Gertsamtkunstwerk

Iphigenie en Tauride, at the Met

I didn't know this opera at all four months ago. So it was little short of lunacy to book myself, and then also Jimmy, a ticket, to go and see it, not at the opera house a bus ride away, but at one three and a half thousand miles away. As it happened, I already had a DVD, purchased as part of the seemingly ongoing Del Prado part works of Opera on DVD. Plus, I had also purchased a ticket for the Royal Opera house's production (jointly with Chicago and San Francisco) of the same opera, with some of the same cast, but not, crucially Oreste.

So, by the time the Met production opened I was not entirely unfamiliar with the opera, having in the interim downloaded two more recordings off t'internet. I did consider listening to the opening night over the web, but it was on at 1 am my time, midweek, at a time when my body was instructing me to go to bed at 8 pm (and then wake up at 5 am, but never mind that...), and there seems to be no way to set up a timed recording from the Met's streaming. So, it was only five days before Departure Day that I got to listen to this particular version, when it was broadcast on various radio stations, including BBC Radio 3 as part of the Met Broadcast season. And then I couldn't stop listening over and over again. There is a fundamental flaw in repeat listenings to a live recording, mainly that every mis-step is implanted in the brain just as surely as the music. By mis-step I mean all the things picked up by the, reportedly, very close miking, including the wheezing of the conductor, the overloud prompter, stage noise, audience noise and so on. At least I was able to satisfy myself that it was likely to be a very good performance, at least vocally, although considering the situation of my seat I was a bit worried that things like the wheezing conductor and shouting prompter might encroach on my ears, live. I also already knew that this was going to be no period interpretation, unlike at Covent Garden when it was the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment playing on proper old-fashioned instruments. In actual fact, the presence of modern instruments bothered me less in practice than it did in theory, with the strings in particular giving a vigorous work-out and abandoning the slushy 19th century approach. I did miss the period oboe though, at one key point.

I have to confess that I am thoroughly confused about the difference between the versions for Oreste as a baritone and as a tenor, and short of sitting down with both scores, or playing excerpts, almost phrase for phrase, I don't think I can work it out. Still, with baritone Keenlyside straying into tenor rep, and tenor Domingo veering to baritone, I would love to have an analysis of the crucial differences between their respective fachs.

So, I arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center NY NY way way too early but in plenty of time to pick up tickets (and additionally purchase more for the next day's Romeo et Juliette).  I took my seat just minutes before the curtain was due to go up,. becoming increasingly excited, and also nervous. But so far, no suggestion that he would cancel, and why should he, but you know, I live in fear of sod's law. I assess my seat, Row A of Orchestra, not bad, not bad at all. A bit to the left, which was slightly disappointing, but I had perfect sight lines. I was next to the double basses and in line with the harpsichord.

The curtain rose, for some reason it was a red curtain, not the usual mustard-coloured one that is so familiar from videos and they seem to insist on calling 'gold'. I was utterly disappointed at the total absence of Applause for the Scenery, despite me being in the opera house that is known internationally as The Place Where They Applaud the Scenery. There are some wonderful photographs of the production which, together with the recording of the Met broadcast, will serve as a memento. To me it's a crying shame that this wonderful performance was omitted from the simulcast schedule and thus not committed to video. I see no indication whatsoever that Plácido is going to sing this role again, anywhere, but I fervently hope he does,  and preferably in Europe.

I have now reached the stage where I think that this opera is quite possibly up there in my Top Ten. I am so very unfamiliar with the work of Gluck -  a couple of years ago I attended the (would you believe it?) UK premier of his La Clemenza di Tito and was stunned by its gorgeousness. But Iphigenie en Tauride is even more gorgeous. I would go so far as to say that Act II is as good as any other act in any other opera.

Of course, there is a clue in the title as to who the main character is, Iphigenie, played by Susan Graham, who never left the stage during the entire performance. The other two main characters are Pylade (tenor, Paul Groves) and Oreste (baritone, tenor,whatever, Plácido Domingo). And there are some other minor characters, too.

