Welcome to Yankee in Yorkshire

This blog is dedicated to my experiences of British culture, my insights into the British character and my explorations of how my own up-bringing as an American makes me profoundly different from those I interact with daily.  I cannot say I prefer one culture or country to another because they are so different.  Both have shaped me into the person I am now.  I hope to separate the Yankee parts and Yorkshire parts to see how each one ticks away inside me and examine what makes us similar and different.  I hope to give fellow Yankees a taste of what life in Britain is like and to give a sample of true American character to British readers. 

Here you will find photographs of my life in the UK, recipes, tourist advice, interviews and regular reports from the field.  Bear in mind I represent no one but myself—experiences of Britain and Yankee opinions may vary.  I welcome all constructive commentary on the topics addressed.

Is British Food Really That Bad? Part One: Adventures in Produce

It is a known fact on a nutritional level that we are what we eat.  There is a great deal of truth in that statement on a wider scale as well.  By microscoping what a nation puts on its table, you see into its very soul.  Many people sneer at British cooking—even the British in that self-deprecating way they have.  The duelling adjectives: bland and boring are frequently batted around in ignorant conversation, and I use “ignorant” here in the true meaning of the word: without direct experience. While preparing for my immigration back in America, I heard sinisterly whispered stories about blood pudding, crumpets, bangers and mash—food that sounded like it belonged in a horror film rather than on a plate.  What does all this say about Britain’s soul I wondered?

Therefore, one of my first acts as a foreigner planning on settling down for a good long stay, was to visit popular grocery store chain Sainsburys.  Here I might be able to satisfy my curiosity over these fear-mongering rumours.  In Sainsburys I was greeted by an entire aisle of Indian cooking ingredients, a wondrous pickle section of jars labelled Ploughman’s and Piccalilli (which I thought was a circus); a dizzying array of cheeses boasting local names like Lancashire and Wensleydale and only one kind of cheese was orange!  Imagine.

Sausages were made with pork, sage and apple, and the produce was the freshest and most varied I had ever seen outside of a farmer’s market.  To be fair, there was also a nauseating array of potted meat products–some actually having the nerve to simply call themselves “potted meat”.  Honestly, do these people have no imagination or sense of marketing?  Another label sporting Old Glory art work read: “American Style Hot Dogs”, subscript: “in brine” on a large glass jar containing what looked like floating…um…things that look a bit like hot dogs but aren’t. So far the scariest thing I had seen was an attempt at American food.

In typical English fashion, there were many things familiar to me, though they were called by different names.  Courgette instead of zucchini, eggplants were labelled aubergine, and when I asked if they carried Butternut squash, the confused assistant led me to an aisle full of what looked like Kool Aid in large plastic bottles.  Squash, I learned later that day, is a concentrated fruity liquid you mix with water to make a drink, which—funnily enough—tastes like Kool Aid.

I spent two and a half hours just walking around, ogling the differences.  It was better than a museum, and far more informative to a Yankee transplant yearning to blend in.  I filled my shopping basket with a wedge of Wensleydale with Cranberries, Cumberland sausages, Cox apples (I could go on for hours about the glory of English apples), Crumpets, a jar of something called Lemon Curd and a copy of BBC’s Good Food magazine—another valuable contributor to my culinary enculturation.

What struck me most deeply about my grocery experience was the variety.  In America we have a kind of variety.  We go the grocery store and get to choose from twenty different brands and types of peanut butter—Skippy or Jiff, smooth, crunchy, extra crunchy.  But in the grocery stores I have visited here, I find a real cornucopia of ingredients and products.  At least thirty different varieties of potted meat.

The produce was something else which stood out to me.  No Florida oranges here—they all come from Spain.  And the strawberries…gods above the strawberries!  A longer growing season and shorter distances mean that regional fruits and vegetables are easily available and fresh when they are in season.  Hundreds of traditional cheeses with local variations are a highlight, though British cheese is often over-looked in favour of its flashier French neighbour’s.  The influence of the nation’s growing plurality is having a very positive impact as well on the culinary variety in the British diet—Indian food in particular now widely recognised as being the country’s favourite meal.  More recently, Mexican food has also become common place.  When I first moved here, there might have been half a shelf featuring a few Old El Paso items.  Now there is a quarter aisle devoted to Tex-Mex ingredients.

What is best about British cooking is the use of fresh, local, if possible seasonal ingredients and a real sense of national identity and pride in food.  Unlike other aspects of British culture, affection for their own cuisine is something Brits can get behind.  If you want to see a Yorkshire man cry, ask about his mother’s Yorkshire Pudding.  If you want to get told off by a Yorkshire granny, suggest that cheese is a really stupid thing to serve with fruitcake.  And if you really want to get your ass kicked, bring up the superiority of French cuisine.

