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Via Navigli, Sunday March 25th, Antiques sale …


with my friend, Luca Gandolfi

The cats of Campagnatico,
Which are never fully grown and have never
Been kittens, will not move for the honking motorist
But expect to be gone round — Peter Porter (1929-2010)

Friends,

The last of my Milan diaries. I’ve described wandering in central Milan on Friday, 4/16 afternoon and evening, and Tuesday, Wednesday and our neighborhood. We are come to all day Friday, Saturday morning, and a long Sunday morning and again in the evening into night.

We began Friday 4/23 by heading for fabric stores and bookshops. Laura likes to sew and make herself clothes. These were goals to take out outside the core place of cathedral, castle, and environs. We took trolleys and trams to find two fabric stores and two used bookshops.


New Tess, Milan

When we entered the fabric stores, at first the owner and/or employees wondered at us, and seemed decidedly uneager — they seemed to me to sell to the privileged. There was a language barrier, but as soon as they realized Laura meant business, somehow all was accommodated, and she came away with some beautiful material folded in rectangles in big shopping bags. For myself I bought Enzo Striano’s Il Resto Di Niente, a fictionalized biography of the later 18th century Italian woman political radical and poet, Eleonora Pimentnel de Fonseca, tragically executed during the brief Neapolitan republic of 1798, Elena Ferrante’s La figlia oscura, and Mario Soldati’s Lettere da Capri. Used bookstores in Italy are polite, quiet places, small, subdued, books set out in alphabetical order by the author’s name within categories.

We did go to Rizzoli’s and I could not find any Italian book that I might want that I did not own already. I was dismayed to discover that like US bookstores, there are less books than there used to be. Things are set up in fanfare ways: I found and bought (Italian) Atwood’s L’Assassino Cieco, traduzione di Raffaella Belletti; in the “classics” E.M. Forster’s Passaggio in India, traduzione di Adriana Motti.

What did we notice in all (some elite and expensive) and ordinary neighborhoods of apartment houses, shops, small parks? Laura noticed that Italian women tended to dress in black. A male-kind of jacket, sweater, subdued, black skirt. Very unchallenging, unobtrusive. Men very casual. Suits for those clearly going to offices.

People are permitted to bring dogs into public transportation as long as the dog is somehow kept close in a carrier of some sort. All on leashes and all small. People must buy or adopt dogs small enough to put in carriers to take on buses and trains. The dogs look nervous when the jump is made onto a trolley, but trust to the master-friend. Just about all these dogs had sweaters on (it was cold), but I spied no boots, so I conclude no corrosive salt is used to remove snow and ice (as in NYC). One woman’s dog’s sweater matched the color of her cell phone cover.

It was distressing to me to see how beggars behaved – very like in France. Utterly humbling themselves. Abjectly squatting on the street like they were praying. Alas, there was no place next to one of them I kept seeing to put money.

We then hopped onto a trolley that took us back to the park in the back of the Castle Forza (which I described in my last blog), and visited a museum with very contemporary art:


Outside sculpture

Unlike older museums (Castle Sforza or the Metropolitan in NYC), where you meander about unexpected corridors, mazes, but like contemporary ones (the Whitney, MoMA), all is clearly laid out, a few select and permanent rationalized exhibits labelled. We spent time in three.

The first was a Rick Owens exhibit (see one of Laura’s blogs on one of his fashion shows): a vast installation of a hundred or so mannikin models in de-humanized, aggressive, parodic outfits, a dark disquieting satire on what we wear and fashion shows themselves:

After a few rooms of these, we sat and watched films of models doing shows of these clothes — many with heavier bodies, many people of African heritage. Haunting, and creepy images.

They still had some of the traditional kinds of art one sees; there was a sculpture exhibit of the history of the bicycle, and intriguing paintings and photos on walls here and there:


A photo-painting of realistically conceived figures looking at art

On the upper floor there was a vast exhibit showing the visitor how we live now or how we ought to live — very modern furniture and appliances; there was a kind of neon-lit forest of electric poles. What kinds of habitations we make for ourselves, how many of our rooms don’t make sense if the point were to be comfortable.

We walked around the park to where the two main streets are, and found a restaurant for lunch. Unluckily, it featured bad service and worse food, but from there we spotted a sight-seeing bus-stop, so we hurried away and took a bus all around another part of Milan. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) the microphone sets which were supposed to tell us where we were and the history of what we were seeing didn’t work.

Evening was coming, we were very tired by this time, and hopped off the bus around the shopping centers near the Cathedral and walked through very expensive shops, took a train back to a supermarket and then a cab home. You can see our feet had had enough. We stayed close to our apartment, we had reserved a table at a restaurant nearby so exclusive you could miss it as you walk by. The meal was exquisitely good.


This was the appetizer from another night: a restaurant where you pay a set fee and have many small courses where you have a taste of this or that food, and with each a glass of wine.

Home again that night to read quietly and rest.

Saturday, 4/24: we had seen on our peregrinations what we thought were basilicas, and decided the next day we would try to go into one of these. We tried for three, and they were either turned into schools or closed.

I suppose if you use Road Scholar, you won’t make these kinds of mistakes but we did learn that basilicas have found new uses in 21st century Milan.


An horse-shoe shaped church in front of the cemetery

What we did happen on was an an enormous monumental cemetery. If you have deluded yourself into assuming the impulse which made Egyptian pyramids is gone, think again. Huge cement buildings as crypts, tombs, massive sculptures of idealized figures (mythological, Catholic-religious, some realistic), many doing things (looking like they are thinking, or about to pick something up, the material they are made of often in bad shape (the damp is not good) in which families asserted their wealth, status, heritage, some of them built as far back as late Roman times, some dated 2015.


One of several wide and long lanes


Yes that’s me looking cold

The newer ones had photographs framed. The effect very creepy. Worse yet was a large house-like structure: we went into it and discovered that the poorer could buy a sort of drawer or shelf; rows and rows of these with people’s names. This reminded me of Arlington National Cemetery where there are now vast rectangles of cremated bodies and urns, each having a kind of drawer with the name of the person who once lived on its outside plaques. People were coming in to leave flowers. Everywhere also evidence that this was a way of extending the person’s life, memory, creating let’s say a deathtime. Laura fascinated took quite a number of photos. I’ll spare you the rest except for one of a cat who has found a home there:

He or she has a corner with an umbrella and under it dishes of food and water. Puss did not appear to have any cat-mates.

Perhaps our the pleasantest time we had was on Sunday morning,4/25, at the Antiques market, where I came upon my friend, Luca (above) on the lookout for good rare books. He did find one, a nineteenth century edition of Dante’s Commedia with illustrations. As I reported in my first blog this market runs up and down the length of a central canal, spreads out to side streets, and as the day progresses all around open cafes, and gradually walls are covered with artists pictures, and people come from all round to buy both ordinary clothes and needed things as well as art and craft objects. I wanted to buy a lovely watercolor of a woman and daughter on the seashore but couldn’t convey in Italian I wanted to be shipped as well as wrapped. Maybe she didn’t have any shipping services. I now regret not persisting. I worried over the price and that I might not get the picture by mail after all. It was a woman on a beach with a young girl.

It’s a flea market too: every kind of hand and machine crafted object you can imagine; some very old, some made recently, art. People talking to one another. Friendliness. I bought a sculpture in a sort of China of a sleeping cat. I looked for Trollope in Italian but no luck; most of the Italian books I found I wanted to read I already had. People kept coming and stalls being added to. There was also a marathon running in Milan that. Every one knew of the massive march in Washington DC and approved heartily.

I found the ceramic cat I described and took home (scared that wrapped up it would be taken for a bomb at the airport but it was not),


Her face held up to the light by Izzy

and here I’ll add a pink warm woolen cap with a fluffy pom-pom, lovely part leather gloves, grey on one side and multi-colored the other, Izzy found a piece of jewelry. Around 11 church bells began to ring upon the hour and seemed to keep that up until 5. Laura said that first ringing of the bells somehow made the day.


