[London] A tale of two aesthetes.
Andy and I had a marvelous time at the Bolshoi's performance of Cinderella. I hadn't expected the production to be so innovative and clever, so stylish and delightful. As opposed to a traditional fairy tale theme, it veered in the direction of Le Petit Prince and early 20th-century glamour. It began with the storyteller sitting on top of a little moon, writing the story in a book, and it ended with him crawling up into the moon amidst the last magical chimes of the score. Andy and I had a wistful little discussion about how much we would love to buy a print of the man riding a bicycle through the air with his yellow scarf streaming behind him. The production simply felt unrelentingly clever, the sort of thing that made me feel a bit like a child again. The frumpy elderly couple behind us absolutely hated the production and spent at least one entire intermission complaining about how awful it was. I couldn't help but think of the ranting man on the District line. A sampling, all to be imagined in a well-I-never tone:
"You see in the programme the stepsisters are just 'stepsisters,' not 'ugly stepsisters.'"
"This so confusing! If you didn't know the story, you'd be absolutely baffled as to what's going on at all! They don't give you any information. Where's the fairy godmother? Why doesn't the pumpkin turn into a carriage?"
"The prince is supposed to be dignified! But he just slid down the banister! Where's the dignity in that?"
"What was that thing at the beginning? It looked like a planet. With craters. Impact craters."
And so on. Andy and I listened in delight, hardly daring to say anything. If the production had been horrible, I would have hated those two complainers reminding me of how badly we'd wasted our money. But the ballet was remarkable, and everyone else in the theatre seemed to adore it, so it was actually rather entertaining to listen to how odd their opinions were. At the end of the performance, the woman declared with a huff that she wasn't going to clap for it. "Why is everyone applauding so much?" she asked in bewilderment and despair about the bad taste of the nation. Anyway, it was absolutely stunning, worth every penny and more, and Andy and I left in an excellent mood.
I commented to Andy during one intermission that I'd slipped a woman in the audience "a tenner" to look at a particular leaflet within his line of sight. Both of us paused, and then I said, "Well, if we'd been at an opera, I would have slipped her three tenners." We'd both seen the same joke opportunity, and it was just a matter of getting to it first. That happens quite a lot these days.
After a brief stop at the National Archives this afternoon, we had cream tea at The Original Maids of Honour in Kew. I'd never been there before, and I must say I was impressed. Our set tea included a large pot of tea, two scones each with butter, jam, and clotted cream, and a Maid of Honour each (no, no cannibalism today, at least -- these were cakes). I suppose this is the only place in the world where you can eat the Maid of Honour, which is a wonderfully flakey pastry with a custard of sorts in the middle. Their own quaint little legend has it that Henry VIII loved them so much that he imprisoned the woman who made them, simply so that she could make them only for him and his friends. True or not, the cafe has been there for generations, and with good reason. We got the Maids of Honour straight out of the oven, and they were heavenly.
We arrived at the National Gallery two minutes before last entry to the Rebels & Martyrs: The Image of the Artist in the Nineteenth Century exhibit, which turned out to be extraordinary, the best exhibit I've seen this year. Upon entering each new room of paintings, I felt thrilled all over again. The gift shop closed before we could descend upon it, so we've vowed to go back and snap up the things we love.
And then, of course, I introduced Andy to Foyles. Every time I enter Foyles, I think to myself, "If there's a better bookstore in the world, I'd like to know about it!" I bought three of the fabulous 60th-anniversary Penguin Classics, even though I already have copies of them. I just love the bright covers in blues and greens and pinks instead of the normal black. We also bought the Penguin Classics mugs we've been wanting, and I found a great book on Penguin cover art since 1935. Was there a theme to my purchases...? Andy bought a nice little book on drinks with a red cover and silver-edged pages. Foyles is so enormous and so wonderful that -- wouldn't you know it? -- Andy asked if we could come back again before he leaves. We certainly will.
Yesterday was also a great success, since I managed to snatch up an extremely clever and tasteful messenger-style bag made out of a recycled pinstriped suit from the V&A gift shop. Sometimes those sorts of things can be terribly gaudy, but this one just seems intriguing to us. Andy and I had raved about it last week, and we decided soon after that I couldn't leave London without it. We ate lunch at our favorite chip shop in South Kensington ("Considered by many to be the finest they've ever tasted!") and had a delightful time at the Science Museum, especially in the medical history sections. Sometimes it seems brutally unfair to leave behind such wonderful things as the Wellcome Trust and the V&A and Foyles and, of course, chips (muses Andy, "I don't think I ever liked calling them French fries!"). We passed by Somerset House today and I told Andy all about the ice skating rink they put there in the winter. We both sighed a little, and I said, "Well, not this winter, but next winter we might be able to go ice skating there." There are next times, after all, and that makes the thought of leaving it behind for a time more tolerable.