Love them or hate them, the likes of Jamie Oliver, Nigella Lawson and Gordon Ramsey have made English food sexy.  The British seem to have a real sense of pride and love in their traditional dishes and products.  From their mouths…to their hearts, to misquote the old Jewish saying.  Because food is not just about eating.  Food is family, it is politics, it is history, it is narrative and, no matter what your therapist says, food is love.

In the next blog post, I sample some of those scary British dishes and tell you what exactly what Blood Pudding, Crumpets and Haggis are really like.

Ex-Pat Yankee Dreams of Home

Rootbeer, pickle relish, tacos. The sound of a front porch screen door slapping on its sprung hinges. Choruses of June bugs accompanying firefly acolytes in a sanctuary of summer twilight. Thunderstorms. National parks. Distances. Corn.

Rivers of a proper size and people who use their car horns and raiding mulberry trees. Singing Battle Hymn of the Republic as part of a large, harmonious choir. Sundays that mean something.

A decent doughnut with a bottomless cup of coffee. Diners, truck stops, service. Taking a Greyhound bus across endless miles of straight road. The sound of the letter R. Submarine sandwiches of architectural size and shameless self-belief.

The people who have known me and loved me since birth. Closets. Skunks. Flags.

Ducks made of calico at shopping mall craft shows. The county fair. My mother’s cheesecake and my father’s houseplants. The friends who grew up with me. “God bless you.”

Mark Twain one man shows, country music radio, roadmaps based on geometry. Saturday garage sale expeditions planned with military precision. The rapid-fire voices of auctioneers. Serious heat and serious cold and a history that is my own.

The feeling I belong, even as a discontented outsider, to a world that had no choice but to welcome me.

Also corn dogs.

When a Yankee Visits Yorkshire Part Three: Grandma’s Adventures with the NHS

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident with your Grandmother.”

I had been cleaning all day.  The kind of cleaning you do for company.  Removing books to dust shelves, wiping down picture frames on walls, hovering residual spider webs from the corners of every room.  And then a phone call comes to change it all.

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident with your Grandmother.” 

I thought the weather would be the biggest tragedy of this holiday.  I worried about my husband’s recent bout of flu, the state of the house, the behaviour of my children.  And then a phone call comes to change it all.  There was an accident with my eighty-seven-year-old Grandma, touristing in London before travelling North to see her great-grandchildren (and me).  She fell waiting for the lift and broke three ribs.  So there it is.  People make plans, but life makes other plans and we must chase the bouncing ball of chaos before it rolls into traffic.

Six years ago when my Grandpa lay dying there was nothing I could do to be with my family.  Our patriarch passed and I was an ocean away.  Last week it took me less than a minute to decide how to handle this fresh crisis.  I couldn’t get on a plane to Iowa, but a train to London—that was something I could do.

Packing happened, tickets were purchased and four hours later I got lost in the A&E of St Thomas’ Hospital, Westminster.  Good view of Parliament.  At least Grandma would be able to get in some quality sight-seeing from her sick bed. And yes, Auntie Madge…it is the hospital which went to the moon in that one episode of Doctor Who.  More importantly, it is a flagship NHS hospital which has been providing free health care since the thirteenth century.

“No one has asked us about money.” 

My parents sounded worried rather than relieved, and a bit mystified.  Of course, in an American hospital an eighty-seven-year-old patient in pain would not be hounded for their credit card before admittance, but someone with the patient, a friend or relative, would be taken aside and discreetly asked: “How do you intend to pay for this?”  Yes, even in the Emergency Room they would ask.  If you were bleeding from a bullet would they would ask.

My grandmother was given a bed, a dose of morphine and probably a cup of tea (right up there with morphine as far as the British are concerned).  I’m not going to lie and say her bed was regal or that she had a fleet of nurses flocking to her side seeing to her every need, but she was cared for and given what she needed when she needed it.  That’s the thing about the NHS.  It’s there when you need it—for ANYONE who needs it.  My grandmother was a guest in Britain, not even a citizen, but it didn’t matter to those who treated her.

After a few hours, she was moved into the Victoria Ward for acute medical conditions.   It had an even better view of Westminster.  They took x-rays and blood samples, fed her, counselled her, housed her over-night, gave her medication and a walking stick.  Before her transfer, an A&E nurse warned us we might be asked about our insurance.  Fortunately my grandmother is well insured, but no one ever asked.  Not once. 

Last week the taxes of Britain paid to treat a frightened, injured foreigner who came to their shores for a view of Buckingham Palace and a cuddle with her great-granddaughters.  My dear, old grandmother so loved by her family and friends.  Thank you St Thomas’ Hospital.  Thank you, National Health Service.  For all the frightened, alone people who come to you in need and receive necessary care, free of everything but their physical pain.  Thank you for looking after her.  My grandmother is worth every penny of tax and so is every other patient you treat.

