This is an excerpt from a piece by John Amato:  “Our ‘Cousins’ remain in the front row of ancient family history – in the window of our memories with all the fancy curtains pushed back; with all the crispy plastic upholstery taped up and hidden from the company. First, second, or third cousins – doesn’t mater — they are the direct line to the mother ship across the mighty Atlantic–they are the red vein of striking the friendship ring before friends on the block.”

The other night, I had dinner with my cousin JoAnn and her husband Frank who were in London before taking off for Wales and Scotland.  JoAnn is technically my first cousin once removed.  She is 7 years younger than me.  Her Mom, Marion, my first cousin, is 19 years my senior.  I mention this because we are blessed to be part of a rather large family.  Marion’s brother Steve is 23 years older than me.  His oldest child is less than a year younger than me.  My youngest first cousin is ten year younger than me-33 years younger than Steve, our oldest first cousin.  There are 20 first cousins in total.  JoAnn is among, at least 40 of the next generation.  JoAnn’s mom and I have always had a special bond.  We all lived within a few blocks of each other and were regular parts of each others life.  Marion’s kindness to me stretches back to my earliest childhood when my dad was in a terrible accident and she smothered me with love and attention.  It continued through college and beyond when I knew Marion would always have my special dish of struffoli waiting for me when I came home for Christmas.  But here we were, all grown up, having dinner at one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants in London.

As London’s late Summer heatwave has continued, I have taken things pretty easy.  I find that my first week of this long visit is a week of transitioning and taking it slow.  After a few days of bustle, I took a “neighborhood day.  I revisited several favorite spots, including, Russell Square.  The park was full of life.  People from around the world were strolling and chatting.  Kids were running and squealing.  The fountain shot water into the sunshine.  Caffe Tropea, the lovely Italian Cafe was doing a booming business.  Ah London!

 

Now I could complain about customs and the new regime or the lack of luggage trolleys.  But, come on, how often do I complain?  Hey, you there in Alexandria, I saw that smirk!  I did have a great drive in from Heathrow, from Addison-Lee.  The gent that drove was great fun.  We chatted about politics, Boris, the Big Orange Head, Maggie Thatcher, Obama, the Clintons, Maggie Thatcher and, of course, Brexit.  On a brighter side we talked music and music history and found we shared an interest in classic Raggae, particularly Yellow Man, who he had actually seen at a small impromptu concert in Jamaica. 

As first days go, this one was typical in one regard.  The concierge on duty at Clare Court was as friendly and welcoming as ever.  He helped me with my luggage and I was soon off to the land of nod.

After unpacking and determining that, yet again, my collection of “current converters in drawers in Alexandria and Naples” would get even larger (in other words, once again, I didn’t bring enough), I went out to get some provisions in from the local Waitrose Supermarket.  Oneonta friends will be pleased to know my reusable Brooks Barbecue insulated bag came with me.

I picked up the necessary, took stuff home and then headed out for a bit of a walk and a quick cup of coffee at the local Caffe Nero, Starbucks better looking, better cooking Italian Sister.  As I went to sit down with my latte, a lady directed me away from my chosen seat and into  one next to her.  My chosen seat, it seemed, was reserved for her son who was outside on the phone.  It turns out this lady and her husband who was sitting across from the empty seat, were from Las Vegas.  Se asked if I had been there.  That, of course, led me to explain that I had been there for work many times for NRC. She explained that they got to Vegas via Buffalo, where they had lived in the Italian neighborhood, originally, renting for two years from an Italian lady who was like a second mother to her.  The lady and her husband were Chinese-American.  We ended up chatting for an hour about the similarities and differences of Italian and Chinese cultures, our careers, our lives, etc.  Her son finally came in and we talked some about the Yucca Mountain Repository project.  I shall also always remember this lady fondly because she told me I did not sound like I had a New York accent.  I’m proud of being a New Yorker, and I know a bit of the greatest American accent stays with me, but I think I must have been using my NRC public speaking accent with her.

Anyway, that was a pretty good first day.  I’m going to try and post a link to Facebook now.  We’ll see how well I do with blogging this time around

 

What better way to start my first weekend of the sojourn than a trip to see the Fulham All Whites play Nottingham Forest in a Championship League match at Craven Cottage, the cozy and venerable home ground of Fulham FC.  The park in question is Bishop’s Park which, like “the Cottage” sits along the River Thames.  Saturday was a perfect day to

step off the Tube at Putney Bridge station and take a walk through this beautiful urban oasis on the way to the excitement of a British football match.  My seat at midfield was perfect

and I was surrounded by fellow home team supporters.  There is, of course, noticeably less media and “hoopla” in England’s Second Division, but it is still high quality football.  Officiating is not quite at the same level, perhaps, but ask me again when I see Fulham win a match because sadly it was not Fulham’s day.  But I shall be back to see them win a future fixture.  It was great to see fellow alum (and former SUNY Oneonta soccer star) David Daly taking part in halftime activities at today’s game.

Other than reaffirming my love of the beautiful game, I am also reaffirming just how much peace  get from being away from the 24 hour US news cycle.  Its amazing how free my mind becomes when I don’t have that crutch of talking  heads and the disturbance of the huge orange “Tweety-Bird.”  Also, becoming a non-car  person opens a new world too, for two months.  I’m lucky to be living between two tube stations, one of which is part of a major International rail hub (Saint Pancras – or the Blessed Pancreas, as Sally Krahn and I call it).  All the basic shopping needs are close by, as are numerous great restaurants.  So life, at the moment, is pretty sweet.

If you missed this picture of my ugly mug on FB yesterday.  Here I am at Craven Cottage, no doubt thinking of the irony of Craven being the name of the man who was President of SUNY Oneonta during its glory days in Division I Soccer.

Tonight (Sunday) looks to be great fun.  My cousins Joann and her husband Frank are in London and we will be dining together.  I love seeing family and friends and getting to show them a little bit of “my London.”  We’ll be eating at a great neighborhood place.

 

So, what happens when a certified history geek who is also a certifiable theatre geek sees

“Hamilton.”  Well, first, he has to get out of his brain the  picture of Alexander Hamilton in “The History of New York State and Its People” (the textbook used to teach history of the Empire State one of the two times it was taught to young scholars back in the years when history was still “His-story.”  That particular depiction of Mr. Hamilton had him look incredibly like TV’s favorite secret agent, Napoleon Solo, the Man from U.N.C.L.E., portrayed by the dashing young Robert Vaughn.   The theatre geek side loved the show. though Jefferson as Prince was a bit of a surprise, but very well done.  I liked the use of women in the chorus for cross-gender roles.  I won’t bore you with all the history geek’s nitpicks, but James Madison was physically tiny and the whole Jefferson – Sally thing was a little weird.  Oh, and the Hamiltons had a shedload of kids, not just the two mentioned.  But my brain is full of that kind of stuff.   Like poor old Martha Washington who was BFF with Elizabeth and she got short shrift.

Oh, and I forgot to mention in my previous entry on the Hislop exhibit, he covered protest music too.  One of the songs was “Strange Fruit” made famous by Billy Holiday and written by Abel Meeropol.  What surprised me was that the exhibit didn’t mention that Mr. Meeropol adopted and raised the sons of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg after they were executed for spying.