In the absence of a travel log, my memories of being a tourist in Washington DC are a little hazy. The photos help.
I do recall really noticing the change of temperature. DC was really quite warm still in late November, whereas the East Coast was having a rare severely cold snap, not least the white Thanksgiving I enjoyed:
I particularly recall being bowled over by the National Air and Space Museum. I remember Michael Mainelli talking it up as one of the things I really shouldn’t miss and I also remember suspecting that I would be less enamoured of such a place than he was. But when I saw the actual spacecraft and actual relics from the space missions, it was truly awe-inspiring.
…although why they are commemorating the gentlemen who first brought McDonalds to France I cannot imagine.
I cannot remember when I had dinner with Katherine Toulmin, but I think it was on that inbetween evening, after spending most of the day around the Smithsonian.
Katherine lived in Fairfax Virginia and very kindly drove in and out of Washington DC to collect me and take me home after dinner. I think we ate in Alexandria rather than Fairfax; the former having a good choice of restaurants in its old town.
I especially remember the journeys, as Katherine explained that you couldn’t avoid driving through some pretty edgy neighbourhoods. She gave me some very explicit instructions on what I should and should not do in certain circumstances. She used her central locking for a good part of the journey.
Other than that, I simply remember a very good meal and charming Virginian company.
I also remember asking Katherine to advise me on where and how I should try grits. Basically her advice was to avoid the eating of grits. But then the hotel offered grits at breakfast the next morning, so I couldn’t resist the opportunity to try them.
…and effectively “checking out” of the W70th appartment I had been lent so kindly by the super kind Wegman couple who I never met.
I think Jane drove in to the City and that it was on this occasion we dined in a Lousiana style place in Alphabet City and we then went across the water to her place in Passaic Park, New Jersey. The cunning plan, if I recall correctly, was that Newark was a suitable starting point the next day for my rail journey to Washington DC via Philadelphia and for Jane’s journey into work.
The snow had all-but disappeared by the time I visited Passaic Park, New Jersey
My research 30 years later suggest that Passaic Park is home to one of the larger ultra-orthodox Jewish communities now. I’m guessing that the neighbourhood has changed. Perhaps Jane too has changed…or more likely moved…but in any case I didn’t see much sign of ultra-orthodox Judaism during my visit.
I enjoyed my short stay “in the burbs” – thanks Jane – and I also enjoyed the rail journey from Newark to Washinton DC with a “day tripper” stop in Philadelphia on the way.
Philadelphia freedom
I did much of the stuff a tourist is supposed to do in Philadelphia…
Independence Hall
…and even found time a for a bit of shopping near the railway station before training it to Washington DC.
If I recall correctly, I had organised my digs for a couple of nights in DC through the more conventional expedient of booking a hotel room. Quite near the railway station and convenient for sightseeing. No I cannot recall the name of the Hotel.
My “crashing at a friend’s place”…or even “crashing at a friend of a friend’s place” days were coming to an end, although there was one more “crash night” on that trip – a colder, more northerly story for another day.
It’s very clear from my log that I went to the theatre (or, as they say in the USA, theater) on the Sunday. Not something that can be done in London much – most theatres in London close on a Sunday. I think I went to a matinee or perhaps they just do the one late afternoon/early evening showing on a Sunday. I think this because I have a feeling that I met up with someone for dinner that evening as well; I think a second evening with Jane Lewis and I think it was the Louisiana-style restaurant in Alphabet City mentioned in Part One of my New York story…
…which rather begs the question, where and what did Jane and I eat on the first evening? Something mid-town and reasonably trendy at the time, I suspect.
But returning to the Lincoln Centre production…
…the theatrical production I chose was a good one. A double bill of short plays; one by Shel Silverstein, The Devil And Billy Markham, which was a musical monolgue performed by Dennis Locorriere of Dr Hook fame.
Locorriere was a superb performer. The Devil And Billy Markham had started life as a Shel Silverstein story in Playboy, which Silverstein adapted as a monolgue for this production.
Below is a video of Dennis Locorriere performing another Shel Silverstein piece, Carry Me, Carrie:
Below is a video of a subsequent performance of The Devil And Billy Markham by an unknown (to me) performer, doing it rather well, but not quite as captivating as Locorriere:
The conceit of this “sequel” play is that Bobby Gould has gone to hell and is being interrogated.