Houseboats allowed

Much later in the evening we went to the 19th century museum to one side of the Cathedral for another excellent dinner. The restaurant was on the top floor and we could see the Cathedral to our right and across the square as we ate. Later we tried to walk around the lively square for our last night. Some of the stores closed all day for Sunday opened in the evening. There were street musicians, and yes homeless people (some with pet dogs).

Our time away had come to an end, and the next day getting up around 7 am (our time Milan) we had a 19 hour trip by cab, plane, cab, train and perhaps Laura’s husband Rob’s car awaiting us at 11 at night (his time DC).

I remembered trips Jim and I took within the US, up to Canada, or just to Maine, twice to Vermont, several times to New York State, and how we’d have driven there and drive home together. How content I’d be to go home. How eager then. And tonight I’ve found a poem to express this:

David Holbrook (1923-2011)

Coming Home from Abroad

The air is high and blue yet, as we drive
Northwards across High Marne: summer
Again, after the stormy cold of June.
Yet there’s a ghostliness a sadness in the wind:
I feel it first, in the little park at Enghein
Where the tall plane trees shivered in the breeze.

Oh, I am so content, sitting beside you,
Driving home over the Northern Plains of France,
The sun still strong, everything going well,
The wine and poulard good at lunch at Chalons;
Yet, in the sky, there’s this tall hustling ghost
Drawing a veil across the face of summer.

On Zeebrugge beach all next day, the sane
Unites me to Suffolk: the cold onshore breeze
Whispers of Cotman, and those severe scenes
Of grey half-muted tones, the figures bent
Against the elements: and so we sail
Steering irrevocably into the Felixstowe fog ….


John Sell Cotman (1782-1842) Carnavon 1800

Ellen

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Izzy wearing Laura’s hat just as we entered the castle chapel


A small park, and ruin in a street near ours

Friends,

I’ve told of our trip, our first evening in Milan, three day jaunt out to Zurich, nearby Germany and France, and first general impressions of Italian culture.


When they do have trees on their blocks, they tend to place the same kind of tree in rows (as they do in France)

For the rest of our time away we stayed in Milan, either exploring the city and partaking of its pleasures (each night a different restaurant), or gazing at ice-skaters in the stadium. For me the enjoyable and engaging moments were in the city: all Tuesday, Wednesday morning and night, and all day Friday, early Saturday morning and Sunday morning until 1. Here I tell of Tuesday and Wednesday, early mornings and the neighborhood.


Izzy on the cathedral roof, wearing Laura’s hat


Walking into the castle entrance — a fountain is in front

The center of Milan (not just for visitors) exists between the large square called the Duomo, around which are the enormous cathedral, which everyone will tell you took 6 centuries to build, two beautiful glass covered shopping malls, two museums, with smaller institutional (cultural, gov’t, educational) buildings scattered all about. And blocks going this way and that. The opera house La Scala is right there. Two long wide parallel streets coming away from the back of the cathedral take you to the Sforza castle, an enormous building, which probably took a few centuries to settle into its present state. Between the castle and wide streets, there is what in the UK would be called a round-about where you can catch buses touring all Milan, and see different groups of people gathering. Nearby a movie theater and further along a playhouse (with a repertoire going on). Behind the castle is a large park that reminded me of Central Park in NYC (except not so big): picturesque, meant for leisured walking, with at least one lake, birds, a modern museum at one edge, near which there is an in-door and an out-door stage (for plays or concerts).


The wrapped up person is me contentedly gazing at water birds in a lake in the park — do not mistake how old I look for discontent

Further on, you come upon a beautiful state-of-the-art library for ordinary citizens’ use; wander a bit and you’re sure to come upon the usual ruins tucked away here and there, I believe a carousel, and bike paths.


Ruins

You leave the park area through a massive carved gate which tells you it commemorates a probably not very welcome visit from the armies of Napoleon III.

Tuesday we spent all morning in the castle in the morning, and much of the afternoon in the cathedral. The high point of the castle came swiftly: a sort of chapel in which we could view Michelangelo’s late Pieta.


Michelangelo’s late Pieta, at the Sforza castle

Michelangelo’s work just stands out as more sincere, realer than anything near it, anything we saw in that castle and most that we later saw in the modern museum. we viewed his last work. I sat by it for a while. All around the chapel were artefacts and plaques telling the story of its many adventures before it came to rest, let us hope safely for a long time to come, in the quiet room. It took a long time to walk all around the castle, up and down: clearly originally a fortress from which arrows and later guns could be aimed. Among the more interesting objects we saw were some beautiful later 19th and 20th century (recent) furniture, musical instruments from across the ages. We three enjoyed a good meal in a place where we could watch people go by and I listened to a street musician who played very well and whose apparent poverty touched my heart.


The cathedral roof from just one of many angles

Doing the cathedral is no trivial task. First you must avoid waiting for hours to get in through the front. A comparable tourist attraction is the Eiffel Tower, which is a many hour wait if you want to climb up. You can save the wasted hours and tedium by buying a more expensive ticket which allows you to take an elevator straight up to the first level of the roof.

Then you climb and climb and climb in and out of nooks, stairways, past gargoyles, statues, rows of battlements, seeing Milan become lower and seeing our farther, until you get to the very top.

I almost didn’t make it, and was saying “Non posso,” when someone helped me up the last stairway.


The cathedral highest roof

I saw one young woman with a baby in a carrier against her chest, holding a toddler’s hand. I would not have risked that child. You then climb back down, not all the way, and are led into a corridor where you take another elevator, and by some sleight of hand your ticket takes you into the cathedral by a side or back entrance, and voila.


What we saw as we came in


Walking about


The altar

In order to enjoy the place you have to forget that it was and is a seat of power, intended to impress you with its wealth. Every inch carved; many places sites of worship, shameless individual tombs, marble floors, magnificent windows. Perhaps one can reconcile oneself to it by reverse thinking: imagine where it bombed to the ground, then it’s a treasure of history, beauty, aspiration lost forever. Besides an ancient crypt, there is beneath the building an archaeological dig which has unearthed a previous basilica on the same site. Now we were in early Roman Italy. So this spot has been a community center for thousands of years. We regretted leaving.


The same Duomo square, another angle, at night when after resting in our own apartment we returned for dinner

Wednesday morning we learned how difficult it would be to leave Milan on Thursday to go out by train to the countryside: the biggest disappointment for me of this trip was that I did not get to visit another friend, the biographer of Veronica Gambara, Antonia Chimenti. She lives not far from Reggio Emilia, the area Gambara lived in. There is but one bus from where she lives to the train station, and another to Correggio. A city whose institutional buildings she said not all that much changed from the outside physically from the 16th century. People there still living a quieter traditional life. We would not have had time to get to Correggio, stay there, and get back to the train for Laura and I to return to Milan and she to her home. She sent pictures, we emailed but it seems what we needed was to have someone drive us. I translated all of Gambara’s poetry, wrote a short life myself.


Piazza del Monte, in Reggio Emilia, Correggio today

Laura and I also worried that Izzy would not be able to get all the tickets to go to the ice-skating events at once, and that she might need help from us on Thursday.

So on Wednesday instead of buying tickets at a local train station, we ended up in a local supermarket, and brought home some needed comforts for the flat (juice, milk, sugar, tea, bread, cheese, wine, cereal for the morning).


From our seats inside La Scala

But Wednesday night we had a rare treat: while Izzy remained at the ice-skating stadium, Laura and me hurried back to Milan for a quick dinner and to watch the Goldberg Variations as a ballet at La Scala. Astonishing. As we watched I realized I had seen part of this modern ballet in clips of videos on TV. A wikipedia article details the Bach music. As for Robbins’s choreography, the work consists of many ballet dancers, men and women dressed in the most minimal outfits, beginning dancing as a group, gradually emerging as varying couples and individuals, with no single individual emerging as a star or personality, and then back to the group dancing, with many moods, and much repetition. The last movements repeat the first and the dancers are all back where they began on the floor. By the end you feel you have experienced a life-cycle of humanity.

