agreeably slim and smiling, my coffees were perfect, the butter and homemade raspberry jam on my two rolls exactly right.

1b) I wasn’t just writing, but also texting with a couple friends. The photo I snapped to send one made me look sloppy and stoned. Oh well, in the words of the late Bill Sampson, “Everybody can’t be Gregory Peck.”

2) Still, I had gotten there just before 10 AM, and I left about 11:45. Quite a long time to linger over two coffees and two rolls with butter and jam — but it was one of the loveliest experiences of my entire trip, not just in Vienna.

3) To leaven all the baroque/Rococo/what-have-you Hapsburginess of my trip, I went off to the Kunst Haus Wien, a museum designed by and dedicated to Friedensreich Hundertwasser. I sort of remembered being taken to view the exterior on that 2014 trip, but we hadn’t toured the museum itself.

3a) And there would have been one very good reason for that: the floors are as lumpy as the sea at high tide, by design. From their website: “Hundertwasser considered the architecture of KunstHausWien ‘a stronghold against the false order of the straight line, a bastion against the grid system and the chaos of nonsense.’” So you can’t just walk anywhere; you need to be aware, and woe betide anyone with mobility issues.

Model of a housing development that wasn’t designed because of fear of tourism. (I agree.)

3a.i) Back in graduate school when I was working at the Weekly Newspaper Chain, one of the projects I was responsible for getting printed was the annual calendar, a large-format piece printed in bulk and distributed by the sales team to all the advertisers. The first year I was involved, the designer was married to the idea of reversing the usual calendar grid. She absolutely insisted on putting the days on the left, from bottom to top, and the weeks on top. She convinced the powers that be that to reject this idea was to reject her validity as a designer and as a person. The result: no one who was given the calendar actually used it, because they had to think actively about something that should have been obvious if it had been designed for the user. So while it is, um, interesting to walk across an unevenly wavy floor, it’s not without hazard, and it actively excludes those in wheelchairs or otherwise walking with assistance.

3b) Does that mean no one should visit the Kunst Haus? Absolutely not! It’s a very interesting window into the life and work of an activist artist, Hundertwasser, and some of his innovations in printmaking, ecology, design, and painting. I’m glad I got to go, and that I was reasonably light on my feet to get through without incident (though there were a couple moments . . . )

3c) In the galleries for temporary exhibitions on the top floor was a show called Antimatter Factory by Mika Rottenberg. Her kinetic sculptures recalled for me the wonderful works of Arthur Ganson seen at the MIT Museum, but hers often involved living things, like potatoes in glasses of water sprouting vines. And her mushrooms lit from within — I rather wished there was one in the shop!

3d) There is a little indoor/outdoor café there, and — because I had slept so badly — I was already starting to feel a little woozy. Nothing a bottle of sparkling water and a Croque des connaisseurs sandwich couldn’t help, possibly the first knife and fork sandwich of the trip.

4) My informal plan then led me down some barren neighborhood streets, past a church, alongside the Danube Canal, and over a bridge to the mall — and there was a place there that had Falke socks. Mission: accomplished.

5) The top tier of the Tourist Pantheon of Vienna must include (in random order) Mozart, Sisi, Klimt, Strauss the Waltz King, and sachertorte. The tier below that is probably (again, in random order) Maria Theresa (or Theresia, I’m not here to judge you), the Vienna State Opera, Marie Antoinette, World War II, Wiener Werkstatte, coffee culture, and anything mit Schlag. After that, depending on your depth of knowledge, comes Freud, the Vienna Boys Choir, the rest of the Hapsburgs, and schnitzel.

5a) Of that pantheon, one thing had been notably lacking during my stay. A friend had suggested that I visit Mozart’s apartment, and quite by chance it showed up on my route from the mall to Café Demel. If you love Mozart, you must visit. This is the apartment he actually lived in! The entire building of four floors is a museum, and it is dense with information — about Mozart himself, his music, his domestic life, and about everyone living with him at any given time over the three years he lived here, including his wife, father, students, and his librettist Da Ponte. I found the audioguide especially dense with information, like a slice of delicious cake cut so thickly that it can’t be finished.

6) From there I trekked easily to the Café Demel, where I needed to pick up a couple things. And from there, I hobbled to the subway and back to my room.

Did Klimt have something to do with this?

7) I spent my last evening in Vienna in the hotel restaurant writing over a glamorous bowl of tomato soup (seriously, the wide lip of the soup bowl was gold-plated — what on earth?!) and a club sandwich and a Campari spritz. And I will turn to my packing later; laundry will wait until London. This is not a very, shall we say, Viennese way of concluding this leg of my trip. But aside from the spontaneity of my ending up here in the first place, I’m just wiped out. I hope to return to Vienna again some day, but when I do, I’ll have planned it out much further in advance.

Monday, 23 June: Summer Abroad, Day 52: Vienna, Day Eight

1) Sometimes the payoff for being wakeful in the night is setting the alarm ahead one hour and having absolutely blissful sleep in that hour.

2) That’s not to say I bounded out of bed at 8:30 “sizzling with zeal” as the late Charles Fillmore said. Except for going across the street for my coffee and croissant, I didn’t get out and about until noon.

3) Today’s light focus was on shopping, first to get postcards for a friend of my sister’s who collects them from all over the world, and then to Knize for cologne. My progress was hampered first by the subway, “operating on one track in some sections,” which created delays. Did I mention they don’t really air-condition public transportation here? I ended up getting off at a stop where I sort of knew where I was, and ended up getting a bit lost, even with ye Gyygle backing me up. This is your opportunity to cue Judi Dench as Eleanor Lavish: “Two lone females in an unknown city; now that’s what I call and adventure!” And also “Inhale, my dear. Deeper! Now that’s what I call a true Florentine smell.”

4) Which gets me back on topic. Knize first came to my attention in the 1980s when ye Cyswyll-Myssey* opened up at Costly Space. They printed wonderful Victorian-inspired catalogs then (that the saleslady told me everyone loved, but not enough to buy anything), and they included some of the scents from Knize. The firm is, in fact, one of the most respected haberdashers in Vienna (and the world) since they first opened in 1858.