Gregory Mosher, the director of both pieces, is a doyen of both the Lincoln Center and David Mamet’s work, so I was certainly in the hands of the right chap for this visit.
Treat Williams, Steven Goldstein, Felicity Huffman and William H Macy were a very sound headlining cast for the Bobby Gould piece – the latter two it seems went on to become a celebrity couple some years after this production. Who knew?
Ironically, I learn that Felicity Huffman has recently (he says writing in the autumn of 2019) spent time in prison after admitting involvement in part of a college admissions bribery scandal this year, in respect of SAT scores for her and Macy’s daughter. A more Mamet-like, Speed The Plow-like true story I find hard to envisage.
But back in 1989, I remember very much liking both short plays and indeed enjoying the whole experience of seeing some theatre in New York.
I also liked living just a few blocks away from The Lincoln Center – W70th between Broadway and Columbus proved to be a decidedly suitable address for me, even if it was just for a week or so.
Here’s a review from the Central new Jersey Home News:
I probabaly spent some time on the Saturday clearing up the W77th Street apartment and preparing to leave.
I also sense, from the photos, that I took another long walk at some point quite early in the day:
New York was well thawing by the SaturdayDeep and crisp and fairly unevenStill photogenic, though
I am prety sure I went on a bit of a shopping spree downtown that day too. I had been told about post-Thanksgiving sales and but was also was keen to buy some second hand records of the kind I might not find in England so easily.
I did buy some second hand records, although I recall thinking that the selction in Notting Hill Gate beat anything I could find in New York in most departments.
I do recall buying a copy of Mish Mosh by Mickey Katz and his Kosher Jammers for my dad, who was a bit of a fan. I have inherited that record back since, so have it in my collection now. Below is a sample some other fan has kindly uploaded to YouTube:
But Mickey Katz and his Kosher Jammers was not the soundtrack of my visit to New York in late 1989…
…no no no. The song that was absolutely stuck in my head, playing regularly while I was in New York, was Pump Up The Jam by Technotronic:
I bought a copy of that single while I was in New York and recall talking to my half-Belgian friend/colleague Daniel Scordel about the record soon after my return to London. I described it as a quintessentially New York sound, to which Daniel replied:
Actually I think that group is Belgian. Actually that’s a quintessentially “Europeans trying to sound like New York” sound.
Still a good record and still quintessentially MY visit to New York.
I think the dinner with Becca Simmons might have been that Saturday evening, but perhaps I had dinner with her before Thanksgiving weekend. She might remember.
Alternatively, this might have been the evening that I attempted to follow American football in a bar/diner, based on Bob Blake’s tutorial earlier in my stay, discovering that I hadn’t really taken much in from Bob’s instruction.
But while I lack a travel log for this holiday, I can fall back on my theatres and concerts log for the centrepiece of this day, the day after Thanksgiving – now known as Black Friday -was that “a thing” back then – I don’t recall hearing the term. Anyway, my log says:
Great gig on a Friday afternoon. Only 12 days after I met Rita. Moose had spent a couple of days schlepping around New York with me, so I treated her to this concert by way of a thank you.
I have also described Rita’s daughter, Mara Frank’s, informal New York tour guide role in the “Part One” piece linked above. All that remains to explain is that Mara was known as Moose back then. Possibly still is. I’ll try and find out, as I have managed to track her down and we are communicating over these pieces.
Anyway, point is…well, exactly the point I made on the log. I wanted to see stuff at the Lincoln Centre before I left New York and spotted that there was good availability of tickets over that holiday weekend.
The chance to see Zubin Mehta and the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in New York seemed too good to miss. I thought Mara (Moose) might enjoy seeing them too.
Here is a recording of Zubin Mehta & The New York Philharmonic Orchestra playing the very Vivaldi piece we heard in the very Lincoln Centre in which we heard it – albeit the recording has sightly more high falutin’ soloisti:
It was a super concert that afternoon and I think Moose enjoyed it. But possibly she didn’t – she’d have been far too polite to say if she hadn’t liked it. Mara, if by any chance you remember, you can tell me truthfully now.