Here is a typical moment from almost an hour and one half

We were one night too late for Gluck’s Orpheus & Eurydice. Izzy almost said that had that opera been on, she’d have taken off from ice-skating.

Not all our adventures were outside or far away from the house our apartment was in. Laura had brought her laptop and we watched two (to me) unusual movies where food was the central subtext of stories and interviews; one traced the life story of am impoverished girl who became an austere nun who lives to cook simply; another was part of a series, each featuring a different type of food or dish which is central to a class-, race- or culture-laden experience, and that experience is ethnographically considered. Each morning Laura found herself breakfast in nearby bars. She and Izzy took walks around the neighborhood. We discovered two rare book stores, one much better than the other, but alas I owned a copy of the very book that tempted me: a volume of poetry by Elsa Morante. There was a convenient lunch place around the corner from where we were, a sort of snack place for the late afternoon. I read the books I had brought with me, and wrote to a friend; Izzy wrote in her diary (and kept very good records of the ice-skating she was seeing); and Laura kept up her paid work online and texted with her husband and a friend.


Another photo taken from our windows, a different angle includes a basilica like roof near us

Miss Drake

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Laura & me


Izzy & me
Photos taken the first afternoon in the Duomo square (Friday, 4/16) before the Cathedral

Friends,

Last Monday (4/26) we walked out of Union Station (a DC train and Metro center), pulling and carrying our bags after 19 hours of travel from Milan: around 9:30 am Milan time that morning we had gotten into an Uber cab for a 45 minute ride to the Milan airport; it was now 10:30 pm Washington DC time and we were stacking our stuff into Laura’s husband’s car for a half-hour ride home to Alexandria. It was an arduous trip and had been an arduous time away.

So vigorous (rigorous?) had we been that I had come down with a bad cold on Wednesday before (4/21) after a long day at the Assago Milanfiori Forum (where the ice-skating championship was held) and it had not abated one jot. By Thursday (4/29, a week and one day later) Laura was diagnosed with walking pneumonia, and yesterday, Monday (4/2) Izzy was suffering from the same bad cold (painful chest, rough hot throat, constant sneezing, blowing of nose and so on) I still have as I write ths tonight. I will drive Izzy to the doctor tomorrow for antibiotic, cough medicine and (we hope) nose spray.

Next time we better take better care of our selves. There was a raw cold in the air throughout our stay. We just never felt the balmy (warm) air we often enjoy in this southern end of the mid-Atlantic temperature zone. We kept hoping and we would take one of our layers off, and say how warm and sunny it was. But go inside some heated place, and we knew better.


What I saw each morning and evening from my window in the flat — look how antique much below is

We also had not reckoned on steep stairs on long high stairways everywhere. I became convinced Milanese people have yet to be educated into the true wonders of elevators everywhere, with conveniently located escalators a ready alternative, such as we more or less expect in NYC and Washington DC. We had a comfortable enough flat, airy, high ceiling, enough beds, a TV, wi-fi, fridge, tables, chairs, decent bathroom, but getting there was arduous: it was on the third floor. Laura counted 68 steps, stone. One merciless stairway was 14 steep ones. The stairs at the Forum looked like nearly a foot high or inbetween. By Thursday (4/22), both my knees were in pain as I walked up the stairs one last time after dinner, and my legs ached so as I got into bed, I wanted never to take off the covers or move them again. Laura’s feet were covered in bandages. Izzy was so buoyed up by her long days at the Forum she probably didn’t notice, and anyway since she spent long hours, early in the morning to late at night 4 of the days, watching the ice-skating didn’t walk nearly as much.

But now you have had the worst of it.

I’ll tell the second worst and then we can get on with what was good, instructive, fun, beautiful: if you are determined to see the world, and where you want to go is so far, you must take a plane, I would even recommend Alitalia. The Milanese airport had enough chairs for people to sit in (by contrast, in the Icelandic airport nowadays people are treated like cattle). Granted Malpensa is not genuinely comfortably with cafeteria-like places with a variety of food to eat nearby such as I saw in Dublin’s airport. Food was limited to croissants and pizza, and not in convenient locations (Italians have not discovered the wonders of attending to convenience, nearby-ness). But there were no humiliating practices of extra scrutiny at the airport or conducted by the airline (nor at the Forum — there I was waved by) as in all US airports (and twice for me in Iceland, once in Brussels in US space). Alitalia seats were fantastically small but we were fed going and coming, two meals, plenty of water, soda and wine and tea and what they called coffee for free; movies for all (I saw a movie about Thurgood Marshall and Holofcener’s wonderful Friends with Money going). The Italians were not determined to punish us because oodles of money had not been extracted from us. We were not mistreated as one is on so many airlines and in US airports today (where you officially have no civil rights).

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So the first night, Friday (4/16). I had messengered (is that the verb?) a long-time Internet friend, Luca Gandolfi, just before we left, and that very afternon he phoned me to say he was giving a lecture on Jane Austen and her contemporaries: minor women writers. Would I like to come? Would I? Laura’s google map enabled her to help me find the place among turning alleyways and streets near the Duomo. Laura and Izzy thought they’d be bored so went for an hour’s walk near this institute, which houses a club, lecture hall (Luca is teaching a class of about 6 women as a volunteer lecturer — which scene reminded me of the OLLIs), musical concert places. Imagine we were talking of Julia Kavanagh and her novels. Luca said he preferred women writers to men. So do I.

His wife, Grazia, was there and at the end of the lecture Laura and Izzy were back and we all retired to a local Italian restaurant he and his wife often go to. Lovely place, good pizza and wine, and lots of company. Much good talk. Laura began to take many photos. Unfortunately, she put them on instagram which only later did I realize would not let someone else download them as jpgs. Nor does face-book, where you can find a photo of Luca and me.

I did not realize as yet I was having my first experience of an ancient thriving city. As the days and nights wore on, I was impressed by how everyone is interdependent in Milan. Wealth does not insulate you. Most stores have some time they are closed and everyone seems to know, for example, which pharmacies are open when. So you get lines. Everyone in Milan seems to accept lining up. The antiques market we spent hours at on Sunday morning (4/25) winded up and down the long canal, moving left and right with little spurs on side streets: slowly all the spaces filled up, slowly more and more people; around 11 the hourly church bells heard across the city. and what a higgledy-piggedy of things. I came home with this ceramic cat:

In much bubblewrap. The great Milan cathedral on the one side of a great square and down a wide pair of streets, the Castle Sforza with its vast park — are central sites, the first is tourist-infested but the places all around, the shopping is for everyone. There is some system of cabs where you must phone first but when you do phone, everyone is served. Uber is disruptive of this. The repeated trolley cars and trams going every which way. Higgedy, piggedly modern shops with ancient ruins, old buildings with new made to fit them. The restaurants are places for groups of people and are used a great deal until late at night. You must make a reservation but many do this seems.

There are exclusive practices. La Scala was so dull. As opposed to the wonderful bars (more than 2 usually) in the bowels of UK theaters and on different levels in the US which makes for much interactive experience, there is just the show, hardly announced, it’s over and all spill out. Cabs picking people up. Except for places like La Scala the lesson taught is we must and do all of us live together interconnectedly. Egalitarianism is too much an abstract word for what days really spent across Milan makes one feel.

To return to our lecture and dinner out with a friend, we were very tired, having left DC that morning 19 hours before we got to Duomo square. He and his wife walked us home and on the way showed us where the Milanese gov’t is found. In front of it is a large statue of a hand with its third finger stuck up. (Fuck you is universal.) We said goodbye and hoped we would see each other on Sunday (we did, albeit briefly) at the antiques fair where he sometimes has a stall and hunts every other week for good buys in books (collector’s items). Izzy, Laura and I must have been going 27 hours before we went up those stairs, opened the difficult door, managed to arrange the space in the flat so we slept in separate areas with doors inbetween. Privacy to read or write on ipads. And collapsed.


