Y.I.M.B.Y. (Yes, In My Backyard)

After two weeks in the UK, I am settling back down to home, and my comfortable routine. While it was lovely to eat different foods, meet new people, and see different historical/cultural sights, it has been nice to be on familiar turf once again, sleeping in my own bed (strange beds NEVER bothered me before. Nowadays? One lumpy mattress and I can barely function the next day). 

But I did have a memorable experience not four miles from the house last week. In neighboring Glenside, there is a beautiful restored old theatre, The Keswick. The Keswick is regularly booked, with a wide variety of events. I’ve been there a handful of times over the years, but many of the acts are not hugely appealing to me. I generally assume that it’ll be mostly tribute bands and the like, catering to an aging suburban crowd (and NO, that does NOT describe ME!) If I want to see a favorite performer, I anticipate a trip into the city will be necessary.

 

To my surprise and delight, however, I heard that Rufus Wainwright was coming to Glenside for a concert. For the unfamiliar (and I was, for a long time), Wainwright is the son of famous singer-songwriters Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle. From childhood, Rufus has carved his own eclectic path in music and life, singing and writing candidly about the years of his drug use, about being gay. His lyrics can be very witty, and also very challenging. He writes for piano, guitar and orchestra. He’s written a musical and an opera, in addition to many albums of what's been called "lush, theatrical pop." His latest project, a Requiem Mass, will premiere in Paris, narrated by Meryl Streep.

 

When I mentioned getting tickets to Rose, she was very enthusiastic, and took the train down from NYC to join me for the performance. I expected a terrific concert (not disappointed there), but did not expect the size and nature of the audience. Where did this savvy bunch come from? There were people of all ages--lots and lots of them! And they knew and loved Wainwright’s music! In this solo show, Rufus did not just play and sing beautifully, but he chatted amiably with the crowd, saying he loved being at The Keswick (and apparently has played there many times before). This from a guy who has headlined in London, Tokyo, Berlin, Barcelona! 

 

That night, as has happened often in my life, my expectations did not match reality (see: Scotland, last week’s blog). Glenside rolled out the red carpet for a sophisticated, uniquely talented performer, and its affection was warmly returned. I’m quite proud of my neck of the woods, and you can bet I won’t be writing The Keswick off again anytime soon. Or “aging suburbanites” for that matter. Someday, far into the future, I may be one of them myself. 

 

Thanks for stopping by, Rufus. And thanks for reminding me of the gems to be found in my own backyard.

Scots Wha Hae

 

Golfing at Lettoch Lochs (I was just along for the stroll)

 

There are some places on the planet that I feel are slightly overrated (I realize I am speaking for myself, a minority of one). These include Disney Anywhere, cruise ships, Caribbean islands, Disney cruise ships bound for Caribbean islands, etc. My take: if you’ve seen one sun-drenched, palm-tree-festooned, rum-punch-adjacent isle, you’ve pretty much seen them all, with or without Mickey. That electric turquoise blue water color is indeed amazing, until you realize how prevalent it is in many parts of the world. And honestly? I can sit on a beach chair and read my book in Lewes, DE, for a fraction of the cost. 

 

I used to feel similarly about Scotland--no palms or turquoise waters there, of course, but I did always picture a somewhat lesser Ireland (which I have always adored). I mean, do kilts truly flatter anyone's figure? Isn’t there a good reason the bagpipe music repertoire is so limited? And haggis—whose brilliant idea was that? 

 

But as our plans for a UK trip took shape, my loving husband expressed a keen desire to include Scotland in the journey. He’s always wanted to play golf there, for one thing, and he’s a big history buff too. And so, we added the Plaid Place to our itinerary. 

 

Well, I have to admit, I’ve been selling that country WAY short! For one thing, it has a rugged beauty that is very different from the Emerald Isle, what with its heather and its Highlands. Also, Scots proudly speak with an accent that sounds nothing like Irish, and their cows (pronounced “coos”) are really adorably shaggy. 

Right?

Every day there, more of my assumptions were upended. I learned to like haggis (at least in the form of the popular restaurant appetizer Haggis Bonbons—ground lamb offal--livers and other bits--mixed with spices and oats, made into balls, rolled in breadcrumbs, sauteed, and served with a sauce). We toured Blair Athol distillery, and I realized that my lifelong aversion to Scotch whisky was in fact an aversion to cheap Scotch whisky—the single malt stuff is pretty tasty. And Stevo reported that golfing in Pitlochry exceeded his expectations.

 

Literarily speaking, I was eagerly anticipating our time in William Wordsworth’s and Beatrix Potter’s Lake District in England, not so much our visit to Robbie Burns-ville (Edinburgh). Much to my surprise, touring the Writers Museum on the Royal Mile gave me a whole new appreciation of the beloved Burns—he wrote tons more songs and poems than “Auld Lang Syne” during his brief lifetime, and helped keep Scottish culture alive. 

So there! says Robert Burns

 

I've felt somewhat disloyal writing this paean to Scotland, almost like I’m betraying my Irish roots. But I’m coming to understand that, just as a mother always has room for another child to love, so I can harbor a deep affection for Ireland, England, and Scotland, too.

 

So break out the cullen skink, laddies, the neeps and the tatties! And don’t forget a dram of Glendranoch to sip (those darned castles are FREEZING)!