So, the set was divided into three. Approximately two-thirds consisted of the temple, with an altar and a statue of Diana dominating, this is where the action in Act I and for most of Acts III and IV happened. Another approximate third, which was in front of me,was the prison cell where I ought to have known Oreste and Pylade would be held. The balance was to my extreme left and seemed to serve no purpose except as a place where guards and dancers etc distracted from the main action.

It was not actually until Act II, when the blokes were flung into jail that it suddenly dawned on me - directly in front of me, not more than a few feet away, my view totally unrestricted , Plácido Domingo was singing whilst rolling around the floor in chains. I'm not a bondage freak by any means, but trust me, opera doesn't get any better than that (insert big grin!). Remember, I was on Row A of Orchestra. This was pretty much the view I got.  He spent a lot of time rolling around on the floor, falling to the floor, and on his knees on the floor. Looking at him throwing himself round stage, and, especially, listening to this unbelievably gorgeous voice, I did have this thought 'I can't believe he's 67 next month' and then I thought 'so what, just enjoy what is before your eyes and ears'. And actually, as is so often the case, I didn't really spend a lot of time thinking 'That's Plácido Domingo right in front of me' compared to the amount of time I was thinking 'This Oreste is bloody good'. And time and again it happens, despite me being so familiar with his voice, I hear a sound that is breathtaking in its beauty, a phrase that makes me subconsciously think 'does singing get any more beautiful than this?'. Not that he was going for constant beauty of tone; there was as much drama as beauty. Especially in the Mad Scene when he's being played by Klytemnestra's Furies. (Jimmy said he was wearing kneepads, I can't say I noticed but Jimmy is motivated by grudge or jealousy or something...). I have to say though, that I was concerned about his chest hair. I wasn't sure whether he had shaved it, or covered it with lots of make up, but it didn't seem as prominent as it had done in Die Walkure or, indeed, in the photos on the Met site (which I guess were taken at the Dress Rehearsal).

Impressed as I was by Plácido, it would not be fair to attend this and not heap praise on Susan Graham. Once or twice, it seemed that she was struggling to hit a couple of high notes, but that didn't in anyway diminish a wonderful performance, vocally and dramatically. Fiendishly  difficult passages, a range of emotions coming out in her vocal acting, and an utterly convincing stage performance that never had me thinking 'that's Susan Graham' but always 'Iphigénie'. And Paul Groves also gave an excellent performance, a sweet voice, and whilst not an overwhelming stage presence, he certainly impressed.

Also worth mentioning was Diana as played by Michele Losier. Completely stunning in appearance, she had two moments in the opera, at the start and at the end. Both times she descended to the stage on a wire, the first time, she managed to take Iphigenie away with her (as they flashed back to events fifteen years earlier) and at the end she got to fondle Oreste, not that I was jealous, of course not. She sounded good and looked stunning, a bit Goth in her get-up and drop dead gorgeous. Jimmy claims that at the curtain call, Plácido grabbed her, but I think he's just making that up, motivated by grudge and jealousy, because I never noticed and I didn't take my eyes off Plácido in the curtain call.

The low point of the opera was the choreography of the dance in between Acts I and II. At one stage it seemed like the bastard offspring of the worst of Cossack dancing and the best of morris dancing, if that doesn't imply that Morris dancing has a 'best', which it doesn't. That was a shame because the personenregie was excellent (helped no doubt by the presence of excellent acting singers).

Although I was disappointed by the absence of Scenery Applause, I was delighted that a smattering of people in the audience applauded when Plácido made his entrance, regardless of the through-composed nature of the opera. Because that's another thing 'they' do at the Met - but I was a bit disappointed it was isolated culprits, not the audience as a whole ;-)

I didn't go backstage or whatever to meet Plácido afterwards. I had thought about it and decided not to, despite so many people saying that he would be delighted to see me, having travelled from London. It struck me after Die Walkure that there's actually a conflict in my mind.  Seeing him on stage, not just because he's so good in that particular performance, but because of his legendary status, is a special treat. However, because he is such an approachable, down-to-earth, likeable person, with a total absence of divo mannerisms, it almost breaks the spell of him being a Legend, because he doesn't have the attitude of a Legend.

