Friday, March 04, 2005

In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight

I saw one of my favorite musicals Thursday night, "Les Miserables". "Les Mis" is one of those overpowering, overwrought orchestral productions with lots of singing and dying, but not a whole lot of dancing. And it's got angst, plenty of it, but it's still good enough to bring people in the audience both to their feet and to tears. I didn't cry this time, mostly because it was past 11 pm, thus way past my bedtime and for God's sake, would Jean Valjean hurry up and die already?

Lest you think I'm completely heartless, I did get a bit emotional when I saw "Les Mis" the first time. Picture it: London, September 1999. FG and I were suffering from jet-lag something fierce as well as a remarkable aptitude for misplacing ourselves. Six hours off the plane and we walked out of the Piccadilly Circus station and into a production of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Unabridged." There's nothing more English than tea and William Shakespeare, but in this case, the cast of the William Shakespeare oeuvre was played by four American guys in bad wigs and togas and who, somehow and very convincingly, managed to reduce "Hamlet" to a single scream. Take that, Mel Gibson.

The next day, we decided to watch a musical and FG picked "Les Mis." We had lovely seats and I was on a high when we emerged from the theater eight hours and 26 minutes later (yes, "Les Mis" is *really* the longest musical in the history of musical theatre; let's just be glad Schonberg and friends didn't decide to set "War and Peace" to music). It was after midnight and while the theatre area was hopping, I felt uncertain about traveling this late back to the hotel. I suggested a cab. FG called me a wimp and while I'm totally not ashamed of my wimpiness, I succumbed; when in London, do as the Brits do and look to the right when crossing the street and take the underground.

We arrived at our station -- Baywater -- with little incident and the fun -- a term I use very, very loosely -- began when we couldn't find our hotel. We recalled the hotel had only been a few blocks away from the station and we thought we'd come from the left but nothing looked familiar, so we went the other way and ended back at Baywater.

Mystified, we started tackling the side streets and I freaked when I saw a large park across the street. "We're gonna get mugged," I told FG. "I'm never ever going to fulfill my dream of stalking Henry VIII's ghost because we're going to die right here." FG, however, is not one for dramatic declarations. She marched into the only store still open (ignoring my comments about how late-night convenience stores are perfect targets for hold-ups, even in the civilized and refined UK) and asked for directions, while I bought chocolate bars and water for FG and myself. If life as we knew it was going to end, I was damned if it was going to be on an empty stomach and parched throat.

We ended up finding our hotel about fifteen minutes later in one of those "duh" moments, realizing we'd been only a block or so away the entire hour we'd spent looking and at one point, had just been around the corner, but because of the darkness, hadn't noticed the street we were on didn't actually dead-end, but made a gentle jog to the right. The moral of the story is always, always walk to the end of the street and look both ways. I was ever so relieved when we finally boarded the creaky elevator and walked down the creaky hallway to our tiny hotel room.

The next morning, we decided to visit Kensington Palace -- home of the late Princess Diana and other royals -- as we heard it was in the neighborhood. The way FG and I tackled London, you'd think we were men; we didn't believe in actually asking for directions *before* heading somewhere. We had this thinking that if there is a subway, then how hard can it really be to get anywhere, especially when there's a stop called 'Kensington'? It's not like Sweat Sock City where road names change or highway exits are moved on a whim or are under construction (or sinking into the swamp, but that's another story entirely).

We got on the train at Baywater, rode a couple of stops, got off, changed trains, and then got off. FG needed to take a picture for her underground/bus pass so we came out of the Kensington station, walked a couple blocks to our left in search of a photo studio and ended up in front of the Baywater station. Yes, indeed, we traveled 15 minutes by underground and switched trains just to end up two blocks from our starting station. And then we discovered Kensington Palace was the 'park' we'd found the night before, where I'd been convinced we were going to get mugged. Getting mugged by a member of the Royal Family -- now there's a story worth passing on to the grandkids.

Even though the American version of "Les Mis" is also eight hours and 26 minutes long, it's super comforting at that hour of night to know exactly where you parked and more importantly, how to get to your bed with minimal drama.

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