Darkness at Noon

No, really, not a metaphor, it’s like so grey it’s dark at noon.

It was time to say goodbye to London (Cricklewood) and say hello to London (Heathrow).  But AF had cancelled the Thursday flight and bumped me to Friday.  So that meant two days at LHR in an airport hotel.  Disruption.  Welcome to travel.

Rocki and Luci headed out to work, I packed, then got some steps in.  It was grey.  Somber.  Walked west across the rugby pitch and Hampstead cemetery towards Belsize Park, had a sandwich and a coffee, and walked back.  I stopped by a florist to get something for Rocki.

Then I caught an Uber to Paddington and the express to LHR.

AF uses T4, the “most awkward” of all the Heathrow terminals, but sobeit, and the Hilton isn’t an arm and a leg and, through a covered walkway, about seven minutes to check-in.

Since I had “extra” time I booked a ticket to another play.  Nathan Englander was shorlisted for a Pulitzer for a story about what Jews are really saying when they talk about Anne Frank called What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank.  Patrick Marber (who has had a siginificant career and is probably best known for the screenplays for Closer and Notes on a Scandal) crafted a two act dramedy out of it. One of the actors appeared on Big Bang Theory and West Wing.  It was billed as Mamet crossed with Seinfeld; but it wasn’t.  It had none of the acid of Mamet and none of irony of Seinfeld.  Sure, it had the harping and tenor of Jerry’s parents and a cast at odds like the duo in Oleanna, but I would say it was the flattest piece I saw this trip and left me a little “alter kocker” as one might say if one was talking about Anne Frank.  I took the Elizabeth line back to the hotel.

Thursday: A brand new day.  Thanks Air France.  Took the express to Paddington.  It was, yet again, grey.  Zane Grey, Grey Gardens, Gray Line, Gray Cup all out smudge.  If Yves Klein had patented a grey it would have been November 7, 2024, London.  But, big but, it wasn’t raining.  It was a mild fall day and pleasant.  So I decided to walk to Sloane Square; that’s about a 45 minute trek due south, half of which cuts through Hyde Park.

Then, Sloane Street, the Sloan-iest of streets, under construction, was also like a park.

Just past midday I dropped into the Royal Court theatre.  The two “hot” tickets in London this fall are Adrian Brody at the Donmar and John Lithgow at the Royal Court in a play called Giant about, well, Roald Dahl’s overt anti-semitism.  Both runs sold out.  But the RC has a Monday tradition where, at 9 a.m., they release a limited number of cheap seats online (which they used to do in person when I lived in London and because of that saw amazing shows like Caryl Churchill’s Top Girls with Lesley Manville, Lindsay Duncan, etc.).  Anyway, when I joined the digital queue Monday I was 176th in line.  I did not score a ticket.  So instead, when I dropped by Thursday on a whim, I asked if they sold standing.  The staffer told me they do, that I could start a queue, and that they would be released at 1 p.m. for the matinee, and that they’d be just 10 pounds, limited sightline.  Well…AF gifted me this extra time, I started a queue.

 

And here’s the thing: At 1 p.m. he actually had a couple of tickets to sell, and I got a seat, fifth row.  Not too shabby.

 

Aside from Lithgow, who was sensational as Roald Dahl, the cast was very strong, Nicholas Hytner directing, which of course is a treat, and an astonishingly tight script given it was a first play.  So that was very, very satisfying, and a wonderful end to 10 days in the capital.  And worth the standing o.

It was early evening at the end of the show; and it was of course dark, broodingly so from the clouds.  I walked to Bond Street tube to catch the Elizabeth back to LHR.  I walked diagonally through Belgravia, a litany of embassies and flags, uber wealth, and I suppose the sort of people who could easily afford to stable a horse in central London.  Then to Hyde Park corner and through Mayfair.

 

I passed Claridge’s.  John Hamm was coming out with an assistant.  Usually, when you spot a celebrity in public, they are in a baseball cap and casuals.  Hamm was in a tailored suit, it looked like he had makeup on, his hair immaculate, and that unmistakable voice.  But he ducked into a private car before I could snap a pic.

 

An hour later, in my hotel room, as I began the laborious task of packing, I flipped on the TV and BBC 1 was interviewing Hamm and Billy Bob Thornton on their latest; so what I saw wasn’t Hamm in public, but him prepped for a TV interview.  What killed me about that was how Hamm had dressed for the occasion.  And Billy Bob.  Well, you know.  He rolled out of bed and went to the studio.

Friday the itinerary was LHR-CDG-YVR.  The LHR departure was 6:20 AM.  AF recommended arriving at the airport at 3:50 AM (seriously); you want to see gray, try London at 4 a.m.  I left the hotel just past four and walked over in no hurry.  The airport was actually closed, in that the baggage carrels for check-in weren’t running and access to security wasn’t yet open.  All that starts at 4:30 a.m.  So AF, and just AF, was a zoo, over 100 people in queue trying to check luggage and get their boarding passes and get into security.  Security, what a gong show.  Security fun fact: A Christmas pudding can set off the X-ray.  I was pulled aside for having so much sugar.  I kid you not.  And they lost my belt.  And I demanded they find it.  And they didn’t want to.  And they did.

I stopped by the lounge for a yogurt, but got the alert the flight was boarding.  That’s early I thought.  Whatever.  Get on board and they turn the plane off.  I’ve never experienced this.  They turned the plane off, the captain said they had to, and that it would be 15 minutes before everything reset.  So we all just sat in darkness.  And, eventually, we left late.

 

So then we arrive in CDG late.  Technically, I have two hours.  I’m third off the plane.  I hightail it to the “correspondences” area, see my YVR flight is in T2 M.  How CDG works is a tram takes you to your letter.  So I tram to M.  Then there’s security again.  What a hassle; why can’t AI solve security screening at airports Elon?  If the rich didn’t fly private security would be a breeze.

 

At this point I’m desperate for a coffee.  I’ve been awake basically since 2:45 a.m.  No problem, there’s great coffee in the lounge; I find the AF lounge, choose a double espresso, and sit down to sip my coffee and I get a text: Your flight is now boarding.  An hour ahead of time?  OK, time to board, so much for coffee.  Gate 49.  As far as you can go without leaving M and going back to L I guess.  And I board.  And then they form two lines on the skybridge, and no one gets on board. We just stand there.

 

And then we get on board, and all is well and good, and the captain comes over the PA and says that air traffic control is holding the plane for an hour.  Can you believe it?  Because.  France.