Particularly because I was in a strange city and a strange opera house, I thought it would be nice, for a change, to be in a position where he's not that nice man who is so approachable and affable post-performance but an exalted Legend appearing at the Exotic and Legendary Metropolitan Opera House. I would respect and like him less if he was any different personality-wise, yet conversely, because he's so nice, it does break the spell of the performance slightly. It even struck me the next day, when he took to the podium to conduct, appearing avuncular or maybe grandfatherly was a big big contrast from how I had previously seen him, as a warrior king (albeit in a dodgy wig).

I realise that this review is impressionistic. It's difficult to remember every detail, now at eight days' remove, and on just one viewing. I am terribly disappointed that this won't be available on video. I don't think I shall ever forget the impact of the performance, but with the inevitable ravishes of time, the clarity of my memory will fade. I suppose it was a pretty brave decision of him to take a new route in his career like this. He has nothing to prove, and potentially a lot to lose. But it was also a clever decision, I think the role suited his voice perfectly and his dramatic impersonation was lacking nothing. I realise it's entirely unfair to make comparisons with Simon Keenlyside, who was obviously under the weather when I saw him in this, but of the two performances, I would rate Plácido's above Simon's.

Romeo et Juliette at the Met

I tease, I shall write a review of Iphigenie en Tauride after R&J, although R&J was the second opera I saw. I only managed to secure tickets the night before, when collecting our I en T tickets at the Box Office. It had been consistently sold out since public booking opened, but I had been repeatedly reassured that I would get returns, or failing that, find someone by the Lincoln Center fountain selling tickets on the day. We managed to secure tickets in the Dress Circle which was okay. Yes, it would have been nice to have been directly behind the conductor but that wasn't going to happen.

This was the performance that was broadcast on the radio and to cinemas in various places, not least Clapham Common. I was ruing the irony of going all the way to New York and not being able to see a performance that was being shown seven bus stops from home. Not that I would travel to see Plácido conduct, but if I had been in London I would have travelled to Clapham Common to see the cinema screening. And, as I was in New York, it seemed silly not at least to try.

I woke up on the Saturday morning thinking 'I'm going to see the World's Greatest Singer conduct?' nothing against his conducting, honest, but It's a singer and a person I admire him, not especially as a conductor. Apart from anything else, except at the extremes (brilliant or atrocious) I really can't judge conducting performances by anyone. Then I thought, get a grip, woman, you will be seeing your hero. And if that isn't enough, there is the minor fact of the leading singers being Roberto Alagna and Anna Netrebko. There aren't many opera stars bigger than them.

Other than the big 'numbers' I don't really know this opera, and, don't tell my mother, I really don't know the story either. Oh sure, I know the basic plot-line - heck, I've seen West Side Story and that film - Shakespeare in Love, isn't it - but I've never actually seen the play on which it is based.

I had mixed feelings about the performance. I still can't comment on the conducting. It seemed fine to me. Some people on the net have mentioned minor issues, but I don't know. Jimmy, an expert on conducting /g, thinks that Plácido should conduct with more passion and less intellect. He did run that one by the women sitting next to him, but they basically told him that Plácido is beyond criticism! thank goodness I wasn't sitting near anyone like that. The women to my left (mid fifties, I'd say) screamed like schoolgirls when Plácido took his curtain calls. I thought 'hmm, I can do that too' so did!