4a) And because I am who I am, I remembered finding Vicki Baum’s sequel to Grand Hotel, Hotel Berlin ’43, and that one of the characters (an old lady hiding her yellow star) was wearing something from Knize. I had to look it up: “Tilli kept on staring at Sim’s mother. That’s the suit Knize made for her in ’31, she thought. Good clothes will tell. But, God, how she looks otherwise. Sim’s mother nodded and opened her mouth in a grimace that was meant to be a smile. ‘Yes, Tilli,’ she said gently. ‘We’ve changed. Both of us.’” But I still remembered it.

4b) So I was not shopping for suits, but to get a small vial of cologne, even though I was dressed like a tourist in T-shirt and shorts, and lost in the heat of an early summer day in a city where I don’t speak the language.

4c) These ritzy stores can be very intimidating, but I didn’t have to penetrate much beyond the narrow entry to get what I wanted. In fact the small entrance was mostly taken up by a man trying on a pair of pajamas and his wife and the saleslady assisting them. I could barely see in the more expansive rear of the store. And then another saleslady came out, and they had exactly what I was looking for right there at the register.

5) The other event of the day was to go to dinner at a gay café that had been recommended to me, the Café Savoy, which was not too far from my hotel. Having had an extremely heavy NAP — when the alarm when off I genuinely wasn’t sure if it was 6:45 AM or PM — and apparently I’d slept through a real gully washer. The sky looked freshly rinsed, the air was cool, and the streets were running with water. No complaints, it was needed!

5a) In 2015, on my first vacation in San Francisco, I remember standing at the intersection of Bush and Stockton, eager to get a photograph of the street signs because that’s where Miles Archer had been murdered in The Maltese Falcon. But I was kept from taking that photo by the speedy approach of a woman with large flying hair, a total stranger obviously very eager to have a conversation with me which would, I knew, include a request for money. I fled. Coming out of the subway, I saw a building façade that interested me enough to take a photo. But I was kept from taking that photo by the approach of a Man Younger Than I very eager to interest me in his music, and nothing would dissuade him. You have probably seen him at every comicon and/or science fiction convention ever, which is all the description needed. I fled.

5b) The Café Savoy was agreeably Viennese, shabby, and gay — but without any empty tables for dinner, alas for me. So I wandered this new neighborhood, freshened by the rain but mostly empty, until I found someplace suitable, had a good dinner, and returned home without other musicians accosting me.

6) And I finished writing all this at the hotel bar with a negroni. Groundbreaking.

A rain-cleaned Pride crosswalk. Vienna is full of Pride rainbows.

*Apologies to those who find my lapses into faux-medieval irritating. The key is, I pretty much substitute Y for any given vowel.

Sunday, 22 June: Summer Abroad, Day 51: Vienna, Day Seven

1) Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to wake up to the news of the bombing of Iran. Returning from the bathroom at 6:30 in the morning, I just thought I’d check my phone quickly, little wotting something so important that it would not be possible to get back to sleep.

2) I did a tarot reading for myself, got dressed in full canonicals, and went over to the little café at the subway station (which has become a regular stop for me) for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. It’s funny, a) I’m drinking less coffee on this vacation than I do at home (unless at a hotel buffet, where I feel obligated to get value for money), and b) having brought along a two-month supply of my preferred sweetener packets, I forget them so often I either just use regular sugar or do without.

After the service.

3) A dear friend had advised me to go to the Augustinerkirche for Sunday Mass because of their music program, so wouldn’t you know it, it led me right back to the Hofburg. Seating in the church is in three long sections, two central and one to the left. When I arrived at 10:30 for the 11 AM High Mass, the two central sections were 3/4 full and the section to the left was nearly empty. I took a seat in the back half of the central section, on the aisle in an old wooden pew for four. The church was tall and light and hung with gold or brass chandeliers at different heights, all outfitted with electric candles but turned off. That was no matter; the church was amply lit by the enormous windows in the left wall.

3a) I honor the legacy of my father when I put on a suit and tie to go to church; he believed in dressing well, especially for church. The result today was that I was the most splendidly dressed man in Vienna, though I did notice a couple other gentlemen in suits as the mass got under way. Most of the congregation was dressed for tourism: short-sleeved shirts, khakis or varying lengths, and a lot of backpacks.

3a.i) But was this congregation only tourists? Afterwards I did see people embracing each other like old friends which made me think they were Actual Parishioners — but it must be very challenging for them to have to welcome a horde of strangers who are, perhaps, more motivated by Musical Enjoyment than Christian Worship.

3b) By 10:50 the church was full, including the arrival of three or four people in wheelchairs, who were stationed in the aisle to my left.

3c) Little flurries of music, like the organ or another instrument being tuned, gave encouragement, but then I knew the mass would be starting as the chandeliers were turned on, in groups of three or four, from the front of the church to the back. It’s not like we needed the light, but they definitely added brilliance to the scene.

3d) A procession of many priestly people, the four priests at the end glittering evenly of gold embroidered into their green vestments.

3e) The service was conducted entirely in German, though I knew enough German to tell that the homily took its points from Peanuts with a lot of references to Charlie Brown, Snoopy, and Linus.

3e,i) But speaking of languages, the €10 cost estimate per person to provide the music program was printed in three languages in the bulletin. Good for them, managing expectations.

3f) The mass chosen by the music director was the Oboe Mass by Michael Haydn, who it turns out was the younger brother of the more famous Joseph Haydn. I’d never heard of Michael Haydn or his Oboe Mass, and it was a beautiful experience to hear it performed as as mass, in a church, rather than as a concert.

3f.i) During the music, I noticed a white man of perhaps my age standing in front of a column in the center of the church looking up at the organ loft. Dressed in a black trousers and a rumpled, untucked white shirt, I discerned that he was somehow connected with the music ensemble. Undoubtedly he made his report to the organist after the service.

3g) This was definitely a day to pray for peace, and I could recognize the names of places that need it in the prayers of the faithful.

3h) For a church that full, they got through Communion in fairly quick time, with one team at the main altar, and one team in the center of the church. This led to a bit of confusion, as three lines formed where there should have been two, but it all got sorted out.

3g) For the recessional they gave us another piece I’d never heard of, a toccata by Joseph Jongen, both silvery and stern at the beginning, and progressing to the Expected Frantic Ecstasy at the end.

