Judie and I are in Australia, staying at a spectacular place overlooking Manly Beach. We’ve been here about a month and have another two weeks to go. Judie’s sister Kathy and her husband Jim were here with us for the first two weeks, which was a whirlwind of seeing the sights in Sydney. Much more on all of this later.

Things have calmed down quite bit with Kathy and Jim gone. I’ve been trying watercolors, without striking success, and I thought it might be fun to write some blog posts about this whole experience. I never turned off the NickinShoreditch site (and have been paying Word Press to keep it active for the past three or more years), so it seemed like a good idea to just add this all to the original collection of essays and photos. If I’d known that this site might have life beyond the two years in London, I suppose I might have named it something else.

Since I have already been here for a month, what will follow will not try to be chronological. Instead, I think it will end up being random stories, thoughts and photos. In the unlikely even that I produce a non-terrible watercolor, I’ll publish it, but don’t hold your breath on that.

How we ended up here for six weeks

Last fall, Judie and I were talking about going somewhere to escape at least some of the winter. Judie suggested that we could go to Miami and she could work out of the K&L Gates offices there. I had the idea of going to Sydney, where she could work out of the Sydney office. Judie liked the idea and had the idea of combining it with a speaking gig at Money 2020 Asia, a huge payments conference happening in Singapore at the end of March. She managed to convince her firm that this was a good idea, so here we are. Unfortunately, the conference was cancelled due to the coronavirus, but Judie’s work experience here has been very productive so far.

More to come.

We are into the last week of our London experience. Alex arrives tomorrow morning. I have just finalized the food and wine for our good-bye party on Saturday. There is apparently a tradition of “Leaving Drinks” (at least in law firms, but knowing the British love of booze, probably everywhere). So Judie is organizing drinks for her firm and some clients on Thursday. We’ve got two more plays to see (“Travesties” and “Twelfth Night”) and I want to go to the Royal Academy to see the exhibits there. Judie has a final Women’s Group meeting at the flat. And we have to pack (although I have started and there isn’t that much besides paintings). It is going to be a busy week. I’ll be happy when it is over and we are back home.

Hockney: While Paul was here, we took a boat down the Thames to Tate Britain to take in the Hockney Retrospective (and to make the obligatory pilgrimage to the stunning Turner wing). I had loved the Hockney portraits exhibition at the Royal Academy and this exhibit confirmed that I am now a big Hockney lover. I didn’t used to be a fan at all and the retrospective reminded me why. I was not all that crazy about his early period and there were moments over the last 40-50 years where his stuff was less interesting than others. But, when you get to see the entire progression of his life’s work (the show goes from a self-portrait drawn in high school to recent works done on an iPad), you have to come away convinced that he is a great talent. Most of his art life was spent in Southern California, but he did return to England (mainly to visit his mother) and I really loved some of the resulting work, which is entirely different from the California stuff, probably because the English palette is so different.

John Soane House: Judie and Paul went to the John Soane House, which I wrote about a year ago. It is a jewel of a museum. I stayed home to get some stuff done and let them have an adventure on their own. And they did. The museum has a small elevator to get around the front steps and somehow it jerked or something, throwing Paul and the chair backwards onto Judie. This all happened in front of the head of the museum, who was understandably mortified and invited them to have cup of tea with him. They managed to tour the museum with no further hiccups and then went for lunch at the Seven Stars, an old pub behind the Courts, which is one of the stops on the Gent’s Holiday Outing. They got to meet the owner, Roxy Beaujolais, but the equally renowned cat was not around. Here is one more classic shot of Paul in London:

A Quick Trip Back to Montclair: Last week, I took a brief trip back to Montclair. I went on the same flight as Paul. There had been a blizzard in the Northeast the day before (which made everything involved with the trip more complicated), so the plane was packed. We bounced in at the end, leading to a serious bout of motion sickness. The tenants were a little late moving out due to the snow, but left everything reasonably nice. I was worried that the snow would make it impossible to do what needed to get done, but it turned out OK. I hired some friends of James and Hannah to move our furniture back into the house from the basement and the carriage house. There is still a lot to do before the house is back to being completely fixed up, but it is at least livable. Alex will be coming up to drop off Stella shortly after we return.

Exercising Like a Baby: I have been doing this exercise with Massimo, my trainer, in which you lie on your back with your back pressed into the floor, breathing through your stomach. You then raise your arms and legs and alternate moving them back and forth. It is quite a workout for your core. The other day he told me that the exercise is based on what a three-month old does, while lying in a crib. By lying there, waving their arms and legs around, they build up the strength that allows them to crawl and stand. He had gone to a course on this and there is a whole system of exercise based on the movements of babies.

Brexit Begins: The whole Brexit thing will begin on Wednesday, when Teresa May issues the long-awaited Article 50 notification, beginning the two-year withdrawal process. It is very tempting to compare Brexit with Trump. While both are short-term disasters, there is at least a pretty good chance that the Donald will be gone by 2020 and much of the damage that he and the Republicans will do in that period could theoretically be undone. But Brexit is a more permanent mistake and the British are going to have to live with it for a long time.

