Lang Lang @ The iTunes Festival

Last Monday, I won tickets to see the pianist Lang Lang perform at the iTunes Festival held at Roundhouse in Camden, courtesy of the London Symphony Orchestra.  For those of you who aren't familiar with this classical musician, I'm pretty sure he is currently the (or at least, one of the) hottest-young-talent-in-the-classical-music-scene-like-right-now.  You can catch up on his accolades here, as I won't use this space to list them but instead, focus on his performance that evening.

As my pianist mother was unavailable to take an overnight flight to London for the concert and John was busy being busy and important, I invited Ruth to come along.  We had an amazing pre-concert meal which far surpassed my expectations, at Made in Camden.  We ordered small but innovative tapas-style dishes which included delights such as miso chicken, pickled watermelon rind, fennel salad, seared tuna and roast pork belly.

Heading up to the main stage, we found that the opening act, 2Cellos, was already performing: comprised of two very attractive Croatian musicians, they first played separately as soloists, then together as a duet (and later with a drummer), on electric cellos.  The first part of their program consisted of classical pieces accompanied by piano but they quickly changed it up with more crowd-pleasing favorites such as covers of Green Day, Red Hot Chili Peppers and even a cringe-inducing U2 cover of "With Or Without You", to which the man behind me and Ruth sang with unbridled passion (and terrible intonation, might I add) whilst clasping his hands around his girlfriend's waist.  (Note: if that was my boyfriend, I would have dumped him right then and there).  There's a fine line between cool and cheese and I think that, unfortunately, 2Cellos crossed that cheese line when they stepped into classic rock territory.  Smooth Criminal was cool, Welcome To The Jungle was not.  They were entertaining, however, and most importantly, hot.  So, quite frankly, what they lacked in the aural pleasure department, they certainly made up for in terms of eye candy.  That's rather sexist, but so what?

Anyway, by the end of 2Cellos's rather ear-splitting and not-altogether-pleasant conclusion, the standing crowd (it was, after all, a festival) was officially primed and geared up for Lang Lang.  We waited.  Aannndd ... waited.  And waited.  At or shortly after 9 pm (read: about thirty or forty minutes later), dramatic fog swirled about the stage and a countdown was shown on the large screens above the audience, chronicling all the acts that have previously performed at the iTunes Festival.  When the countdown ended, there were an awkward few minutes when nothing happened and confusion ensued.  Where was he?  What was going on?  The Steinway was there, the fog completely covered it, but it was there.  Where was Lang Lang?

Finally, he emerged, in a black sequined jacket, nonetheless, and waved to the audience.  "HI!" he shouted into the microphone.  "How's everybody doing tonight?  Thanks so much for coming out!  Are you ready for some music?" he continued.  "YES!!!" the crowd, er, screamed.  "OKAY!" he said.  "Then let's enjoy Liszt together!" he exclaimed, before swirling over to the piano.  "Huh?  What?" said a girl in confusion behind me.  Oh dear.  Did someone not tell you, honey?  That this was going to be a classical concert?  Me neither.  It was too easy to be misled by the 2Cellos performance, the fog, the lights and the countdown.  Here I was thinking Lang Lang was about to launch into Radiohead's Karma Police, when he actually began playing an extremely, extremely fast version of Liszt's La Campanella.  Once I got over my initial shock that he wasn't about to play Radiohead or any other popular music, for that matter, I had to get over my shock of the speed he was playing Liszt at.  The piece opens with an arpeggiated sequence, which, when I play it (and as written in the score) requires both hands.  Lang Lang played it entirely with his left hand.  After I recovered from that revelation, I was then faced with the fact that for the duration of the concert, there would be a movie of time-lapsed clips of city streets and nature playing on five, floor-to-ceiling screens behind the artist.  I was confused.  Were we supposed to focus on the music?  Or the movie?  Was the music supposed to act as an accompaniment to the movie?  Or were the producers concerned that Lang Lang's classical performance would not sustain the festival-going audience and decided that visual stimulation was needed?