4) With the service over, I felt I could now look over the church and take pictures. (To do so beforehand would not have been respectful, though that didn’t stop a few people.) The church is beautiful, and by lingering I was able to see the Canova-designed monument, the altar with the painting of Karl, the last Hapsburg emperor — and the bonus of seeing the chandeliers turned off.

5) The service had taken 90 minutes and the day had become very hot as I walked to the Café Mozart for lunch. My Friend Who Knows Vienna had recommended it for “a Third Man vibe,” and indeed, it was more postwar than the other Established Viennese Cafés I’d been to. I definitely preferred a table inside, and ordered a couple aperol spritzes to go with my schnitzel and, eventually, a slice of chocolate hazelnut torte.

The Strauss Memorial.

6) There was nothing for it but to go back to my room for a NAP. I had no way to string two thoughts next to each other! And when I woke up sometime after 4, I also knew I couldn’t just stay in my room or hang around the hotel neighborhood; my time in Vienna was starting to wind down. So into town I returned, and found myself at the Stadtpark, where the Viennese were disporting themselves in shade and sun, singly and in groups. One group of young women near the Strauss memorial were painting Frida Kahlo portraits. I strolled about, taking in the scene, sometimes sitting on a bench to write down a reminder to myself about something.

6a) I was trying to stay out of the sun, still a bit fierce, as my Donauinsel hike the day before had given me an honest-to-God farmer’s tan. I must say, it makes me feel old.

6b) Entering the park I heard a clarinet playing to a recorded background. In a city known for Mozart, Strauss, Schubert, Léhar — all of whom have monuments in this park (I think) — what was he playing? You guessed it, “My Heart Will Go On” from Titanic. Well, the locals must need a break from all that operetta once in awhile, and I guess tourists love the familiar. 😉

6c) My strolling took me out of the park and down the Ringstrasse, to a vandalized monument to Karl L****r, “a controversial politician.” As mayor of Vienna back in the day, he was responsible for modernizing city administration, transportation, and utilities. But he was also a nationalist and an anti-Semite. So his monument, which was put up in 1926, has been covered with graffiti and enormous splashes of black paint. The latter, to me, give a powerful new interpretation to the friezes of workmen along the base.

6d) There was a promising looking café at that intersection, but walking in I didn’t like the vibe. So I got back on the tram to ride around the Ringstrasse. And after awhile, I noticed the track wasn’t really moving in a ring any more . . . and where the hell was I? Time to disembark and retrace my steps on foot down a quiet evening street of open sweet shops and closed businesses.

6e) But then I found myself in the most beautiful rose garden! Many Viennese sitting on the benches in the evening light, a large group of tourists having their photo taken together. A man playing songs from the American songbook on a keyboard by a fountain. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s the Hofburg. It’s like my North Star, it always turns up.

6d) I found myself in a restaurant on a shopping street, where the waiter spoke as much English as I did German. But I enjoyed my dinner, and my “chocolate cake in a shirt,” which was really a warm chocolate cake covered in chocolate sauce, with a side of Schlag decorated with almonds, and the most perfect sphere of vanilla ice cream in its own delicately-sized dish on the side.

7) So often in Vienna I do my sightseeing during the day and hole up in my room at night. How lovely to see downtown Vienna on this particular Sunday evening, then, when most of the tourists had already gone away, and the heat was fading with the light. I was pleased to go back to my room and end the day on this note.

Saturday, 21 June: Summer Abroad, Day 50: Vienna, Day Six

Recollected on Monday.

1) Too much culture can wear you out. Saturday I needed a break, so I succumbed to hotel breakfast, spent the morning writing and futzing around, and didn’t get out and about until noon.

2) Donauinsel is a narrow and very very long island in the middle of the Danube, and I ended up walking much more of it than I had planned. Retracing my steps via Gyygle two days later, it says eight kilometers, or roughly five miles, from my arrival on the subway to the Point of I Just Have to Sit Down Now.

2a) The first thing to catch my eye, crossing a footbridge to the island, was a fence studded with love locks. What impressed me from a distance, though, was that they were pretty evenly spaced out, and some sparkled with jewel colors; they weren’t all brass.

2b) Because of its length, I feel like I walked through all the urban/rural environments: set-up for music festivals, clusters of food trucks, campsites, and well-worn but isolated paths through high grass and tall trees. Many Viennese were out to enjoy themselves and the weather, choosing sun or shade (where it could be had). I was impressed with the number of people who had brought hammocks to string up between trees at the water’s edge.

The swans were encouraged.

2c) Swans were evident, and before I could snap a photo, at one point I saw one flying low over the water, its long neck fully extended. Later, a gorgeous gray crane set off from the water line.

3) After a pause for about half an hour (during which I was bedevilled by flies), I had to consult ye Gyygle for a less active way home. And there was a subway station much closer, which involved more walking and discovery of a footbridge over the other side of the Danube. It was hot, and the sun was quite strong. My walk led me into a tangle of foot- and bicycle paths, but I finally sorted myself out in a neighborhood of car dealerships closed for the weekend. And then there was the subway (same line as my hotel is on!), and I got home.

3a) In Vienna I have hardly been reading at all. En route home, however, I restarted a book I got in Bristol, The Greedy Queen, and Queen Victoria and her food, which is turning out to be quite fascinating.

4) At the hotel, I simply didn’t have the energy to think about dinner, so after a short and heavy NAP, I indulged in a schnitzel in the hotel restaurant, which was very traditional and very good.

5) Overall this was a helpful day to be alone with some disquieting thoughts. We all need those days.

The path not taken.

Friday, 20 June: Summer Abroad, Day 49: Vienna, Day Five

1) A reasonably timed start, the morning was only marred by forgetting my hat in the station café where I had my breakfast coffee. But it was still there when I rushed back, so all was well.

2) If I had planned this visit in advance, as God intended, I’d be retracing my steps a lot less. As it is, I always seem to be taking the subway to Karlsplatz and somewhere in the wide radius of the Hofburg. This time my path took me through the Burggarten as four beautiful white horses were being exercised, so that can be considered a bonus.

Horsies!

3) Today’s first stop was the imperial treasury. My goodness, they sure do have a lot of pretty things here, and very few people to admire them — which gave me a lot of elbow room.

If only they had a caftan version in the gift shop, we’d all be entirely ready for the holiday season.