I don't really know what to make of the production. I liked the scenery, although I didn't applaud it, not even at the start of Act 4 when the curtain opens on the Famous Floating Bed. The basic set for the first part (Acts I-III) was a rotating cut-out circle with an astrological clock on it. At all times the scenery was worth looking at. I was really not so sure about the production itself. It seemed to be a game of two halves. Utterly boring when neither of the leading roles were on stage, and springing to life when they were. Hon mensh must go to Isabel Leonard who almost stole the show as a very vivacious Stefano,and also to Robert Lloyd who was captivating in the small but crucial role as Frère Laurent.. But the rest were dull. i was especially disappointed by Nathan Gunn, who is supposed to be a Big Star but really didn't make it past the footlights dramatically and whose voice didn't carry to where I was sitting. I will admit that, under an overhang is not acoustically a good spot in any opera house, but I had no trouble hearing the aforementioned four stars. As for the chorus and general line-up of comprimarios, well, they were never better than adequate and at times risable. I was particularly underwhelmed by the personenregie of the chorus. They seemed to deliver every chorus number rooted to the spot, and on the one occasion they moved, it was in sync (almost!) one step forward, then another step forward. Just like a school production. And I'm afraid that the rest of the cast was forgettable.

It was of course the Roberto and Anna show. When they were on stage, especially together, but also individually, they forced me to take my eyes off the conductor. Both of them superb at the dramatic portrayal. Also, it was Officially Roberto Alagna's turn to wear the impossibly tight trousers. There are lots of photos in the Met database but I must draw your attention to this. There doesn't seem to be any photos of his rear view, which is a shame, because it is so rare to see such a perfect derriere, especially on a man who won't see 40 again. Still, it will be shown on TV in the spring, and, presumably a DVD will be out in a year or so.  It was actually the first time I have heard him live, and his performance confirmed what I had already decided from DVD etc. He is a natural stage performer. Singing-wise he seems brilliant in all the 'in-between' bits but when it comes to the big number notably Ah! Lève-toi, soleil and Nuit d'hyménée, he is less impressive. Bizarre. I also noticed during that duet, when Anna hit the big O#, she couldn't keep her eyes off the conductor.

Ah, yes Anna! Is their any singer that so divides the aficionados as Ms Netrebko? Indeed, is there any singer about whom I am so conflicted? I am a massive fan of hers, and yet there are plenty of sopranos, let alone other voices, I would rather hear. I suppose because she is so praised, and so criticised, one has unreasonable expectations of her. I'm tempted to say, she's nothing special, when I actually mean, she's nothing perfect, and there are no perfect singers, not even Señor ChestHair. But she is mighty impressive. I couldn't find a flaw in her perfomance, although I have read that she fluffed the Je veux vivre. Maybe she did, and I can't plead ignorance of this arietta, but I was distracted by someone's funky disco thud thud ringtone going off, not once but twice, a few rows in front of me (and again after the interval...if I could have identified the culprit, foreign country or not, I would marched up to them and flung their blasted cellphone over the parapet. And a funky thud thud disco ringtone, puhlease, I was the youngest person in the audience and I eschewed funky thud thud long before I got a cellphone - and I was a relatively early adopter...). But it's as they always say - you have to hear her in the house. Her physicality and stage presence adds to an already impressive vocal performance; opera's a visual as well as an aural artform. If you think Dead Divas on scratchy 78s are vastly superior, stay Shut In with your Mapleson Cylinders and STFU. I enjoyed Anna's performance. Jimmy was annoyed I left the binoculars in the hotel room. As if I would have let him have them to gawp at Anna when I could have been using them to gawp at Plácido.

Overall, a satisfying performance, and I was pleased to get to hear Roberto Alagna who is persona non grata at ROH and relegated to Proms in the Park. But it wasn't the best performance of the year nor even of the weekend. But I shall certainly watch it when it comes on the TV.

Incidentally, Plácido was wearing a lounge suit to conduct, which I suppose is appropriate for a matinée, but it seemed strange. I suppose I tend to prefer my conductors in either full evening dress or Mao-style shirt a la mode of Elder and Pappano. but if he had turned up in jeans and t-shirt I would still have been gawping him at every opportunity. I couldn't help notice how the spotlight picked out his bald spot, which, for his age, isn't especially noticeable (someone once told me that when men lose their head hair it gravitates to their chest...), but did seem so under the spotlight. Sigh. Ah well, such is the lot of conductors - they get to display their irresistible conductors' shoulders but also their bald patches.