Then, a few people at the front began making their escape, after the third or fourth piece.  And a few more after that.  Lang Lang paid no notice and only paused to wipe his brow, smile and bow after each piece.  I rocked back and forth on my heels and looked at my watch.  I understood the desire to play a full program of Liszt, but there were several other romantic pieces he could have chosen that would have been much more appropriate for the venue - that is, crowd pleasing.  Yes, I said it.  Play the slow, tender pieces at the Barbican or Cadogan.  Play them at Carnegie Hall.  But I'm afraid that for a venue and crowd like the one at Monday night, something more bang-y would be required.  Rachmaninov.  Brahms.  Even some of the Chopin Marches or Impromptus - ANYTHING!!!  I was beginning to be bored out of my mind - and this is coming from someone who loves (and plays) classical and in particular, solo piano music.

But those who were left in the crowd (and it was still a good size) were, to my surprise, incredibly committed: no one heckled, no one even dared to breathe.  The cameras zoomed in on his fingers; his articulation was impeccable.  We marveled at the sheer speed at which he played some pieces, though I wondered if that tempo was actually necessary or in fact, detrimental to the interpretation.  However, you could hear a pin drop in the Roundhouse during the pianissimo sections and I was amazed at the audience's dedication.  I shamefully booked it as soon as he finished his first encore.  Don't get me wrong, I was very grateful for the tickets and the opportunity to see such a famous and sought-after musician perform.  It's clearly a once-in-a-lifetime chance and I enjoyed it for what it's worth.  But from a critical perspective, the performance as a whole just didn't work for that particular venue.  The layout and design of the concert seemed disconnected, confused and incongruous with the music that was actually being performed.

I don't want to say that Lang Lang resembled a fish out of water at The Roundhouse, because after all, he's practically a rock star - in some ways, it was the perfect place for him.  He has an energy and charisma about him that engages his audience, no matter the venue.  Yet, I know that should I see him again, I'd definitely rather be sitting in a concert hall.


In the meantime, entertain yourself with this video of 2Cellos performing Smooth Criminal - they're hot, no?:




Photo source

Some Say Being An Angloyankophile is a Lonely Business ...

... but it's not.  It used to be, but it's not now.  Now, I'm fortunate to have a social calendar that keeps me busy and one that I don't always - in fact, rarely, on the weekdays - share with John.  And I think that's important.  Because if you move to a new place with the intention of living there for at least more than a year, you need your own friends or else a cloud of resentment kicks in and that can make you very, very unhappy.  I know this because it happened to me and it took me a while to establish my own routines, my own social circle - my own life.

But while I'm thankful for all the new friends I've made here in the UK, both British and American, I also love and cherish the friends who visit me here in London - even if they're from far away.  And I especially love it when they bring gifts like these:

Adeline came down from Edinburgh to stay a couple of weekends ago now and we had a positively girly weekend, sampling almond croissants and pain au chocolat as big as our faces and then subsequently cleaning such faces at Space NK with complimentary Eve Lom and Clarisonic facials.  She brought me this amazing fairtrade organic green tea from Suki Tea (above left), some of the National Galleries of Scotland's famous shortbread (which is already gone, I'm afraid) and the adorable brooch (above right) to jazz up my jackets.  I'm holding out for this Bodum teapot to make my tea in.  Saturday evening may or may not have resulted in lots of red wine and memorizing the "best" phrases from The Chronicles of Riddick but we made up for our sins during Sunday morning yoga and a cleansing shopping trip on Regent Street.  I was sad as soon as she packed up to go.