America, I warn you.  Four tax payers are coming home who now understand exactly how Socialised Medicine works.  They know the truth.  The NHS hospitals of Britain may not have the fanciest equipment but they don’t need it—I doubt you do either.  They use what they have to treat patients in need.  Any patient in need.  It’s not a perfect system, no government system is.  But it’s there when people need it—for anyone who needs it.  My grandmother will not go bankrupt because of an accident.  Four Americans are coming home who get it now.  And they vote.

When a Yankee Visits Yorkshire: Part Two

In my last blog post I doled out travelling wisdom to my Auntie Madge, soon to visit Britain for the first time.  Then I spoke of what TO do when travelling in Yorkshire and its environs.  Now, I wish to warn you a little.  Here is what NOT to do when visiting us across the pond.

Don’t let the weather stop you.  Spring in Yorkshire is a beautiful time of year: crocuses and daffodils and narcissus everywhere.  My first impression of England from the air was that it looked like a giant golf course.  Grass so green it seemed fake and so many tiny cars zooming about.  But all that floral splendour and greenery comes a cost and the cost is the weather.  It’s unlikely to rain the entire fortnight you are here, Auntie, but at some point (unless the fates of nature or the gods of tourism favour you) you will encounter Weather.  But do not let it stop you.  If the British let Weather cancel their plans, an entire nation would grind to a halt.  So, as comedian Billy Connolly says: “get yourself a sexy rain coat and live a little.”

Don’t expect service. If you have never watched Fawlty Towers this will mean nothing to you, but it’s one of my favourite observations of British culture from American comedian Greg Proops.  “I used to think Fawlty Towers was a screwball comedy then I visited England and realised it was actually a hard-hitting documentary.”  Mr Proops’ point is that service is not a priority in Britain the way it is in America.  When I walk into a shop, no sales assistants eagerly descend, wait staff never greet me with beauty pageant grins and ask every ten minutes if all is well, and no exchange of good and/or services concludes with “have a nice day”.  While this may not sound like a big deal, I assure you it does take some getting used to.  In my entire time here I have only witnessed two Brits send food back to a restaurant kitchen, though many more have quietly complained and put up with unsatisfactory food.  I have some theories as to why service is so poor in Britain but I will save that for a later post.

Don’t drink the coffee.  England is a nation of tea drinkers. We may have embraced coffee culture to a certain extent, but unless you are at a Starbucks or Café Nero I would give your usual cup of Joe a miss in favour of a brew.  Instant coffee.  That’s what you find over here.  Instant coffee.  Oh you can get filter coffee, but unfortunately few people realise that coffee grounds, unlike tea leaves, do not require boiling water to release their full potential.  Therein lies the difficulty in enjoying coffee on this side of the pond.  My advice: when in Yorkshire, drink the bloody tea.  Except when visiting my in-laws because their coffee is caffeinated nectar.

Don’t forget the exchange rate.  Currency will be your first concern when your plane lands.  Most likely you will bring some British money with you but don’t worry if you don’t.  Airports are full of cash machines all happy to eat up your Yankee dollars.  And eat them they will.  As I write this, the exchange rate actually is not too bad for a Yankee visiting the UK: 1.5 dollars to every pound.  In the recent past this has been as high as 2.5 dollars to the pound.  Even so, you need to keep calculating.  It’s all too easy to slip and forget just how much you are spending.  On that trip to Darbar I wrote about in the last post, I tipped the wait staff the equivalent of $20.00.  In my defence I was new in town and slightly drunk.  

Don’t be intimidated.  For the first few months I lived here I kept a pretty low profile.  If I was out on my own I spoke as little as possible because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.  Mostly this was due to the fact that every time I opened my mouth it began a thirty minute conversation (see previous post).  It was a waste of time.  Don’t be intimidated.  Speak up, ask questions, bother people.  The British may look a bit scary and I still think they lack a few essential facial muscles, but they’re a bit of all right really.

Safe travels, Auntie.  We cannot wait to introduce you to this country we love.  Stay tuned for the last in this series: Madge’s travels in Yorkshire.

When a Yankee Visits Yorkshire: Part One

In a few weeks my dear Aunt Margaret will set foot on British soil for the first time.  She has been peppering my inbox with questions about what to wear, what to do and whether I have a working hairdryer.  I have given the usual advice: bring tough walking shoes, a pseudo-military style water-proof coat and assume it will rain every day so you can be pleasantly surprised if it doesn’t.  Despite all this, Auntie Madge is beyond excited about her up-coming visit.

When I travel to new places, which isn’t often, I always purchase a Rough Guide.  I love Rough Guides.  They never steer me wrong for places to eat or sleep.  They also include a nice list of top activities and attractions for their topic country.  The England Rough Guide’s list includes many things you would expect: go to the pub, have high tea, visit a castle.

These are all nice things to do, but I think this list needs a more personal touch. It needs me to add details and examples from my experiences in Yorkshire.  Auntie Margaret this is for you.