3a) I didn’t expect quite so much couture, being more interested in jewels, but still — my goodness, what a collection!

3b) I really must read up about the Dukes of Burgundy at some point.

It is actually called the Burse of St. Stephen.

3c) Most surprising was the Holy Handbag of St. Stephen, which I guess is no longer exhibited with the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

4) From there it was a hop and skip to the imperial crypt. It sort of surprised me to see this Capuchin friary in such a posh retail district (but obviously they got there first). They make it clear via signage that “You are entering a graveyard” and you will show respect, which overall people did.

I mean, really.

4a) Now I had been the crypt at El Escorial in 2022 (you know, those other Hapsburgs . . . ), and that had been mighty lavish and impressive. I hadn’t really thought about what to expect here, but these severely spare chambers are just filled with lines of metal sarcophagi. But some of them are so elaborate they should be parade floats.

Just look at that big ol’ thing!

4b) Maria Theresa’s double-wide sarcophagus (which she shares with her husband) was designed to overpower. The information plaque indicated that the empress prayed there every day after the death of her husband, which reminded me of a story Madame Campan told her in her biography of Marie Antoinette. One of Antoinette’s older sisters, Josepha, was about to set off to marry the King of Naples (as one does), but just as she was preparing to leave, she “received an order from the Empress not to set off without having offered up a prayer in the vault of her forefathers.” Ordinarily not a problem, except another member of the family had just been laid away there after dying of smallpox. Oopsie. “The Archduchess, persuaded that she should take the disorder to which her sister-in-law had just fallen a victim, looked upon this order as her death-warrant” and “Her anticipation was realised; confluent smallpox carried her off in a very few days, and her youngest sister ascended the throne of Naples in her place.”

4c) In the (extensive) rules posted near the entrance, visitors are prohibited from placing floral tributes on the sarcophagi, including in vases. So I found it quite clever that gray hatboxes filled with red roses had been placed in a couple places. An ingenious solution.

4d) In the penultimate chamber Franz Joseph had been laid to rest, with his beloved Sisi on one side and his tragic, sadly misunderstood son Rudolph on the other. Each of these sarcophagi had some sort of floral tribute at its front: a long-stemmed pink rose for the emperor, two small nosegays for Rudolph, and for Sisi three small bouquets, a small sheaf of handwritten notes, and three framed pictures of herself.

As seen from the rear, so Rudolph is on the left and his mother Sisi on the right.

4e) I also took note of Zita, the last empress, who died in 1989.

4f) In conclusion, most members of this family are not remembered for their achievements, or even as individuals. “Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” indeed.

5) Then, to the Café Demel, another of those recommended by my Friend Who Knows Vienna. The joint was jumpin’ since it was just after noon, but one must go upstairs to be seated, not just linger on the first floor with all the pastry and candy counters. The modern staircase disoriented me for a moment because one wall is only clear glass with no handrail. #acrophobia

5a) Mademoiselle seated me quickly, and I was very glad indeed to be sitting down. And eventually I had my first goulash of the trip, with potatoes and an aperol spritz, which I enjoyed while contemplating a vista of Venetian glass chandeliers.

5a.i) Then of course I had to have a melange and a slice of chocolate torte.

“But you’ve gotta have a gimmick if you want to get ahead!”

6) To walk from the café to the Leopold Museum was to walk a straight line through the Hofburg, which made things simple. There are street musicians in Vienna the same as there are in tourist destinations all over the world, but this is the first time I’ve seen one wearing a horse’s head mask while playing the accordion. Of course I put some change in his basket; that’s dedication.

Portrait of Egon Schiele by Max Oppenheimer.

7) The Leopold focuses mainly on Vienna of 1900 and the artists and designers who made it so vibrant (some of whom I’d never heard): Klimt and Schiele, of course, but also Alma Mahler, Richard Gerstl, Koloman Moser (of whom I must learn more), Oskar Kokoschka, Carl Moll, Max Oppenheimer, and Minnie Moore*. Most of the Klimts in this collection are from early in his career, before he developed his signature style. Schiele, brilliant and disturbing. Richard Gerstl was a surprise, particularly because I recognized one of his self-portraits. (By the way, it’s a really bad idea to have an affair with the wife of your mentor.) But Moser’s works most made me want to learn more about him.

7a) The lowest level of the Leopold was devoted to the Biedermeier period, which is basically the period between the Congress of Vienna (1814-15?) and the revolutions of 1848. What I knew about the Biedermeier was not much — basically curly maple furniture with black bands — but they put together a really magnificent collection of paintings, clothing, and other items to illustrate the period.

7b) When in a museum with an unexpected entirely empty room, one must pause to honor the memory of Irving Penn with a selfie.

Why indeed? Seen on the way to dinner.

8) Truly, I was worn out — not least because one of my sockless socks just would not stay in place — and very happy to take the subway back to my hotel. I looked in at the little shop of household goods that also advertised “souvenirs,” hoping for Viennese house numbers and postcards. But alas for me, it was mostly cleaning supplies and kitchen organizers.

9) After a brief but heavy NAP, I returned to Café Eduard for a glass of rosé and their chicken risotto — which could have been cooked a little longer, but was still savory. And then a negroni at the hotel bar while I wrote.

*Or was it her sister, Minnie Others? 😜

Thursday, 19 June: Summer Abroad, Day 48: Vienna, Day Four

1) Having slept in until almost 9 yesterday, I was determined to be somewhere by 9 today. And I determined that that somewhere would be the Upper Belvedere. At 9 AM.

2) And . . . and I was there, third in line behind two Asian ladies with Zouave-style sun hats. But it started when I couldn’t sleep past 6 AM and actually stretched out in the bathtub for a long soak. Just like England, Viennese bathtubs are narrower than I am, but they are long.

3) I left my dress shirts at the front desk to be cleaned and pressed. “They’ll be back tomorrow evening, it’s a national holiday today.”

4) Gyygle isn’t always intuitive, and I got mixed up a couple times walking from the subway station (right by the main railway station, so at last I know that HBF stands for Hauptbahnhof on all those train notices). And all the cafés I walked by were closed, and almost no one was on the streets. National holiday? The neighborhood? The café part concerned me, as I had yet to have any coffee.