Update: I've thought a bit more about what I wanted to say about Plácido's conducting. I think, if it hadn't been him, I wouldn't have especially noticed him, which is a good thing, I think. I noticed him because he is him, if you get me. I noticed that sometimes he had both arms moving in sync, which is probably not a good thing, but at other times they moved independently, which is a good thing. I also noticed that he pointed a lot to cue people in, instrumentalists  or singers. And that he can't really stand still on the podium. He was dancing along to the music a lot of the time. Not in an irritating Seiji Ozawa sort of way but just on the spot, as if he was enjoying the music.

New York New York...

...so good they named it twice. Or something...

I am just about recovered from my long weekend in the Big Apple. Well, I did recover physically a while ago but there has been a certain amount of catching-up, and anticipation of BahHumbug Day, to do.

It was non-stop excitement and non-stop.

When the Victoria Line decided to conk out at Victoria I thought that that was a foretaste of problems to come, but, actually, that was the only thing that went wrong in the entire trip. And me knowing Victoria like the inside of my hand, I was able to get to the secret taxi rank whilst thousands queued at the well-known one.

Instant check-in at Heathrow, and then time to get something to eat. Surrounded by paparazzi, as it happens. I was chatting to the paps, they were awaiting the Spice Girls. Which was sort of exciting. I am not disappointed at not seeing them, although it would have been mildly interesting to witness the process. As it was, I engaged my cynicism gene. I am almost positively certain that if they had wished to slip in discretely, it would have been within the powers of Heathrow to afford them VIP treatment. But presumably, the paparazzi in pursuit is their lifeblood, all carefully co-ordinated by a PR machine.

We joined the security queue just at the right moment, when the man started asking people on flights at 1630 and 1635 to step forward (we were on the 1635). It amused me that other people had been standing for half an hour or more in vain. Suckers...And by the time we had finished in Duty Free our flight was being called. The flight over was without incident. Because we had booked our tickets separately, we were not initially seated together, but that was changed at the gate. I was sitting next to a slender woman who was sitting next to her small daughter. The seats in front were taken by a large number of children of Primary School age and below and there were quite a few more small children in our part of the plane. I was slightly apprehensive at the implications, but every child was impeccably behaved; I only really noticed the presence of any small children when, at the precise point my ears began really to hurt on descent, a wailing came from a few rows back!

Immigration was a pain. Literally. We queued for a very long time in a room without any seats. I amused myself by eavesdropping on the Italian cabin crew being very very rude about French people. I always feel it is unwise to make assumptions about the language skills of random people standing nearby!

Regarding my criminal past, I had been advised to lie. In the event it wasn't necessary. The green slip of paper merely asked for details of criminal convictions involving drugs, moral turpitude or imprisonment of more than five years. As I don't know what moral turpitude is, and the others certainly don't apply, I did not lie and have a clear conscience. As we went through, the Homeland Security Official asked us if we were a family. I said yes, he asked the relationship, I said living together and engaged. He said 'you're not a family - yet'.

Insolent sod, I thought, how dare you pass judgement? Would it make a difference if we have bred, would the presence or otherwise of products of breeding be material? What do you say to gay couples who are 'civil partnered' or married? I deferentially replied "If you say so..."

As we strolled to the taxi stand, I reflected to Jimmy how nice it would be to visit a foreign country where we wouldn't be constantly harangued by people trying to get you into their shop or restaurant. However, we were immediately confronted by taxi touts who kept telling us how long the taxi line was. I must admit it did look long, but illegal taxis are the oldest trick in the book and a constant in every tourist destination. I can't believe that people still fall for that one. Just when I thought we might be stood there all night, a cavalcade of twenty taxis turned up. The driver hands a slip of paper to an official, who hands it to me. This has the driver's badge number and instructions on how to complain. The official told me, what a friend had already told me - the fare to Manhattan is $45 plus $4 toll plus tip.