It didn’t necessarily have to be this way. Buy May has been seduced by the dark side, the far right anti-Europe Tories, who have pushed her and her government into the most strident and destructive position possible. This lunatic fringe that is now in control of policy would be perfectly happy if the negotiations with the EU failed and Britain found itself with no trading agreement, leaving it stuck trading under WTO rules. The financial industry will take a big hit either way and London will lose a lot of jobs, but no agreement will make it worse. And it is hard to see how Britain’s car industry will work without the free-flowing of parts from Europe to English factories. And the country cannot actually function without migrants. The hospitals are already becoming stressed as EU nurses are deciding to leave and go back to where they feel welcome. They won’t be able to close the borders to all immigration as monsters like Farage want, so the xenophobes will be unhappy and the economy will suffer. Right now they won’t even do something as simple as guarantee that EU citizens in Britain (many for a long time) will be protected. What some of the Tories are clearly hoping for is that they will be able to undo the environmental and working protections which are part of the EU, changing the UK into a low-cost, no regulation “Free Market”, which will help the rich, but further harm the poor voters who supported Brexit. The chances of this not being an ugly disaster seem very slim. Trump is more obviously horrifying, but Brexit could prove to be much worse.

Another Thing I’ll Miss: It isn’t just the restaurants, which are very good in our neighborhood. It is the fact that we have become regulars at a number of restaurants and are recognized as such.

Almost caught up.

 

During Paul’s stay, we went to the Hampstead Theatre and the Old Vic, two of our favorite theatres, each for the last time during our current stay here. We will certainly be back and will see productions at both venues, but we will never have the chance again to religiously attend every performance they produce.

“Filthy Business”: First, we went to the Hampstead Theatre (after dinner at Bradley’s, our favorite restaurant in an area surprisingly devoid of good places to eat). We saw what I am pretty sure was the first performance ever of a new play, “Filthy Business”, by Ryan Craig. It is a story about a family that owns a shop in East London that sells scrap rubber products. The matriarch of the family has her two boys in the business and wants to keep them there. And there is another generation that she has her eye on to continue the business. Sara Kestelman (who we saw in the “Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide….” last fall) was stunning as the conniving matriarch, Yetta. She dominated the stage in much the same way that Yetta dominates her family. Yetta is a Jewish immigrant and a survivor and an archetype of all of the hard-working immigrants who built London (and, as such, has a relevancy in the era of Brexit) and Kestelmen gives an award-winning performance. Dorian Lough was wonderful as Leo, the son who wanted to get out of the business but could never escape Yetta’s manipulations. And Callum Woodhouse (seen in “The Durrels” on TV), as Leo’s son Mickey, who clearly doesn’t belong in the shop, becomes the real focus of the play in the second act. The real dramatic tension in both acts is whether Leo or Mickey can escape the business and Yetta. Leo can’t but Mickey ultimately does after some entertaining twists, turns and surprises. The supporting cast of family and shop employees is typically first-rate. The set is interesting (although the turntable broke own briefly) and the scene changes were a bit clunky in the first preview performance. Judie complained that she didn’t find any of the characters likable. I’m not sure I agree with that, but even if it is true, I think it is far more important for a play to set up a situation with plausible dramatic tension involving well-developed characters. I think “Filthy Business” clearly accomplished this. I enjoyed myself. (It opened to great reviews.) I am going to miss the Hampstead Theatre a lot.

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead”: It is the 50th anniversary of this play, which burst onto the scene and made Tom Stoppard famous, beginning his remarkable career. For the occasion, The Old Vic cast Daniel Radcliffe and Joshua McGuire as the title characters, with David Haig as the Player. The writing is stupendously clever, so densely packed that you feel pressed to keep up with the flow of words. The conceit of having the two characters and the Player occasionally finding themselves in the middle of “Hamlet” and then, just as suddenly, on their own again is brilliant. It was interesting that Radcliffe chose to play (or was cast as) Rosencrantz, as he is the slower and less glib of the two leads. Guildenstern gets much more of the clever and funny lines. It is not that Radcliffe wasn’t very good. He just seemed to be playing against type or at least eschewing the flashier part. I also don’t recall the Player as being as powerful a character as Haig played him. He is an important balance to the confused and somewhat helpless pair. Indeed, one of the thoughts which I had as the play progressed (which I’m sure is not an original insight) is how much the play owes to “Waiting for Godot”. Both feature a bewildered couple, waiting for something to happen to them–probably death. Sporadic busts of activity fail to clarify anything and only lead to a sort of despair, although Stoppard’s existential losers are far funnier than Becket’s. I’ve been wondering since seeing this play whether it is one of those plays that is somewhat foolproof–so clever that it will aways be good if you can maintain the pace. I’ve concluded that it would be pretty easy to do an unsatisfying production. Director David Levaux and the cast deserve credit for a production that seems as fresh and shockingly inventive as it must have seemed fifty years ago.

St. Paul’s Cathedral: Paul and I decided to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I’d been once before with someone who was visiting (Peter and Andrea?) We got the audio guide, which does a surprising amount of proselytizing until you figure out which parts to skip. The original St.Paul’s, which was made of wood, with a lead roof, burned to the ground in the Great Fire. (The nearby booksellers all moved their merchandise there in the face of the inferno, which couldn’t have helped.) Wren’s design for the new cathedral was controversial, not the least because it was reminiscent of the hated Vatican. Wren had to do away with much of the ornamentation that he wanted because it was seen as too Catholic. Much of the current mosaics and painting was not added until the Victorian Era. The whole thing is very impressive. You can climb to the top of the dome, if you like doing that. I made it up to the Whisper gallery that looks down into the cathedral. (There are better view points in London that the top of St. Paul’s, partly because in other view points, you get to see St. Paul’s.)