Get on some public transport.  I would say train but your great nieces would advise a double-decker bus.  Either way, take a thirty-sixty minute journey in a confined space with a bunch of locals.  Taking public transport in Britain provides opportunity to enjoy two of the best things about this country: the rural landscapes and the regional accents.  If possible, seat yourself near some older people because, in general, their regional accents will be stronger.  If you find a flock of old ladies you have hit the jackpot because they will chatter like chickens and you can listen like a magpie, taking away a great culture experience. Since you’re travelling with a Yankee posse, chances are very high that within a few minutes one of the locals will engage you in conversation, especially if you are talking about what you plan to do when you get where you’re going.  This is tourist Nirvana and a real aural cultural treat. Disclaimer: none of the above advice works on the London Underground or during Rush Hour on any commuter routes.

Try the weird crisps.  You call them chips, but here they are crisps and here the crisps have some rather unusual flavours.  Common varieties include: Prawn Cocktail, Steak and Onion, Cheese and Onion, Roast Chicken and Salt and Vinegar, which make them sound more like a full course meal than a bagged snack food.  The best bit: all are labelled “Suitable for Vegetarians.” You can also find Wooster Sauce, Tomato Ketchup and Pickled Onion.  My personal favourites are Vintage Cheddar and Onion Chutney and Smoked Monterey Chilli with Goats Cheese (best dipped in hummus).

Walk Through Someone’s Back Yard.  In the UK we have what is called “Right to Roam.”  Without getting bogged down in precise legality, it essentially means hikers can go wherever they like as long as they stick to marked walking paths.  Anywhere they like!  There is an official organisation called The Ramblers Association who make it their business to maintain the walking paths of Britain, keeping them clear of debris and safe for hiking.  The first time I went on a hike in the Yorkshire Dales, my walking companions came to the end of an obvious road, then climbed over a fence into a field full of sheep and carried blithely on.  I kept waiting for an angry farmer to run out with a shotgun and see us off.  I thought the sheep might try to charge us.  Nothing happened.  Madonna, when she lived in England, tried to close off the walking path which crossed her land.  She failed.  Disclaimer: obviously you can’t just walk through anyone’s back yard—marked paths only—but I thought it made a good title.

Drink beer and eat curry.  I know you aren’t much of a drinker, Auntie, but surely you might make an exception here because nothing goes better with a curry than beer and I know you like your curry.  Indian food is to Britain what Mexican is in the US: our number one foreign cuisine.  My first Curry and Beer night was in Leeds.  We went for drinks first at Whitelocks.  Bitter Ales are what Britain is really known for, and in Yorkshire that has to be Black Sheep.  I would put in a vote for anything by Wychwood Brewery which has managed to perfect the balance of great bottle art and great beer.  Afterwards, we topped off our nice inebriation at Darbar—easily the most spectacular Indian Restaurant ever with giant Elephant pillars, eye scorching colour schemes and enormous chairs.  Once you have sat down in your enormous chair, expect a tray of “pickles”: mango chutney, raitha and the rather sexy lime pickle, served with crispy popadoms big as your head.  Order Chicken Tikka Masala a true fusion dish adapted fifty years ago by Indian chefs for British customers unaccustomed to the exotic look and taste of curry.

Go to the seaside.  Britain has quite a lot of seaside and you would be a fool to miss it.  Don’t bother bringing your swim suit, though.  This is the North Sea and you need to be bad ass as my Northern daughter to try swimming in your skivvies.  Here most people swim in head to toe wet suits.  But that doesn’t mean a day by the Yorkshire coast isn’t one of the best days ever.  Sandsend near Whitby is my favourite spot.  Walk along the cliffs, collect shells and fossils on the beach, wade into a rock pool at high tide and see what you can find.  And you MUST finish your day with fish and chips.  The sea air adds a salty sharpness to the food complimenting the vinegar you sprinkle over it.

Find a stone in a ditch.  One thing Britain has that America does not is history.  Don’t tell the Brits I admitted that because I persist in arguing we have plenty of history, it just took your lot ages to add to it.  Evidence of Britain’s long history is everywhere from the walls around York to the stone circle of Ilkley to Hadrian’s Wall further North.  My mother, your sister, hunts down history relentlessly when she visits. My husband (and hers to be fair) often tease her about “looking for stones in ditches” but they cannot curb her enthusiasm.  Just don’t let on to the Brits how impressed you are to be touching something which has been standing since before the days of Christ because their smugness will be worse than Mom’s after winning a game of Bridge.

