37 plays in 37 languages

Tomorrow night, on Shakespeare's 448th birthday, I will see the first of 37 plays produced at The Globe in a variety of languages.  The Globe to Globe series kicks off with Troilus and Cressida in Maori.

I had an idea to see all 37 plays, since you get a discount for buying tickets to all of them.  But then it occurred to me that maybe that 's a little ambitious.  After all, the series is only 6 weeks, so you'd see a play every other day more or less and only two are in English.  Some I think I could figure out, such as Julius Cesar in Italian, but Henry VI pt 1 in Serbian is sure to be a challenge.

The Globe season opened today with Sonnet Sunday, in which all 154 sonnets were read in different languages.  I thought it would be a good testing ground for my tolerance and as it happens it was perfect, not only to see how I do with hours of foreign language but also hours of standing in the cold rain.  I have Groundling tickets since I enjoy being close to the stage and seeing the actors close up.  But the forecast tomorrow is for rain, as it was today.  But having a dress rehearsal of sorts, I now know how many layers it will take to be comfortable.

One of the biggest questions I had in considering Shakespeare in other languages, is if the translations are focused on rhyme and meter, or more about exact words translations.  As far as I could tell today, the sonnets were more about keeping somewhat of a meter going and leaving a rhyme intact.  I can't really say that they were all still technically sonnets, having the "abab" scheme, and some lasted far longer than what it would normally take to read the 14 lines.  One sonneteer explained to us that the iambic pentameter was just not going to work for his language, Cree, as one single word had as many syllables as an entire line.  The sonnets he read were quite long but beautiful and in keeping sound of Native American languages.

Some languages were a bit spikier than others, German being the most.  It was quite staccato sounding while Twi and Kuwati Arabic were more flowing.  Catalan had the best rhymes.  Scots and Cornish sounded the most like the original.  Finnish sounded more Spanish than I expected.  Latin was really cool.  There was meant to be Klingon, but he was a no show.

Of course, the reception of the sonnet also depended upon the speaker.  Some were performers, other less so.  Some clearly communicated the meaning of the speech while others stuck to more reading of the page.  There were great moments of humor, such as when the Latin speaker asked us to identify this famous speech: "Equus!  Equus! Equus meus regnum!"

At the very end, after almost 5 hours of sonneting, all performers came on stage at once and spoke the final sonnet simultaneously, creating one big cacophony.  What was most amazing was the collections of cultures and languages and the excitement people would feel when they heard their native language.  But sonnets are different than the plays.  They are essentially soliloquies and far more about word play than the interaction of dialogue.  So when 116 rolled around, "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments..." I didn't recognize it in its Amharic version.  It had mostly slipped by before I was able notice.  And that made me wonder how much indeed will I be able to recognize or enjoy in the sense of wrapping myself in the delicious sound of Shakespeare when it is presented by a set of sounds so unfamiliar.

Still a tremendous event and one I will treasure for the rest of my days.

Those people in the next room.

Edinburgh happens to be one of my favorite cities in the world, which is why I chose to go there for Christmas.  In the UK, not much is open on Christmas, so I wanted to be somewhere we could walk around and just enjoy the beauty.  And Edinburgh did not disappoint!  And yet the trip was not without its quirks.

Christmas day was wonderful, and very windy.  We met our friends who had just flown in from California that morning.  We walked up to Calton Hill and all around the High Street, eating a delicious Christmas dinner in the evening.  Later that night, James and I were awoken by a couple in the next room.  It seems they were arguing.  The female was whining and we could hear a male voice, who sounded to be grumbling a half-hearted response.  Around this time, I thought I heard her say in a thick brogue, "But, I Looooves Ya!"  This, to me, confirmed that they were locals who were having a spat.  I tried to ignore it, hoping they would figure something out. 

Around 2:30am, we were awoken again  This time, the female was just sobbing.  It sounded like someone had killed her best friend.  I was thinking that they were probably really drunk and the argument was, at this point, just pointless and protracted.  We'd had enough, so we called down to the front desk.  The nice young man who answered asked me to verify which room it was coming from, as they couldn't take my word for it.  Well, that seemed a bit odd, but I got dressed and went out to what I thought was the next room.  But as this hotel is an amalgamation of several Victorian buildings, it wasn't that easy.  The next room seemed dead quiet.  So, I proceeded to walk around the floor, through a storage area and over to a hallway that would have come up behind our room.  As I opened the fire door, I heard it.  But it wasn't the same as what I had heard in the room.  Here, it was quite clear, as if I was in the room with them.  This was not a Scottish couple having a drunk spat.  Oh, no!  This was one female and two males, all speaking Japanese.  The female was role playing as a very naughty school girl who was being spanked and scolded.  I really thought I could tell the difference between a Scottish dialect and Japanese.