And we were at our Midtown hotel in fifteen minutes. I repeat, fifteen minutes - JFK to Manhattan. Is that a record? But even in that time Jimmy managed to get travel sick, so all he wanted to do was get a beer to settle his stomach. (Alternative medicine?) The area around our hotel didn't seem very salubrious at that time of night but we fell upon a Plastic Paddy pub. We stepped outside for a cigarette and I suggested he looked up. He was peering at the signs over the pub so I said "Up! up!"

"That's tall!" he said. Yes, I said, that's the Empire State Building. It's quite famous for being tall!

As we turned in at 1 am, I reflected that my body didn't seem to know that it was 6 am body time. I am good at that adjustment at the start of a holiday, totally useless at the end.

For me, all that mattered on the Friday was the tickets we had to the opera. A heady mixture of excitement and sick with nerves, trying not to think of all the things that might go wrong - Plácido cancelling, me not being able to find Lincoln Center, us being captured by the White Slave Traders and being whisked away to a seedy part of Outer New York. Or New Jersey. Every time I received a text I was sick with nerves in case someone was letting me know Plácido had cancelled.

But we did manage to do a bit of Fifth Avenue - wandering around Lord and Taylor, peering at the Christmas Tree and Ice Rink in Rockefeller Plaza, and popping into St Pat's Cathedral. I then decided to flag down a taxi and say "Take us to Greenwich village, somewhere where there are restaurants." An entirely random decision, but I wanted a decent lunch. Himself was having severe motion sickness, but the taxi set us down outside a Plastic Paddy Pub so that was alright. He was Himself after a beer.

We strolled around looking at menus outside restaurants, eventually deciding on a Spanish one that looked attractive. We went in and asked for a table, the hostess said 'fifteen minutes' which was fine by us. I then noticed a framed photo just inside the door. Presumably of restaurant management posing with a rather famous Spaniard (clue - he's a singer and conductor). Jimmy groaned 'I can't escape from That Man' but conceded that it was probably tantamount to a recommendation. And we certainly had a fine meal, which set me up nicely for the walk back to our hotel. Over thirty blocks, did I complain? And all for his Travel Sickness, otherwise I would have hailed a cab.

We managed to get a lie-down before getting ready to go out. I was nervous about my ability to navigate the Subway, about how long the line at the Box Office would be, and still sick with nerves in case I had come all this way only to find a rare Domingo cancellation. In the event, the Subway was unproblematic and we arrived with more than an hour to spare. Before we had even entered the opera house I already spotted a familiar face. I commented to Jimmy "I keep seeing that woman, at Covent Garden, when we went to Berlin, and now here. I think she follows Plácido around the world..." I don't know why he gave me a strange look.

After Iphigenie en Tauride (yes, I will write a review later, don't fret) we were both hungry. For some reason we ended up at Hard Rock Cafe at Times Square. By the Restrooms I spotted Billy Joel's motorbike. I was sort of impressed until I remembered that the first time I had visited the States I had spent some time with my Aunt's God-daughter who often used to spot Billy Joel in the local supermarket. Having noted 'Allentown' on the flight route map, I embarked on a Billy Joel Tribute Weekend. When trying to decide which way to get the Subway at one point
I said 'Uptown, because I'm an Uptown Girl.' A song I later heard in another Plastic Paddy Pub.

On the Saturday we had a big breakfast before heading to Lincoln Center for Romeo et Juliette (review later, I promise). Himself was moaning, I didn't come here for Bloody Opera, to which I said 'Fuck You' because there was no way I would have organised the trip without the opera, he decided to tag along later, knowing full well what my plans were!

After R&J I phoned Pampano and reserved a table. Because of Jimmy's travel sickness and my misreading of the Subway map I decided that the only way to get there was walking. I'm sure at some other time it would have been a pleasant stroll, but at approximately five pm on a Saturday ten days before Christmas? Do me a favour! When the sidewalks were reasonably clear people decided to walk really slowly, strung out across the pavements. Grr, Bloody Tourists I moaned, forgetting I wasn't in my own city, where I hate Bloody Tourists. Also, my superb navigational skills hadn't taken into consideration that we would be crossing Fifth at Rockefeller Plaza. Nor having to pass Santa outside Radio City Music Hall. Grr, BahHumbug, it's only a man dressed up as Santa, you don't have to have your photo taken with him, not if you're blocking my route!