Watch a bit of telly.  If you do not get the opportunity to eavesdrop on public transport conversations, watching television is the next best thing.  News is particularly good for accent explorations, though it would have not been so a generation ago when Received Pronunciation (or as my students call it “talking posh”) was expected of presenters.  This is no longer the case.  Television presenters tend to use their regional accents, which makes it a great way to tune your ear.  In terms of other programming you will learn two things from watching a bit of British telly.  First, you will realise just how pervasive American culture is because we import a lot of programs.  This was a nasty shock for me when I first moved here, though not as horrifying as the McDonald’s sign fused to an ancient wall surrounding the Tower of London.  You will also realise the British are not so different from the Americans.  It’s not all Downton Abbey and Sherlock, some of our telly is truly awful.  We have fame whores flocking to reality shows, minor celebrities making idiots out of themselves and some truly questionable game shows—sometimes all three at once.  But there is new Doctor Who to look forward to and I will keep Mayday and The Secret of Crickhollow on the Sky Plus to restore your faith.  

Obviously this is not a comprehensive list but you are only here for a fortnight, Auntie.  I will fulfil my standard obligations: take you for tea at Betty’s and to Skipton so you can wander around a castle.  Then, when it inevitably gets to be too much, we can ditch the others and sod off to the pub.  But do not neglect the little cultural gems which can be found on your first trip to Yorkshire.

In the next installment of this 3-part series I will explain what NOT to do.

Ode To Snowdrops

The following includes an extract from my novel A Circle of Lost Sisters and photographs by Paul Elmer.

Ingrid arranged to meet Leighton at The Swan Café in the village of St Agnes Kirkmore, which lay at the foot of Kirk Moor—the largest if not the highest of The Fells.

The day was pleasant for February and a pale sun offered hints of the coming Spring.

Clusters of white Snowdrops gathered to swap stories of their long hiatus.

Tiny buds tested their strength along the bare limbs of welcoming trees.

Soon Crocuses would carpet the landscape, birds would warm up their mating songs and baby lambs would annoy their lazy mothers with demanding mouths and bouncing bodies that danced for joy with the discovery of what their brand new legs could do.

York’s Lost Son Found

Now is the winter of our discontent made…not quite “glorious summer” but at least “pretty pleasant spring” by this son of York.

The remains of Richard Duke of York, briefly King Richard III of England, have been found at the bottom of a car park (the last place anyone would think to look).  Yorkist historians across the world will be partying like it’s 1483.  The press conference televised  on BBC this morning made it quite clear the historians involved in the quest to identify Richard’s remains are thoroughly pleased with themselves–as they should be.  Thirty-nine minutes worth of evidence, explanations and visual aids preceded the final announcement that yes, indeed, it’s Richard.  Big hugs and high-fives all around!

Fans of the last Wars of the Roses Plantagenet King want very much to take this opportunity to clear Richard’s reputation so thoroughly slandered by William Shakespeare.  How exactly they plan to use a skeleton to do this is a bit beyond me.  Perhaps he hid a rolled up scroll in his femur saying words to to the effect of: “I never done those boys.  It were Henry I swear.  Just ask him, he filmed it on his mobile.”

I have to admit, much as I adore the Bard he does have a lot to answer for with his creative interpretation of history.  But with the Lancastrian family finally sticking their red rose up the crown, securing their victory through a Clan York marriage no less to usher in the Tudor dynasty…  What’s a poor playwright to do?  And anyway…how much damage did Shakespeare actually do?

I see Shakespeare’s Richard as more of an anti-hero, long before any other dramatists has a concept of what an anti-hero was.  The Bard gives Richard some of the best and bloody longest speeches in the Shakespearean cannon.  By the time he gets done with his pre-Bosworth soliloquy you’re almost cheering for the wordy bastard to die in some creatively nasty and blissfully silent fashion.  But there is also dramatic affection for this flawed king.  After all, he is the title character and has the most stage time.  He may be an evil hunchback, but, in a masterfully crafted and macabre scene of poetic seduction, he manages to pull the rather fit Anne–despite the fact he killed her first husband.  I ask you: how many men would kill for that kind of street cred?

No doubt the Pro-Richard of York supporters will be milking this unearthing of their slandered hero’s bones for some time to come.  I predict  very interesting interpretations of Shakespeare’s play on the horizon.  Perhaps the RSC should secure Brad Pitt for the role.  Trust me…no one will be looking at his hunched back!

To love another art form…

In the autumn of 1987 I was sixteen-years-old. Most of my week-ends that season were spent travelling to various Mid-Central Illinois (for some reason we qualify our geography twice) high schools to compete in Speech Team events. This involved waking just before the ass crack of dawn (3:30am) to get on a bus which took myself and a few dozen other teenaged zombies to wherever that week’s Speech Team Meet was held.

On one of these hazily remembered journeys I slumped in my bus seat, knees curled up and pressed against the back of the seat in front of me, head resting on my balled up coat against the icy window. There were no i-pods in the autumn of 1987, but we did have these semi-newfangled things called “Walkmans” (I insisted on calling mine a “Walkgirl”) just big enough for a cassette tape and a headphone jack. Then as now, pushing a pair of headphones into your ears on a bus was the universally-understood, non-confrontational method of hanging a “Piss Off” sign and slamming your door in the face of the world.