I though that the best part of St. Paul’s was the crypt. It contains all kinds of interesting tombs. They were mostly of dead military officers for a while, but then it was apparently opened to enlisted men (in plaques) and artists and politicians and others. The biggest displays were for Lord Nelson, The Duke of Wellington and Winston Churchill, the only three people to have state funerals in the Cathedral (although Winston is actually buried elsewhere). The one with the best story is Nelson’s. Nelson, as every British school child knows, was killed by a French sniper, just as his victory at the Battle of Trafalgar was assured. At the end of a spectacular hero’s funeral, Nelson’s sarcophagus, which was under the dome of St; Paul’s, was lowered through a hole cut in the marble floor to its current resting place. The sarcophagus itself was designed for Cardinal Woolsey, when he was still in Henry VIII’s good graces. Woolsey fell very much out of favor and among the many things he lost (including his life), was the vessel for his burial, which Henry appropriated. Henry was planning to adapt it for his use, but he died before it was finished and succeeding monarchs never got around to doing anything with it either. So the thing ended up sitting in Windsor Castle, losing bits of ornamentation along the way, until it was donated by the crown to be used for Nelson’s funeral.

Bunhill Cemetery: Continuing in the same vein, we took Paul to see Bunhill Cemetery, which is near our flat and across the street from where John Wesley lived. (It is possible I wrote about this place before.) Bunhill is short of Bone Hill and it is where the non-conformists, i.e., the people  who weren’t Anglican, were buried (if they were sufficinetly important). (It was illegal for Anglicans to be buried in The City and Bunhill is just outside where the wall had been and where the line of the City ends.) Lots of famous folks are buried there, including DeFoe, Blake, Bunyan and Richard Price, the radical Unitarian Minister who preached at our New Unity church at Newington Green. In early spring it is beautiful with daffodils and other flowers profusely blooming. The most interesting tomb in Bunhill is for Dame Mary Page, not because of who she was, but because the inscription on the back, which says “In 67 months, she was tapped 66 times. Had taken away 240 gallons of water without ever repining at her case or ever fearing the operation.” It is thought that she had Meig’s Syndrome, which caused water to build up around her lungs. Stop for a second and think about 240 gallons of water and just how much that is. Photos follow.

 

I think this may be the longest I’ve gone without posting since I started this blog. I got completely distracted by the visit of Paul Weeks, my friend from college, which was immediately followed by a short and exhausting trip to the US to get our house back from the tenants. So I will probably do two or three posts, as opposed to one gigantic post, in order to catch up.

General Thoughts on Paul’s Visit: Paul was my friend and my suite-mate for my last semester at Bowdoin. He wound up marrying Judie’s roommate and best college friend, Gigi. Paul and Gigi ended up in Bangor, Maine (Paul is a Maine guy), where Paul practiced law for many years. Gigi had a long fight with cancer and died about a year ago. About three years ago, Paul had a blood clot on his spine, which, despite various surgeries and treatments, has left him semi-paralyzed from the waist down. He can walk short distances with a walker, but for the kind of traveling around London that was required for his visit, he needed a wheelchair, which we borrowed from a friend.

Dealing with someone in a wheelchair was a new experience for me. To begin with, there were places where we simply could not go (i.e.: the Underground, The Tower of London, Kew Gardens, etc.) And everything took a lot longer, for a variety of reasons. Bathrooms were sometimes an issue. On the plus side, everyone we met (who wasn’t walking along obliviously staring at their smart phone) was incredibly nice and went out of their way to try to be helpful. The London buses are great for wheelchairs and the entrance fees for everything was reduced and I got to go in free as his companion/pusher. Taxis here hold a wheelchair in the back seat easily and have ramps. I developed a whole new appreciation of sidewalks. Is it smooth? (Cobblestones must be avoided at all costs.) Is it level? Where is the curb cut-out? Small steps which I had never even noticed (like the ones to get into New Unity) were suddenly an obstacle to be taken seriously. It is a bit tiring too. Paul and the chair probably weighed in the range of 200 pounds. And I had to lean forward a bit while pushing, which eventually got to my back. I was happy to push him about, just I was delighted to have him visit. But the added complexities caused by Paul’s relatively manageable disabilities was a revelation.

Our Visit to The Old Bailey: One of the things that Paul expressed interest in doing was a visit to see a part of a trial at The Old Bailey. If you have ever been a litigator (or a fan of “Rumpole of The Bailey”), it is just one of those things you have to do. I contacted our friend, Phil Saunders, who is a barrister with the City of London, and asked for advice on getting Paul in and on what case to see. To my surprise and delight, he and his fellow City barrister (also named Phil Saunders), arranged for us to be let in the back entrance and to be met by their friend, Charlie. This turned out to be Charles Hently, who is in charge of the operations at The Old Bailey. His official titles are The Secondary of London and Under Sheriff, and High Bailiff of Southwark. He took us up to his office, served us coffee and sat with us for 40 minutes telling us stories about the problems running an old courthouse, which sometimes host trials of terrorists. He is worried about the Conservative government’s budget cuts (in the name of austerity and shrinking the size of government) which has forced him to layoff guards and make do with an antiquated security system. He had some great stories about fights that had to be broken up during trials and recesses and told us another about having snipers on the roof for a big case and subsequently having the roof spring leaks because the snipers coffee cups had blocked the downspouts. He then took us on a short personal tour of the old part of the building, featuring a truly spectacular Grand Hall with a dome. (While there has been a court and/or a prison on this site for many centuries, the actual building today was built in 1907 and expanded in 1972. But a part of it is still built on the old Roman wall.) There are six old courtrooms and twelve new ones.