Just then, the hotel clerk came around the corner.  He acknowledged the noise and we walked back towards the elevators.  He apologized for making me walk the floor to find the source and explained his colleague who requested such is new.  I told him it was all worth it just to hear the real story.

After returning to our room, we heard the phone ring on the other side of the wall.  The people stopped, then whispered a lot but never answered as the phone kept ringing and ringing.  But shortly after, the sound ceased all together.

It was only two nights later that we were awoken again at 1:30am, but this time by the fire alarm.  We both got dressed, even though the recently reported problems with the electrical system told me that it was most likely a false alarm, but we all know how deadly hotel fires can be.  So, we walked down the stairs and out to the front of the hotel where scores of people were standing in the cold drizzle as the fire brigade pulled up.  A pair of young women huddled together for warmth, having not taken the time to grab their coats. By contrast, I had my purse, camera and everything to stay warm and James had everything he owned from the room.  Within 15 minutes, we were given the all clear and everyone returned to their rooms.  About an hour later, the alarm went off again for a short burst.  Then there was a very long burst, while James and I put pillows over our heads and tried to pretend it wasn't there.  Just as I was putting on jeans to go outside because I couldn't stand it anymore, it stopped.  Once again, we were left in our hotel bed completely awake at 3:30 in the morning.  Fortunately, there was wine left over from the night with the noisy neighbors.

The next morning, we sleepily roamed around the city and made our way back to London that night.  And so I must admit I was happy to be back in my London flat where the most noise at night is the radiator.

The 60s Kitchen

There is hardly anything I love more than a mid-century kitchen.  And I am being enlightened by a program here in the UK explaining the drastic changes in food in Britain in the 60s.  It had never occured to me that while frozen foods were becoming quite popular in the US, having been introduced to the public by Charles Birdseye in 1929, it wasn't until the 60s that they could take hold in the UK as many people didn't have freezers.  Food was bought fresh, not frozen.  And if you've ever visited, you know the mighty Brit-fridge is not large.  But in the 60s, the refridgerator and it's partner the freezer certainly started to become a staple. And like America, super markets were coming into vogue, putting the green grocer out of business.  What the these new super markets offered was the new idea of self-service.  Prior to, house fraus made their way to the local market where the nice man behind the counter collected necessities as well as suggested what was fresh and wholesome.  Hmmm.  I'll have to see if I can find one of those places.  It would just be kind of interesting to shop that way for a change.

This program cooks a meal, relatively true to the 60s philosophy of high efficiency and high tech.  So, the ingredients tended to be canned, frozen, powdered...  And I had such a flashback of the foods we had when I was a kid.  Jello (gelatin and pudding) and all the things made with it, TV dinners, Kraft mac and cheese with the powdered cheese, canned vegetables, beef-a-roni.  I didn't know food could be any other way.  In the early 70s, we had all the space man foods.  Things like Tang and space bars.  Plastic became an acceptable flavor.  Kool-Aid was the drink of choice.  I don't ever remember drinking water.  Ever.  And all I remember my parents drinking was coffee.  Even with dinner.  And iced tea in the summer.

I remember the pantry being absolutely stuffed with canned goods.  And I always thought that they must taste better - why else would we have them?  There was always a cake mix around and Sunday mornings meant blueberry muffins or pancakes from a mix with tinned or dehydrated blueberries.  There was also a random dessert I remember in the 70s which involved 3 layers of jello or different opacity which, if you tilted on the side of the fridge wall as it thickened, would set with sideways layers.  And of course, my grandma (the one dressed like Santa) made this thing called a "sickly salad" which involved green jello, cottage cheese, pineapple (canned), and nuts.  It did in fact look a bit like sick.  But tasted delicious!