But not everyone stops to read signs. Or perhaps he took my sign as a challenge. He was a freshman, round-faced with an eager expression, sandy blonde curls and hands which seemed out of proportion with his young body. I glared at those long-fingers paws. They warned that this frisky puppy would soon evolve into a force to be reckoned with.

‘What you listening to?’ he asked wagging an invisible tail.

‘You wouldn’t like it,’ I grunted back.

I didn’t understand why he bothered. I was two years older and, according to everyone else, a fairly intimidating person. The only thing I knew about him, aside from his name, was that I didn’t like his older brother and his disproportionate hands worried me.

‘How do you know?’ he grinned. He had me there but I refused to give into his overtures.

‘You’ve never heard of it,’ I insisted.

‘Try me,’ he bounced. Sigh.

‘It’s Les Misérables. You probably can’t even pronounce it, so why don’t you just—

‘I love Les Miz!’ the puppy enthused.

He plopped down beside me, pulled out his own pair of headphones and shoved them into the second jack on my Walkgirl. We listened to the Original Broadway soundtrack for the rest of the bus ride. He made me listen to the London Cast recording on the return journey.

‘Want to come over to my house and make brownies?’ he asked once we were back in the school parking lot.

‘Sure,’ I shrugged.

Twenty-five years and who knows how many brownies later, that puppy (who did indeed grow into his massive paws) is still my best friend. In the spring of 1989 we sat together for the first national tour of Les Misérables in Chicago and he held my hand as I sobbed through the entire performance. I still have the ticket. From 1990-1996 nearly every intoxicated night ended with us regaling anyone too smashed to move with our rendition of the entire score, including orchestrations. We never resolved our debate over the best soundtrack (I was Team Broadway and he was Team London) but it never stopped us passionately arguing our case to the other.

I share this story to explain the meaningful role Les Misérables has played in my life. Already well schooled in musical theatre by the autumn of 1987, this exciting new show felt tailor-made for me. The score combined traditional musical structures with edgier instrumentations and more contemporary styled vocals. The story’s themes included friendship, drinking, sex, unrequited love, injustice, armed rebellion. And Enjorlas was HOT! What more could a teen drama queen want? Les Miz defined my adolescence and soundtracked one of my most profound relationships.

Apprehensive does not begin to describe my feelings in the lead up to the release of Cameron Mackintosh’s recent film version. I avoided it. I obsessed about it. I feared it. In a fit of stubbornness I vowed not to go, but the first trailer weakened me. Already familiar tingles of emotion crept up through the years and gripped my heart. Could the film version of my beloved musical friend deliver?

For me, the answer is mostly: yes.

From the opening sequence this film shows us something theatre cannot through the sheer scale of the shots and sets. You could never fit that many miserable chain gang convicts even on the biggest Broadway revolve stage. There are many other moments like this in which Mackintosh indulges in the privilege of having endless cameras and locations at his disposal. The panning shots of At the End of the Day and Look Down capture the atmosphere and degradation of Victor Hugo’s France as does Lamarque’s funeral procession which leads majestically into Do You Hear the People Sing.

Conversely, Mackintosh takes advantage of close-ups to wrench some truly intimate emotional moments from his actors. Anne Hathaway’s performance, hyped to near goddess like expectations, does not disappoint. I Dreamed a Dream is always a poignant moment in the play, but with the lens so close it becomes emotionally painful—in a good way. Other times I found myself wishing the camera would give the actors a bit more space. These songs were made for a large theatrical venue. They need room to breathe and so does the audience. I felt this particularly with some of Hugh Jackman’s solos. Those big notes need a bigger camera shot. Even the more intimate songs like On My Own have a unique impact when you see them in a huge amphitheatre: tiny actress all alone on the big stage singing her heart out in a way that makes her look so abandoned, fragile and insignificant compared with the events engulfing her. I missed that in the film version. But that is the beauty of different art forms—they have different things to offer.

As I watched the film (when I wasn’t reaching for more tissue), I found myself thinking the same thought I nearly always think when seeing a film version of a stage play: can I please have this same cast in a stage version? Sweeney Todd, Noises Off, Hairspray—I would love to see Johnny Depp do a short run of Sweeney (ok, bad example…I would love to see Johnny Depp do anything anywhere anytime). Les Misérables creators Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil should write a sequel just for Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter. Even Russell Crowe delivered a decent performance. Obviously not in the same category as Hathaway or Jackman but they have far more experience with musical theatre. Admittedly Stars was, to quote my friend Suzanne, “too big a song for him” but he certainly was not the embarrassment I had been led to expect.

