I Shall Never Listen to Nat King Cole the Same Way Again

August 27, 2008

I don't think that I will ever be able to listen to Nat King Cole the same way again. I suppose it is not the perfect statement with which I should begin today's entry, but it is where I must.

Today we went to see Let There Be Love, a recently released play by Kwame Kwei-Armah, discussing the relationship between elderly Alfred Maurice, an Afro-Carribean immigrant to the United Kingdom, and his Polish home assistant Maria. While I do not want to ruin the plot for anyone whom might chance to see it, I wasn't terribly impressed by it. The play had its moments. The dialogue was, almost without exception, very well written, reducing the audience to tears at the appropriate times. (I can remember one line in particular, when Alfred replies to Maria's statement that old people are too old for sex with the one-liner: "Not so. In many cases, the spirit is willing, and the flesh--well, nowadays, they have pharmaceutical medications.") It also made innovative use of the songs of Nat King Cole to propel the plot--indeed, the play's very title is taken from one of his lyrics. The players did their job well, I'm happy to say; and I must say that Let There Be Love did provide me with cause for contemplation, but on the whole, it struck me as too much of a mish-mash of hot-button issues including the morality of assisted suicide, lesbianism, spousal abuse, racism, the typical intergenerational angst. In the end, it was proof, if nothing else, that casting a wide net does not ensure one a bountiful catch.

The place where we watched it, to a degree, impressed me more than the play itself. It was staged at the Tricycle Theatre & Cinema in Kilburn, which is north and west of the heart of London; a remarkable structure, an old cinema--from the 1950s or 60s, I surmise--where all the seating was atop a red and blue framework of plastic pipes and cloth. I know that every thing had to be in optimal or near-perfect condition, but I could not help but feel that the whole structure might collapse, catch fire, or suffer some other tragedy. There was a fragility about the theatre that served to heighten my pleasure at it all--which was fortuitous since the play, as I have said, proved to be so mediocre.

Afterwards, Lauren Deitz, Meghan Blickman, Julieta Rabinovich, and I decided that we wanted to explore the area surrounding Covent Garden, possibly finding our way from there to Chinatown for a bite to eat. While it wasn't on the level of The Odyssey, we had some--how shall I word it?--"intriguing" encounters with first the fans of Georgie Sampson, a fifteen-year-old boy who, thanks to his dancing prowess, apparently won Britain's Next Big Star. They were between twelve and seventeen, trampy, dressed in pink skirts and leggings, with pink eye shadow, and screaming beneath his dressing room window at a local theatre. The promotional materials on the exterior walls of the threatre--the posters, placards, and flyers--had been literally covered with such exclamations as "Marry Me, Georgie," "I Heart You, Georgie," and "You Make Me Horney." (I'll leave you guess which of the preceding statements I found more disturbing.) Julieta decided that as responsible emissaries for Dickinson College in England, we needed to leave Georgie a small note amid the rabid, written shrieks of his followers encouraging him to "engage the world."

Our second encounter was with a troop--or perhaps it was a battalion?--of very excited, very drunk Arsenal fans who beating on drums, chanting away, and jumping outside a pub near Leicester Square. Now this was not the first time during the evening when we happened on fans of one of London's football squads; we had seen a few strolling around Covent Gardens, occasionally starting choruses of "oh-ley, oh-ley, oh-ley, oh-ley" with their fellows, who were drinking in one of the nearby taverns. They were not rowdy or rude or any of the things that folks in the States expect from British football fans. They certainly didn't use their eye sockets as lid openers like in Euro-Trip. But when we encountered them near Leicester Square, their numbers were so great--and they were so enthusiastic--that they had filled the whole of the sidewalk in front of the pub and begun to spill on to the left lane of the street. There were police there, the trusted "Peelers" decked in incandescent yellow and white, trying both to keep the football fans in order and to prevent the many frustrated motorists from commiting vehicular homicide. But still the Arsenal fans beat on their drums, drank their beer, and sang their songs, hoping that they might somehow contribute to their team's success later that night. Oh-ley oh-ley oh-ley oh-ley!

We eventually found Chinatown, and after resisting the urge to share our favorite Chinese jokes, we settled on one of the nearby Chinese restaurants for dinner. The conversation around the dinner table was excellent--easily, it was the best I have had since I've arrived in England. Till now, most of the conversations in which I have participated have tended to lack energy or verve, because we've been too tired or because we didn't have much to discuss beyond mere pleasantries. We discussed our plans for the Christmas holiday--for the record, I remain undecided whether I'm going to fly home or travel Europe--, sibilings, the Writing Center, the dynamic of our group so far, and so much more that I have since forgotten. It was wonderful. I only wish that I could say the same for the food, which was tasty but unspectacular, or the service, which was pathetic. Don't worry, though. We didn't forget the tip.

Returning to the Arran House around eight-thirty, I was not there five minutes when Dan, Duncan, and Leah asked me if I wanted to go to Piccadilly Circus and see whether we might be able to find some ice cream. Having visited Piccadilly before with Shannyn, I have to say that I was greatly impressed with all the bright lights of the Circus after nightfall. I know that it might seem cliched, but it's nearly as bright as midday. We eventually found a Baskin-Robbins; and like I always do, I had a scoop of vanilla in a regular cone for two pounds and forty pence. Since I was running low on money and Dan had agreed to pay for mine, Leah kidded me that I was a "cheap date" (which, coincidentally, hits fairly close to the truth). Of course, I explained to her that vanilla so happened to be my favorite flavour--indeed, it's almost the only flavour of ice cream that I eat--because I'm weird. She didn't need much convincing on that score.

Once we were finished with our ice cream, we walked toward Trafalgar Square, where we enjoyed the view for a while, before boarding the Underground and heading back to the Arran House. Good old Goodge Street Station--by now, I must have disembarked from at least fifty trains there! And once home, I talked with Sarah, Jen, and Chris for about a half-hour before going upstairs and going to bed. A good day.

More later as my schedule permits...