England in Texas

     Oh, my, it is dreary out, isn't it? Even "deep in the heart of Texas" there are (occasionally) cold, wet, somber, wintry days. I can't speak for other Texans, but I revel in the cold, regarding it as compensation for the surplus of hot, humid, bone-melting days of summer and even late spring and early autumn. Though a Texan born and bred, I know in my gut I just was not made for the crippling Texas heat. Maybe that's why, from a very early age, I've always felt strongly drawn to England and all things English.

     When I look out my window this morning and feel the chill seep through and numb my toes, part of me thinks "dreary day" and another part thinks "Jane Eyre wandering the moors after her aborted wedding to Rochester." I love the pattern of bare black branches against the slate sky. I love the wet pavement, the weeping rose arbor, the muddy paw prints left by stray cats. I love wrapping myself up in soft fleece and woolen socks, and even wearing fingerless gloves as I type. (We don't like to set the thermostat very high.) All these things take me away from Texas and carry me away to a kind of ersatz England, highly romanticized, perhaps, but effective, in my mind, at least.

     I recently watched again my DVD of Nancy Meyers' film The Holiday,  this time with the commentary on. One day while filming, Ms. Meyers asked Kate Winslet about the validity of Kate's character wearing a heavy wool scarf while at home; in reply, Ms. Winslet grasped Ms. Meyers by the shoulders and said, "This is the Cotswolds."  Ms. Meyers, later in the commentary, tells us that one of her English friends actually took a shower once with her coat on.

     So perhaps I do romanticize England a bit. But I will embrace and enjoy these chilly days while I can—I know all too well that the infamous Texas heat will soon beat my brow and bend my back.





On a Flight Delay

More and more lately we hear about travel woes, especially delayed or cancelled flights. My friends in the opera world post regularly on Facebook about waiting long hours in the airport or on the tarmac. I don't travel much anymore since leaving the business, but I've certainly had my own share of travel woes. Here is an account from my journal, written on this day 15 years ago, of one such "woe" that actually turned into an unexpected pleasure.

Gatwick Airport, London, 4 September 1996

     Our plane yesterday had a mechanical failure, so British Airways put us all up for the night in...Brighton! Having no immediate commitments in the States, I was rather excited to have a free half-day in a place I had heard so much of through films and books. (Would I run into a modern-day Lydia Bennet and Mrs. Forster, flirting with the militia?) As vexing as it was to sit for three hours in a stuffy, non-moving plane, it was, certainly for me, enough compensation to be "stuck" in Brighton.

     BA booked us in the Metropole Hotel; very nice, very comfortable, and my room overlooked the Channel. J__ and I took a leisurely stroll along the water down to the pleasure pier and had a "99," which is simply an ice cream cone. It was a cold, overcast day, so the pier was pretty deserted; nevertheless, I revelled in the simple fact that I was there. Looking at the churning Channel, I was reminded of my first crossing, lo so many years ago--how seasick I was!

     Dinner at the hotel was provided, but since we didn't arrive there till 3:30 and were given lunch at 4, nobody was very hungry for another big meal at 7:30. The food was rather good, though -- salmon at lunch, guinea fowl at dinner. J__ and I met, of course, some of our fellow passengers, very nice people: a man from Geneva with a teasing sense of humor, a sprightly Scot who's lived in Cheltenham for 27 years, a young man from Houston who lives in the Heights, an elderly English couple, and one particularly loquacious American gentleman who told me, "You're the spitting image of my niece. She's about your age."

     "How old is she?" I asked.

     "Twenty-one."

     J__, who knows I'm thirty-six, laughed. I said to the man, "Thank you very much!"

     He and I and others at our table got on the subject of London theatre and who's doing what shows now. He mentioned Diana Rigg, who is currently starring in Sondheim's Follies, and he was trying to remember the name of the TV series she was in, so I supplied, "The Avengers."

     "Yes, that's it--The Adventurers."

     I said there were a lot TV actors who hadn't been seen in America for while, and I found a lot of them were doing shows in London.

     ME: For instance, Daniel J. Travanti--

     HE: Yes, Daniel J. Travolta is doing--what's it called?

     ME: The Aspern Papers.

     HE: Yes, The Aspen Papers.

     ME: And Sharon Gless--

     HE:Yeah, Sharon Gleese, she's doing Chapter Two.

     ME: With Tom Conti.

     HE: That's right, Tony Conti.

     He didn't get one name right! I refrained admirably from correcting him, but it was difficult to keep from giggling. Truth to tell, I was grateful to him and my other delightful table companions, and grateful also to British Airways for our unexpected and gratis holiday, for turning what could have been an annoying travel mishap into such a pleasant experience.

     This morning before boarding the coach for Gatwick, I took one long last look at the Channel. Who knows when I'll be back in England? It was nine years since the last time ....