Mr. Hently told us that he had planned to take us to a murder trial involving four defendants (The Old Bailey is reserved for trials for murder, terrorism or especially ugly and notorious felonies), but he had found out that morning that three of the defendants were planning to turn on the fourth and he didn’t want us in the public gallery with the families in case a fight started. So he dropped us at a murder trial and introduced us to one of the defendant’s barristers, who gave us a little background. The victim had been slashed and stabbed in the chest, following a prolonged session of drinking and drug taking with the accused, who left and returned with his brother after an argument. The defense was apparently that the victim was depressed and crazy and killed himself. (A bit unlikely, but I guess you have to go with what you’ve got.) The part of the trial we got to see was a bit boring, as it involved a professional crime scene investigator identifying photos of the carnage (but not including the body) and of the remains of the emergency medical crew’s attempts to save the victim. The barrister for the prosecution asked so many leading questions that Paul and I were looking at each other, thinking “Why no objection?” It reached the point where the barrister was basically testifying and the witness had nothing to do but say yes once in a while. A bit weird from a lawyer’s point of view. (I could see why the defense didn’t want to interrupt too often and prolong the obvious, thereby possibly annoying the jury. But I would have said something.) Anyway, it was a truly memorable morning.

I’d encourage you to read up on the history of the Old Bailey. Here is my favorite story: In 1670 William Penn (later to found Pennsylvania) and William Mead were tried for preaching to a crowd in the street, after having been ejected from their meeting-house. (It was illegal to have non-Anglican services at the time.) After the trial and instructions from the judge, four members of the jury refused to vote guilty. They were berated by the Judge and sent back. After further deliberation, the jury acquitted Mead and found Penn guilty of a lesser charge (“preaching to an assembly”). The jury was locked up overnight without food or heat. The next day, the jury stuck to their verdict, despite bullying from the bench, and were locked up fora second night. On the third day, the jury acquitted both Mead and Penn. The judges accepted the verdict after quizzing each juror and then fined each one for following their own “judgments and opinions” rather than the advice given by the court and imprisoned them until the fines were paid. Four of the jurors refused to pay (you’ve got to love them by this point) and remained in prison while they appealed the fines. The higher court threw out the fines as improper and set the precedent that jurors should rule according to their conscience, the rule of jurisprudence that has been followed ever since.

More to come

Well, it is March 1st and the finishing line of our London adventure is now clearly in sight. Frankly, I’m not really looking forward to this last month or so, since it will involve lots of logistics and packing and flying and figuring out details, some of which I will almost certainly miss and have to scramble to fix. I hope I will be able to ignore the stress and annoying details of the next month and enjoy our last weeks here. Helping me do that will be the visit of Paul Weeks, my long-time friend (suite-mate at Bowdoin and married to Judie’s college roommate Gigi). I am looking forward to that.

Miami Beach: Judie had been encouraged to take some vacation time and travel outside of the UK in connection with the visa issue we had. So about two weeks ago, we decided to go to Florida. Judie wanted to visit the K&L Gates office there and we needed to get something notarized to open trust accounts in connection with bequests to our kids and their cousins under the will of Judie’ Aunt Neanie (too long a story). (One of the things we discovered here is that, consistent with the British desire to make simple administrative acts as difficult as possible, it is very difficult to get things notarized. While in the US, everyone can be a notary, in the UK there are very few. And it was not clear that a British notarization would work for the US bank, which meant making an appointment at the US Embassy and paying $50 per signature.) So going to Miami to get something notarized is not quite as ridiculous as it sounds. We contacted Chris and Nancy, who often spend time in Miami Beach at this time of year and, although they hadn’t really planned to go, they decided it would be fun to meet us there. So we made our airline and hotel reservations and spent 23-27 February at the Setai Hotel, a place that they had been to many times.

The Setai is a ridiculously fancy and expensive hotel. We managed to get a deal that brought the price down to simply expensive from the normal stratospheric, although they got us back on the drinks and lunches, etc. ($28 hamburgers, $15 and up and up for a glass of wine, etc.) But it was great fun lounging by the pool in sunny low 80s weather each day, taking walks to see the art deco buildings, going out to increasingly great dinners and just generally relaxing. There was some sort of food and wine festival going on up and down the Beach, but the tickets were pricy and that wasn’t why we were there, so we skipped it. After living in London, Miami Beach seemed particularly exotic. All of the semi-clothed, tanned people walking, biking, jogging and skate boarding around the place in their brightly colored clothes was quite the contrast to the poor Londoners marching through one gray day after another, all fashionably dressed in black. It felt incredibly self-indulgent just walking down the street in shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian shirt.