Little moments in the film seem to pay homage to the universally loved stage production. Dammit if Mackintosh doesn’t find a way to arrange Enjorlas’ dead body in a tableau identical to the staged version, red banner and all. Colm Wilkinson’s cameo as the priest who offers Jean Valjean his redemption is like a cheeky, affectionately blown kiss to legions of fans who fondly remember the Irish tenor, originator of the lead role.  Even my beloved Frances Ruffelle, the only Eponine I will ever recognise, makes a cameo.

So yes, the 2012 film version of Les Misérables delivers. As we used to say on those long ago Speech Team bus trips: “I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.” If only my best friend could have held my hand through it all, it might have been a perfect theatre experience.

Tour de Aye-Up!

This week Yorkshire has been celebrating our successful bid to host the Grand Depart of the 2014 Tour de France.  The Tour de France!  Starting in little old Yorkshire!  Best of all: it will be practically coming down my street in Harrogate.

Rock hard northern sports fans lined the square in front of Leeds Town Hall in near blizzard (for Yorkshire) conditions to show their support and excitement.  Neville Longbottom himself, aka local lad Matthew Lewis, lent his sparkling (though slightly incongruous given the occasion) celebrity presence to the event.  City leaders cracked open the fireworks and every Bed and Breakfast owner in the county cracked open the champagne.  Everyone is just so proud and excited.

Except me.  I am frankly confused.  It’s the Tour de France.  FRANCE, people!  Yorkshire is a long way from France, especially if you’re going by bicycle.  Even my lousy American education knows that is not geographically sensible.  From the multiple eye rolls I get from my cycle-loving Brit family members I can tell I have revealed my Euro-Ignorance again.  In my defense I don’t know much about American Bicycling Sports Events either.  Or any American sports events really–aside from ones no one can avoid like the World Series or the Some Bowl or Other.  But it’s amazing how quickly you can educate yourself about a topic you normally wouldn’t care about when said topic shows up on your doorstep.

This has been a stellar year for British cycling.  Bradley Wiggans won the 2012 Tour de France.  Team GB cyclists ruled the Olympics in several categories.  Cycling appears to be Britain’s thing at the moment–all capped off nicely by a winning bid to host 2014′s most prestigious cycling event.  But how is possible that the Tour de France is coming to Yorkshire?  Isn’t it…you know…in FRANCE?

I had always been under the impression that the Tour de France was a big bike race around France.  I base this on my extensive sporting knowledge which  comes exclusively  from the film Bellville Rendevous or The Triplets of Belleville.  Considering this is an animated film with no dialogue it’s probably not surprising that I learned virtually nothing about the actual sporting event at the heart of it.

Fortunately for me, I car pool with and am related to a pair of enthusiastic amateur cyclists who were only too happy to educate me a few basic facts of the Tour de France.

• Fact One: The Tour de France is not just a single race.   The tour takes place in 20 different stages.  Each stage differs in terms of length and type of course.  The first, called the Prologue, is a timed heat which takes place in France along a flat course.  The proper race begins elsewhere.  This is known as The Grand Depart.
• Fact Two: The Tour de France does not take place exclusively in France.  The Tour de France Grand Depart usually takes place in one of the surrounding countries.  In 2012 it began in Liege, Belgium.  This year it will begin on the island of Corsica.  In 2014 it begins in Yorkshire (which is a long way off being a “surrounding country” but hey–we won so suck it up).  In fact, the first three stages of the twenty stage race take place in the UK before moving on to France, finishing in Paris.
• Fact Three: One does not simply “win” the Tour de France.  In fact, there are several different ways to win the Tour and the winners can change from day to day, from stage to stage.  Obviously the most prestigious honour is to end the race with shortest over-all time.  This is calculated for each day.  On the following day of the race, the competitor with the shortest time gets to wear the coveted but frankly unattractive Yellow Jersey.  At the end of The Tour, the cyclist with the shortest accumulated time wins.  In 2012 that honour went to British superhero and side-burn god Bradley Wiggans who was the first British cyclist ever to win the Tour de France.  However, you can also win by crossing the finish line first at the end of the last day of the race.  In 2012 this went to another Brit and half-Yorkshire lad Mark Cavendish.  (Told you British cycling was on a high.)  For the best time on hills there is  the King of the Mountain title which earns you an even less attractive polka dot jersey, making the biker look a bit like Minnie Mouse.  The Green jersey goes to the best sprinter, the White to the best under 25  and my personal favourite the Red Jersey goes to the most aggressive cyclist as judged by commissaires (referees).

Thus concludes my knowledge of the Tour de France.  I now know more about this event than I have ever known about any other sporting competition anywhere ever.  Despite my general ignorance I am excited for my adopted county.  For the revenue it will generate for tourism and the attention which will be lavished on the beautiful countryside I love.  Although if those idiotic southern journalists refer to our moors as “bleak” one more time, I might have to get all Yankee on their Home County asses.  And we all know how terrifying that can be.