Subsequently, when she came to live in London, I discovered that Mara was a keen fan of Dr Demento. Moose and I spent many happy, silly hours listening to her Dr Demento tapes. But Moose is probably blissfully unaware of my own massive novelty song canon, as I think she had returned to the USA before my NewsRevue writing career started, in 1992. NewsRevue is explained in the anniversary piece – click here or below:
But Dr Demento (and Newsrevue) stuff is a far cry from Zubin Mehta and the New York Phil…but then, I like all sorts of music – Moose might also like both. In fact, now I come to think of it, John Random is a doyen of NewsRevue writers/lyricists and he is an avid fan of Zubin Mehta.
But back to Black Friday 1989: that was an afternoon concert and I’m pretty sure Mara and I spent at least the early part of the evening together too. This might have been the occasion when she insisted on buying me Godiva chocolates (mentioned in the Part One piece).
I also recall being scammed by a fast-talking sob-story merchant. It’s hard to imagine falling for one of those, but we didn’t have them in London back then (or at least young folk like me didn’t encounter them) so I fell for the “just need my train fare” story and gave him a couple of bucks.
He’ll be a junky and the bucks will be spent on drugs, not transport…
…said Mara.
I don’t fall for those any more.
I think Mara and I had a bite to eat together and I think this was the last I saw of her until she came to London for her placement the following year. But I’m happy to stand corrected if my memory has missed or confused these details.
As a musical aside, I remember thinking the concert an ideal choice for Moose, as it had some Sibelius in it and Sibelius had been the centre-piece of the concert at which I had met Rita.
I cannot find Zubin Mehta conducting Sibelius, but I have found one of the first ever filmed concerts at the Lincoln Centre, from the early 1960’s, with Leonard Bernstein conducting Finlandia, the very piece of Sibelius we heard. It is actually a very fine performance and also a rather splendid piece of historic concert filming:
When I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, there was a thick coat of snow over New York. At the time, I had no idea how rare an event this was – I only found out 30 years later, while writing up this event, that 1989 was the first “proper” white Thanksgiving (i.e. more than just a flurry of snow) for over 50 years and that it hasn’t happened since.
So I didn’t think, “freak weather”, I merely thought, “photo opportunity before I head off to Westchester County”. So I went for a long walk around Central Park and beyond. Lots of pictures, just a few are shown below to illustrate:
I had been warned that the East Coast can be chilly at that time of year, so I would have taken warm clothes, but I’m sure I didn’t anticipate snow so my walk for sure would have been shod in quite basic sneakers. But I suppose 5 inches of virgin snow on a quiet morning is not so dangerous.
On the matter of danger, I do recall that the Barst family were concerned about me taking the train from Grand Central Station up to Westchester County to join them for a traditional Thanksgiving family gathering. At that time, they considered Grand Central to be a dangerous place, populated by hoodlums, hustlers, halfway housers and the like. They warned me to walk with purpose and only ask directions of a uniformed offical.
Bravely, I stopped to take this picture near Grand Central Station
In truth, it felt little different from Notting Hill to me, but I suppose, back then, Notting Hill was also considered a bit edgy. The mean streets of Notting Hill…the mean streets of Manhatten…
Anyway, the journey was incident and travel problem free, despite the unseasonal weather…
…hard to imagine an absence of travel disruption in similar “overnight snow before a public holiday” circumstances in the UK.
When I got to Frank and Maurie’s place, I was welcomed into the warmth of a traditional family Thanksgiving.
Patriarch Norman (left) – with daughter “hostess with the mostess” Maurie (right)Fran (left) plus Hal (right)Hal (left), Bob (centre) and Jen (right). The knees (front left) are unidentified.“Mummy” Cynthia with SuziHal and Joanie, who lived near me in London for a while during my early time in ClanricardeFamily and cake taking centre stage at this point in the proceedings
I especially remember Norman’s fascination with my accent – he took me around to speak with everyone (which was a good way to meet the whole clan) and kept asking me to speak just so that people could hear my…
…incredible English accent. Did you hear that? Listen to that accent! Say that again, Ian…please say that again…
I also remember Norman’s fascination with Frank and Maurie’s house, because it was a 19th century dwelling.
Just think, Ian, your Queen Victoria was on the throne when this house was built…
…to which Joanie said, with feeling…
Oh, Daddy, that’s not going to impress Ian – he lives in a Victorian house too – everybody in London does…
…well, not quite everyone, Joanie. But you did…and so do I!