The end of the program featured a high tea 60s style with such dishes as sliced tongue with decorative radishes and a pink fluffy thing called Angel Delight, which was something like strawberry pudding which took the place of blanc mange, so they said.  Either way, the guests on the show reported that the Delight was sickly-sweet and nothing like what they remembered.  A sheppard's pie with instant mash and canned veg was followed by a bavarian chocloate cake with canned cherries.

I took a moment to look back at my Mom and her sisters, having fun in our kitchen, circa 1967.  Note the turquoise and stainless steel kitchen and my mom wearing a matching outfit.

Grandma Santa

Christmas brings memories of egg nog (something I really miss), shopping, presents, carols and the ever present struggle in my house growing up over when to open presents.  My Dad traditionally opened them on Christmas Eve while my Mom preferred Christmas morning.  There was usually a compromise involving opening one or two on the Eve and the rest in the morning.

But when we visited my paternal grandparents, everything happened on Christmas Eve, including a visit by Santa!  I remember playing with my cousins and being summoned to the door.  There was someone to see us!  It must be Santa!  And in through the door came...my grandmother dressed as Santa.  Clearly in the video you can see my pure admiration for Father, er Mother Christmas, in spite of the fact that she always brought apples and oranges, which held little interest for us kids.  But I do remember a few years later huddling with my cousins post visit with clues that it might not actually be who we thought.  The glasses looked awfully familiar.  And how did Santa get lipstick on his beard?  Is it really Santa?

Not too long after that, I was in the first grade when my classmates completely destroyed my Santa bubble.  They told me that he isn't real.  He's your parents.  I don't remember being disappointed.  I remember thinking that it made much more sense.  I never bought the idea that all the shopping mall Santas were his "helpers."  They seemed far too sweaty for one thing.  One evening, as I was getting tucked into bed, I asked my Mom if Santa was real, since my classmates said he wasn't,  and I explained that I really needed to know the truth.  I think she was more disappointed than I was.  She had just lost her youngest child's pure innocent belief in all things Santa, and that had to be a blow for a mother who loved all things Christmas.  I remember she paused, thinking of what to say.  And then she sat on the bed and told me how important it was to keep the fantasy going for all the other younger kids and the general spirit of Christmas.  I remember processing everything I had known about Santa that night.  All the half eaten cookies, the empty glasses of milk, the presents showing up under the tree and the one magic year that my favorite doll, Princess, showed up late Christmas afternoon in a travel case filled with doll clothes.  It was snowing that year, and I really believed that Santa had dropped it on the way in or out, rushing out to beat the snow. As is Southern tradition, I also assumed he had to hurry to the store to buy milk and bread, as that is what you do when it snows.  But in all likelihood, my parents simply forgot to add it under the tree.

The following years still brought visits by Grandma Santa, as I wasn't quite the youngest grandchild, but the question soon became not so much if it was Santa - we knew it wasn't.  But who was it?  It wasn't our parents.  And somehow, we couldn't quite figure out who was absent from the room whenever Santa was there.  But during a hide and seek game one summer, we stumbled upon the Santa costume hanging in her closet.  And then we knew.  The great mystery of our childhood had been solved.  

Oooooo! Explosions!

Oooooo!, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

I've waited almost a year for this! Guy Fawkes Day! November 5! In terms of fireworks, it is to the Brits what July 4 is to the Yanks. Anyone can buy them. In fact, they were 2 for 1 at the grocery store.

As in the states, people started "practicing" by setting off bottle rockets a week early. I asked my neighbor, the completely insane Josephine, crazy cat lady and collector of stuff from garbage bins. Jo told me that it's all about that guy who tried to blow up Parliament. And that on Bonfire Night, people make up a fake guy and set it on fire. It's a guy. Named Fox. That's been my favorite explanation so far.

In fact it did start as a remembrance of Guy Fawkes who did try to blow up Parliament a few hundred years ago. But he failed and was tried and executed. So, I suppose it's more of a "what would it have looked like if he did succeed." And so the fireworks.

I decided to join the ever fun Frui group to do a photo excursion to Primrose Hill, near Regents Park, overlooking the city. About 20 of us camped atop the hill and under the guidance of our trusty tutors, started shooting. Of course, I had to forget a very important piece of equipment, I always do. This time it was the tripod. At least it wasn't the memory card, which I ironically often forget. But it made the exercise really difficult to do long exposures with no stabilization. But there was coffee with brandy, red wine, and a lively pub afterward. So, a terrific time all in all.