"You see in the programme the stepsisters are just 'stepsisters,' not 'ugly stepsisters.'"
"This so confusing! If you didn't know the story, you'd be absolutely baffled as to what's going on at all! They don't give you any information. Where's the fairy godmother? Why doesn't the pumpkin turn into a carriage?"
"The prince is supposed to be dignified! But he just slid down the banister! Where's the dignity in that?"
"What was that thing at the beginning? It looked like a planet. With craters. Impact craters."
And so on. Andy and I listened in delight, hardly daring to say anything. If the production had been horrible, I would have hated those two complainers reminding me of how badly we'd wasted our money. But the ballet was remarkable, and everyone else in the theatre seemed to adore it, so it was actually rather entertaining to listen to how odd their opinions were. At the end of the performance, the woman declared with a huff that she wasn't going to clap for it. "Why is everyone applauding so much?" she asked in bewilderment and despair about the bad taste of the nation. Anyway, it was absolutely stunning, worth every penny and more, and Andy and I left in an excellent mood.
I commented to Andy during one intermission that I'd slipped a woman in the audience "a tenner" to look at a particular leaflet within his line of sight. Both of us paused, and then I said, "Well, if we'd been at an opera, I would have slipped her three tenners." We'd both seen the same joke opportunity, and it was just a matter of getting to it first. That happens quite a lot these days.
After a brief stop at the National Archives this afternoon, we had cream tea at The Original Maids of Honour in Kew. I'd never been there before, and I must say I was impressed. Our set tea included a large pot of tea, two scones each with butter, jam, and clotted cream, and a Maid of Honour each (no, no cannibalism today, at least -- these were cakes). I suppose this is the only place in the world where you can eat the Maid of Honour, which is a wonderfully flakey pastry with a custard of sorts in the middle. Their own quaint little legend has it that Henry VIII loved them so much that he imprisoned the woman who made them, simply so that she could make them only for him and his friends. True or not, the cafe has been there for generations, and with good reason. We got the Maids of Honour straight out of the oven, and they were heavenly.
We arrived at the National Gallery two minutes before last entry to the Rebels & Martyrs: The Image of the Artist in the Nineteenth Century exhibit, which turned out to be extraordinary, the best exhibit I've seen this year. Upon entering each new room of paintings, I felt thrilled all over again. The gift shop closed before we could descend upon it, so we've vowed to go back and snap up the things we love.
And then, of course, I introduced Andy to Foyles. Every time I enter Foyles, I think to myself, "If there's a better bookstore in the world, I'd like to know about it!" I bought three of the fabulous 60th-anniversary Penguin Classics, even though I already have copies of them. I just love the bright covers in blues and greens and pinks instead of the normal black. We also bought the Penguin Classics mugs we've been wanting, and I found a great book on Penguin cover art since 1935. Was there a theme to my purchases...? Andy bought a nice little book on drinks with a red cover and silver-edged pages. Foyles is so enormous and so wonderful that -- wouldn't you know it? -- Andy asked if we could come back again before he leaves. We certainly will.
Yesterday was also a great success, since I managed to snatch up an extremely clever and tasteful messenger-style bag made out of a recycled pinstriped suit from the V&A gift shop. Sometimes those sorts of things can be terribly gaudy, but this one just seems intriguing to us. Andy and I had raved about it last week, and we decided soon after that I couldn't leave London without it. We ate lunch at our favorite chip shop in South Kensington ("Considered by many to be the finest they've ever tasted!") and had a delightful time at the Science Museum, especially in the medical history sections. Sometimes it seems brutally unfair to leave behind such wonderful things as the Wellcome Trust and the V&A and Foyles and, of course, chips (muses Andy, "I don't think I ever liked calling them French fries!"). We passed by Somerset House today and I told Andy all about the ice skating rink they put there in the winter. We both sighed a little, and I said, "Well, not this winter, but next winter we might be able to go ice skating there." There are next times, after all, and that makes the thought of leaving it behind for a time more tolerable.