4a) A healthy feeling of familiarity came over me as I walked into the grounds, as I had been to the UB before, on that trip in 2014. The gardens between the UB and the Lower Belvedere are lined with buxom sphinxes, and I certainly remembered the one near the entrance. Some of them have discolored breasts from ahem undue fondling.

4b) I strolled through the gardens behind the UB, noticing the temperature of the morning, and weighed down by the heavy shadows of my many sins. (It was that sort of day.) But about 8:40 I got into line, and watched it fill, mostly with a large Asian tour group.

4c) I did notice a quite beautiful Woman Younger Than I, with beautiful black hair swept up, wearing a cocktails-at-five ensemble of long and wide black trousers with a midriff-baring satin top with one long puffed sleeve and one bare arm. Very Ingrid Bergman in Notorious, but a little much for the breakfast hour.

5) And . . . they’re off! The door opened promptly at 9 AM, and because I didn’t bolt upstairs first thing, I didn’t get that impossible moment alone with Vienna’s biggest attraction, Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. When I got there half dozen or so viewers were already enraptured (or taking selfies); I’m sure it got worse as the day went on, but nothing like the Mona Lisa Madness of the Louvre.

5a) There were other beautiful Klimts there, particularly landscapes, which I remembered from before and still love. And what else was there? A fantastic Edvard Munch painting of men at the beach; Kurzweil’s portrait of Bildnis Bloch-Bauer (obviously a relation of the more famous Adele), a van Gogh landscape, a really active composition of Samson pulling down the pillars of the temple, Egon Schiele portraits, and a few other things.

5b) And the Messerschmidt heads! I did remember them from the last visit, and also seeing some in Prague. Unique works of art from the late 18th century, genius experimentation by a master.

A Messerschmidt head.

5c) A couple galleries included works related to art and artists impacted by Austria’s political situation in the 1930s, even before the Anschluss. Photos were forbidden here, but having reread The Exiles earlier this year, and other WWII history — and having seen that Max Beckmann portrait only yesterday — it was both interesting and poignant to see and feel what this group of creatives experienced. Some were able to flee and succeed abroad; others could not.

5d) A couple ground floor galleries were devoted to medieval/Renaissance religious art.

5e) Selfies in museums can be a mine field — and I ought to know, since I take so many. But I would not stand so close to a painting that my hair would get caught in the varnish, as I noticed one woman doing with Egon Schiele’s The Family. I was kind of anxious about the art.

5e.i) Also, please do not take a phone call while your nose is two inches from the surface of a painting. One of the guards had to reprimand a young man who had just yelled “Hello!” into his phone.

6) By this time I was “perishin’ for real vittles,” not to mention coffee —Art makes you hungry — and I retreated to the elegant sun-filled little café in a remote ground floor corner. My melange coffee came along with my “kaiser” breakfast plate: a croissant with jam and honey, and a good hard roll with slices of ham and cheese and a cube of butter. It hit the spot, and it was great to take the weight off my feet awhile, even if I was putting it on my waistline.

The Upper Belvedere with waterfall.

7) A long sloping garden with fountains and waterfalls connects the UB and the LB, which was my next stop. The day was getting hot (I think it was 83 F), so a stately pace kept me from glowing too much. A German family asked me “Can you make our picture?” while handing me a phone, and I was happy to oblige. I also noticed a very pale young woman with very pale long blonde hair in a very pale long pink dress working with her photographer by one of the side fountains. Influencers will influence.

8) The big deal at the LB was Radical! Women*Artists and Modernism 1910-1950. A female photographer named Claude Cahun was a big part of this show, and until this year I knew exactly nothing about her. So the friend who gave me No Place Ever Just Disappears did me a big favor, because Claude and her work and her life in France was one of the seven chapters of that book.

Leonor Fini may have painted the Mother of Barbarella . . .

8a) One of the most helpful aspects of this or any exhibition of multiple artists was, in the last room, a multi-wall display of all the artists, alphabetically by last name, with head shots, dates, locations, and even couple quotes. A powerful pantheon when seen together, and a helpful aid for simpleminded viewers like me.

Portrait of Natalie Barney by Romaine Brooks.

8b) Aside from that, they also had a conservation exhibition of Klimt works, Klimt: Pigment and Pixels, to review how his works are being conserved and investigated. Here, as in other Viennese galleries, the subject of one of the beautiful portraits on view had been murdered during WWII.

8c) Finally, almost as an afterthought, the LB stables had been converted into a gallery for a passel of medieval religious artworks, hung densely together for an overpowering effect.

“Here, try the arancini.”

9) Then it was time to take one last turn through the gardens and move on to something else, on this very hot day. The exit was through a portico at the far end of the LB; when I walked in I noticed a photography setup at one end . . . and a bride and groom across the way. So basically this passthrough was being taken over for a photo shoot. A couple large tour groups weren’t going to let it bother them, and I don’t blame them. The photo party seemed to take it all in good grace.

10) I ended up tailing that tour group, mostly college students, to a large and beautiful WWII memorial and fountain. On a hot day, the fountain mist was a whisper of relief.

11) And then suddenly I was at the Karlskirche, that distinguished Baroque church so important to the Hapsburgs. Paid my money and entered a lofty space — very oval, very sunlit, very majestic. But not very prayerful, which was less to do with tourist chitchat (of which there really wasn’t much), but the prerecorded Baroque music in the background, which was just a wee bit too heavy on the brass.

11a) Looking up, I did a double take when I saw what looked like a tangle of white neon suspended from the dome of the church. Later I learned that it’s part of the church’s Contemporary Arts program. But at the time I thought, “Zeuschen, don’t aim the shower of gold in here. Danae has left the building!”

11b) I climbed the spiral staircase to the organ loft, which provided a powerful view of the church, and the church treasury. But I knew better than to climb up any further. Oh no, not after Sagrada Familia in 2022!

12) Gyygle was not exactly clear in how to get where I was going next, but I did get it worked out, and I did get into one of the most famous buildings in Vienna, the Secession. My Friend Who Knows Vienna told me that it’s sometimes called The Cabbage, and I get it! That gilded floral dome . . . there’s nothing like it.

12a) The famous Klimt murals at the very bottom of the building are well worth the trip. While some of the other exhibitions didn’t compel me, there were a couple works that really captured my attention, particularly a preprogrammed grid of church votives; aspects of that exhibition left me feeling very 2001: A Space Odyssey.