A Swiss lake from the train as we wound through the mountains of the Southern alps (where there are palm trees!)

Up the next morning bright and early, Saturday (4/17) to get to the Milan railway station leading us out of the country by train to Zurich, Switzerland. Why? We had been invited by a very long-time Internet friend, Fran, to visit her in her house in a small town in Germany about an hour’s drive from Zurich. I have known her since around 1997 on listservs, via email letters, in group reads, as friends, and whom I once met for an afternoon in London for lunch and a visit to a museum (the Wallace collection).


The Black forest from the car

She showed us all around Zurich that afternoon: its church, its very expensive shops, its library; its canals, bridges.


Modern shopping area

Zurich
Zurich church with spire

Then into her area of Germany by Saturday evening and we saw some remarkable small towns. One was called Doherty, Germany. Original gates preserved, streets and squares from 14th century.


A community place

There was at one end community center where immigrants could come to be acclimated, where clubs and civic activities go on; near by the statue of local woman who did much to build the town center. Home again to Fran’s beautifully custom-made house and lovely meal of melted cheese and boiled potato and pickles and pineapple and other things (it has a name but I missed it). It was the next day we visited 4 countries: we drove through the Black Forest, into Frieberg, Germany; Colmar and a French village surrounded by vines; ended in wine-bar.


Three different French villages

We were inside several interesting and quite different churches — it matters whether it was Protestant and stripped bare or high church Catholic, both were built in this region (and ferocious wars fought).


Outside a cathedral


Inside


A clock tower

High points of what we saw: one small Catholic church; Chagall stained windows; little scenes — in one street with the 14th century floors and windows and roofs I remembered how hard it was in Austen’s Emma to get a pianoforte into Miss Bates’s flat. You dropped it by ropes from the roof. Birds nesting on a roof

It has been so heartening to see so much civic pride. This is what is not seen in the US anymore. Everything has been done that can be done to break the spirit and shrink the pocketbook of the average American, at the same time as prices for everything are jacked up, no money put into anything public (not into transportation, not into schools, community centers are closed down if not run by a religious organization). Wide stretches of impoverishment and despair as the blight spreads.

Nourishing meal again at home with Fran and Karl. Much talk. Sleep. Next morning light snow, so pretty in Dogern. We returned to Zurich with Fran and got back on the train. I was sorry to part. I used to have a friend who consoled me after we had visited Salisbury cathedral and a house said to be the one Trollope modeled the Warden’s house on (in Southern England), and it was time to part. He lived in Arizona and I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. “You know you’ve had a good time when you feel you are parting too soon.” His name was Sigmund Eisner and he was an important presence on the Trollope list with Mike Powe, the first listowner, and me and a few others in the early years. He would describe the original illustrations to Trollope’s novels as we went through them. Sigmund died about 15 years ago. I hold him in my memory.

We were in Milan by 5 pm and had to find a place to eat in — without reservations. We managed it — with difficulty. It took much walking, several rejections, and then luck. After the dinner we returned to the flat and collapsed. We slept late the following Tuesday morning (3/20). When I next write, you’ll hear all about Tuesday exploring,eating, planning for the week, shopping for food in Milan.

Gentle reader, I hope you forgive me these records of the time away with my daughters and contact with a few friends. Most of my life is spent alone. I’m back to that now: I go out to the courses at OLLI so as to be with people. I read with others online so as to be part of an imagined good community. On any given night when so many people might be out with or visiting friends, I’ll be in my house reading, writing, watching movies, listening to music, my cats nearby. So I write these to extend the times and relive them again I’ve had been out in the world with others.

Ellen

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Dear friends,

This morning Izzy and I take our last trip for this year: we are going to the California JASNA AGM held at a Huntington Beach hotel (Hyatt Regency). I will write about it in my usual way on my Austen reveries blog when we return; in the meantime, I thought I’d share until we came back another of her songs. This one is especially lovely for the music itself, listen to the piano:

Last night before we left she rose her voice in song:

She has been expending herself in watching and writing on her and Laura’s new blog, Ani & Izzy, ice-skating (a popular culture, entertainment and attitude blog), writing her fan fiction, and singing creatively.

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For myself I have reached the stage of addiction to Outlander, the mini-series, not the books — albeit the books are written from a woman’s point of view, with Claire at the center far more than she is in the series (Jamie-centered scenes are invented continually), and violence is high as well as (qualified for the first time this third season with the introduction of a kind ethical hero, Lord John Grey, as a bisexual man).

It has not been this way with me since the early 1980s when I watched Brideshead Revisited and then Jewel in the Crown. I was strongly attached to Wolf Hall, but since if I missed the 10 pm broadcast I knew it would be on streaming by 11, it was not an addiction the way this is. I put on Outander 4 at 8 last night and sat mesmerized. I would have been bothered had someone interrupted. This teaches me that scarcity is part of an addiction. Outlander is streaming on Starz Network online but Comcast has not paid for that. They do run it on and off all week after Sunday — rather like metromedia, Channel 9 in NYC in the 1950s but not regularly and I can’t find schedules to depend on I will put on 369 and there it is, going on, well I drop everything and re-watch to the end. I remember at ages 9 to 11 I’d sit and re-watch say The Hunchback of Notre Dame over and over again. The series is filmically brilliant, and the over-voice and presence of Caitronia Balfe (to me) mesmerizing. When she finally returns to Jamie through the stones, and they beat death — for time-traveling is a mode of ghostly experience finally — I must not underestimate the acting skills of Sam Heughan who has managed to overcome my distaste for the over-muscled body.


Claire grieving over her still-born child, Frances De La Tour POV as mother superior (Faith)

I’ve been watching the whole of Season 2 for a third time, and just re-saw Je suis prest, a powerful episode leading up to Prestonpans, the one Scots big victory in 1745 (they had the element of surprise on their side), an electrifying historically resonant episode which uses martial and other music of the era, still sung and played to until today, and noticed (it’s a third watching) on this wholly characteristic dialogue between the pair, variations on which repeat throughout seasons 1 and 2:

He: I’ll have Ross and Fergus take you home to Lallybroch.
She: – No.
He: – Claire.
She: I can’t do that either. Listen to me. If I if I go back, then it will just be like lying in that ditch again [in World War II], helpless and powerless to move, like a dragonfly in amber except this time it will be worse, because I’ll know that the people out there dying alone are people I know People I love. I can’t do that, Jamie. I won’t lie in that ditch again. I can’t be helpless and alone ever again. Do you hear me?
He: I hear ye. I promise whatever happens, you’ll never be alone again.
She: I’m going to hold you to that, James Fraser.
He: You have my word Claire Fraser

The features on this DVD set (of which there are many, very like Breaking Bad, another spectacularly good mini-serise) show that Ronald Moore is responsible, he is the executive producer, a producer for each episode too, writes a numbers, directs a number, does all the features. He understood the deep dream potential of this material potential.

I end on a poem which does justice to movie watching in this vein:

Watching Old Movies When They Were New

I grew up in grey and white,
in half-tones and undertones,
sitting by a bakelite telephone,
watching grainy and snowy kisses on the small screen.
This was New York.
I was thirteen. Outside my window the gardenless
and flowerless city, with its sirens
its cents, was new to me. And I was tired
of being anywhere but home. So I settled back
to get older quickly.
And the crescent moon,
and the shirt-collar of that man
as he kissed the girl under it and her face
as she turned away and the ocean beginning
to burn and glisten in the distance:
They were like me: what they lacked was
outside them. Was an absence within which
they could only be
less than themselves: Anyone could see
their doom was not love, was not destiny, was only
monochrome. But a time was coming. Is coming. Has come
and gone. And I will know what I am watching is
a passionate economy
we call the past. Although
its other name may be memory. And somewhere else
the future is already growing consequences. They are blue
and yellow. They are vermilion or a vivid green.
*Pick us,* they will say. *Bring us indoors.
Arrange us into a city.
Into a situation. See how quickly
you tire of us. How soon you will yearn
for these tones. But I know
nothing of this as I lean back. As the screen flickers.
— Eavan Boland, Irish (from The Lost Land)


The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Charles Laughton, Maureen O’Hara, Quasimodo and Esmeralda, 1939)

Miss Drake

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Aigas House, Inverness, Scotland

Dear friends,

I realized the other day that I had never linked in here my three travel blogs on my 8-9 days this summer at Aigas House, Inverness, Scotland, located at the southern faultline of the Scottish highlands. So here they are, together with yet another poem by a Scottish women writer.