It was a wonderful experience for me to join a proper family Thanksgiving during my short stay in the USA that time. A happy accident of timing combined with a generious invitation.
It was a very warm and cosy family gathering, just as I had imagined family gatherings at Thanksgiving to be.
I remember telling Grandma Jenny (Norman’s cousin) all about it when I got home; she wanted me to spare her no small detail about that aspect of my trip. By that time she was pretty much blind, so I couldn’t really show her the photos, although I did talk her through them all, in meticulous detail.
Ever since, of course, I have been dreaming of a white Thanksgving, just like the one and only Thanksgiving I used to know…
…little knowing, until just now, that such weather in that part of the world at that time of year is so very, very rare indeed.
Unusually, indeed uniquely, I did not keep a log of this holiday to the USA. So my memory thirty years on will have to suffice, supported only by 100 or so photos and some planning scribbles in my diary.
The Planning
My purpose and plans were fluid to say the least when I arranged the trip, but I had contacted my distant cousin, Fran Barst Blake, who had arranged through some extraordinarily kind friends, Dana & Mark Wegman, for me to borrow their pied-a-terre on W70th Street for a week.
Fran absolutely insisted that I should join the Barst family for Thanksgiving, which was to take place at her sister Maurie’s place in upstate New York.
My only other plans were to try and see Philadelphia and Washington DC before ending up in Boston where I could see Pady Jalali.
I managed to find a suitable “dog leg” flight arrangement for those loose plans, flying to JFK but returning from Boston Logan, by booking with Aer Lingus and flying in via Shannon.
When I told Michael Mainelli (whom I had known for less than a year by then) that I was going to the USA for the above loosly-arranged fortnight …
…Michael reeled off a small collection of names, locations and telephone numbers, suggesting that any of his old friends (mostly from Harvard) would welcome me if I simply dropped his name and said that he had provided me with their details.
Many of those friends most certainly did welcome me. Most…possibly even all of them, are still even talking to Michael despite the intrusion!
The requirement to stop off at Shannon on the way to JFK seemed, when I booked the journey, to be “part of the price”, but in fact it proved to be advantageous. While Aer Lingus processed the Irish contingent onto our flight, those of us who started in London were processed through US immigration at Shannon, which enabled us to avoid the circus that is immigration at JFK.
While massive queues of people awaited immigration at JFK (this was just a few days before Thanksgiving, remember), we were stewarded past the queues with cries of “Aer Lingus passengers from Shannon this way”…
…past the queues, through customs and away quickly.
I think I met Fran and Bob at their place and then we all went to the W70th apartment so kindly donated to me by the Wegman couple whom I never met (nor did I even speak with them as far as I recall). Between Broadway and Columbus it was – a wonderfully located apartment. Near Central Park.
I walked in Central Park several times during my stay.
The apartment was about the size of the main part of my Clanricarde Gardens pad, perhaps a bit smaller, but without “The Ivory Tower”.
The most memorable feature of the apartment was the large water bed that dominated the bedroom. That took some getting used to; especially getting in, out or moving around on it.
My First Few Days
The absence of a travel journal is infuriating me, as I am so used to being able to reconstruct my memories from a heap of words as well as pictures. I remember lots of things I did during those first few days but not really the sequence in which I did them.
I recall sitting in Fran and Bob’s East Village apartment quite early in the visit, enjoying a meal together and Bob explaining American Football to me, as there was a game on the TV. I remember thinking that the game made sense to me when Bob explained it to me…
…but a few days later I remember trying to watch a game on my own in a bar and it seemed impenetrable again – all set pieces, no flow and just a string of jargon spewing forth from the commentators. Those Americans should learn a lesson or two from cricket. But I digress.
I placed a couple of calls to Michael Mainelli’s New York based friends and very soon had two evening arrangements set; the first with Jane Lewis, the second with Rebecca Simmons. Two very different nights out; both very enjoyable in their own way. I particularly remember one dinner being Louisiana style food in a restaurant located in Alphabet City, which was an edgy but up & coming area at that time, I think that one was with Jane. I remember a good Chinese meal too – I think on the Upper West Side and I think that one was with Rebecca.