12b) It’s worth noting that almost all the museums in Vienna have flung out their rainbow banners, flags, and (at the Albertina) staircases for Pride Month. It’s refreshing and affirming.

13) And from here, a hot walk brought me to the Café Sperl, highly recommended as being off the tourist grid, and it is. I sat inside on a banquette of very worn old damask and enjoyed an aperol spritz and a slice of sachertorte and two bottles of sparkling water. I was seated near three old billiard tables, two of them ready for a game, the third covered with current newspapers for patrons to read.

My view during dinner.

14) Once I got back to my hotel and had a concrete NAP, I went off to that little neighborhood restaurant I passed by the other night because it was too full, Café Eduard. You cannot know the relief there is in a sign that reads “Please wait to be seated.” And I did, and I was, and I had my first schnitzel of the trip, along with some lovely arancini, under a large tree on a gently sunlit evening. The restaurant had a real family vibe, particularly with a baby who had just learned to say “BA BA BA BA BA.” Baby was actually adorable, and the father who had charge took the opportunity to walk about the little square with Baby. Just . . . it was just enormously cute.

Wednesday, 18 June: Summer Abroad, Day 47: Vienna, Day Three

1) Didn’t crack an eye until almost 9 AM, practically heresy. But I had not put out the light until 1 AM, which never happens.

2) Laundry had to be a priority, and I was as proud as a five-year-old to have found a laundromat all by myself (via Gyygle) just a block and a skip from my hotel, Green and Clean. I loaded up my backpack (so easy with those packing cubes I was given, which I’ve mentioned before), found a bakery café en route for coffee and pastries, and praised the laundromat management for installing machines with instructions in multiple languages.

2a) Rather than wait through an entire wash/dry cycle, I passed the time in a little neighborhood park, overgrown and a bit scruffy, but full of shade and pigeons and pairs of Viennese smokers. The latter sat on the park benches, old friends with their arms around each other, students facing each other and laughing.

2a.i) The pigeons — there were a lot of them in this flock — interested me for two reasons: in all those gray pigeons there was one white pigeon with gray tail feathers. And it was quite obvious that none of those gray pigeons gave a damn that that white pigeon was a different color. They were all going after the same crumbs. As if that weren’t enough, seeing two or three of them perch on the top of an obelisk was like watching King of the Mountain.

2b) I really had not planned the day, but when I saw that a special exhibition at the Albertina was closing the next day, I booked an afternoon ticket online right there in the park. Finalmente, action!

3) My clothes came out of that combined washer/dryer in an undoubted state of dampness, but I folded everything into my pack, spread it all out as best as possible in my room, changed clothes, and headed into town.

4) All I knew about Albertina was the Albertina Rasch Dancers, which is not relevant. It was actually named for Archduke Albert (I forget which one, they all run together) — but then shouldn’t it be Albertino? And how about shaking up an Albertini for me? Decide for yourself here.

Three works by Matthew Wong.

4a) The special exhibition about to close compared two similar painters: Vincent van Gogh and Matthew Wong, Painting as a Last Resort. They both had trouble fitting into the world as it was, used similar techniques, and each died young by his own hand. The exhibition was thoughtful, boldly colorful, and made me wish to see more of the van Gogh paintings that we don’t know about. There was one, White Cottages at Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer, that reopened my eyes to what van Gogh could communicate.

Undoubtedly the most beautiful work of art I saw today.

4b) Then up to the permanent collection, really wonderful and sometimes startling work of the early 20th century. I look at my photos this evening, and none of them capture the vibrancy of what I saw. Lots of Fauvists, some Surrealism, lots of color. One painting that made me feel like I had never seen anything like it before was Peace, by Giacometti, four little girls seated attentively on the floor while one of them tunes what looks like a musical instrument.

Self-Portrait in the Hotel, Max Beckmann, 1932.

4c) But the work that spoke to me of its time and place and my time and place was a self-portrait by an artist I hadn’t heard of, Max Beckmann. From the placard: “In January 1933, with the **z*’s seizure of power, Beckmann left Frankfurt for good and moved to Berlin. In hat and coat, a thick scarf around his neck, his hands in the coat pockets, he stands in the backlight, ready to leave. His face lies in the shadow . . . the converging lines, and the hard, black outline mark Beckmann’s fear of an uncertain future: the world seems to be out of joint . . . more than almost any other work, [this painting] testifies to his life situation and gloomy prospects at that time.”

4d) The State Rooms at the Albertina are an enfilade of drawing rooms in all the colors of the 19th-century rainbow. The yellowest yellows, paired with the palest lilac; arsenic green, silver blue, warm crimson — these people stole my life.

5) By this time it was 3 PM and Daddy was starting to feel peckish. The Café Central had been recommended to me and was a very easy walk away on this very hot day — why, I said to myself, not?

5a) I’d been warned that it’s “often crowded but worth a look,” and I did have to wait in line for about 15 minutes or so. Like the late Durgin-Park, they’re doing it for the tourists. Unlike Durgin-Park, their quality remains smart and sharp and 100% delicious. And did I mention that they’re air-conditioned?

5b) My table turned out to be right near the entrance, and my waiter laughed in a friendly way when I absentmindedly said “Nein sprechen ze Englisch.” Oopsie, obviously not doing very well with German either! We understood each other enough for me to order a Campari soda and a sandwich, and then later a melange and a slice of their Johann Strauss torte.

5c) I alternately scrolled through the (bad) news from home and took in the scene. During the leisurely period between my last sip of coffee and the presentation of the bill, the pianist started playing “Wiener Blut” and the Radetsky March, which absolutely lent the the right tone.

Inside Saint Stephen’s Cathedral.

6) At that point, I struck out with the informal goal of a prominent old-school haberdasher, which led me down a couple very high end shopping streets. There two women in perfect 1920s period ensembles walked past me: cloche hats, light floral cotton summer frocks, Harold Lloyd eyeglasses, and bright red lipstick. Just two matrons out for a stroll, looking wonderful.

6a) I continued my promenade to find a) a baritone singing opera in the street, and b) St. Stephen’s Cathedral — both impressive.