But last Friday, I had the joy of meeting up with Anna and her mommy (Anna, of Le Petit Elephant fame) for cake and tea at Fortnum & Mason's The Parlour, where we were greeted upon arrival with mini ice cream cones the size of my pinkie finger for each of us.  We oohed, we ahhhed.  We discussed their recent Le Tour de Lakes - cycling tour of the Lake District - and caught up generally, as I hadn't seen Anna since our Mount Holyoke days in ... oh, 2005?  And then Anna pulled this out of her bag for me:

S'more making materials!  I told you I get the best presents.  Complete with "stackermallows" - marshmallows flat enough to make the perfect s'mores.  One whiff of the Honey Maid graham crackers and I was instantly transported back to kindergarten (we were allowed four graham cracker squares for a mid-afternoon snack).  I tried making the s'mores in my microwave, but the marshmallows exploded, sending me into a state of sweet, gooey mess - but they were still delicious.  John has yet to try a s'more, but I think he'll substitute the Hershey's with a block of Cadbury instead.  I'm no snob when it comes to s'mores, however, and though I prefer Cadbury to Hershey's you gotta make them the campfire way ... with the original.

I love my friends, old and new.  But mostly, I'm just grateful to have such amazing ones.

Tube Rave: Thank You, Holborn Station Staff - For Saving My Blackberry From An Untimely Death

Much worse things have happened, but at the very moment my Blackberry slipped from its cute Cath Kidston cover, bounced on the platform twice, and neatly slotted its fine self between the train and the platform onto the tracks below - I burst into tears.

I blame the novocaine.

You see, I'd just finished my seventh root canal appointment at the dentist and had gotten off the train at Holborn because an announcement was made that King's Cross was closed.  I didn't even WANT to get out at Holborn.  My jaw ached.  My teeth hurt.  My right cheek was semi-numb.  And I was hungry.

First, I walked away, convinced my phone was well and truly dead.  Then, when the train had passed, I peered over the edge and saw that it wasn't, in fact, dead, but rather forlornly lying face down on the side of the tracks nearest to the platform.  Feeling sorry for it and realizing it could be saved, I decided not to run the risk of being electrocuted or run over by a train and instead, tried the little "Information" button loudspeaker thingy on the platform.  A loud dial tone ensued by no one answered.  Everyone stared.

I raced up the stairs, up the two flights of escalators to Holborn station.  By now, I was REALLY hungry (and only John knows the extent of my hunger rage) and rather emotional - again.  I approached the nice looking ticket-checking/gate-guarding tube man and said, "Um, m-m-my phone ... it's ... I ... DROPPED IT. (hiccup hiccup)  I'm SO SORRY.  It's (hiccup) ON THE TRACKSSSSS," I cried.  "There, there!" he said, patting my arm.  "It's okay, do you remember where you dropped it?" he asked kindly.  "Um ... (hiccup) I was going eastbound ... towards King's Cross, on the Piccadilly line," I stuttered.  He spoke into his radio quickly, "A lady has dropped her phone on the tracks on Platform 4."  "Don't worry," he said as an aside to me. "It happens ALL the time.  And besides, it's only a phone!"  I hated myself for the tears, but again, I blamed the novocaine.

I watched the man as he helped numerous amounts of people find their way across London and cheerfully opened gates for people with heavy luggage or children.  I decided he was a Very Nice Person.

Then the Very Nice Person leaned over a few minutes later and said, "They've found your phone, but the station supervisor needs to stop a train before it enters onto the platform and retrieve it from the tracks."  I was pretty horrified.  I hadn't thought my stupid phone dropping incident would delay trains, if even momentarily.

The station supervisor emerged a few minutes afterward, waving my phone at me. "This yours?" he said sternly.  "Yes," I said gratefully.  "I'm so sorry!"  He wasn't amused.  "Now you need to pay up £20 because I had to stop a train to get it and it was a massive inconvenience."  "Really?" I asked.  "Um, YES, REALLY," he said.  "Okay, that's fine," I said, reaching for my wallet.  He burst out laughing and slapped his thigh.  "I love it, you really believed me!" he said, wiping his eyes.  "I'm so sorry, I feel really bad and I'm very sorry for the inconvenience," I said.  "Look," he said. "You're not the first one and you're not the last.  So please don't feel bad.  It happens all the time.  Don't feel bad."