Pampano was definitely worth the walk! We started with cocktails and Guacomole, which set us up well. At the waitress's recommendation we took the Signature Dishes - Tacos de Langosta and Huachinango, with Platanos Fritos. Hmm, Snapper and Plantain, very Sarf London - but not exactly served Sarf London style. My only criticism was that there was a bean in the salad that I didn't especially like. Broad bean I think, I'm not sure, but I have never cared for its taste. But one can't blame a restaurant for serving an ingredient I have never liked! For pud I had an almond tart; Jimmy had ice cream, which passed his formidable ice cream test. After the main course we stood up to pop outside for a cigarette, the waitress was really worried, is anything wrong. Not at all, we assured her, just popping out for a cigarette! When we had finished, and I was in the restroom, Jimmy was telling the waitress why we were there, and wondered if if I could take any memorabilia away, so she suggested he asked the hostess for a souvenir wine list. I now have a wine list from Pampano, so maybe next time I see Plácido, I might ask him to sign it! We only really went there because it's his restaurant, but, you know, we know a thing or two about restaurants and about food, and I would recommend it to anybody (except vegetarians!). I suppose it helps if you're a fish/seafood fan but there is some meat on the menu. Everything was just perfect, the service, the decor, everything.

On the Sunday after another hearty breakfast, we did a rapid fire attack on the menswear department of Macy's. I was not entirely convinced that Jimmy was getting the bargains he believed he was. Sure, he was getting Calvin Klein shirts a lot cheaper than he would at home, but personally I see no point in paying a premium for a brand. At least they don't have a logo on them.

We then met up with Richard off the internet, whom I have met a couple of times in London. We agreed to meet outside Carnegie Hall, I asked how to get to Carnegie Hall. Disappointingly, he said, 'Get the Subway to 57th and 7th' whereas the real answer is 'practice, practice, practice...'! He had a number of suggestions at what to do, but by that time my body had declared walking to be totally impossible. First of all, owing to my desperate flight from Macy's due to an unfortunate need to retch (JFK, the Met restrooms, foot of the Empire State building, Richard Tucker Square, Macy's...I picked my retching points in NY well...more impressive than Millbank, Brixton Hill, Streatham High Road, work, home, but I'm over the retching now, funny how the hormonal side-effects linger weeks after the main event...), we needed the loo desperately, so we sneaked into the spa at Hampshire House (I believe there are some celebrity residents of Hampshire House*...)

We then went for a horse-drawn carriage ride around Central Park, which was not necessarily the most obvious thing to do in the snow and biting wind but actually was a bloody good idea. Central Park in the snow! I have seen it, crowded, in exceptional June heat, and now, nearly deserted and snow-covered, looking really quite different! We then went for a guided (by Richard) tour of the Upper West (and some of the Upper East) Side, parts of Manhattan I had not previously seen. Being a local, he sent packing one taxi that wouldn't let Jimmy sit in the front; sitting in the front and looking ahead was much better for the avoidance of travel sickness! It was interesting seeing parts that I have not seen before, over to Riverside, with the residences of various rmo/Opera-L denizens being pointed out, and the former residence of Zinka Milanov.

We tried to get into the Tavern on the Park, but there was a long wait for tables, so we just walked round. Talk about kitsch, in a really over the top, inyerface, but somehow, apt way. On balance, it was probably better to go to a restaurant near Lincoln Center (although I only had chocolate cake). Lisa Gasteen was at the next table; I almost broke my golden rule of not approaching celebs off-duty, but I just remembered in time. She was eating with another woman, whom I fondly hoped was a Valkyrie; I like the idea of Valkyries popping out for late lunch/early dinner together, it seems a sisterly thing to do!