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”: Since 1 March is also the first Wednesday of the month, it was time for Judie’s Women’s Group to take the flat for the evening, which means that I was off for a solo theatre experience. So I went to see “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” at the Harold Pinter Theatre in the West End. I’d seen the Burton and Taylor movie any number of times. The most memorable viewing was when I saw it at Smith College and left the Hall where it was shown and came out to the house and swing where it was filmed. Very eerie. About ten years ago, we saw a wonderful version on Broadway with Bill Irwin (amazing–won the Tony) and Kathleen Turner. In this production, Martha was played by Imelda Staunton, who was the big draw as she is a multiple Olivier Award winner, albeit mostly for performances in musicals. I thought she was extremely good. Her Martha was earthy, smart, bitter, angry, frustrated, funny and sad. Each time you see the play, you should see a different Martha and that was the case here. It is really such a wonderful part and such a great play that I think you inevitably have a good to great production if you have actors willing to give their all to the characters. I do think that the greater role in the play is George as he goes from utter degradation in the first act (“Humiliate the Host”) and cuckolding in the second act (“Hump the Hostess”) to taking control and getting in his own punches, leading to the shattering conclusion (“Get the Guests” and “Bringing Up Baby”). Conleth Hill (probably best known for his role in “Game of Thrones”) was funny, weak, exhausted, furious, impotent and powerful in a fascinating performance. The visitors, Nick (Luke Treadway, winner of awards for his role in “Curious Incident”) and Honey (Imogene Poots) were both very effective in creating fully-realized characters in a play that is dominated in so many ways by their hosts. I particularly like Poots’ Honey, who was not simply a mousy, drunken, vomiting cipher, but had some real personality buried down there. The part of Nick is the hardest to play since you are not supposed to like him, but I thought Treadway’s Nick managed to combine attractiveness with repulsiveness effectively. The direction allowed George and Martha to start lightly, making anyone who didn’t know what was coming to feel like it was a comedy (although if you did know what was coming, it was hard to laugh too hard). Then, of course it builds and builds to a series of flagellations. The set was wonderful. It captured a lovely living room that had been lived in for a long time, was crowded with stuff and not very neat and had seen better days–a visual parable for George and Martha themselves. “Virginia Woolf” is not exactly a comfortable play to sit through, but it is one of the great works of American Theatre and is something that you have to see once in a while to remind yourself just how powerful the theatre can be. I’m glad I got to see this again.

Punishment for our Self-Indulgence: I suppose it was the fates’ retribution for having too much fun in Miami. Our trip back was the worst flight ever. It began innocently enough when American Airlines could not find our reservations and told us we had to check  in at British Air, even though it was a joint flight. We walked a quarter mile to BA and found a long check in line with two agents and at least a 45 minute wait. (At least when we made it to the front, we were helped. Some people waited in line for as long as an hour only to be sent over to American.) Of course, by the time we reached an agent, we could not sit together and there were only middle seats. Bad news for a nine hour flight in economy. But worse was to come. I found myself seated next to a woman with a 20 month old on her lap. To make matters worse, the child had not yet learned to talk at all and could only communicate with grunts and screams. She had one of those bulkhead crib things for him, but seemingly every time she got him into it and asleep, the seatbelt light would come on and the flight attendants would come and insist that he be removed, thereby waking him up and causing him to cry/shriek. So between the tiny seats and my little neighbor doing an audition for “The Miracle Worker”, I didn’t get much sleep and ended up feeling like I’d been in an accident. Then, after staggering off the plane, we got to sit around trapped for ten minutes in a golf cart thing that we had gotten to ease Judie’s walk with her bad knee. And finally, after fighting our way through customs and laboriously explaining our visa situation to a skeptical border agent, we went to the baggage claim for Miami to find no bag for us. After another ten minutes, we were told that there were separate baggage claims for American and British Air, even though all the bags came off the same plane and our bag was there. We slept well when we finally got back to the flat.

On our third day in Portugal, we went on an all-day tour of Sintra, the mountain town that was the summer retreat of the monarchy and other assorted rich people for many centuries. It is a place of great beauty which would probably take a long weekend or more to see properly. It is a 30-40 minute drive from Lisbon. We climbed hills until we reached the center of the town of Sintra, which is dominated by the Palácio Nacional de Sintra, an imposing building with weird conical towers. It is on the site of an old Moorish fort, captured as the Portuguese moved down the peninsula, gradually taking the country back from the Moors. The fort was converted to the current palace during the 14th to 16th centuries. We stopped to take pictures, but didn’t go in as there were more spectacular sights awaiting us.

From the town, we drove all the way to the top of the mountain. It was a long way up. Perched at the very top is the Palácio Nacional de Pena, an utterly remarkable building. It was built by the German-born Dom Fernando, the King of Portugal and a cousin of Prince Albert. (Actually, by the 1800s pretty much all of European nobility was related.) Fernando was known as the “artist king” and he bought the abandoned monastery at the top of the mountain to build his dream palace. It is preserved in the same state as when the royal family lived there. (The end came for the royal family in 1908, when Dom Carlos and his 8-year old son were assassinated–in suspicious circumstances–and his elder son abdicated two years later, leading to creation of the Republic of Portugal.) The palace is surrounded by a massive park, with many structures, but we did not have the time to do the exploration, which would have taken the rest of our day. So we confined our stay to marveling at the extravagant architecture of the palace and admiring the views. You had to keep reminding yourself that people actually lived here.

After the palace, we really only had the time to see one more thing, as we had decided to go back to Lisbon along the ocean, a much longer route. So we decided to go to the Quinta de Regaleira, a spectacular palace of an eccentric millionaire. (Sintra was the place where all the rich people in Lisbon built their summer homes, many of which are still used by the same families, although some are now museums.) The palace itself is ornate, if not exactly beautiful. But the real thing you go to see is the gardens. They were apparently designed with references to Masonic orders, the Knights Templar, alchemy and the like. There are lots of buildings and small towers, waterfalls, grottos and mysterious tunnels. One of the tunnels leads to the Initiatic Well, a subterranean 100 foot tower complete with a spiral staircase. It is all very unusual and oddly beautiful.