I felt pretty bad.

So I did what John finds extremely embarrassing: I popped over to Costa coffee and bought two bags of mini muffins, proceeded to run behind the station supervisor and waved the muffins at him over the gate.  He pretty much looked at me like I was crazy.  "Please take these!" I shouted as tourists stared at the mad woman with mascara-tracks down her face waving bags of mini muffins.  "You shouldn't have done that, you know," he said.  "You really shouldn't have bothered."  "I know, but I wanted to thank you for being so nice and for helping me, so please give the other bag to the other man who helped me - thank you!" I babbled.  He took the muffins, thanked me, and I scurried away to call John and tell him about my adventure.

The end.

Cake Time Is Back!

Followers of this blog will know that I used to bake - a lot - and I chronicled my baking adventures in a series of posts called "It's Cake Time!" (see my proudest accomplishment here).  It was kind of like therapy but with the added plus of weight gain, since John would demand request I make things like, oh, an entire carrot cake and subsequently eat, oh, one slice, leaving me with carrot cake for the rest of the week to either consume myself or fob off to anyone who'd take it.  

My excuse was that we had an excellent oven in our Maida Vale flat - one that made cakes rise perfectly.  I also had at my disposal several amazing pieces of Circulon bakeware that John bought me for my birthday last year, so, left to my own devices with a few sticks of butter, caster sugar and self-raising flour, I made many variations of cakes in sandwich, loaf, and cupcake form for us to enjoy.

Since we moved to Angel, however, I hadn't baked until this weekend.  I could tell the oven was sub-par to the one we had before and I didn't want any baking disasters - because if there were ANY baking disasters, I'd swear off baking forever.  I have low confidence in my cooking and baking abilities.

But when we were invited over to Tom and Dani's for a picnic on Sunday and instructed to "bring dessert", I thought it'd be the perfect opportunity to make some cupcakes ... complete with Barbie sprinkles, of course:

And chocolate icing for the boys, for fear they'd be turned off by the Barbie sprinkles (I'm not kidding - the sprinkles were branded):

I didn't go too crazy with my first batch of cakes in the new flat, so I used a simple sponge cake recipe ... but having had an overall success with these, I'll be venturing into carrot and chocolate cake territory soon.  

*Pink Peep courtesy of A Wife Called Chuck

Practicing Yoga, Practicing Humility

Every time I think a bad thought about someone (which I shouldn't do), I stub my toe.  HARD.  Or I bang my elbow into my desk.  HARD.  Or my knee on the side of the bed.  HARD.  I like to think of this excruciating pain as Whoever's-Up-There's little way of teaching me a lesson about humility.  It's like when I walk around at work, smug about whatever I'm being smug about and an email goes ping! in my inbox and it's a withering dressing down from someone or other that sends me hiding under my desk for the rest of the afternoon (not that I actually do that ... well ... not for a whole afternoon).  Like, ouch.  Nothing like some humiliation to bring you down to earth.

Lessons in humility make their way to my yoga practice every time I step on my mat.  Whether it's the time I lost my balance whilst perching gracefully in crow, causing me to fall on my face, HARD, and the guy next to me to whisper an infuriating, "smooth", or when I've arrogantly anticipated a pose, only to find the entire class remaining in downward dog for a few extra breaths - I know I can work on being more humble.