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: the framework (1)

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: historical, archaeological, Caledonian Forest; town & country & women’s work (2)

Scottish Highlands Tour from Aigas House: the West Coast; Priories, Museums & Castles; Celtic folk music & women’s poetry


In Cawdor Castle Gardens

The Star-Reaper

In the city, it was cold, but dry,
Not wild and snow-laden like here.
Another world, of buses, noise,
Traffic-lights and passing people.
Grey skies and mists
But pavements dry,
And telling nothing of this world
Of snow, deep ice and freezing wind,
Waves of snow,
Drifting in the wind,
Across the roads;
Across the trees,
Deep, buried, sleeping trees,
Sleeping in the snow,
Their buried summer dreams.

I miss you now, wood-elf,
With your dreams of deer,
Your eyes of snow, and stars
And buried moonlight,
Leaping up the years and tears and fallen pines,
Star-leaping,
Buried in sky-forests,
Orion, sky-reaper,
Through the diamond fields, to meet me.
Your name sky-hunter
Echoes in the darkened side of Venus,
Through bright Saturn’s ring
And the scattered plains of Sirius,
The hunter’s friend.

Cold, the city,
With your sleeping sun bright in some other sky,
Your sun bright in a day of white earth, and white sky,
Tears from some ice-hearted god.
And you among the trees,
Deep in the frozen tracks of some elusive stag,
Heart of fire,
Spirit of earth,
It moves somewhere among the pines,
Somewhere in front of you,
Frozen footprints cast in the stone snow.
I see the star-reaper,
Moon-sister,
Sunfire in snow forest,
Earth-Iover and sun-born.
— Morelle Smith, Scottish, from The Star Reaper (1979)

Miss Drake

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St John the Divine, a vast beautiful church near Columbia University, NYC, photo taken from a bus by Izzy

From “To an old woman standing in the October light:” Better to just admit it, time has gotten away from you, and yet here you are again, out in your yard at sunset … You have been looking for a reason for your continued existence,/with faith so shaky it vibrates like a plucked wire … As you search them out again, again,/your disappearing holds off for a while. But see how, even in this present,/as you stand there, the past flies into the future,/the way, above you, the crows are winging home again, calling to each other,/vanishing above the trees into the night-gathering sky — a poem by Patricia Fargnoli (Hallowed: New and Selected Poems).

Dear friends and readers,

I’ve yet another time away to tell you about. Izzy’s trip to NYC last week, which she appears to have thorougly enjoyed. To know how to vacation is another of those skills gradually acquired. She has shown herself well on her way at last. She traveled to and fro on the comfortable Amtrak train. She has (using the Internet) gotten herself a good hotel room in midtown and for 2 days went by train to the US open in Queens (the borough); she became intensely involved each day, tweeted away with others on the Net, blogged and put pictures up when she got home. She emailed me going and coming (it’s a long trip from mid-town Manhattan), and roundly declared at the second afternoon’s closure (for her, she couldn’t stay until the sky went dark) she had “had a good day.” She ate there all meals both days. One evening she went to see Wicked at the Gershwin theater: she walked up from her hotel (28th Street), treated herself to an expensive Italian meal (at a trattoria) and was just charmed. She was once an avid reader of the Wizard of Oz books. That day she had explored Manhattan on foot, and especially Central Park.


Izzy remarks on twitter about this: even the ducks seemed unafraid in that area of Central Park

Early Friday morning she was up and out of the hotel because she bought on-line a ticket to ride an unlimited times a bus tour route going all around Manhattan. She meant to buy one which included an extension to Brooklyn and found she hadn’t nor would anyone cooperate to find her a replacement train ticket. She seems to have found this experience the most fun of all, quite exhilarating. She sat at the top of the bus, and enjoyed listening to two different truly knowledgeable African-American guides. Both had grown up in the area they now were a guide to and seemed to tell a bit of their childhoods (a white guide on a third bus was nowhere as communicative).


Schist: the embedded rock of the landscape, seen in Central Park, foundation for skyscrapers

She’d get off at points she wanted to walk in, take photos from and off the bus: she was just by the New York City museum where she saw the older subway trains had found a good home; she was sort of thrilled to stop and walk all around Columbia University because Jim went there. I told her that Jim was probably the only Ph.D. math student at Columbia in the last few years to take out books from the library which were mediocre romances printed first three centuries AD and then the long 18th century (1660-1815).


A wall mural Izzy’s bus passed by

And she’s been to NYC so many times now, much she passes is now familiar; she knows where what she wants is. She was delighted with new things: now the Strand bookstore has stands around the city for its books. You need not get down to 13th Street on Union Square. She came home to find the piano tuned and at first reacted strongly against the new sounds. It’s been more than 3 years since it was tuned.

For myself I’ve returned to being alone most of (for now just about all of) the time, for companionship dependent on Internet friends, interacting through conversations. ‘m not going to the gym regularly because I’ve taken on moe literary work, the two friends who would be there have stopped going (one is now unwell), and I’ve not seen the physical improvement I’d hoped for. Yoga doesn’t do for me what it does for others. The exercise is less and all the talk and gestures seem to me phony. Relationships are as shallow as any transient class. I haven’t a mystical bone in my body. I grant the music is quieting, low lights. I look forward to when fall events begin, aa tomorrow night, a HD Net live theater film of tony Kushner’s Angels in America, Part 1, at the Shakespeare Theater in DC (an Internet friend recommended it). I worked away on projects, read, wrote, watched mini-series late into the night (I’ll write separately about all three, Grantchester, Outlander, Poldark). My friend, Vivian, has gone for a week in Paris; Laura and I actually talked of doing a Road Scholar tour together in January or February 2018 to India, either 9 days of highlights or 16 (an extension, which would include a quieter stay at one place in Nepal)). India is one of the few places outside Europe I’ve dreamed of going to: again a result of reading, this time Anglo-Indian books.

Thus there was something appropriate in the one cinema movie I’ve been to see in the last month or so, Michael Winterbottom’s third “trip” movie, starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon: I could not get any friend to go with me, none found the idea compelling. None had seen the two previous. I had and did.


2007 — the Lake District

I saw the first, The Trip (to Yorkshire, the Lake District, and environs) as a 6 part BBC TV series on a DVD the first summer after Jim died. It was high-spirited humor, often centering on the gourmet dinners they were said to be eating on behalf of newspaper assignments, with them mimicking other stars, naturalistic conversation, and to me riveting because they went to precisely near and where Jim and I had lived two years together (including the West riding, York Minster Cathedral). The film presents exaggerated versions of themselves and there is some sense that they are choosing unconventional roles elsewhere too. There was real talk about the poets and the landscape; Coogan was the prickly one, dissatisfied with life, Brydon supposedly comfortable in his skin. The second, 3 summers later, The Trip to Italy, seemed to expand that into including wry satiric or melancholy-meditative conversations about the sites they were visiting, seemingly autobiographical events while on the trip (by phone, and from people turning up to accompany them). Stories of Byron and Shelley replace Wordsworth and Coleridge, a thoughtful conversation over tombs in Pompeiin the Lake District. Transient love or sexual encounters for both, grown children showing up for Coogan, their pregnant producer, and then their struggles with their own careers were now brought in. Still the overall impression was of high cheer.


