I think we did it once before, in 1996 or thereabouts.
I know we did Christmas in France, in 1994; they called it "Nöel" which seemed impolite. But that was France: Chateau Bidaine in Provence: far too "Mediterranean" to have much to do with Frosty the Snowman or the birth of Christ in a creche. Of course I spent the first Christmas in England — no, not that one, I mean mine: Tickhill, nr. Doncaster, Yorkshire pudding, World War II. Then from 1941 through 1946 (the War, cont.), and again from 1963 through 1970. But enough statistics, lets talk about the present.
We arrived in London on the morning of the day: Christmas 2019. Traveling on Virgin Atlantic, we got upgraded to first class; a wonderful present as we were able to sip champagne and then totter into a horizontal position when we were ready. It certainly ruins you for Economy. At the beginning of the flight, perhaps pre-take-off even, the chief steward rambled scratchily on the PA system (why, if they can launch a huge airplane into the ether, can they not install a PA system that sounds intelligible?) about some act of charity and how the crew would like to return the favor and do somebody a good deed in return so they asked anybody who was born in 1940 or before to speak up and make themselves known.
I waved my arm and the stewardess I had spoken to as I came on board came over and squatted by my seat. I told her I'd been born in 1940 and after we kibitzed for a moment, she disappeared. A few moments later the head steward, whose name was Billy, came and squatted in the aisle beside my seat and it was then I became aware that something truly momentous was about to happen. Billy and one or two stewardesses — they were all costumed in a manner befitting the occasion (Christmas Eve, remember) then began to gather our coats and luggage and with a Heigh-Ho, Ho Follow, Follow, they led us into the realm of the first-class passengers.
From that moment on it didn't even feel like we were inside an airplane. Marsha had sometimes described the feeling (in Economy) as traveling inside a tuna can and it's hard to deny that. But this, now, felt like being back on dry land, as it were. You could move around without expecting to fall down, bump your head and slither underneath a seat.
In fact there is nowhere inside a large contemporary passenger plane that should give the impression of spaciousness, but the contrast between the classes is so great and the champagne in your hand so meritorious, that you immediately feel like a million bucks, in a place immune to things like airplane crashes. Everything is much more permanent in First Class. In the words of the immortal Hank Williams, "there'll be no teardrops tonight."
We arrived at London Heathrow — LHR to you frequent flyers — at around 7 a.m. and were to be met by my daughter, Justine, and her husband Hugh who live in Balham just three or four railway stops from Victoria Station. It was here that the trouble first began.
Since we fly to Europe and spend some months there nearly every year, we have duplicates of our musical equipment and a plenteous wardrobe. But all our stuff is at the Chateau Pruniers in the middle of France. And we are staying a week in London and then flying on RyanAir, an airline noted for being very stingy with their customers' luggage allowance. Of course you can carry as much luggage as you want on the brief hop from Stanstead (London) across the Channel to Poitiers in mid-France. But doing so makes a mockery of the original reason for getting tickets on RyanAir:the price!
To further complicate the matter, since I have no guitar in England, yet plenty at home in Louisiana, I decided to bring one with me. I could leave it with Justine and she, who is coming out as a singer, could have an instrument to practice on for at least the 11 months I am not there. It's a Takamine Classical very much like the one I leave in France. I packed it in the sturdy case that was specially built for my handmade (by Ron) Louisiana swamp guitar. The case looks like a small coffin and is virtually indestructible. The airline baggage handlers will not harm this baby!
Alas! The guitar doesn't even arrive. The revenge of the baggage handlers. We wait futilely until the gondola, or whatever they call it, has practically squeaked itself to death and then I have to report the situation to the proper desk. Luckily it's going to be pretty easy to spot if it hasn't been stolen. The case is unique.
The woman behind the counter has a very positive attitude. If she thinks my case is hopeless (pun?), she certainly doesn't let on. "They will deliver the guitar to your London address (Balham) when they locate it. Probably tomorrow," she says.
I thank her and hope for the best, though I can't help thinking I may never see it again because the baggage mis-handlers threw it up in the air and crashed to the tarmac in several pieces, or it took a detour to Mali and was purloined by a young Malian airport worker.
We finally head for the exit and quickly find Hugh and Justine. We tell them the sad story of the errant Takamine and almost forget the heartwarming tale of the First Class upgrade. Something similar had happened to them, recently; nice for them, we think, but it cheapens our own good fortune slightly. Not really. I was just looking for a good turn of phrase.
