and indulge. I figure it's the Dunkirk Spirit in action. Summer weather is often so dire it feels like a blustery March day. In most other countries, this weather would shut down outdoor events. We ignore it and carry on with increased levity, just to prove we can.This week proved so busy I actually had to take a day off work to fit it all in.
Notable events started on Wednesday night in Trafalgar Square, when a friend and I joined a thousand or so others for the live screening of Barber of Seville from the Royal Opera House. This was the last of a three-opera set of free broadcasts beamed to high-profile gathering places around the country. Sponsored by BP and, I suspect, done by the ROH partially to defray accusations of tax support for an institution with few affordable tickets, it is one of the best value-for-money events you'll see in London all summer. There are other freebies, of course, but few of this profile and quality.
The screen is impressively large, and boasts a sharp enough image to make you forget you are outside once the action starts. The sound system is robust enough to drown out all but the noisiest of the traffic edging the square. We suspected an early arrival was in order and, indeed, most decent seats were taken by 6:30, an hour before the curtain rose. Our 6:15 entry saw us in pretty much perfect position, perched at the bottom of the central steps leading down from the National Gallery.
The production was fantastic. American soprano Joyce DiDonato is the musical heroine of the summer, breaking her leg during a fall on opening night, carrying on 'til curtain that evening and finishing the rest of the season from a wheelchair that's been seamlessly choreographed into the staging. Peruvian tenor Juan Diego Florez is not only a fine actor with a rich voice, but that rarest of things: a darkly handsome, sexy and fanciable opera lead. The rest of the cast was equally strong, the favourite arias delivered with zest, the staging innovative and fun. You'd expect that of the Royal Opera House, of course, but their usual quality was enhanced by the skillful video production. It was at least comparable to being there (see 30.5.08 and 24.1.09 entries), and certainly better for picking up details than my usual seats near the roof.
The only drawback, of course, was the weather. The planned elegance of our picnic drowned beneath waves of pounding rain. We huddled under plastic ponchos, sitting on cushions soaking up ever more water, trying to stretch covers to protect not only ourselves and the food, but the jug of wine that was quickly getting watered down. Thankfully the skies wept their last just before the curtain rose, leaving us with an evening dry and warm enough to make sitting in our damp clothing for the next three hours endurable. Ignoring moisture is, after all, just another part of the British summer.
The next day, granted permission to take a spur-of-the-moment day of leave by a benevolent boss, I finally achieved my ambition to get to a cricket match. And not just any match: A friend had come up with tickets to the first day of the second Test of The Ashes.
For the benefit of my American readers ... The Ashes is a cricket tournament that takes place every other summer between the national teams of England and Australia, who play a series of five multi-day matches across the whole season. Location alternates between the two countries, with this summer's play being in the UK. This particularly potent rivalry pits the nation that invented the game and feels it should be best at it against a prickly former colony that considers sporting prowess to be an essential element of national identity. The name itself commemorates the first time England lost to Australia, in 1882, when a British newspaper cynically reported that English cricket was dead and the ashes would be taken Down Under. Ever since, the two sides have played for a tiny funerary urn and fierce national pride. Frankly, it makes any other rivalry I've seen in sport pale to dim insignificance.This particular match took place at Lord's Cricket Ground, acknowledged as the global home of the game. Frankly, it's hard to imagine a more significant and spectacular way to be introduced to the game. I can't pretend any deep understanding, but after years of missing baseball and trying to grasp cricket as a substitute, I think I've reached a decent level of comprehension. Certainly enough to sit there happily and maintain interest over seven hours, thanks to an exciting match, great seats in a beautiful, historic sporting ground and good weather. But even more so thanks to my host, a walking compendium of cricketing knowledge who was happy to answer all my endless questions and, essentially, be my own personal commentator. (Sadly, he is also Australian, thus was having a particularly difficult day as England trounced the visitors.)
I won't even attempt to explain the game itself to the Americans. If you're really interested, check out http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~crikclub/modules/xoopsfaq/index.php?cat_id=2 where you'll find an unusually comprehensible introduction using baseball for comparison. Basically ... if you're the kind of person who can watch nine innings of scoreless baseball yet still enjoy it because of the nuances of fine defensive work and the battle between pitcher and batter, you'll probably be able to grasp the appeal of cricket with a bit of work. If you're the type of person who thinks baseball is boring to start, then cricket will be a unique and lengthy form of torture.
While I still prefer my native game, I emerged from my cricket initiation charmed, enthusiastic and curious for more. Although how my next outing will match the drama of my initiation, I can't imagine.
There was little time to ponder that challenge on the day, however, as the busy social diary left me less than two hours to emerge from the cricketing crowds, get across town, change into formal wear and slide into my seat for dinner at the Hurlingham Club. The event was the International Advertising Association summer ball, and the throngs of prosperous-looking professionals in tuxedos and bright gowns downing fine wine seemed to challenge any thought of recession. More Dunkirk Spirit?
The Hurlingham is a particularly lovely place, a gracious Georgian country house set in 42 acres along the Thames in Fulham. I have, thanks to friends who are members, been here several times before. It was on those visits that I realised this is the archetype for every American country club I've ever entered. All it needed was a surrounding golf course and some high school kids drinking illicit beer beneath the trees, and I could have been back at prom. That feeling was heightened by the '80s theme of the evening. I didn't know whether to be pleased or a bit disturbed that the evening's music seemed to be identical with the "most played" list on my iPod.
The exclusive club feel was somewhat diminished by our immediate surroundings. The Hurlingham has added a modern party wing to their sophisticated country house. It's spacious, bright, efficient ... and a bit like partying in a shopping mall. I wouldn't have noticed so much, I suspect, if I didn't have prior knowledge of the beauty and dignity of the rooms in the main wing. As a business proposition for the club, this wing no doubt makes great sense. As a party organiser, I'd think twice before booking it for posh exclusivity. The party rooms are not much different than a central London hotel, in a location that is much more problematic to get to and from.
Despite that critique, I had a lovely night filled with engaging conversations with my hosts from The Economist. I could happily have stayed until the wee hours, especially given a soundtrack that was enticing me towards the dance floor with memories of long nights at the Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity house. But regressing to youthful mayhem didn't seem like the right level of behaviour to display in front of my hosts. And, frankly, after 30 hours packed with social highlights, I really needed to go to bed. A quiet stint at my desk came as a welcome relief the next day. I can, after all, only keep up this Dunkirk Spirit stuff for so long.
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