I went to London in mid-February, as part of the where to live project, and stayed with Ethan and Sally. Here is their cat Walter, arranging himself into an artistic composition, while doubles as a "feed me" reminder, as it is exactly in the footpath to the kitchen.
The first Monday I was there, I was lucky to meet with a couple of people at the Tate to learn of their plans. I recommend reading about their new expansion, Transforming Tate Modern, on their website. Terrified that I would be late for the meeting--in the morning on jetlag day 2--I was early enough that I was, in the manner of a benevolent parent sending a child out to play, encouraged to go check out their Chris Ofili show for a half hour. It was actually rather great. I never realized that the Madonna with the dung attached to it also is covered in miniature versions of bottoms, etc., from porn magazines.
Tate has engendered more feelings of public ownership than any museum in the world, so if I were in a position to support their expansion, I would. As it is, I would sit on their side of the table anyday, a point that is harder to make at the perfectly circular table in their conference room.
I spent the afternoon in my old neighborhood (where a chance lunch encounter netted the most small world blind date set-up ever in New York). and I spent the week mostly in London -- with a day excursion to Cambridge to meet with students interested in summer internships where I work in New York, and two days in Paris. I never tire of the feeling of Cambridge:
I described our firm to an interesting group of students, well supported by their career services offices who gave me kindly cups of tea. I was reminded how hard it is to protect the intellectual property of a project without making it sound like you have a secret -- which makes anything sound a hundred times more interesting than it is. That combined with any kind of enthusiasm and I felt like I was pitching a magic fairy camp.
Upon return to London that day, I went to see an opening at the Tate Modern that night with my friend Ian. We had planned to combine an opening with a comedy performance in West London. I managed to say, at the Tate, "I don't think I've ever seen live comedy in London!" At which point Ian casually moved me twenty feet to the side before pointing out that the man standing right behind me as I said this was in fact a famous British comedian (the really tall guy from The Office).
At Ginglik, a West London club in a repurposed underground set of public toilets, we caught the second half of the comedy show. It is Ian's local -- when they had threatened to close the venue the year before, his letter to the local council had been reprinted and laminated (!) and placed on the front gate.
At those places, you always hope at least one of the three acts will be fantastic, and that one will be solid, and you accept that one will be painfully bad--much the same expectation as with contemporary art. The acts happened in that order. In the last, a man who seemed to have always wanted to be a musician and so played bars of songs to show off guitar riffs while occasionally trying to string together two bars of made-up lyrics, went for the audience participation segment. He looked straight at me to ask my name. I looked over my shoulder, quite sincerely in denial, and then realizing there was no way out said my name was Amy. His reply, "Amy. Right. That sounds like a made-up name!" To which I replied, "Yes, about as made up as my American accent." Then I felt a bit mean, given it is Ian's local. Audience participation is tough, like ambush karaoke.
I was happy to get to the train the next morning to head to Paris. It was blustery cold there, almost sandy with snow out the window of the train.
I had a wander, even venturing into a McDonalds, which I do very rarely but also think is a cross-cultural event unto itself -- lots of high-tech computer ordering options and, of course, this elegant bin:
I spent the early evening getting drinks at La Rhumerie (the very same from the epilogue of Museum Legs) with Catherine, a lovely French woman I had not met before. I bought a coat from a company where she works and we had a long, funny email exchange and decided to meet up. She is as interesting in person, more so.
For me, speaking French requires interval training. I can keep it up for a little while, but at some point, the machinery has to shut down and walk a lap, speaking in English. The peak of my French speaking was in the cab between drinks and being really late for dinner, as the driver made a joke, and then in real time not only did I understand that it was a joke, I thought of something to say involving cognates and words I knew. It was like sailing down a hill at the end of the workout, case study in momentum.
I had dinner with Amy Thomas, my co-host from the bridal shower that kicked off the book tour. Amy is a writer and dessert expert and it was lovely to catch up. We went for a long meandering walk after dinner,
and then I had a meandering walk home, past all the street lights in front of the Louvre.
The next morning I arrived at the train station, only the train didn't. A day before the report was to come out about massive Eurostar delays at Christmastime, there was a massive Eurostar delay. We stood in line in a covered, though cold area, with a very cold stone floor, for a couple of hours.
From where we were standing you could see over to where the trains pulled in, and they eventually did -- to great fanfare and relief.
The Eurostar then simply puts a sticker on your ticket, so they load up the trains in order -- the red group, the green group, and so on. This meant I got the seat that is facing backwards and next to the wall.
Back in London I went immediately to drinks with Richard Howells, a really interesting cultural studies professor I had met professionally the year before, and who took me for a drink at a bar the coolness of which was at odds with my unwieldy luggage. I spent the next couple of days in London, almost as a tourist, knowing I would be back in New York for a while. Here is an All Saints shop decorated with old-fashioned sewing machines.
The bog-standard view of Harrods but it is still very pretty:
And lots of catching up with friends, long cups of tea with Louise Mai, the enjoyment of staying with Ethan and Sally, drinks with the Alex's who coined the term "Museum Legs," and a few other chances to see friends and acquaintances. Although I miss people when I am away, it is nice sometimes to see people's lives in snapshot format because you can appreciate how much has changed. People fall in love, leave jobs they hate, finally set out on plans long intended, and otherwise change in ways that are visible. Here is Corinna, a lovely painter and friend from the Slade. She is standing in her new street having, since I had last seen her, sold her flat, started a Ph.D. program, won a painting prize, and so on and so forth.
I headed for the airport to be greeted by an oversold flight and a tempting offer to hop off of it, which I did, spending my last night there at the airport Hilton, in exchange for more than a trip back.
I am a proponent of occasional in-between time -- in neutral spaces like airport hotels as you collect your wits within or between chapters of your life.
The next morning, the same woman was working and she put me in a business class seat, where I admired their salt and pepper shakers:
Back in New York.
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