I love Panto! Oh, yes I do!

For a lover of theatre, Christmas means one thing in Britain: Panto Season.  As a teacher of Drama, it is often the only common language my young students and I can speak because Pantomime is nearly every child’s introduction to live theatre (my youngest daughter attended her first at the age of three months).  There must be some childhood magic in the Panto mix because even a board-hardened theatre veteran like myself felt like a born again audience virgin after my first Panto performance.  I have laughed at the theatre before, I have cried, been stirred to anger, re-considered my place in the world and felt such terror I could not go near my basement for months (Woman in Black) but I have seldom had so much fun in the stalls as I have at a Christmas Panto.

But what is Panto—or Pantomime?  First of all, let me clear up one obvious misconception.  I am not talking about the white-faced, voice-free performance artists invisi-boxing their way through our urban landscapes.  Panto is theatre; Panto is Christmas; Panto is chaos!  Panto is just about the only thing which can entice my father to brave trans-Atlantic holiday travel and the UK’s December weather.  Panto is also impossible to describe for someone who has never seen one.

The closest I came to adequately explaining Panto to a fellow Yankee: “It’s a bit like Rocky Horror Picture Show…for toddlers.”  This might prepare someone for the raucous atmosphere, irreverent humour and insane song and dance numbers but it doesn’t really begin to address the beloved place Panto occupies in the hearts of the British.

Pantomimes are based in fairy tales: Aladdin, Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk, Dick Whittington and Snow White are the most common titles.  Traditional Pantomime will feature an elderly female character called a “Dame” played by a male actor.  If the Panto is truly traditional then its hero, known as the “Principal Boy”, will be played by a female—preferably a rather sexy one wearing tights and slapping her thighs frequently.  (Sadly, the practise of Principal Boy is dying out—except in Harrogate!)  It will also include a “Harlequin” character: a comically useless servant who provides slapstick comedy and plot complications.  Naturally, there is also a villain who lives in a tight green spotlight throughout the performance.

Pantomimes thrive on audience participation.  In this respect it is a bit like the Olde Timey Melodramas which are a summertime feature in some parts of the US (Nebraska, for some reason, loves a good Mellerdrammer).  But Panto is far more involved than just cheering for the hero and booing the villain.  There are specific catch phrases which must be used, which is where the similarity to Rocky Horror comes in.  If a character on stage says “Oh yes it is,” you must shout back “Oh no it isn’t!” and vice versa.  This banter can be initiated by the audience and may go on for several minutes.   You also might be required to sing and/or dance.

Pantomimes are a feast of spectacle.  Thousands of technical cues, hundreds of costumes (and that’s just for the Dame), dozens of sets, music, dance, colour, pyrotechnics, glitter balls, live animals, fake animals, black light sequences, audience chase scenes…  Anything spectacular that can happen in the theatre happens in Pantomime.

Above all, a visit to the Panto is fun!  Take your babies, take your grannies, your teen hoodlums, drunken colleagues, crazy neighbour—all are welcome at the Panto party.  You can laugh loudly, sing badly, dance in the aisles, shout at the actors and wear spangled fairy wings.  There is a good reason why the Holiday Season is Panto Season. Because that is what Pantomime truly is: a festive theatrical celebration!

In Yorkshire we are particularly blessed to host two Pantomimes nationally recognised for their artistic merit and faithfulness to the traditions of Panto: York Theatre Royal and Harrogate Theatre.  While I accept the technical and artistic superiority of the York productions, my loyalty is to our own Harrogate Panto.  In a Berwick Kaler v Tim Stedman slapstick showdown, I’d put a fiver on Steddy every time.

Of course, not everyone adores Panto Season as I do.  There are the haters and the Scrooges out there who despise the low brow humour, the antique jokes purchased whole sale from a dodgy street vendor in a long coat and the OTTness of it all.  Recently, Panto has attracted attention from international celebrities.  This has both challenged and confirmed the hater’s views.  The Royal Shakespeare Company’s beloved son Ian McKellen famously mentioned in an interview that he regretted never doing Pantomime.  As Artistic Director of The Old Vic, Kevin Spacey heard Sir Ian’s plaintive cry and cast him as the Dame Widow Twankey in Aladdin.  Several years ago, Henry Winkler of all people discovered the joys of Pantomime and has spent his holidays in the UK ever since.  Patrick Duffy, David Hasslehoff and Pamela Anderson have similarly been tempted across the pond for Panto.  I do wonder if Miss Anderson knew she was a mid-season replacement for drag queen Lily Savage when she took the job.

Whether it’s York or Harrogate or the London Palladium, no American visiting Britain at this festive time of year should be allowed back on the plane without producing their Pantomime ticket stub. But you musn’t go into the theatre blindly.  You must enter it with an open heart, a childish exuberance and a magic wand.