As I've mentioned before, I use Lauren's rare absences from teaching to try another instructor's class (read about how I humiliated myself at the Iyengar Institute here) and learn something new about my yoga practice, so I recently decided to sample Simon Bradley's Tuesday hatha class at Jubilee Hall Trust.  Fairly less dynamic than Lauren's Vinyasa flow class, Simon focuses on correct alignment, holding poses, and understanding the anatomy and physiology behind an asana.  It took me one class to realize that I had developed some pretty bad habits, including the fact that my stance in Warrior One was severely shortened and my Warrior Two was downright lazy.  I was mortified.  Mortified, but humbled.  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes when Simon corrected the very subtle misalignment of my toes in King Cobra pose, citing that as the reason for my toes not reaching closer to my head but was surprised to find how much more space that minor correction gave me.  Again, I was reminded of Lauren's constant but gentle reminding that yoga is a journey, not a means to an end.  In an hour, I discovered just how complacent I had become in my practice and how deeply unsatisfying that was.  I was sad to recognize that I'd stopped being mindful in Lauren's class and perhaps prideful instead.  Simon's class was like that email in my inbox - the wake-up call I needed to shake me from my place in the clouds.

I think it's great to stick to a teacher or style of yoga you like, but I don't think it's beneficial to shy away from new experiences.  These experiences may be uncomfortable - they may even be humiliating - but in those moments of clarity, of slamming your knee into the bed frame, you receive a sliver of enlightenment (not to mention, a heck of a lot of pain).

Trinity Hospice: River Walk 2011

Last weekend, John, Tom, Cristy, Alison and I participated in Trinity Hospice's River Walk fundraising event and raised over £800 for the hospice, in memory of John's uncle, Chris.

When I first moved to London, Chris was the one who introduced me to the plush carpets of Fortnum & Mason and the delights of its chocolate counter.  And before Kate Middleton made The Goring a household name (even in the US), Chris took me there for lunch and insisted that we dress up and take pre-meal drinks in the separate bar.  I'll never forget that.

We developed an unexpected, but cherished, friendship over the three years I knew him - through email, Skype, and long conversations in his Pimlico flat ("Westminster, please," he'd correct me).  At the time, I worked at an office not far from Pimlico and would accompany him on fun (House of Fraser) or grocery (Sainsbury's) shopping trips after work.   Over a cup of tea, we extolled the virtues of Finzi and Vaughan Williams, but mostly ... we gossiped.  About everything.  Reality television, fashion, the news, people in the news, people we knew, people we didn't know - everything was up for discussion.  So even now, after he's gone, I still instinctively get the "I can't wait to tell Chris" feeling before reminding myself he's not there to tell anymore.

Chris spent the last few months of his life in and out of Trinity.  I'll be honest: before I stepped foot into Trinity, the mere mention of the word "hospice" was like an icy claw around my heart.  I imagined a dark, suffocating place, with - for some strange reason - no daylight, no happiness, only sadness and grieving.  The first time I visited Chris there however, I was bowled over by how wrong I was: this hospice was bright, shiny, pleasant, warm and, above all, comfortable.  It had a lovely garden where guests could take strolls and the individual rooms had floor to ceiling windows overlooking this beautiful scene.  The furnishings were more akin to those of a boutique hotel, rather than a hospice - or what one would expect of a hospice.  The nurses were friendly, helpful and kind and Chris would often tell me how incredible they were.  All I remember thinking was how glad I was that he was being cared for in such an environment.

Chris is still listed as a "follower" of this blog.  Occasionally, I'll search back to entries that have his comments just to read them again: they don't make me sad.  They make me laugh.  I used to complain, "Why haven't you commented yet?" when he was silent about what I'd written.  "I can't think of anything witty enough to say!" he'd moan and I'd laugh because he prided himself on his sharp observations and witticisms.  I miss his opinions, his insight and his personality.

But my best friend passed on a wonderful saying that always helps: "When someone you love becomes a memory, that memory becomes a treasure."

Team Chris Morris's fundraising page on JustGiving is open and accepting donations until June 2012. Please consider making a small donation to Trinity Hospice here: http://www.justgiving.com/jaimejohn

Spa Weekend @ The Runnymede-on-Thames

Ever so often, John and I exchange a wild look: it is one comprised of fear, panic, paranoia, stress. Accompanying this look are dashing, dark circles under John's eyes and a smattering of pimples, threatening to burst with ferocity over my already severely blemished chin.  When this "look" crosses our faces, we both know it's time to take a break.  Away.  Out of the city.  Preferably into the countryside.  Preferably to a hotel that has a spa.  Preferably a spa that has an indoor and outdoor pool, jacuzzi, eucalyptus (this is very important) steam room, sauna, and plunge pool (not essential, but a plus).

