Another Brick In The Wall [part I]
This is Part VI of the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K.
It is continued from Part V
To read the story from the beginning, click here.
To see pictures, click here.
Sunday, July 3, 4:00 p.m.
Flat #10 Wright Way
Stoke Park, Frenchay, Bristol
I was able to share a taxi from the airport, so the ride to the flat in Stoke Park, Frenchay, on the outskirts of Bristol, where my PhD buddy Denise was waiting for me, was only £18. Stoke Park is what we would call a subdivision, but I don't know what they call them here. The driver knew exactly what I meant, though, when I told him I was going to Stoke Park.
"Right, that won't be a problem," he'd said.
You enter the subdivision (for lack of knowing their term) through a gate off the main road, then, once inside the bounds of Stoke Park become immediately disoriented as the many streets — Casson Drive, Wright Way, Alder Lane — lace their way between the flats and houses in a complex yet alogical manner that makes the streets of Boston, with their roundabouts and complete absence of traffic lights, seem by comparison as easy to navigate as a straight line. My driver found Stoke Park without incident, but spent ten minutes weaving through its maze before he located the flat.
The driver was confused, too, but for a different reason. Wright Way is not continuous through Stoke Park. We must have entered the subdivisison through a different gate from the one Denise had in mind, because the numbers we saw were in the 100's. Then Wright Way crossed Casson Drive, but there was no number 10, nor number 18. Apparently Wright Way and Casson Drive intersect several times within the twilight zone of Stoke Park. I filed this bit of data away for future use, when, say, a non-Torontonian laughs at the fact that Dundas Street, which runs south of Bloor and parallel to it, also crosses it, and then runs north of it, parallel to it. And you don't want to know about Weber and King Streets in Kitchener/Waterloo, trust me.
But back to the taxi for a moment.
My propinquity to the historic and shocking events of that week began in the taxi. The driver was listening to the BBC, the broadcast of the Live8 concert. It was hour three of the eight hour extravaganza, coming to us from Hyde Park in London. I recognized REM, and another band that sounded vaguely 80's familiar, but I couldn't place. I marvelled at how tightly staged the event seemed to be. They couldn't have been tearing down drum kits in between acts.
"Earlier the concert organizer was being interviewed," my taxi driver explained, "and he said that each band was given, instead of a start time, the time at which they would have to be off the stage. They can start whenever they like, and play as many songs as they like, but they have to be off at their particular time. No exceptions, not even for Bono or Sir Paul."
It seemed to be working.
Later that night, at Jane's, as we watched some of the concert on television, I would think to myself, as the aerial camera panned back, displaying the sea of bodies in Hyde Park, that there is no amount of money that would get me to be one of them.
Jane's husband, Jonathan, is a fabulous cook. On the ride into Bristol Jane regaled us with tales of his concoctions, and explained how delighted he would be to have two appreciative guests to cook for. Not that she and their son, Oliver, weren't appreciative, but he cooked for them every night. Guests were something special. She asked whether we had any food alergies or strict preferences.
Indeed I do have a strict rule: I will always eat, without complaint, anything that anyone else cares to prepare for me, because I hate cooking, myself.
Jonathan served us an appetizer of chorizo and green beans, which both Denise and I gave an A+ for presentation. It was also delicious. Then we stepped out into the garden for a drink and a cigarette break (No one smokes inside their homes any longer, do they?), then inside to watch the concert for a while, then back to the table, finally, for the main course. Roast lamb, scalloped potatoes, and broccoli in anchovy sauce. I asked Jonathan for the recipe — yes, I know I just told you I hate to cook, but I like anchovies and I like broccoli, and I have to eat and I can't always have someone to prepare food for me. I like the way he gave the recipe to me; the way my grandmother explains how to make something. No half a teaspoon of this, boil for exactly 12 minutes sort of instructions, but just the ingredients, and, in broad strokes, how to combine them: butter, chopped anchovies, double cream, and parmesan. I think that was it.
I'll try it and let you know.
Back inside, Oliver, who is seven years old, beautiful, and precocious, was discussing his friend Marcus with his mother.
"I know he's my friend and I must be polite to him but sometimes, Mother, I would rather not play with him."
"As long as you're polite to him, Oliver," Jane replied, "You needn't always play with him." Then to us: "Oliver's friend Marcus likes to wear dresses."
"His own?" I asked.
"I'm not sure where he gets them," said Jane, "But I have seen him running around the neighbourhood in them. He's a lovely boy, though, isn't he, Oliver?"
"Well, I didn't say he was horrible, now, did I mother?"
On the continent of North America I doubt you'd find so poised and erudite a seven year old, unless perhaps it was on the stage or screen.
* * *
Though Oliver's friend may not be horrible, the food in England outside Jane's home is. In part II, which will also be part VII, and the final episode in the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., Sass eats a toad in the hole
It is continued from Part V
To read the story from the beginning, click here.
To see pictures, click here.
Sunday, July 3, 4:00 p.m.
Flat #10 Wright Way
Stoke Park, Frenchay, Bristol
I was able to share a taxi from the airport, so the ride to the flat in Stoke Park, Frenchay, on the outskirts of Bristol, where my PhD buddy Denise was waiting for me, was only £18. Stoke Park is what we would call a subdivision, but I don't know what they call them here. The driver knew exactly what I meant, though, when I told him I was going to Stoke Park.