After this, we drove through Sintra and down to the Atlantic coast, which took quite a while as there were hills and mountains in the way. The ocean drive was very pretty, interspersed with small villages and dunes until we got close to Lisbon. We stopped for lunch along the way at a restaurant recommended by our driver and had seafood with rice and vinho verde. (One of the odd things about Portuguese menus is that they offer red, white and green wines.) It was all delicious and scenic. As we went further, we came to Cascais, a very toney suburb, which our driver told us is where rich people now live. It was a fishing village at one point, but underwent a big change during World War II, when a number of rich Brits built estates along the water as sanctuaries from the war. After the war they built hotels and made other investments and the area is now booming.

That night, we went to a restaurant, Senhor Vinho, noted for its Fado performances. The food was good (we took a break from seafood), but the performances were what was really memorable. Fado is a style of Portuguese singing. Accompanied by two guitarists, the singers are incredibly emotive. Imagine Edith Piaf or Billy Holiday in Portuguese, only more so. It was fun to see a series of singers (three women and one man) each sing their hearts out. By the last set, we were the only patrons left (it was a Monday night), which could have been uncomfortable, but was kind of a treat.

We woke to rain our final day, so we went to the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Portugal’s National Gallery. Some nice paintings. My favorite part was the Japanese screens commemorating the Portuguese traders arrival in old Japan. Judie and I wandered around a bit after that, had a bite eat at a sidewalk cafe and stopped for a glass of cherry liqueur at A Ginjinha, a tiny storefront bar that has been selling this cherry liqueur and only that cherry liqueur for that 150 years.

When Peter and Andrea came to visit us again, it was understood that part of their visit would be another trip to somewhere on the continent. Last year, we went to Vienna, which was lovely but cold and this time, Judie and I were in favor some place warmer. So we suggested Lisbon. We didn’t really know much about it. It turned out to be a good choice. A few interesting facts:

• Lisbon is pretty small and quite hilly. I was afraid that this would be a problem for Judie and her bum knee, but it turns out that the taxis (and most everything) are cheap (nothing is far away and the traffic isn’t bad), so when we had to go somewhere up a hill, we got a ride up and walked down. They also have these cute funiculars, which go straight up the steeper hills.
• Lisbon is built on large river, just before it empties out into the Atlantic. It seems to be a natural port and you can see why it was a great spot for fifteenth and sixteenth explorers to use as a starting point.
• Pretty much the entire old, walled city of Lisbon was destroyed in an earthquake in 1755, so there are very few really old buildings. But most of downtown Lisbon was built during the next hundred years in the same architectural style.
• Although Portuguese is a romance language and it is almost possible to read it if you know Spanish or Italian well, the pronunciation makes it completely impossible to understand. It sounds more eastern European that western European. Fortunately, virtually everyone seems to speak English.
• While Portugal was a colonial power for a long time, thanks mainly to their explorers getting around the Cape of Good Hope first and just being the first Europeans to show up in places like Japan, they were more of a trading-centered colonial master. Not remotely as bloodthirsty as the Brits. They ended up giving up their colonies without major wars. But you can see the influence of China, Japan, India and Brazil everywhere.
• Portugal somehow seems to have missed most of the Twentieth century. It wasn’t really involved in either World War or the Spanish Civil War and was ruled by Antonio Salazar from 1933 to 1974. His dictatorial rule left Portugal as a pleasant backwater in Europe. It took Portugal a while to emerge from all of that and I think you can argue that it still something of an afterthought in Europe.

Day One: We arrived late in the afternoon. Taxi from the airport was under €20–a good sign for the expenses to follow. We were in a nice Boutique hotel that Andrea found and had rooms with lovely views. We had made reservations for dinner at well-known seafood restaurant called Solar Des Presuntos and discovered that it was so close that we could see it out our window. See below for room views.

With time to kill, we strolled around the neighborhood before dinner, taking in the Rossio, Lisbon’s main square since Roman times, and the Praça dos Restauradores, which commemorates throwing the Spanish out in 1640 and restoring the monarchy. The area is filled with restaurants and people milling around and drinking at cafés. Our restaurant was in a lovely tile-covered building right next to a funicular. The food was great and the waiters sang happy birthday to Andrea. After dinner, we took a different funicular up to Bairro Alto, an old district on a high hill, filled with bars and clubs. We wandered around looking for a Fado (a type of Portuguese music) club, but couldn’t find one. We ended up at a fun bar where we drank caipirinhas and the bartended gave us shots of cachaça (sugarcane liquor) when he heard it was Andrea’s birthday. We somehow stumbled bak to the hotel.

Day Two: Andrea had arranged for a half-day private tour of Lisbon for our first full day, so George picked us up in van and drove us up to his favorite lookout. The classic viewing spot is Castelo de São Jorge, a restored medieval castle which overlooks the old city. The guide said that there isn’t that much to see when you are inside and if you are really just going for the view, the one we went to was better because it was (a) free and (b) had the castle as part of the view. We proceeded to drive all around old Lisbon and out along the river toward Belém. It had once been the port of Lisbon and was where Vasco de Gama departed on his famous exploration. It had been made up of docks and warehouses and the like, but as the harbor moved to a place that was better for container ships (a familiar story), the area gradually gentrified around the beautiful old buildings and the entire shoreline was turned into museums and various monuments. We stopped to check out the Torre de Belém, a spectacular defensive tower built into the edge of the river. It is built in what is called the Manueline architecture style, a sort of hodgepodge of Moorish, Gothic and Renaissance influences that is typical of the construction following the earthquake. You see a lot of it around Lisbon. We also stopped at the Mosterio dos Jerónimos, a large monastery along the river which houses the remains of national heroes such as de Gama (who actually died in Goa and was brought back decades later). The exterior is lovely and Peter and Andrea went back to see the interior and Vasco, who they felt a special kinship with, having seen the place in Goa where he was originally buried.