We parted from Richard and went shopping in Macy's again, Jimmy picking up his purchases, and me going into major shopping strop. I didn't especially want to buy loads and loads of clothes, partly because my weight has ballooned recently and needs attending to, but I thought I would at least look for trousers. To my dismay it was not possible easily to locate trousers, being that everything was sold under its brand name, and I really couldn't be arsed to look through floors and floors of really bad taste 'designer' outfits and even worse chav-crap in the hope of finding a pair of well made and fitting trousers I could locate in five minutes in M&S/Next etc. So I declared I hate shopping and we returned to the hotel. We were planning to go out to eat in one of the many local Korean restaurants, but somehow got watching TV documentaries on Jeffrey Dahmer and Charles Manson. I felt quite ill afterwards, but mainly from the adverts which were largely for prescription drugs or for low sodium foods all guaranteed to get you pathologically worried, especially considering it seemed necessary to list all the possible side-effects. I began to feel I was suffering from all the side-effects of taking medication for bi-polar disorder and Erectile Dysfunction. I am sure there is a totally insensitive joke to be made about someone with bi-polar and ED, but I can't think of it right now. Still, it was better than watching the news (it's just a snowstorm, so, the country's grinding to a standstill, what's with the weather obsession /g; or the battle between one right winger to win the right over another right-winger to challenge the right-winger in a contest to see which right-winger of which right-wing capitalist party gets to be President /vg).

We finished off shopping in the morning, or rather, Mr Grumpy did. He didn't want to see the bloody Statue of Liberty or go up the bloody Empire State Building. For someone who doesn't think much of New York he gave the plastic a good bashing. I didn't. I looked again for trousers, but there was very little in my size. My trouser size is just about the average for a British women. I refuse to accept that the average American woman is any smaller (And maybe even a bit bigger). Perhaps the shops had been inundated with average size women over the weekend. Perhaps American shops manage stocks like British shops do - in some delusion that everybody is a stick insect - result, lots of stick insect clothes (8-12 UK, 4-8 US) left on the racks as the 14-20/10-16 sell out to average shaped women. May I apologise now to clothes manufacturers for having a perfect hourglass figure with hips.

Our journey to the airport took considerably longer thanks to standstill traffic on the Long Island Expressway. Although I have been to New York before I was nevertheless shocked by the extent of traffic congestion. It's the eternal paradox of Western Society: the more one is dependent on motor vehicles, the less pleasant a way it is of getting around. I personally don't see the attraction of sitting for hours inching forwards in heavily polluted jams getting nowhere slowly. But each to their own, I suppose. We were disappointed not to spot a single stereotypical grossly obese American person, but I suppose New York is like London - the relative attractiveness of public transport/walking provides a shocking contrast with the car-dependent lard-arses in the sticks. I'd be totally gross if I drove everywhere, even though I walk a lot less than I used to, I did prove, twice, this weekend I can hoof it, and at speed if needs must.

Our return flight was excellent, we even arrived a little bit early. There had been a mix up, with me and four other people down for a very low fat rather than veggie dinner. In a not dissimilar circumstance coming back from Sharm, Excel Air's response had been, tough starve, or else maybe you'd like a lot of stale bread rolls. American Airlines attitude was - fine, we'll get you a Premium Cabin veggie meal, but please be discrete or everyone will want one! I have to award AA cabin staff a special award for being the least ostentatious power-crazed prats I have ever travelled with (although I have in fairness to be nice about the Airtours crew coming back from Goa who were two down after one was needed to supervise the violent druggie in handcuffs and one to supervise the desperately ill woman below stairs). Going through Immigration was a cinch, and we were back home two hours after we had touched down.

Bizarrely I took very few photos. I think I am going through a seriously non-photo stage of my life. It will pass.

As we landed at Heathrow Jimmy declared he never wanted to go on another long distance flight. I decided that our next holiday will be in Norfolk (except for operatic trips to Barcelona and, hopefully, Madrid) then when Moaning Jimmy gets the wanderlust, we will travel Business Class. He wishes to revisit Australia and also go to South Africa, and I have decided that he will. But not for a couple of years yet.

* including You Know Who, I believe...