Our favorite spot of all-time for such getaways is The Grove, but unfortunately, it was fully booked when I made our last minute enquiry, so I had to find an alternative.  I settled on The Runnymede-on-Thames in Egham for the pure reason that it'd be easy to get to (bus from Islington to Waterloo, then quick train down to Surrey) and the price was just about right (£164 for one night, including breakfast and use of the spa facilities).  Plus, the photos on the website of happy families pointing out ducks on the river and taking afternoon tea (the cake stand filled with finger sandwiches and scones sold it to me) on the river bank seemed ideal.  

But looks can be deceiving, as an overwhelming sense of disappointment washed over me when we pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, just off a roundabout near the motorway.  The photo above is of the BACK of the hotel, not the front - so what you're actually greeted with is a faceless, business conference-like front with a car park that rivals Costco's (okay, okay, there was a bit of grass and shrubbery to distinguish it from the Costco parking lot) - not the sunny, boutique-y charm the website would like to have you believe.  Undeterred, we waltzed in and checked into our room, grabbing some lunch on the terrace on the way.  "Would you recommend booking in advance for the two restaurants here?" I asked the waitress who served us.  It didn't look terribly busy, but with no dinner choices around other than the hotel, we'd be a bit stranded tonight if reservations were essential.  "You'll have to check with the front desk," she answered, which puzzled me a bit since she worked there and would probably be best placed to answer the question of whether or not the restaurant is busy in the evenings.  Still, we got distracted and forgot to ask.  Sure enough, as we approached one of the restaurants at 6:30 p.m. (which was completely empty, save for two tables, by the way) we were politely told by the Maitre d' that both restaurants were fully booked and that the earliest sitting was at 9:30 p.m.  We were encouraged to eat at the bar/lounge area, which was fine since we didn't want more than a sandwich in the end anyway, but was quite irritating.  You'd think it was common courtesy for hotel staff to inform you, upon check-in, that dinner does get quite busy and it'd be a good idea to book - certainly, The Grove offers to arrange reservations at one of their restaurants before you've even arrived!

However, whatever Runnymede lacks in charm, character or common sense, it makes up for in its outdoor pool.  Yes, that's right - a luxuriously long and wide, blue mosaic-tiled outdoor pool which is meticulously cared for and absolutely sparkles when the sun shines.  I know this because I was in that pool when the sun was shining and can confirm that floating on your back in an empty, warm pool whilst staring at the underbelly of planes flying overhead is possibly the most amazing feeling ever.  If, for even two minutes, I felt completely and utterly relaxed and happy, then the £164 I spent that weekend was totally worth it.

The next day, after checking out, we took advantage of the good weather and left our bags at the hotel and took a stroll along the river, as the spa is closed to guests after check-out (again, something that simply doesn't happen at The Grove - there, you're encouraged to stay as long as you'd like to continue your swim or sauna experience after you've checked out) though you can pay for a pass "per hour" which we decided against since it was so lovely outside anyway.  We stumbled upon a regional private school regatta where crews of 16 and unders rowed their way to posh stardom on the Thames.  It was truly like a scene out of Harry Potter, with marquees set up for schools such as Eton and Henley.  We even crashed their BBQ (though we paid, after all) and sampled some delicious burgers cooked by Surrey locals while watching poor, scrawny 10-year-old boys with arms no thicker than my wrist (and I have small wrists) try not to disappoint their over-paying parents, who were decked out in Boden and had names like Harriet, Hamish and Francesca.  Bizarre, yet highly entertaining.

Would I recommend The Runnymede-on-Thames?  Only if you're desperate and the weather is good - then it's not a terribly bad place to get to.  But if you've got better options, I'd say skip out.