"Right, that won't be a problem," he'd said.
You enter the subdivision (for lack of knowing their term) through a gate off the main road, then, once inside the bounds of Stoke Park become immediately disoriented as the many streets — Casson Drive, Wright Way, Alder Lane — lace their way between the flats and houses in a complex yet alogical manner that makes the streets of Boston, with their roundabouts and complete absence of traffic lights, seem by comparison as easy to navigate as a straight line. My driver found Stoke Park without incident, but spent ten minutes weaving through its maze before he located the flat.
THEY SAY: flatI was of no help, having only four pages of Denise's email messages, sent during the past few days since she arrived, to refer to. With no geographic point of reference, studying her emailed directions, which explained how to walk to the flat from the nearby train station, and from the university campus, was pointless. I struggled to understand what she meant when she wrote, "The address is flat #10, Wright Way, but there's no number on the building. It's the first tall one as you come in through the gates, on the corner of Casson Drive. The building is attached to number 18 Wright Way."
WE SAY: apartment
The driver was confused, too, but for a different reason. Wright Way is not continuous through Stoke Park. We must have entered the subdivisison through a different gate from the one Denise had in mind, because the numbers we saw were in the 100's. Then Wright Way crossed Casson Drive, but there was no number 10, nor number 18. Apparently Wright Way and Casson Drive intersect several times within the twilight zone of Stoke Park. I filed this bit of data away for future use, when, say, a non-Torontonian laughs at the fact that Dundas Street, which runs south of Bloor and parallel to it, also crosses it, and then runs north of it, parallel to it. And you don't want to know about Weber and King Streets in Kitchener/Waterloo, trust me.
But back to the taxi for a moment.
My propinquity to the historic and shocking events of that week began in the taxi. The driver was listening to the BBC, the broadcast of the Live8 concert. It was hour three of the eight hour extravaganza, coming to us from Hyde Park in London. I recognized REM, and another band that sounded vaguely 80's familiar, but I couldn't place. I marvelled at how tightly staged the event seemed to be. They couldn't have been tearing down drum kits in between acts.
"Earlier the concert organizer was being interviewed," my taxi driver explained, "and he said that each band was given, instead of a start time, the time at which they would have to be off the stage. They can start whenever they like, and play as many songs as they like, but they have to be off at their particular time. No exceptions, not even for Bono or Sir Paul."
It seemed to be working.
Later that night, at Jane's, as we watched some of the concert on television, I would think to myself, as the aerial camera panned back, displaying the sea of bodies in Hyde Park, that there is no amount of money that would get me to be one of them.
THEY SAY: lorryJane, who is one of our professors, picked Denise and me up at the flat an hour after I arrived. We had been invited to her house for dinner, Denise reminded me moments after I walked through the flat door. I love Denise because as she delivered this news she placed a cold bottle of Carlsberg in my hand. I'd been awake for 28 hours, what was another four?
WE SAY: truck
Jane's husband, Jonathan, is a fabulous cook. On the ride into Bristol Jane regaled us with tales of his concoctions, and explained how delighted he would be to have two appreciative guests to cook for. Not that she and their son, Oliver, weren't appreciative, but he cooked for them every night. Guests were something special. She asked whether we had any food alergies or strict preferences.
Indeed I do have a strict rule: I will always eat, without complaint, anything that anyone else cares to prepare for me, because I hate cooking, myself.
Jonathan served us an appetizer of chorizo and green beans, which both Denise and I gave an A+ for presentation. It was also delicious. Then we stepped out into the garden for a drink and a cigarette break (No one smokes inside their homes any longer, do they?), then inside to watch the concert for a while, then back to the table, finally, for the main course. Roast lamb, scalloped potatoes, and broccoli in anchovy sauce. I asked Jonathan for the recipe — yes, I know I just told you I hate to cook, but I like anchovies and I like broccoli, and I have to eat and I can't always have someone to prepare food for me. I like the way he gave the recipe to me; the way my grandmother explains how to make something. No half a teaspoon of this, boil for exactly 12 minutes sort of instructions, but just the ingredients, and, in broad strokes, how to combine them: butter, chopped anchovies, double cream, and parmesan. I think that was it.
I'll try it and let you know.
Back inside, Oliver, who is seven years old, beautiful, and precocious, was discussing his friend Marcus with his mother.
"I know he's my friend and I must be polite to him but sometimes, Mother, I would rather not play with him."
"As long as you're polite to him, Oliver," Jane replied, "You needn't always play with him." Then to us: "Oliver's friend Marcus likes to wear dresses."
"His own?" I asked.
"I'm not sure where he gets them," said Jane, "But I have seen him running around the neighbourhood in them. He's a lovely boy, though, isn't he, Oliver?"
"Well, I didn't say he was horrible, now, did I mother?"
On the continent of North America I doubt you'd find so poised and erudite a seven year old, unless perhaps it was on the stage or screen.
Though Oliver's friend may not be horrible, the food in England outside Jane's home is. In part II, which will also be part VII, and the final episode in the story of Postmodern Sass Goes To The U.K., Sass eats a toad in the hole
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