2010, a cartoon

The third, and 4 years later, presumably the last, The Trip to Spain seemed sequel to the other two the way Before Midnight was a sequel to Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise; and Before Sunset (all with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, each at least 5 years apart once again). The Linklater-Hawke, Delpy movies explored the nature and disillsionment of a romantic heterosexual encounter turned into a long-running marriage. Now we are exploring masculinity, middle age. (It is true that all three films marginalize women, they are treated as side objects at home in men’s lives, unless of course they are the producer of a film.) Steve and Rob tried for humor, gourmet dinners, people turning up — or not (Coogan is disappointed because this time his son via skype says he cannot come) — but it was not funny. No hiliarious routines. The audience around me grated on me as they persisted in got-up raucous laughter when the humor was obviously so thin. They had come to laugh; they had thought the two previous films were just laugh-ups, but neither had been, not even the first.


Beyond the pretend-story of Coogan writing restaurant reviews and Brydon coming along for the ride as a friend, the two are going to be on TV, dressed (pathetically) as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza

This time the principals talked of Spain, the failure of the republicans during the civil war, Picasso, and now career dead-ends, projects that seem to bring them down. Surprisingly at first, the trip seemed to end early, before the film was over, when Rob goes back home, and we see him enmeshed in a family life which includes two small children, renovations of apartment, kindergarten. But the movie had not ended. Coogan stays on alone to try to write, and loses his perspective because now his girlfriend is pregnant by someone else doesn’t want to join him either. He is being undermined by a script writer, and his agent was changed from a more prestigious man in an agency to a lesser one (played to perfection by Kyle Soller). Steve is last seen in a desert having run out of gas and water, his cell phone not charged, having a hallucination of young men in republican outfits (whom he had talked about as crucial to his writer-hero, Orwell’s life); they are riding up in jeeps with rifles, waving gaily to him. Or perhaps this is real, a group of Muslim males. And Coogan is on his own.

One viewer apparently took great offense at this “twisted” ending. I thought it appropriate for the trilogy. Finally Steve is alone as (in effect) he was when with others too. During holidays, we find ourselves with others for a time; others we may never see again; that’s part of the pact; the gaiety is precisely that we are not rooted in ordinary time and can imagine for a while. Trollope has a story that plays on this, “A Journey to Panama,” where he says this kind of companionship is part of the pleasure. For me it can go on for too long as it is also carefully restricted. The problem that emerged in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset and Before Midnight is the two people wanted to extend the magic of a temporary deep congeniality to a life’s basis. They are still struggling with this when we last see them.

Izzy’s time away was short, she had no time to be strained; her company was the city, the guides, herself. I’ve concluded that the Road Scholar type tour, with its necessary conformities, to keep to togetherness should not last more than 9-10 days and nights. Winterbottom’s movies are fictions whose underlying themes this time emerged as about the limitations of what a holiday can do for you, about how you cannot escape your past, but bring your “baggage” and immediate present with you, especially once you are again alone — as is no longer uncommon. Bear up as best we can to enjoy what is left seems to be what Winterbottom concludes. In order to keep your sanity.

I have too many books to read all at once: right now, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, Virginia Woolf’s Flush: A Biography (for a collaborative paper with a friend on Woolf and Samuel Johnson); Paul Scott’s Staying On, and Winston Graham’s Groves of Eagles (historical novel set in Cornwall in the 16th century). I had to give up on Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda and the group reading, discussion on the Goodreads page I joined.

I know I have to learn to walk alone at night in Old Towne. Drive there, park, get out, walk to the Potomac and then back again. As Jim and I used to do regularly. Vivian is not well enough to walk with me even as infrequently as she once did. Old Town is vibrant with street life, musicians, people eating ice cream, people in couples, threes, a crowd, and people alone, with dogs. I have to get myself to find pleasure outside alone too. I can never begin to replace the companionship and understanding I once had.

Perhaps human beings have it harder than other species in other ways too. This photo of a feral cat swimming for its life in the oceans of (often now stinking) water and (polluted) air around Houston (where there is no public transportation) went viral (as they say) on twitter.

There is something suspicious here: the cat has an elongated body. But much talk ensued on whether human beings should “risk” saving it. The next day a photograph said to be of the same determined cat is saidto have showed the animal emerging from the waters. I did not see that but close-ups showing the same face beaten up, scars from wounds, ears bitten off, mangy fur. But he or she does not need to re-create a life in the way the poor people of Houston (hardest hit on the flood plain) out of what probably will be nothing. Few will have adequate insurance; many companies will not pay (nor FEMA). Unlike Scotland in the US in most places there seems to be only the barest social contract for immediate help. Not enough will vote for stronger together.

Miss Drake

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Tired of sleeping alone, Ian began regularly to invade Izzy’s room

Dear friends and readers,

Another three weeks have passed, and while I’ve seen and experienced so much that I can’t begin to encompass it all, at the same time I ask myself, what is hitting home most strongly: Paul Scott’s Staying On, which this time round and for the first time I can see my way into teaching. I began it in Scotland. I haven’t got time for the rich biography by Hilary Spurling, much less even on CDs read aloud the Raj Quartet (no such thing, only available as a download), but can’t resist this searing political writer (a son of Trollope).


Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard in the poignant Staying On film adaptation (the Smalleys)

I’m going to write about my time in and around Inverness, Scotland, on my central blog as a travel and cultural history story,

My brief weekend with a friend in Pennsylvania (which followed, and I’ve just returned from), was a personal and social (and academic talk) experience. I stayed in Lewisburg, where Bucknell University is located, and experienced small town life, where everyone or many people know many, and all become intertwined as this criss-crosses groups. Where else can you eat in an Italian restaurant where on the menu is cannoli cake, and when the delicious object is brought to the table and finds favor, one of the people says it must have been made by the owner’s wife (whom she knows) and the other three agree. They do seem to know one another’s intimate lives, and I’ve an idea to live there means to try to hide a lot.

It was not quite simply a small town as the university’s presence brings into the town much aesthetic and intellectual experience the local people would not have: concerts, plays, lectures, events of all sorts, conferences, among which NET Live theater by HD screening so I again saw Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are Dead as performed this year in the Old Vic — with outstanding performances by David Craig as the player, and appropriate ones by Daniel Radcliffe and Joshua McGuire as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (respectively). I say appropriately because they were not funny, the link with Waiting for Godot was de-emphasized as the mood of the piece was tragic anguish as found in the words of the player king and all the many dialogues exploring death. I enjoyed conversations with three different groups of people, some of whom recurred in the other group: often presents or retired academics from Bucknell.

I saw the Amish — and learned not to idealize or sentimentalize. The immediate area my friend is in is middling middle class, and nearby palatial residences (not just McMansions) for the local superrich, but this is ringed about by another part of Trump’s base: the desperately poor, nearly jobless (certainly futureless) whites whose world is one of broken down houses, miserable-looking yards filled with cars, “adult” entertainment (two “massage” parlours per small area). I saw them with their baseball caps and pseudo-sexy jeans, T-shirts, on motorcycles. I say another for the people in the palatial residences are even more necessary to Trump and a base he is pleasing mightily by transferring as much money and exploitative opportunity to as a lawless US president can (that’s a lot). On the divides here:

Bucknell may be taken as a microcosm of what’s happening. Beautiful impressive place with ancient and modern buildings all harmonized. One conversation at one of the tables was all about the horrendous price and debts these people are taking on — or their children. This was a group who go to Ivy League schools (whence you might see how my story of going to Queens College by 2 buses, at $25 a term might startle — I told only Nancy that one) and so they pay big sums. Bucknell struck me as such a privileged place — campus on which the students must live. At Mason nowadays, which used to be a primarily commuter school, those not living on campus are made to feel they are second class citizens; they get parking after the live-in people, and yet they come by car. Bucknell is now some $60,000 for the year (not including everything) — so that’s $30,000 per term. It is a racket.