Everyone kept saying, "where is the fireworks show?" And there was a certain lack of coordination to the explosions. They seemed to be random. Some were in the park, where the lighters-of-the-wicks were quickly escorted out by police, as it is illegal in that park. Some were off on the distant Thames. And everywhere in between. But they were generally n bursts of about 30 seconds. Not the 30 minutes I'm used to from the big US of A shows. And the locals seemed confused as well. Though not down. Every single roman candle brought huge cheers from the drunk crowd. And everyone giggled with delight over kids running with sparklers.

It also made me consider the over emphasis on safety in the US. I don't think it would occur to anyone there to set off a roman candle in a crowded park. But as far as I know, no one lost an eye. Or a couple of fingers. Unlike Guy Fawkes.

A brief cold snap after weeks of relatively warm weather has summoned the delicious colors of autumn from the local trees.  It seems to have happened overnight although I'm sure it's been weeks in the making.  The gathering leaves on the ground form a light padding that subdues the all too common footsteps from the likely tapping to a dull steady  thud.  and so with autumn comes the damp.  I first noticed as I stepped out this morning to grab some milk from the market across the street. I can't recall ever having a market that close.  Even as a child, the nearby neighborhood market, Todds, was a drive away. An entire quarter of a mile away.  And while I think of markets as having produce that was farmed during the Eisenhower years, this one, or rather these as there are two right next to each other, always surprise me with fresh cheeses and chorizo.  And yes, milk.

That first step out onto the walkway was litererd with damp leaves and mud, and that wonderful smell of falling leaves and decay.  Like Autumn is supposed to smell.

Having spent 8 years in Catholic school, I never really thought that much about ancient Rome.  I don't remember it really being covered or being pressed as important in school other than "they killed Jesus!"  But touring through ancient Rome, one is given a fascinating picture of a society that valued, among other things, family and the reverence for the dead.  The necropolis under St Peters was a look into the society of the dead.  Families would brig picnics to the mausoleums and pour wine and food through holes in the floor to their dead relatives in the afterlife.  Some mausoleums were for erly Christians, made clear by the symbols left on the engraved plaques commemorating the life of that person.  They were quick to praise.  One man's epitaph listed him as "joking with everyone and never quarreled.  He was a dear brother," the stone claimed.  Many were left by husbands to "chaste" wives, who were assumed to die in childbirth as the birth rate was high to combat the infant mortality rate which was about 75%.

The necropolis was discovered while trying to make the Popes' burial grotto bigger and more enjoyable for visitors.   The excavations took a place in the fourties and fifties.  This too was amusing as I remembered being in high school and having the younger girls freak out over the rumor that they had run out of burial space in the Vatican for Popes, so when John Paul died, that was the end of the world.   The nuns perpetuated that rumor, maybe they even believed it themselves.  But when he was shot, the younger girls were seen sobbing in the corridors, crying the end was near.

What struck me too was the idea that Jesus was a religious person in this era of gods and demi gods, of superstitions and luck; a Jew who was persecuted.  And the town that I knew as the center of the Roman Empire soon became the center of the church of a completely different religion.  Everything was then taken over buy the new church.  The Pantheon, which was at one point was the center of learning and community became a basilica.  Which we were reminded is what kept it in such great shape.  No one had the money or the interest in maintaining the secular building, but anything that became a church or otherwise struck the interest of a Pope or one of the powerful, wealthy families was saved from eventual ruin.

The Castle and the Colosseum are great examples of ruins subsequently adopted by the church.  The latter receiving giant cross as a memorial to all those early Christians persecuted there.  Although the audio guide tells us that it wasn't the the main show there.  It was more about gladiators and hunting.

Our necropolis tour ended with a peek into the grave of St Peter.  The bones found there, the guide tells us, were tested by Vatican scientists who verifies that they are of a man in his late 60s who a had worked hard during his life.  That seems to be enough to convince the Vatican that they are in fact those of St Peter.  And therefore, only the Pope can say mass in St Peters on that altar which stands over the grave. But the altar adjacent to it, which is not over St Peter,  has and thousands and thouxans of priests say mass.  

The Vatican was huge and beautiful but did sort of run under it's own rules.  It was as if there was a whole different state within the city of Rome.  Oh wait...