I cannot remember exactly which evenings those nights out took place. Possibly they were before Thanksgiving but perhaps afterwards; the weekend now known as cyber whatsit. I do recall that the plans were laid very soon after I arrived in New York and that there ought to be scraps of paper somewhere in my collection of rough note pads with clues, unless the rough notes I made once I got to the USA never made it back to the UK.
I also discovered that Rita Frank’s daughter, Mara, really was a willing volunteer to act as my informal tour guide around New York and she proved to be a true friend by showing me around New York and offering me advice on what to do (and not to do) in a way that only a young local could. For sure that touring took place before Thanksgiving.
I cannot recall which of my touring elements I undertook with Mara and which without her. I have a feeling she showed me around the Fianancial District and South Street Seaport…
…but ducked out of taking the Staten Island Ferry with me, I think because she had a late afternoon or early evening arrangement, or perhaps she just didn’t fancy that element of the tour.
Not like me either, to want to take a boat on a cold, blowy late afternoon.
I do remember that Mara and I also went together to midtown and then back to the Upper West Side via Zabars on a different day…
…I also recall buying some goodies in Zabar as gifts and thank yous for people, including Mara, but then Mara insisted on reciprocating the gift with some Godiva chocolates, which was ever so kind of her – beyond generous, given her student status.
I did manage to reciprocate properly in the end by taking Mara to the Lincoln Centre after Thanksgiving – I’ll write that up separately.
It was my intention also to reciprocate when Mara came to London the following year, but by the time she arrived I was virtually bed-bound with my catastrophic prolapsed back, so Mara ended up being one of several kindly people who proved to be a truly good friend and helped me through that difficult period.
…so I can only hope that looking after me in New York (1989) and London (1990/91) was useful training for Mara’s eventual career looking after needy infants.
Necheth Windes Blast & Weder Strong
I think there was a thwarted plan for Mara and I to see preparations for the Macy’s parade, which I seem to recall started from very near Rita & Mara’s apartment on the Upper West Side. But there was some doubt about the the plans due to the unseasonably poor weather forecast for Thanksgiving Eve and indeed for Thanksgiving itself, as I shall report in the next piece.
So I think Mara went off early afternoon that Wednesday and we didn’t meet again until the Friday.
Instead, I thought I’d wander around downtown on my own, taking in Chinatown, Little Italy etc. I thought it would be interesting to see the New York County Courthouse in action and wandered in.
The receptionist insisted that it was not a good day (the eve of thanksgiving) as only a couple of trials were sitting and they were both rather ordinary multiple homicides – nothing truly grizzly for me to get my teeth into.
No amount of Me trying to assure this official that I was not keen on grizzly and was interested in seeing a court only because I had studied comparative law for a while and wanted to see it in practice…
…could convince the fellow that I wouldn’t be disappointed by the relative lack of gore.
Actually I was quite shocked that a gangland shooting trial with a couple of defendants and (if I recall correctly) more than one homicide, attracted no press and just one weeping, praying woman (I guessed the mother of one of the defendants) in the public gallery.
It really was becoming painfully cold, so I took refuge in a bar. I’m not sure why, but I think it was called Vortex. I discovered afterwards that the bar, whatever it was called, was primarily known as a gay pick up joint. I did have previous in this department, the year before, Mr Magoo-like, in what is now my local pub, The Champion, when I was flat-hunting.
I do recall a jocular, rotund fellow sort-of chatting me up in that New York bar…he told me that he wrote quiz books about the movies and that he was known as Mr Personality to his friends…
…I recall thinking that anyone who IS Mr Personality would NOT self-describe as Mr Personality…
…in any case, once he realised that I was a disoriented tourist and not a potential pull, he introduced me to some of the other regulars in the bar and we all chatted in a friendly manner for some while.
I’m not sure I realised quite how much the weather was closing in, nor how very unusual it was to have this kind of weather in New York for Thanksgiving.
But in any case, by the Wednesday, I sure was ready for an early night and that’s what I did.
The first roll of film from the trip, which roughly equates to the events shown in this piece, can be seen by clicking the Flickr link below:
Amazing evening – although the programme seems to be lost. Jilly had left two tickets for me at short notice. I gave away the spare ticket at the door, to Rita Frank. I drove her back to Marge’s place in Hackney via everywhere due to mega fog – I had just passed my driving test & didn’t even know where the fog lights were. Rita busied herself dancing in her seat to my hippy tape. Friendship founded.
All I can recall of the concert is that the centrepiece was a Sibelius symphony. I think Sibelius 5 but it might be 2. I’m struggling to find more details, although more details must be available somewhere if I search hard enough…
…update! I have subscribed to a newspaper clipping service and found this:
…so, as I said, Sibelius 6. Plus some Prokofiev and some Debussy.
Jilly was working at the Barbican at that time and would occasionally hand down tickets to me. Usually with a little more notice than on this occasion. I told Jilly that I’d struggle to find a date for a Sunday evening concert at such short notice but that I’d like to see that concert (whatever it was). Her view was that it was better to place one of the tickets than neither.
When I got to the Barbican and collected my tickets, there was a queue for returns; mostly couples and small groups. I announced that I had one spare ticket and was happy to give it away.
Two middle-aged women started bickering with each other, the first trying to refuse and the second telling the first that she really should take the ticket.
Seems that I’m your date…
…said the American woman, who I learnt was named Rita Frank and lived in New York. Her friend, Marge lived in Hackney and was (I think) an academic. Marge, being a generous soul, was happy that the expedition had at least ended up with her visitor/guest getting to see the concert. Marge went home.
Rita was charming company for an evening at the concert hall. She clearly was not very familiar with London, though, so I sensed she was a little daunted by the thought of travelling back to Hackney alone.
I had my car with me, having fairly recently (that summer) passed my driving test. I offered to take Rita back to Marge’s house, handing Rita my car copy of the L0ndon A-Z map book (remember those? No sensible Londoner drove without one.)
As we emerged from the Barbican Centre, I saw that a heavy fog had descended. Really heavy fog.
“Oh, London Fog”, said Rita, “I’ve heard all about these…”
Of course, I’d heard about them too, but by 1989 they were extremely rare, such that I don’t recall ever having seen quite so much fog in London before…or since.
“Oh wow”, said Rita, grabbing one of my cassettes from a pile, “The Happy Tape…that sounds great. Can we listen to The Happy Tape?”
“Actually, it’s called The Hippy Tape”, I said.
“Even better”, said Rita.
The Hippy Tape was a superb mix tape – or in the modern parlance and in its current incarnation – is a superb playlist. It comprises these beauties:
Turn Turn Turn, The Byrds Bluebird, Buffalo Springfield Nashville Cats, Lovin’ Spoonful Rock’n’Roll Woman, Buffalo Springfield Purple Haze, Jimi Hendrix Experience Let Us In, Speedy Keen Ballad of Easy Rider, The Byrds Keep On Truckin’, Donovan White Room, Cream For What It’s Worth, Buffalo Springfield I Feel Free, Cream May You Never, John Martyn Somebody To Love, Grace Slick Meet Me On the Corner, Lindisfarne Moonshadow, Cat Stevens Alabama, Neil Young The Needle and the Damage Done, Neil Young White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane Magical Connection, John B Sebastian The First Cut is the Deepest, P P Arnold Crazy Love, Van Morrison
I most certainly hadn’t driven in fog before. I knew that there was such a thing as fog lights, but I had no idea what they were or how to operate them on my spanking new, first ever, car. (A red Renault 19, seeing as you asked).
My inadequacies in the fog lights department were exceeded by Rita’s inadequacies in the map reading department…
…in any case Rita seemed more interested in grooving to The Hippy Tape, which is great driving music in conditions where you can see and know where you are going…
…but not so great when you are trying to navigate neighbourhoods you don’t know as a recently qualified driver in dense fog.
My “sense of direction inadequacies” are a matter of legend. The sat nav could have been invented just for me, but in 1989, in the absence of knowing where you are going and in the absence of a helpful map reader and in the presence of dense fog…
…we simply drove around and around the mean streets of the East End for ages, until a mixture of borderline adequacy and luck got us to Marge’s house in one piece. A near miracle, frankly.
Marge turned out to be charming company too. Also a fairly practical sort (compared with me and Rita), who was able to fortify me with coffee and give me some sensible, simple directions to get back to somewhere I vaguely knew and from whence I could take a straight road in the direction of West London.
Meanwhile, it transpired that Rita was not just a New Yorker, but lived on the Upper West Side, very close to the apartment I was, coincidentally, being lent for a week, just over a week hence. Rita was most insistent that I get in touch when I got to New York. Her daughter, Mara, would be off college that week (Thanksgiving week) and would be delighted to act as my informal guide to New York.
At the time, I thought Rita was simply being super polite and that I would probably just “touch base” with her when I got to New York…
…besides, I imagined that 20-year-old Mara might have other ideas about the joys (or otherwise) of showing a random Londoner around New York…
I remember this play, production and indeed the whole evening very well.
I had long been a fan of Poliakoff’s plays when I went to see this one, having read a great many of his plays and seen a few of the filmed versions of his works, but this was I think only the second time I’d got to see one of his plays on the stage.
My log says:
Very good. We sat next to Poliakoff himself and went on to Daniel [Scordel]’s party afterwards.
“We”, in this instance, was me and Annalisa de Mercur. The evening we attended was a preview – I think possibly even the first or one of the first previews.
I recall us getting to The Pit a little late and struggling to see any available pairs of seats once we got in. Annalisa made a bee-line for some empty seats that were clearly marked “reserved” with Stephen Poliakoff himself sitting next to those reservations.
“You can’t sit there”, I said to Annalisa, “they’re reserved”.
“It’s OK, you can sit there”, said Stephen Poliakoff.
“Are you sure it’s OK?” I said to him.
“Yes, they won’t all be needed”, he said.
“Are you something to do with the production?”, asked Annalisa, in the sort of questioning tone that only she might use in such circumstances.
“Stephen’s the playwright”, I said to her, “so I think he knows what he’s talking about”.
“Thank you”, I said to Stephen.
“That’s all right”, said Stephen. Then he said, “I wish they wouldn’t put my picture on the programme. I don’t like being recognised”.
“I’d have recognised you anyway”, I said.
Stephen Poliakoff half-smiled at me.
I really liked this play and the production. It is not Poliakoff’s finest, but it was a very interesting play, covering (as Poliakoff often does) societal issues and family issues in one fell swoop.
Superb cast, including my first live look at several truly excellent stage folk: Michael Pennington, Simon Russell Beale, Lesley Sharpe and Ralph Fiennes to name but four.
Annalisa was not as keen on this piece as I was. To be honest, she wasn’t very interested in theatre, but tended to come along to stuff I’d booked with Bobbie in mind if/when Bobbie wasn’t available.
I think it might have been during the interval of this one, in reference to a family row during the piece, that Annalisa commented, “I don’t much like this sort of drama – I can get all this at home.
It reminded me of one of my favourite Peter Cook quotes:
I go to the theatre to be entertained… I don’t want to see plays about rape, sodomy and drug addiction… I can get all that at home.
Playing With Trains did not have rape, sodomy or drug addiction as far as I recall. I do also remember suggesting that Annalisa keep her opinions to herself until we were clear of The Pit given that it was a preview night and it wasn’t the cast and crew’s fault that I had taken a guest who was not so keen on theatre.
We legged it across town to Daniel Scordel’s pad on Trinity Road, where the party was in full swing once we got there. I think Daniel was going out with Maz (Marianne Tudor Craig) by then, but I think that relationship was still quite new. I don’t remember much about the party other than it being rather a good one.
I do specifically remember Daniel’s kid sister, who was I think 17 or 18 at that time, grooving to a particular dance tune that I liked but did not recognise, so I asked her, after the record finished, what it was.
“You haven’t heard of it?” she said, “but it’s been in the charts for weeks. You’re sad”.
My log says that this was a transfer from The Other Place in Stratford and that I (possibly we – Bobbie was with me) was/were not 100% sure about it.
What was there not to be sure about? Splendid cast: Willard White as Othello, Ian McKellen as Iago, Imogen Stubbs as Desdemona, Zoe Wannamaker as Emilia…Trevor Nunn directing.
I also have a feeling that the 1989 RSC production felt a little over-theatrical to me. There is a certain Trevor Nunn style. Little did I know then that Janie and I would meet Trevor and Imogen – strangely around about the time we saw the 1997 RNT Othello.