6b) I did eventually get into the cathedral, an experience unlike the controlled chaos of Notre Dame. First, far fewer people (though it felt like a lot) and a far darker interior. More of the church’s interior was off limits to tourists, too — less space to maneuver, and I don’t blame them.

6c) I should mention, too, the line of horsedrawn carriages along one side of the cathedral (and in front of the Hofburg, too) offering rides to tourists. I feel sorry for those horses, especially on a hot day like this. Were I a Victorian, I know I’d be contributing to the horse relief fund. That said, the sight and smell of their, ahem, “horse apples” was evident for some distance.

7) Instead of retracing my steps to Karlsplatz for the subway, I went the other direction to get on the same line at a different stop. The streets were full, but it felt like they were full of tourists, not locals.

8) Back in my room with a small tomato ciabatta sandwich, I fell like the dead onto my bed into a heavy NAP — I know, at 6 PM!

9) And then, what seems to have become my nightly routine, I come to the hotel bar with my laptop for a negroni. Now I need to turn my attention to structuring my remaining time here, and laying plans for my final weeks in London.

The Albertina is truly embracing Pride, as everyone should.

Tuesday, 17 June: Summer Abroad, Day 46: Vienna, Day Two

1) Too little sleep, too much fretting. I gave up pretending about 6 AM and started the day.

2) “Do a ‘Skip the Lines with Sisi’ tour!” advised a friend with a Deep Knowledge of Vienna. And so I arranged it, a tour of the Hofburg (the Winter Palace of the Hapsburgs in the city center), with a guide, and an assigned meeting point in the Michaelerplatz.

2a) So naturally I was anxious, mostly due to overthinking. What about the subway? What if I miss the guide? What if I’m late? (Impossible!)

2b) The subway part turned out to be relatively easy, but on the Continent, I’ve learned to use cash instead of a card, as I have no idea what my PIN are. What’s unusual about Viennese subway stations, though, is that there aren’t turnstiles. People just walk in and out, and there’s a little blue box (I discovered later) that says “Ticket Required.” Well, I did get a weeklong ticket, but I completely missed that blue box. How much trouble am I going to get into?

The diving board at the Albertina.

2c) Five stops later I disembarked at the Karlsplatz, walked a long peopled concourse lined with shops and exits, and popped above ground just behind the famous Vienna Opera. A not too confusing walk up the SomethingStrasse brought me to the Michaelerplatz, where I easily found the meeting point — and also some colossal statues of the Labors of Hercules.

Now these guys would put the Brute in Brutalism! Let’s order a few for Boston City Hall.

2c.i) Now whenever I talk about American cities needing Urban Renewal, what I really mean is an increase in Integral Male Statuary. Every plinth, lintel, archway, you name it — they need the Support of Pulchritude. Think of it as a beautification program.

3) The time passed, and as arranged, the guide appeared and members of the group magically formed around her as she checked names. As we were about 20, we were all given “devices,” a box with an earpiece on a long cord so we could hear the guide in any circumstances; on previous trips I’ve heard them referred to as “whispers.” They are Very Helpful Indeed.

4) Our approach to the Sisi Museum was hampered by two no-shows (who did appear 15 minutes in), a restroom break (the restrooms were at the start of the tour, not the end), and one person who needed to use the elevator and then disappeared.

A replica of Sisi’s Worth gown for the Hungarian coronation. It was wider that most of the exhibition spaces.

4a) The Sisi Museum was designed as a series of narrow, angled corridors that occasionally opened into larger rooms. The guide pointed out that it was designed in the 1990s, before Sisi had become quite the cult figure she is today. They were definitely shoveling ten pounds of tourists into a five pound bag; it was tough to move.

4b) What was on view? Some of her gowns and other clothes, both original and reproductions, that showed off her dangerously slim figure. Curling tongs and other “instruments of torture” from her beauty regime. Replicas of her famous diamond stars. Gifts, correspondence, etc. I couldn’t take photos in the space.

4c) The Sisi Museum then transitioned into the private apartments of the emperor and Sisi, so we had a little more space to maneuver. The rooms were both beautiful and reminiscent of Schönbrunn.

Poor Carlotta.

4d) One room was dedicated to the memory of the emperor’s doomed brother Maximilian, who was named Emperor of Mexico and then assassinated a couple years later. Also a portrait of his wife Carlotta, who went mad afterward. (Bette Davis played her in Juarez.)

4e) Sisi’s boudoir — rococolicious. I loved the pale cream upholstery, so natural, until I found out that they had found remnants of the original crimson upholstery and were having it reproduced. What I was enjoying so much was the lining!

4f) To see Sisi’s bedroom with her gym equipment really gave me an idea of how rad she was in her time.

4g) So, that was the Hofburg. The rest of the tour time was spent walking around the building, through the Burggarten, and back to the Spanish Riding School. I wish I could recommend this experience, but the squash at the Sisi Museum really keeps anyone from taking in what’s on view.

5) Nutrition was needed, but what I got was my first sachertorte at the Café Sacher Itself, and even with glass of champagne and a coffee. Have you had sachertorte? Do you like it? This is a cake that will hold you in its embrace in new and tantalizing ways every moment you linger at the table, and beyond. Of course it was served mit Schlag.

5a) A young man, not without beauty, sitting alone at the next table, asked me what I had ordered. We fell into conversation and he did end up ordering the same thing (but without champagne). Wouldn’t you know it, he’s from the Boston area! We had a nice conversation until I got my bill and rose to go.

6) In need of something more self-directed, I wandered through the Burggarten to the enormous Kunsthistoriches Museum, one of the most significant art collections in Europe. And I spent about 2.5 hours just wallowing in the depth and breadth of what was shown. Some delights:

• My old friend Marie Antoinette!

• A whole room of Velasquez portraits of Spanish Hapsburgs, including Old Hog Jaw himself. To paraphrase GWTW, “You know the Hapsburgs always marry their cousins!”

• Tintoretto’s Susanna Bathing.

• Guido Cagnacci’s Vision of Saint Jerome. I hope I can bring an energy like that to my later years.

• Wolfgang Huber’s portrait of Jacob Ziegler.

• Any and all Cranachs.

• A whole panel of gold rings set with carnelians.

• A bust of a Hapsburg in Louis XIV style with a face so comical I thought of him as Monsieur Potateau Head.