When Jim’s dissertation was rejected, all financial aid was cut off. One reason he didn’t write a dissertation that passed muster was it had to be in by the end of the fourth year. You see he did go for free (no payment for 4 years, but tiny sums like I paid years ago at Queens above), but the bargain was he would be done in 4 years and he would have a job waiting. He couldn’t pull that off at all — he had had to take an adjunct job the two last years too, and while I don’t remember (or maybe was not told) how much they wanted per semester, it was way above us. Then when several terms went by and Jim was working and inquired into doing the dissertation (he did), we discovered we would be asked for a large sum (not as big but sizable) to “cover” all these terms. To show himself matriculated. I wouldn’t know know how to fight them.

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Anna Karenina coming up


We on Trollope19thcstudies also tell about the movies and there are so many (as well as translations):

FYI: don’t say you don’t learn anything reading my life-writing blog …

* 1935: Anna Karenina (1935 film), the most famous and critically acclaimed version, starring Greta Garbo and Fredric March and directed by Clarence Brown.
* 1948: Anna Karenina (1948 film) starring Vivien Leigh, Ralph Richardson and directed by Julien Duvivier.
1953: Anna Karenina (1953 film), a Russian version directed by Tatyana Lukashevich.
1954: Panakkaari, a Tamil language adaptation directed by K. S. Gopalakrishnan
1960: Nahr al-Hob (River of Love), an Egyptian movie directed by Ezzel Dine Zulficar
1961: Anna Karenina, a BBC Television adaptation directed by Rudolph Cartier, starring Claire Bloom and Sean Connery.[2][3]
1967: Anna Karenina (1967 film), a Russian version directed by Alexander Zarkhi.
1970s: A Cuban television series starring Margarita Balboa as Anna,[4] Miguel Navarro as Vronsky, and Angel Toraño as Karenin.
1976: Anna Karenina, a Russian ballet version directed by Margarita Pilikhina.
* 1977: Anna Karenina, a 1977 ten-episode BBC series, directed by Basil Coleman and starred Nicola Pagett, Eric Porter and Stuart Wilson.[5][6] — my favorite of all I’ve seen, worthy the 1970s age of fine adaptations from the BBC
* 1985: Anna Karenina (1985 film), a U.S. TV movie starring Jacqueline Bisset and Christopher Reeve, directed by Simon Langton.
* 1997: Anna Karenina (1997 film), the first American version to be filmed on location in Russia, directed by Bernard Rose and starring Sophie Marceau and Sean Bean.
2000: Anna Karenina, a four-part British TV adaptation made in 2000 directed by David Blair. Aired in America on PBS Masterpiece Theatre in 2001.[7]
2009: Anna Karenina, a Russian mini-series directed by Sergei Solovyov.
* 2012: Anna Karenina (2012 film), a British version directed by Joe Wright, starring Keira Knightley.
2013: Anna Karenina, a Filipino drama series directed by Gina Alajar
2013: Anna Karenina, an English-language Italian/French/Spanish/German/Lithuanian TV co-production by Christian Duguay and starring Vittoria Puccini, Benjamin Sadler and Santiago Cabrera. Alternatively presented as a two-part mini-series or a single 3 hours and 15 minutes film.

In the four days I was home, I managed to buy subscriptions to the coming Folger Shakespeare season; to buy for a concert, a play, and a stand-up comic event at the Kennedy Center; three HD screenings at my local art movie-house and the 14th Street Shakespeare Theater (Kushner’s Angels in America, Part 1); to register for 3 lectures (literary, Wilde is one, the Bloomsbury group focusing on Woolf another, the last Gilbert and Sullivan) and a series of Sunday afternoons on photography (across the fall into the winter and two occur after the fall semester at the OLLIs ware over. Then to register for 4 courses at these OLLIs beyond the two I’m teaching. Three will not require any reading, and three (a different set) meet only 3 times or 4 times in the semester: Shakespeare’s late romances (with Rick Davis as lecturer — wow): a history and the aesthetics of film (with a film scholar from AU), a book club, and last a history of unions in the US (a man who worked in various positions of unions all his life plus is now a college teacher): I was told hardly anyone will sign for that of course — why? it seems to me the most important of all I signed up for and more important than either of mine. I began reading at night 20 minutes each night Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of America. It is still genuinely shocking how Columbus and the Spaniards literally enslaved and worked to death, beat or slaughtered literally several million Indians in the first 30 years of their ruthless brutal take-over.

So I should be busy because I’ve not given up my Poldark book project (though in the next week or so plan to find some much narrower focus so it becomes doable by me — the stress on the 12 Poldark novels, Cornwall and the 2 mini-series); we are about to read Anna Karenina (starting Sept 4th) on Trollope19thCStudies (16 week schedule); and of course there’s my teaching. I am going to give up the gym because one must cut out something and much as I enjoy the hour, it takes 2 and 1/2 hours out of my day, and worse, my arm is not getting better, nor my legs. The truth is it’s a mild distraction and amusement, and to me at least Yoga similar. I tell myself I will get back to women artists and foremother poets and also write my reviews on the recent resurgence of Anne Bronte studies (centering on Holland’s In Search of Anne Bronte), Devoney Looser’s The Making of Jane Austen (a new book sent me by a generous editor as it’s such a beautiful volume, apart from anything else). When I finish my Bronte review in two days (fingers crossed), I will proceed to the Charlotte Smith paper: now called “Exile, alienation, and radical critique: Smith’s depiction of colonialism in Ethelinde and the Emigrants. While in central Pennsylvania, I read a new good book on Gaskell: Adapting Gaskell: Stage and Screen Versions of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Fiction, ed Loredanna Salis: it has marvelously concise essays on her publishing history, the changes in criticism, not to omit I didn’t know that there was a 1972 Cranford, which is available. More importantly I learned that in fact numbers of 1960s and 70s films said to be wiped out, are not. It’s that the BBC doesn’t want to release earlier versions of the books they are re-filming (far more commercially), and there are far more scripts too. So there is hope for me to see the adaptation of Graham’s The Forgotten Story (1983) that stared Angharad Rees. My friend is a Gaskell scholar and I saw her library and wrote down the titles of some 11 books that looked so good: several had titles that didn’t tell you they were about Gaskell, one on her and Tolstoy’s realism compared.

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Many people do drive 10-12 trips (usually with someone) rather than take a plane

I will conclude on travel as such. All will remember how I didn’t manage to go to Jane Austen and the Arts because I didn’t realize there were no good train to Plattsburgh, couldn’t face two airplanes and having to be picked up at the airport, with extra days & nights on either side of a 3 day conference in order to achieve this, or risk a 10-11 car trip, a good third of which would be at night in a state and places I’ve never seen.

On my first return home — from the Highlands by Icelandic airplane. I just returned from a 10 day trip and on the way back had the unpleasant experience of being “singled out” at random (it was said) for “special security” scrutiny at Reykjavik. Supposed (frozen) smiles on the people doing this but without this happening to anyone in particular we are all surely aware that once entering certain large areas of a US airport nowadays one gives up most civil rights — or we appear to as most of us are not lawyers and so we don’t know what are our civil rights and are not told them in these situations. I almost missed my plane and if I hadn’t become very upset would have.

I don’t think we are chosen at random as Izzy and I were clearly not chosen at random when we almost didn’t get our seats on British Air back from the Charlotte Smith conference: the woman in charge came up all too quickly with the same seats we had on the flight coming over: human beings don’t work that way. As a white person, I would never say that TSA or the US especially but also other nations’ airlines or airports don’t profile people.  We don’t know. I’ve noticed that disabled people where the disability is the invisible kind (autism) get picked on. A friend told me she has been selected three times; her husband interviewed. An interview makes him sound important? maybe it was the beard?

It’s more than bad luck. They did it at the last moment, and I didn’t take too well to it after being forced to wait in a hanger that had no chairs, was overcrowded. The line went slowly as they scrutinized people to decide who to harass. Indeed, so badly did I read that I gave the Icelanders doing it a wee pause. The plane I was supposed to get on waited until I and (as well they might) 4 other specially scrutinized people from my plane were waited for (a 5th never made).