Their car is small. A mini, in fact. It couldn't get much smaller unless it was a Smart car, but we managed to cram ourselves in there for the ride back to their house. We took the Westway to Hammersmith and the Circular past Wandsworth Common. Because of Christmas there was very little traffic on the road. In a way it was fortunate that the guitar was somewhere in Africa.
The plan was to move in to our bedroom in Balham, take a nap, then cross London to Highgate where my sister Fiona was preparing Christmas dinner with her partner, Benn, an Irishman she has been seeing for a couple of years.
By the way, when Benn and Fiona first met, he mentioned that he had a house in France where he spent most of his down time. I don't know the details of the conversation but at some point Fiona must have asked him "Whereabouts in France?" to which he would have replied,"Oh, you wouldn't know it, it's a small town in the middle of France." (A pause here, perhaps, while he decides whether to tell her more of this obscure yet picturesque destination.) "It's a little place called Montmorillon," he adds.
Now it so happens that Montmorillon is home to, or rather, three kilometers south of, the Chateau Pruniers, which Fiona is quite familiar with and always welcome at. What an amazing coincidence! It looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of them.
The fifth member of our family entourage, George Anderson, was asleep in one of the small, first floor bedrooms at 93 Ravenslea, which has been Hugh's London (Balham) home since back in the 1990's. George is the younger son of my cousin Robert Anderson who is the same age as me; or one month older. They are a soldierly pair. Robert had a career in the British Army, working his way up to chief Psychologist. He peaked during the time of the Gulf Wars. George has turned his less-than-stellar career in the same Army into physical education instruction which he is doing in the wide open spaces of the London parks. I'm not quite sure how it works but George advertises himself as a personal trainer or a group instructor. He is in good shape.
George is quite large so he is offered the front seat; Marsha, Justine and I will share the back seat along with overnight bags and piles of "pressies." We may have been crowded on the way from the airport, but we could not have taken on the guitar for this phase of the trip crosstown to Highgate Village.
On the move again, and again not so much traffic on this Christmas Day. Christmas party withFiona and Benn, Gemma and Tiger, Marsha and me, George, champagne, turkey, brandy butter, brussels sprouts, etc. The movie and huge TV, "Four Weddings and a Funeral." George talked quite a lot, a clear indication that he had been over-served.
We slept in the tiny microwave apartment which is a perfectly decent sized bedroom, and a perfectly fine little bathroom (shower, toilet and basin), with a microwave in between and a door out to the balcony. Fine for a day or a few, or as a pied-à-terre. The weather was sunny and clear all Christmas Day, we did photos on the big balcony, and it drearied up on Boxing Day.
Boxing Day we get up late and go back to south London to Justine and Hugh's. During the following days we spend a lot of time around the house which we are good at these days. When we first started traveling extensively we used our time differently: when we were visiting Europe we packed as much activity as possible into each waking hour; now we treat each day as though we were at home, which is Louisiana at the moment.
That may also be a function of old age.
One evening we met Fiona and Benn at the Royal Academy (The Art museum on Piccadilly) to see a show which featured the self-portraits of Lucien Freud, a grandson of Sigmund who lived in London most, if not all. his life. A refugee from Hitler's pogroms.
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| Fortnum's all lit up for Xmas. |
We are basically doing public transport, now, as it would be silly to use the little car. So it's either the underground at Balham Station/Northern Line (half a mile - 9 minutes walk) or the Southern RR system at Wandsworth Common (.2 of a mile - 5 minutes.) There is also a Rail Station at Balham, but . . . The railway takes one to Victoria Station which offers a whole new palate of destinations, including a tube to the Tate Britain.
One day Hugh and I took this route to the Tate to see William Blake's show.
We met Justine there. Marsha wasn't feeling well so she stayed at the house.
We all left London together to go to the New Years' party at "the chateau" in Montmorillon. Fiona and Benn were taking the train — the Chunnel, Paris and Poitiers. We were flying to Poitiers Airport via London Stanstead. This is the Ryanair route and it is a cheap jump ( 10, 15 quid each maybe) but baggage is restricted and it costs about 10 or 15 quid to get the train from Wandsworth Common vis Victoria.
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| Hugh and Ivan. |
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