In the Shadow of the Shard

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Bankside House, Big Ben, British Museum, Buckingham Palace, Globe Theatre, London Bridge, Millennium Bridge, National Gallery, Science Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, Tate Modern

We have made it a family tradition, as part of our Bar-Mitzva present to them, to take our grandchildren to London. This began about ten years ago, when we did this with the two oldest ones, the son and daughter of our son Ariel. A few years later we took Ariel and Galit‘s third child, Nir, together with our daughter Dana’s eldest son, Nadav. The two cousins have grown up together and are good friends. And last week we returned from the third sortie, this time with Dana and Itzik’s second child, a boy, Eyal, and Ariel and Galit’s youngest, a girl, Lihi.

We have also made it our habit to stay at the LSE students’ residence known as Bankside House in London. The accommodation is adequate but not luxurious, and the breakfast which is included in the price is generous by any standard. It is located just behind the Tate Modern Museum, on the south bank of the Thames, a stone’s throw from the reconstruction of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the pleasant riverside promenade. A few minutes away lies the Millennium Bridge that spans the Thames and leads to St. Paul’s Cathedral. The area is well served by underground and buses, with restaurants and cafes at hand, making life easy for both tourists and locals.

Each trip with our grandchildren gives us a new insight into their characters and interests. On this occasion, we also found ourselves sharing our rooms with them, which was a new experience for us. It was a pleasant surprise to discover what kind and understanding room-mates both youngsters turned out to be, and altogether their behavior was exemplary throughout the week.

London’s skyline has changed radically since my student days there, and the latest addition, the Shard, currently the tallest building in Europe, towers over the area where we were staying. Opinions are divided as to its artistic and architectural success, but it certainly makes its presence felt, and enabled our Hebrew-speaking grandchildren to learn a word in English that they might never have encountered otherwise. Of course, other relatively recent buildings and monuments are also much in evidence, notably, the Gherkin, the Egg, and the London Eye, not to mention Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace.

As instructed by her ever-practical mother, Lihi bought herself an umbrella on her first day in London. This was an artistic version of the Union Jack and came in very handy when we found ourselves caught in typical London drizzle. We all developed a taste for fish and chips, indulged in ‘proper’ éclairs (not the inferior French kind), and wended our way inter alia through the British Museum, the Science Museum, the Tate Modern and the National Gallery, where we were treated to Yigal’s enlightening explanations.

As we were leaving the National Gallery, Eyal, who is already a seasoned traveler, spotted someone carrying a small yellow bag. ‘That’s m and m’s world!’ he exclaimed and, not knowing what we were letting ourselves in for, we asked where this wonderful emporium was to be found. We were sent in a general direction, and each time a small (or even large) yellow bag was spotted in a passer-by’s hand we were given more directions. Eventually we found the place, which is a paradise for children and hell on earth for grandparents, with loud music, hordes of children rushing around, an endless supply of merchandise (m and m’s clothing, m and m’s toys and m and m’s gadgets), and the actual m and m’s themselves in packaging of every shape and form. An attendant hands each child a basket as they enter, whereupon they disappear into the depths to stock up on the goods and the goodies.

Eventually we retrieved our two crazed shoppers, and emerged triumphantly with our own little yellow bags. Of course, as we made our exhausted way to the station to return to our accommodation, we were accosted by complete strangers asking where they could find the m and m’s mecca.

London and Leicester Square will never be the same. And in my personal opinion, good old Smarties are infinitely better.

Naomi

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Naomi Winder-Shamir, pulmonary embolism, South America, trekking

There comes a moment when words are inadequate.

That moment is now, just one week after the death of my 28-year-old niece, Naomi.

There are no words of consolation, no words that can convey the terrible depths of sorrow this bereavement has brought to my sister and her family, as well as to the wider family of uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews, not to mention her husband, myriad friends, colleagues and even acquaintances.

Naomi and her husband of two years, David, had returned a few weeks earlier from six months of trekking around South America. The photos they took there show two beautiful young people, in love with one another and with life, and happy to be fulfilling their dream of travelling around together. That is how I will always remember Naomi.