By this time, it was early afternoon and our guide dropped us off at the Praça do Comércio, a large square surrounded on three sides by imposing buildings and by the water on the fourth. There were a number of cafés with seating on the square, so we chose one and had lunch. It was a sunny day in the mid 60s and the view was wonderful and the food and wine were good. A lot more fun than shivering in London or New York. After lunch, we wandered around the square taking pictures and checking out the tables under the arches where folk-ware and knickknacks were for sale. I realized as we were leaving that we were pretty close to The Sé, Lisbon’s cathedral. So we walked over there. It was a short, uphill hike and on the way we passed the Igreja de Santo António, a church built on the spot where St. Anthony was supposedly born. St. Anthony actually went to Italy, where he did all his saintly stuff in Parma, but Lisbon adopted the hometown boy as their patron saint. The little church (reconstructed after the earthquake) was very cute. In some ways, it was nicer than the cathedral (built in 1147 where the Moor’s old mosque had been, destroyed by the earthquake and reconstructed over centuries in a variety of styles).

Judie and I took a small tourist vehicle back to hotel, so she could rest her leg and do some work. I took it easy for a while and then decided to take the funicular behind the building up to the top of the hill and wander around up there. As I was leaving, I met Peter and Andrea, returning from shopping and walking. They came with me. It turned that the funicular is the oldest in Lisbon and has a cute little “station” at the top of the hill. We walked over the Jardin de Torel, a jewel of a little park overlooking Lisbon. The ridge of the hill we were on was lined with large palaces, a few of which had been converted into what I’m guessing are very snazzy hotels. As the sun was setting, it was a great spot of photos, some of which follow.

That evening, we went back up to the Bairro Alto for more seafood, this time at Mar ao Carmo, a restaurant on a cute square. Since we were leaving to go for a tour of Sintra the next morning, we decided to skip exploring the bars and clubs again and just walked back down the hill to our hotel. To be continued…..

Mea culpa: I am in something of a trough. I have not been writing frequently enough. It is partly because I feel guilty about posts that exceed 1500 words (as this one does). So I tend to cut them off, figuring that I’ll just put it in the next one. Of course, by the time I get around to the next one, I’ve got too much to write about and it is lost (if I even remember it). Some good thoughts lost. I could try to blame all of this on a persistent cold or the generally depressing environment of London in winter. But is more simple sloth. This sort of ennui has extended to my painting. I  have grown tired of my landscapes and feel like doing something different, although I have been not sure what. And I feel like I would like to try a different approach to portraits as well. When this happens, I go to museums, seeking inspiration from the masters.

Paris–Art and Food: Honestly, is there a better reason to go to Paris? Especially in January, when it is absolutely freezing? And you catch a cold as soon as you arrive? I had some memorable meals, two with Judie and two solo lunches. There were a bit pricey and utterly delicious. It is probably just as well we didn’t move to Paris (as was a possibility at one point early on the process). I would have ended up like that Monty Python character who explodes after a huge meal. What I ultimately found to be more interesting than the food was the people:

• One evening, Judie had one of dinners for clients, potential clients and friends. Someone cancelled, so I got to attend. It was an interesting and high-powered group. It was a great evening and a very long conversation. (We closed the restaurant.) The turning point of the evening was when Judie played one of her ice-breaking games. In this one, she asked everyone there to say the worst job they had ever had. It seems kind of simple, but after it was done, a number of the guests commented that French people would never play such a game, since it was unheard of to speak about failure in such a public way. They were all delighted in an odd way and the evening took off from there. We talked about ways to bring people together, religion, politics, why gift cards don’t work in France. On the latter subject, we were told that everyone in France can have bank account and a debit card very easily, so they either give a real gift or transfer cash. It is a different gift-giving culture.
• On our final day, I went to Bistro Volant for lunch. I’d read that it a classic bistro and it was near to our hotel, just off the Place Vendome. I discovered that Parisians eat lunch at 1:00. When I got there at noon, the place was empty, but there was only one table available. The food was delicious, of course. The sweetbreads were probably the best I’d ever had–crispy on the outside and meltingly soft in the middle. As the bistro filled up over the next 45 minutes, I noticed that a pretty big percentage of the clientele were businessmen. At least 2/3 of the diners were men in suits, all earnestly talking. There were four men next to me. One was an American who was giving them a talk about how his firm believed that Trump would impact business. It was an interesting view of the concern he is causing throughout the world. I can’t say that I learned much that I didn’t already know from reading the NY Times, but I suppose French businessmen don’t read the Times. He was sitting four or five feet from me and I had to resist the temptation to correct him or to say “You are not taking the possibility of him blundering into a war or the turmoil his administration will cause or the real possibility of endless scandals and litigation.” But I didn’t.

I went to three museums while I was there. I started at the Museé D’Orsay, which might be my favorite museum in the world. Every museum has Renoirs, since he was so prolific, especially towards the end of his life. But the D’Orsay has astonishingly great ones, which reminds you of how great he was and why everyone ran out to buy the mediocre nudes he churned out when he was old. There is the best group of Manets anywhere. I could go on and on. And of course, the museum itself is gorgeous. Usually, when I go to a museum, I take pictures of paintings that inspire me or give an idea of a new style that I might use. Unfortunately, on the way over, my phone decided to turn itself off in the middle of the Tuilleries and I could not get it to turn back on. I was afraid it had given up the ghost, but when I got back to the hotel and plugged it in, it revived. The slight sense of panic I felt at the thought that my phone was permanently dead was a reminder of just how much I rely on it, and not simply when I am traveling.

The next day, I went to the Pompidou Center, moving up the timeline of art to the Twentieth Century and beyond. I hadn’t been there since the 1980s. It’s its 40th anniversary this year. They have an enormous collection and can only show a tiny portion of it at any one time. (The have the largest Kandinsky and Rouault collections in the world. Both gifts from the artists’ families.) This particular exhibition seemed to concentrate on Russian artists and the impact of social and political movements in the 20th Century on art. There was a lot done by artists associated with the French Communist Party in the period from the 1930s to 1950s. (Picasso was member for while.) Lots of red and black. It wasn’t always breathtaking art, but it was interesting. The same general theme continued in their exhibit of new acquisitions. Lots of Russians. American artists were not terribly well represented, other than one room with a Rothko and a Jasper Johns etc. The one exception was a big exhibit devoted to “The Genius of Cy Twombly”. I feel odd saying this, but can someone explain to me just what it is that makes Twombly a genius? I didn’t find the vast majority of his works interesting at all. And I don’t know how anyone could call them beautiful. (We are actually seeing the play “Art” next week, which explores this very question.) Twombly was buddies with Robert Rauschenberg, whose art I also don’t “get”, although at least with Rauschenberg there is more going on. (Sometimes too much.) I have to assume that both men were consummate salesmen, who could come up with raps about the meaning of their pieces that were sufficiently compelling or mysterious or profound or timely or whatever, that collectors were convinced to pay millions for their works. Incidentally, if you ever go to the Pompidou Center, have lunch at the restaurant on the top floor. It is not cheap, but it has phenomenal views of Paris. Unfortunately, Paris was cold and foggy/hazy and generally miserable the entire time we were there, so while the views were nice, they were not worth photographing.

Our last day, after my lunch at Bistro Volant, I went to the L’Orangerie. The highlight of the museum and the reason that you have to visit it are two huge rooms containing eight gigantic Monet paintings from the Water Lily series. It is pretty astonishing to see so many of them in one place. (MoMA has (had?) that one lovely Water Lily room, but this is a multiple of that.) Below those galleries is a wonderful exhibit from the collection of Paul Guillaume, a Parisian art dealer who donated his collection to the museum. It has a representaive slection of the Impressionists and a large number of Modiglianis (his friend and client) and Soutine (another client). Chaim Soutine was someone I’d never really heard of and his paintings are very striking–somewhere at the intersection of impressionism and surrealism. The big temporary exhibit there was one about painting in America in the 1930s. It begins with Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” (apparently the first time it has been outside the US). There is a lot of Wood, Thomas Hart Benton, some Edward Hopper, lots of WPA artists and works from the Harlem Renaissance. It was an interesting view of the period and had works by artists who normally don’t get much attention. It spent a lot of time explaining American history of the era, which I didn’t really need to read. I think it is coming to the Royal Academy in London next, so I may see it again.

Things I Will Miss About London: I get e-mails all the time from various theaters announcing new plays or casting decisions. Today it was the Old Vic. Two days ago, it was the National Theatre. It is one the many reasons we see so many plays. It is painful to get these notices and realize that we won’t be around to see the plays.  I suppose we can (and will) become members of the Public and BAM and New York Theater Workshop and Roundabout and maybe Lincoln Center and others, when we return to NYC, but I am going to miss London theatre terribly.

Judie’s knee: After hobbling around in pain for the last month or so, Judie finally had an MRI and discovered that there really is something quite wrong with her knee. (Spontaneous osteonecrosis, which may not be quite as bad as it sounds.) The only way to treat it is to stay off it. Her doctor told her to take a taxi home. Of course, the problem was that Judie was scheduled to take a business trip to Washington, D.C. the next day (with a side jaunt to Tarboro to visit her mother). The doctor advised that she use a wheelchair at the airport. When she gets back, we are going to Lisbon the next weekend with Andrea and Peter. I have no idea how that is going to work. At some point in late February, we are thinking of going to a beach resort, where she can just sit and relax.

Visa Issues: K&L Gates hired a solicitor who specializes in immigration issues to deal with our visas. We were only able to get a six month visa last summer, because Judie had just started at the firm. We were initially told that we didn’t need to worry since we were leaving in April. Then she changed her mind and decided that we did need new visas. By this time, it was going to be a very expensive expedited version, which would require us to return to the US to be fingerprinted. (You might wonder why we couldn’t do it here or at the US Embassy. It is just the rules.) So what they decided is that, when we return from Lisbon (when our visas will run out in two days), we are to come in on a tourist visa. We were told to buy our plane tickets home on 3 April and plan a vacation or two (thus the plan to take a resort holiday). Judie is officially no longer working in the London office and she will not be able to work for UK clients. The plan is complicated by the upcoming visits of Terry Cummings on 22 April and the 10-day visit of Paul Weeks in early March. The fact that Judie can get a note from her doctor about her knee may be helpful. I can’t picture us being deported or denied entry, but there is a danger that this whole thing won’t work.

More to say, but this is already too long. Hopefully, I can remember to put it in the next post. Inspired by my museum visits, it is time to paint.