I am such a home-body (in that we are utterly alike) and I think it was my deep longing to get home that made me refuse to accept the treatment. Some of my readers and friends will reco gnize this line from Mansfield Park: it’s Fanny Price channellng Wm Cowper: with what intense longing she wants her home — though I am very glad I went and had a very dulce et utile time. (I did discover I can’t take more than 10 days with a group of acquaintances where we are herded together each day to travel miles and see three different places, attend lectures and have meals together.)

I was not staying at that airport overnight. I wish I could say my fellow passengers waiting on that plane were on my side, but they seem not to have wanted this wait. I did not play the let’s shrug and accept game, I didn’t smile — they really wanted that and when I refused I got grim glares. A small win — when I sat down I was brought a cup of water. The poor man next to me was way to big for his seat. This is the second time. I doubt they made the plane wait for me because I’m a US citizen, white, older, (harmless) female, but decided they would rather not have to cope with me in that airport that night — I was decidedly unenthusiastic about a hotel. I have to fly if I want to go the UK or other far experiences (say in Europe or Italy), trains and Queen Mary very expensive & time-consuming. But I will not fly Icelandic air again. I suppose my reaction was risky; I could have been maybe arrested. That in itself is telling what I mean to infer now.

Narrow immediate lessons to be learned:

someone or group of people have to work once more to break up monopolies and equally organized people have to go to court and defend our civil rights once again. We need a different group in power. A person should not have to become genuinely deeply upset in order to board a plane that she paid good money for well in advance, unless there is a genuine reason to believe this particular individual poses a threat to the other people on the flight.

Wider or longer views:

it seems to me most gov’ts with the power to do it have always tried to control the movement of people living in their purview — if they can.  Local, national, international.

I am thinking of early modern period or Renaissance as it was once called (and which I once studied diligentlY). When people who had money and could travel did, and this is especially true of those close to a king or powerful leader, aristocrats, those part s of the gov’t, they very often are described as obtaining permission. Philip Sidney would check with Elizabeth before he’d go off. They write of taking letters of introduction, but they also are described as having documents to show who they are, what is their purpose. Nancy mentioned how local county groups did their best to keep poorer people from moving into their area (they couldn’t stop them if they could prove they had been born there).  You see this kind of checking out inside Italy during the early modern period when people travel from one city to another. All these papers people carried about  identified them.

During periods of high immigration, those countries who open their borders do it for a reason: they want cheap labor but they too attempt to keep tabs on those coming in. Trollope (Anthony) talks about specifics on this in his account of Australian labor contracts and practices during the later 19th century. 

And one can see there are changes in attitudes during different eras, some freer and some restrictive. We are suddenly in an era of ‘strict’ attempts at control and keeping people out partly because the numbers of refugees, of immigrants/emigrants has suddenly mounted very high because of these ferocious wars. The 19th century British “poor laws” were an attempt to stop and control movement under the pressure or impetus of industrialization, zooming numbers in cities — that’s what workhouses were about.

Other eras show gov’ts or local powerful groups forcing people to leave. Take the highland clearances during our era. Read John Prebble’s powerful books on Culloden and then The Highland Clearances for an accurate account of this. The later part of the 18th and early 19th century in Scotland. As we know in the 1790s how emigrants into the UK were treated became a subject of controversy which was debated strongly.

To me it is astonishing that people will put up with in airports and airlines today.  When preparing for my second trip, 1 evening, 2 full days, and one brief morning to visit a friend I’m packing a case and feel so cheerful I can put all my stuff in it — not in carry-ons, stuffed in my purse lest I lose the bag.  I think by this point if you or someone who are traveling with has not had a bag lost temporarily or permanently you are very lucky. Or pay first class.  They are beginning to give out water for free in economy I noticed this time round — maybe because the incident made so public about a man dragged and beaten on a plane to the point he was hospitalized and successfully sued.

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Trump has put in bill to decimate Amtrak further

On this second trip: driving home from Central Pennsylvania, an at least 5 hour trip if you don’t come up against any obstacles. Which I did. as in previous trip; while getting there was merely tedious, not an ordeal; coming home was another kind of battle. Just outside Baltimore, my garmin froze! Before I realized this I was in Baltimore. I tried to use my cell phone Waze but could not figure out how to make the voice louder than a light whisper, and so couldn’t quite understand instructions. At each turning point in highway I seem to have guessed wrong. Had it not been for three different kindly black men maybe I’d still be going in circles on Washington/Baltimore Parkway, or DC, or (agonizingly close) the highway just off Alexandria — where I had the bright idea to get the hell off the puzzling labyrinth look-alike highway and get onto a street. I immediately half-recognized buildings, roads, street names and made my way home at last. I’m no traveler. So what does one do with a frozen garmin to un-freeze it?
I did get an answer I could re-set it by a paper clip into what is claimed is a tiny hole in the garmin. I will look tomorrow when I get into my car.

A friend meaning kindly called me “Traveler Extraordinaire. You did what you had to do to figure things out, and didn’t panic. Now that the garmin wobbled, you can think of a backup plan if it happens again. One thing you can always do is pull over and find a map on your cell phone. Or carry a (gasp!) paper map in the car! You’re ahead of me on this one, I have never used a garmin at all, but would like to learn.

This is not exactly how I see what I’ve written or what I meant. Far from a traveler extraordinaire, I have had confirmed on how a trip is an ordeal and how it need not be one. It reminds me of how there’s no need on earth for US people to find health care out of their reach. It is not true that it’s anxiety that drives me not to take trips but dislike of the choices on offer. We should have trains, good trains running frequently. Cars are dangerous, long trips arduous. I discovered quite a while ago that rest areas were far fewer than than had been, and that no longer can you get gas and good on the road, but must exit first. I have read that upon inventing his car and making the mass assembly line Ford went around the US buying up local railroads and shutting them down. Imagination based on the obvious idea this need not be is the inference I probably meant. When I lived in Leeds next to all train stations were buses that went everywhere. Why have we not a national bus service?

A person should not have to be a heroine, nor do I want to be, nor was I, to get home. She was right to suggest I am getting more used to doing these things and perhaps travel more confidently. But even there I don’t know. I couldn’t figure out how to make my Waze program on my cell phone louder. Izzy has made the ringer louder but I took the cell phone into the car and still the Waze program is soft;. I think I got home finally because I asked three decent people and they gave me good directions plus one drove a bit with me following. Before I used maps, before these gadgets that’s what I used to do: ask local people continually. So my behavior is the same.

I did work at not getting freaked out lest I got into an accident, but I came near twice as I tried to follow the man in the van who helped me and as I made a U turn on the directions of the second man.

I agree the thought that crossed my mind was it’s not a matter of anxiety after all; it’s a matter of dislike. What a scene. Thousands of cars at top speed on a 4 track highway — one should protest against the capitalism vise that have led to this madness.

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I will write on my Sylvia political blog (if I can find the time about the allowed racist Ku Klux Klan demonstration in Charlottesville and Trump’s pardon of the lawless criminal Arpaio), for here I ought to fend myself from solipsism: yes the strongest hurricane to hit Texas in 50 years continues to wreak devastation. Amy Goodman shows the scope of this and its true dimensions. Nowhere is anyone reporting that Houston is the gas and oil capital of the country; huge refinerys right by the Bayous and no regulation whatsoever. One area is called Cancer Row. Just read the transcript:

https://www.democracynow.org/2017/8/28/as_catastrophic_flooding_hits_houston_fears

All CNN and MSNBC tell these heroic moving stories of good people saving one another. They leave out thousands of Spanish and immigrants are terrified of looking for help as then they’ll be deported. And how they have been dumped at bus stations and herded into other detention centers:

https://www.democracynow.org/2017/8/28/a_dilemma_for_undocumented_in_texas


Just one of many oil and gas refineries in Texas

The weather is not a trivial subject any more (if it ever was); it matters.

Miss Drake

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