Her life was taken suddenly and tragically by a rare medical condition, a pulmonary embolism, which it is unusual to encounter in one so young. The blood clot that blocked her lungs caused her death despite all the efforts of the emergency medical team and the intensive care unit of the hospital to which she was rushed.

The irony of it all is that Naomi was a trained nurse, and the people who attended to her in her final hours were staff members who had worked with her in the hospital. The sorrow that they expressed was genuine and deeply-felt.

Above all, Naomi was a young woman with many talents as well as being beautiful, clever, kind and exceptionally sweet-natured. She was especially gifted in art and designed all the wedding invitations for the various members of her family, created quilted covers for the babies born in the family and brought her well-developed aesthetic sense to everything she did.

Naomi was loved by many people. Her close family, of course, first and foremost. But also by others. I cannot look at the photos from her wedding, seeing her radiant happiness, without tears starting in my eyes. At the Shiva, the seven-day period in which, in accordance with the time-honoured Jewish tradition, her parents, husband and siblings sit, hundreds of people from all walks of life come to express their condolences. At times the family displays amazing composure, at others they are unable to stem their tears, Many of the visitors who come to console the mourners shed tears, too. Over a thousand people attended her funeral, and not a single eye remained dry when her brother eulogized her or when her father asked all those present to sing her favourite song, ‘A Woman of Valour’ at her graveside.

No one, whether they knew Naomi or not, remains unmoved at the thought of a young woman, just about to embark on the fulfillment of her dreams, cut off so suddenly. Anyone who knows the Shamir family can see what a warm and close-knit group they are. I hope and pray that this sense of togetherness will give them strength and help them overcome their terrible loss.

Communicating

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Brighton pier, facebook, internet, saucy postcards, Skype

Time was when going away on vacation meant that one was cut off from one’s nearest and dearest for the duration, whether it was a week or two, or even longer.

Gone are the postcards we used to send to relatives, friends and neighbours, to remind them of our existence. Heaven forfend that they should forget about us in our absence or think that we had forgotten about them! In the England of my childhood I remember the thrill of finding in the post a coloured postcard of some distant bucolic scene from afar, or even a ‘saucy’ postcard depicting in colourful caricature a large, bosomy wife and small, henpecked hubby in a situation designed to arouse laughter, or at least a smile. I’ve forgotten the name of the artist who perpetrated many of those pictures but he would probably be thoroughly castigated in the PC atmosphere of today. Those postcards tended to be sent from one of the seaside resorts in England. After all, who wants to see a photo of Brighton pier in the rain?

Now, however, the world has changed, and we cannot bear to be cut off from the world of ‘real life’ for more than a day or two. Practically each and every one of us has a mobile phone, or better still a smart phone, which acts as a kind of umbilical cord, keeping us connected to our world at all times. There is no escape. If the alarm in your house is activated, the security company will contact you to inform you of this even if you happen to be on a boat in the Aegean, as happened to us some years ago. Then your task is to find someone (by phone, of course) to go round to the house and turn it off.

Phones aren’t the only means of communication, of course. The internet is our constant virtual companion wherever we happen to be. This means that information about our friends and relatives, current events and political developments, train crashes and financial crises reaches us wherever we are. This, of course, is not exactly conducive to relaxing on a sunny beach, but our thirst for information apparently supersedes all other wishes. Moreover, losing one’s internet connection is tantamount to a major disaster, even though all one needs it for is staying in contact with the ‘real’ world out there.

And now there is Skype as well, so that you can sit in a hotel room in Honolulu and chat with your offspring, whom you can see on your computer monitor. Just fifty years ago this would have sounded like some esoteric sci-fi fantasy, but today it’s something we simply take for granted. And of course Facebook keeps us in contact with all our ‘friends,’ wherever they might be.

Who knows? Perhaps one day ‘Scotty, beam me up,’ that timeless phrase from Startrek, will become as common as ‘Hello, how are you?’ is today.