Mr. Toad's Latest Wild Ride

Caution: hill, cows, sheep, and stone wall are much closer than they appear

For aficionados of Kenneth Grahame’s classic The Wind in the Willows--remember the part where the wealthy Mr. Toad buys a motorcar and careens recklessly through the English countryside? Well, Steve and I have been traversing the same narrow, winding, stone-wall-bordered roads this past week, and we have a whole new sense of horror at the thought of Toad’s escapades. Believe me, “careening” is the LAST thing you should do, especially while remembering to drive on the left. 

When I planned our UK adventure months ago, I had thought that we’d have the best of all possible worlds—a week in London and Edinburgh, utilizing their fine public transport, followed by a week behind the wheel, as we drove to less accessible locales. It would be a lark! We’d be able to really enjoy the picturesque villages as we passed! In fact, after the hustle-bustle of the cities, our motoring sojourn would be relaxing!

 

Now mind you, nowhere in my fantasy did I picture myself being the driver. No, this idyllic daydream always featured my intrepid hubby as chauffeur. I mean, Steve actually enjoys driving in New York City. This would be a piece of (tea)cake! 

 

Fantasy careened into reality from the moment we arrived at the rental car desk in Scotland. I’d made sure our credit card covered all required insurance, and I’d reserved a small Peugeot (small being the operative word). Nevertheless, we were somehow talked into a much larger vehicle ($$$) because the agent said it would be “safer,” PLUS the rental company’s extra insurance ($$$) because it would cover “absolutely anything that could go wrong."

 

From there, Steve was given the keys to a big BMW and we were sent out of the lot and into Edinburgh traffic on a rainy day. Poor Steve! It was a (nearly) crash course in driving on the other side of the street, plus he had to deal with my abysmal map reading skills (the car’s GPS did not work and we had to use directions on our phones). 

We made it out of the city and onto a highway toward the coast, our next destination. Along the way, we learned a) roundabouts are EVERYWHERE b) you want "M" roadways when possible; those are the biggest highways, followed by "A"s and finally "B"s (which are the real back roads) c) British signage is different (“give way” means “yield”, “lay by” means “pull off,” heavy traffic ahead is “queues likely”) and d) were we kidding? Driving is far too intense to even NOTICE the scenery, much less “relax.” 

Hettie's in Pitlochry, Scotland--worth the drive! Almost! 

It's our final day in Europe, and we will be very sad to leave. But I will not miss our “wild” rides through the English countryside. My arm will be sore for weeks from gripping the passenger car door handle, leaning my body towards the center line (my magical way to remind Steve not to hug the curb).

 

Heading back home to Philly, where only the death-defying Schuylkill Expressway beckons. Should be relaxing.

"separated by a common language," indeed

Women Rising

 

I have always had ZERO trouble talking. My role model was my mom, that indefatigable chatterer Joanie. Mom cherished and nurtured her female friendships, setting an example for her three daughters of how to converse on a pretty deep level. Now, some of Joanie’s habits didn’t stick with me—I never did learn how to enjoy talking on the phone, whereas the receiver of that black, curly-corded thing on the kitchen wall, was surgically attached to my mother’s ear 24/7. 

 

But I knew that women had more to offer the world than the culture of the 1950s and 60s had us believe—and that these very valuable contributions need NOT eternally revolve around men. I cringe to recall the Gals of TV Land, the June Cleavers and Harriet Nelsons and (His) Little Margies. Even the incomparable Lucy yearned mainly to be affirmed by doofus Ricky Ricardo! Even the much-more evolved Golden Girls (who, eeek!!!, were considered “seniors” but who were at least a decade YOUNGER than me!!!) spent an inordinate amount of airtime obsessing about the opposite sex!

 

Gradually, women are taking the reins of corporations, leading governments, producing and directing movies. Of course, they accomplish all of this while still being vastly underpaid, compared to their male counterparts. But I have hope for my daughters, all the daughters, that things will continue to improve. 

 

A lot comes down to awareness of our situation. To that end, the amazing writer/cartoonist Alison Bechdel (she wrote the book-turned-musical Fun Home) has what is known as the Bechdel Test. Simply put, women’s conversations with other women are scored by what percentage of them DO NOT MENTION MEN. AT. ALL. I’ve applied the Bechdel Test to theatre dialogue, books, even overheard real life convos, and the results are pretty disheartening. Blah, blah, men, blah, blah, men. We women still have a ways to go! 

 

Think about the guys, in contrast. While they do talk about women, it is often in chauvinistic, dismissive terms. Think of all the cultural offerings featuring testosterone-y soldiers, superheroes, cowboys and business execs, with nary a female to be found. I was struck anew when I searched for an original episode of “Project Greenlight” for my newsletter. The series, about aspiring filmmakers competing for the opportunity to make their movie, premiered way back in 2001. It was the brainchild of lifelong buddies you may have heard of, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. When I viewed Season 1 Episode 1, what did I discover? With one exception, every single would-be director was a white male (to add insult to injury, the early seasons were produced by the disgraced Harvey Weinstein). Forget about that idea!

 

It's still a cause for comment when women rise to the top, but I pray that soon it will be an unremarkable given. May this become a world where women talk with other women, passing the Bechdel Test with flying colors. 

 

Oh, and let’s throw in some equal pay while we’re at it. That’d be cool.

photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash