In Society

While we've been flitting from museum to museum, we've also seen quite a number of people (besides Klauser, of course). Our social lives got a jump-start with an email from the London

Programme headed URGENT! It was a command (voiced as a request) for an appearance at a reception for the Programme board, to take place at a swanky hotel in Kensington -- 90 minutes from the time we received the email. Not knowing if I was invited, Phil decided to err on the side of license, so we quickly dressed in our finest and hopped on the Tube -- and got off at the wrong stop. We walked across Kensington Gardens, which was actually worth getting lost for, and found the

hotel. Inside, the Board members were seated in a small, glassed-in room, presided over by the Fordham Provost. There were no other spouses. It was a little awkward. But a few glasses of excellent Sancerre and some outrageously tasty hors d'oeuvres made me feel much better about the whole thing, and in fact we had a lovely time. The Provost, having no idea who I was, invited me to join the new Jewish Studies program at Fordham, but I gracefully declined.

The next evening Michael Kelly, a charming Irishman who is in charge of the accommodations for both faculty and students, stopped by to see how we were getting on. At that point I had mastered the washer/dryer and dishwasher (the dial goes backwards, sort of like driving on the wrong side) so

we told him we were quite happy with the apartment. Michael told us some amusing stories about students and, especially, their mothers, whom he called "the Egyptian problem." We were a little afraid this was an ethnic slur of some sort, but he elaborated, saying, "It's all about the mummies." There was one mum, for example, who telephoned from the US five times to ensure her son's room would be cleaned -- and then showed up with him to clean it herself.

A couple of days later we had our first social engagement at the apartment -- lunch with Klauser and our friend Wash, who was in London scouting locations for a new film. It was then that we discovered our buzzer system doesn't work. Wash, who is British, pronounced the apartment "very English." We decided to be pleased about this. And the following day, we had dinner in the neighborhood with the very generous Dean of Faculty, who oversees the London Programme, at an excellent Spanish/Moroccan restaurant.

Phil went to yet another London Programme social event several days later -- a sumptuous reception brunch at the South Kensington townhouse of a wealthy Fordham alumna and her husband. He described the setting as worthy of the scene in Gloriani's garden in The Ambassadors. But unlike in a James novel, there was a crude accident, and he committed it, knocking over a table and sending a glass of red wine flying -- all over one of his students. There was much daubing with paper towels and many apologies.

Phil didn't teach last week; he had his first field trip, to Blenheim Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Marlborough and the place where Winston Churchill was born. (I didn't go but will relate what I was told.) There was a WWI hospital on the grounds (as in Downton Abby.) It is VERY big. There were some minor problems loading up the students onto their bus during rush hour, and
some more problems keeping track of them on the grounds ("like herding cats," someone said), but Phil delegated responsibilities. One student was put in charge of not getting lost (after Phil got them lost). Another student was in charge of taking photos (after Phil's camera broke down again).




The tour focused on Blenheim during the War and was, I am told, well-done and informative. All 39 students made it back onto the bus, which then drove to Oxford. Sabina, who works with the London Programme and lives in Oxford, gave the students information on various sites, which they largely ignored as they headed off to the nearest pubs. Phil and Sabina toured Oxford, with Sabina pointing out locations Phil hadn't seen in his previous visit some decades ago -- including Sommerville, the college where Vera Britton studied. (She's the author of the WWI memoir Testament of Youth, and the subject of the wonderful film of the same title.) At the end of the tour, Sabina took him to the oldest bar in Oxford, the Turf, with ceilings so low it looked like it could have been inhabited by hobbits. In the garden was a sign that said, "This is where Bill Clinton used to drink, and where he smoked but did not inhale." Thomas Hardy also drank there. No idea if he inhaled.

Our final social outing is a little hard to describe. We were instructed to appear at Klauser and Sue's apartment in Hampstead for an "entertainment." Nearly breathless with anticipation, we took a bus and found our hosts in aprons, with a wonderful smell of smoked fish permeating the rooms. Klauser had made a delicious kedgeree, an Anglo-Indian dish with smoked haddock, rice, and a variety of
Indian spices. We sat, plates in lap, while Klauser turned on the  television and introduced us to the Proms, a 120-year-old tradition of daily summer concerts in the Prince Albert Hall featuring all sorts of music, from traditional to innovative, from jazz to boogie-woogie to classical, and then some. This was the final night of the Proms (so named because people in the front of the hall stand and can walk about, or promenade), which is a little different from the other nights.

The conductor was an American -- the first female conductor at the Proms. She was from Baltimore and gave a moving speech about gender, income, and racial inequality, noting her belief that music can help level the playing field. We listened to a brilliant 23-year-old pianist, an original choral piece called "Athena Awake," Puccini arias sung by a remarkably attractive German tenor named Jonas Kaufman, whose voice could give Pavarotti's a run for

Jonas Kaufman. Yes indeed.

its money. Then the program moved into populism. We heard a Copeland tune, sang along to "The Sound of Music," and watched in disbelief as the Prommers bobbed up and down energetically, wearing very peculiar hats, to "Pomp and Circumstance" (aka "Land of Hope and Glory" -- everyone knew the words). Then what seemed to be the whole of England -- similar concerts were going on in Hyde Park, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland -- sang "God Save the Queen." Several times. There was much waving of flags. It was equal parts bizarre and poignant (maybe giving a slight edge to bizarre). Very entertaining indeed, showing

us a side of the reserved British that we hadn't known existed. Now when we see the buttoned-up three-piece-suited gents in the neighborhood, we will imagine them bobbing up and down in those hats and smile secretly to ourselves.




And our pubs:

The Cittie of Yorke

Its cavernous Victorian interior

the Exmouth Arms, where we were the oldest patrons by several decades