• A small allegorical figure of Fury carved from ivory.

7) And then it was time to return to my hotel, which all took place without incident. I did remember to use the ticket box.

8) After a night of almost no sleep and an active day, I had a heavy NAP, and when I came to about 6, I knew I had to do something affordable about dinner. The result: a neighborhood perambulation lightly guided by Google, which led me to pass up a couple places and end up at a neighborhood restaurant for my first tafelspitz.

8a) Now for those of you who don’t know (which I didn’t until yesterday), tafelspitz is basically Austria’s version of New England boiled dinner, only the potatoes are grated and it’s served with applesauce and another sauce involving chives. It was also a favorite of the emperor. And it was filling, which was what I really needed most. Along with a glass of wine so white it was harmless, it was the perfect dinner for the day.

9) Unwisely I brought my laptop back to the hotel bar for a negroni, which is where I’ve been writing all this. The environment is pleasant, as is the staff.

10) Tomorrow . . . who knows?! Vienna awaits, but so does my laundry. And I really need to look for a barber again . . .

Monday, 16 June: Summer Abroad, Day 45: Vienna, Day One: Schönbrunn

“Let’s get organized. What time is it and what day is it?” — Coral Browne as Vera Charles

1) Up a little after 8:00 AM with almost exactly no idea how to get started in this new city. A dear friend from graduate school who Knows Vienna had sent a flock of suggestions — a lot to pore over. But one reason I chose this hotel (aside from the fact that it had availability at the last minute) was its proximity to Schönbrunn, the Hapsburg’s summer palace. So I booked an early afternoon ticket for a palace tour.

2) That gave me a couple hours to have breakfast in the hotel (which will not become a habit here), investigate some other ideas, and catch up on communications with friends and colleagues.

3) The day was gray, and the forecast for rain, but I took a chance and didn’t ask for one of the hotel umbrellas (thank goodness, more on that later). A touch of coolness made contact with me every few seconds, but 15 minutes later, on my final approach to Schönbrunn, my pale gray shirt was spotted more than I thought it would be.

A courtyard fountain.

4) The first view of Schönbrunn has everything to do with 21st century transportation. One doesn’t see the palace, only parking for electric vehicles and large tour buses. But when one does come to the entrance, how wonderful!

5) I took my time in the shop, because of the rain, but everything was really geared to the Myth of Sisi — baseball caps, fans, sparkly pencils, etc. There were umbrellas, but I resisted. I sat on a step until it was my time to approach the tour entrance.

6) And why was it a good thing that I resisted an umbrella? Because at Schönbrunn they need to be checked! And that would have impeded my progress through the day.

The billiard room.

7) Now, this is not really my very first ever trip to Vienna. I had a lovely sample of it on that 2014 Travel Program trip for two days. Schönbrunn was a wonderful part of that. This tour allowed me to remember what I saw, see what I missed, and take my time over all of it.

7a) From a preservationist standpoint, how fortunate that Franz Josef I reigned for 68 years and didn’t like change. What progress his successor Karl and his wife Zita had made in modernizing the palace in 1916-1918 was “reversed as much as possible” after 1918. The result not only gives us a good look at Austrian imperial and family life, it’s pretty darned amazing.

Here they are! Franz Josef and Sisi, early in their marriage.

7b) First one goes through Franz Josef’s and Sisi’s rooms, then family rooms, then some enormous public and ceremonial rooms, and then (if you’ve booked the palace tour and not just the state rooms tour) an additional suite of rooms mostly dating from the time of Maria Theresa (or Theresia, you choose).

A photo screen!

7c) Surprises? There were a few:

• A bronze statue of Hercules bashing a dragon that had been a stove.

• Remember that fabulous photo screen of Queen Alexandra’s I saw in London? Whaddya know, Franz Josef had his own photo screens in his bedroom!

• Franz Josef died in that bedroom. I didn’t expect to see a really lovely and poignant painting of him on his deathbed exhibited next to the bed.

• The family dining room is known as the Marie Antoinette Room. (“No no, Vera’s in there!” IYKYK.)

• Happy recognition from books of a couple portraits of childhood Marie Antoinette.

• The two Chinese Cabinets, oval and round, small rooms with magnificent chinoiserie panels used for cards or very private conferences.

The Millions Room, with furnishings. I would totally have this in my home.

7d) But my very favorite room, which I remembered from before, is the Millions Room, paneled in collages of Mughal court life actually assembled by members of the Hapsburg family. It’s like putting out a puzzle at the office or the family room, and everyone just contributes as they feel like it — only here it’s with priceless works of art, and the result is sumptuous interior design. According to the audio guide, it’s the most valuable room in the palace.

8) Speaking of which, I’m generally audio averse, but the Schönbrunn audio guide has the advantage of no headphones. You just press the number(s) and hold it to your ear, and that is so simple.

The Great Gallery, largest of the public rooms. Notice the budding influencer at left, being filmed giving his tour.

9) A palace tour room by room like this flows very much like a river. That means some people move along more quickly than others (and sometimes you’re glad they do), and sometimes people (like me, a couple times) move backwards because they missed something. Aside from a couple large tour groups, I particularly noticed one young man in a flat embroidered cap (dark blue with a white border) being filmed by another young man as though giving a tour. That could have been Tyranny of the Pretty Lady, but they didn’t complain about anyone getting in their way or impede anyone else. Still, it requires attention to try to see an exhibition and not end up in someone’s Yewtybbe.

Empress Elizabeth’s salon. Not that she was there much . . .

10) Once back outside (the whole thing took me about a hour and 45 minutes, because I lingered), I found the little restaurant in the outer wing of the palace, and a table inside for one. Having been warned that café service in Vienna was “leisurely,” I was prepared for a wait. But I didn’t think that included a wait for utensils after my meal had been served (a wonderful and, I gather, traditional salad with fried chicken, marinated beans, greens, and potatoes). The waiter was so apologetic he provided a complimentary espresso, which I enhanced with a slice of the haustorte.

11) Whaddya know, they have the same kind of blue house numbers in Vienna that they do in Paris . . .

12) Back in my room, my head wanted to take a nap, but my body didn’t. At 6, I made myself go down to the hotel bar with my laptop for a negroni, and to write. And now, I’ve had my second negroni . . .