That Was the Weekend That Was

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Brian Cox, British Museum, Craig Calhoun, Herculaneum, Kingsway, London, LSE, Nicholas Barr, Pompeii, Ruth Weisz

The driver of the taxi taking us from Liverpool Street Station to our hotel in Bloomsbury called out to his colleagues as he drove away, giving them the traditional Cockney greeting, ‘Oy! Oy!’ It brought tears to my eyes, as it would to any linguist whose origins lie amid the mists of Kilburn.

Yigal and I were in London for a few days so that I could attend a reunion of former LSE (London School of Economics) students, and also to meet with my mother’s cousin, Ruth Weisz, née Paradis, who is ninety-one years old and was visiting from Buenos Aires. She and her niece, Eva, the daughter of Margot and Dan Petty (Margot was Ruth’s sister), with whom she had been staying in Chichester, stayed in the same hotel as us. The following day Ruth was due to return to Argentina, and Eva would be able to return home. We met for a long dinner and the next day for a lengthy breakfast. It was an exciting and enjoyable experience and much appreciated by all concerned. Ruth, who continues to teach gymnastics in her studio, shows no sign of ageing and is sprightlier than many a young person.

The LSE reunion began on Friday, with a ‘welcome lunch.’ Drinks were served liberally before and during the cold buffet meal, where seating was according to place-names. This helped everyone to make contact with people who may have studied together, but had changed out of all recognition. After all, fifty or so years do take a toll.

I hardly knew a soul there, but everyone I talked to was intelligent and pleasant. It struck me that many of the men looked somewhat the worse for wear, while the women on the whole were in better shape. Some of the people I talked to had little or no familiarity with computers (or didn’t even possess one!), and several refused to have anything to do with Amazon ‘on principle’ (they should rather not have had anything to do with the tax treaties). I had to defend Israel on one or two occasions, but most people were fairly pro, or neutral (or perhaps just polite).

After lunch we were taken on a tour of the current LSE buildings. It’s still in its central London location off Kingsway, but has grown beyond all recognition. In my time there were three main buildings, today there are about twenty, many of them completely modernized. And for obvious reasons the library is far larger and more sophisticated than it was. My feet were complaining by the time we finished, and it was all I could do to stagger back to the hotel for a little rest (and a nice cup of tea), before returning for the evening’s ‘welcome reception,’ addressed by the Director of the LSE, Professor Craig Calhoun and where more wine was served. Quite predictably, he lauded the LSE’s academic excellence and solicited donations.

The next day we heard a fascinating lecture about the groundbreaking course, ‘LSE100: Understanding the Causes of Things’ (the LSE motto) combining the various social science disciplines taught at the university. The lecturer, Professor Mick Cox, Professor of International Relations, gave a broad outline of currents in contemporary history and politics, and answered the many questions from the audience with aplomb and humour.

The lecture theatre was about half full (i.e., about 100 of the 200 people registered were in attendance) when members of the audience were asked to share their memories of the LSE. Many of those there had been involved in the sit-ins of the late 1960s, which I unfortunately missed. The question remains whether those student demonstrations served to trigger many of the changes that British society underwent in those years, or perhaps were just one aspect of them. Most people’s recollections seemed to be focused on drinking in the LSE pub, however.

After a less than lavish lunch (and no wine!), we were treated to another lecture, this time by Professor Nicholas Barr, Professor of Public Economics, who gave us an insight into the esoteric subject of financing higher education.

After that I felt that I had reached saturation point and decided to skip the presentations of the library’s collections and make my way back to our hotel. The gala dinner at the House of Parliament in the evening was attended by some eighty people, but as I had been at one at the previous reunion some ten years ago, when I met friends with whom I have remained in touch ever since, I decided to skip it this year (it was rather pricey, and required evening attire, which neither Yigal nor I possess).

If the purpose of the reunion was to meet old friends, it failed miserably in my case. However, if the idea was to make new contacts it was a roaring success for me. I met several nice and interesting people, and may even remain in touch with one or two. At my age and stage in life, that is not to be sneezed at (sorry to be going on about my age again).

Meanwhile Yigal wallowed in the delights of the British Museum, where I joined him on our last day to view the amazing exhibition of artifacts from Pompeii and Herculaneum. As always, London never disappoints.