Not I

Juliette Binoche and Akram Khan, photo by Tristram Kenton, courtesy of the National Theatre

Juliette Binoche is the epitome of French charm for the Brits. She has it all: self -assuredness, natural beauty, intellectual aspirations, cheeky candor and charm to spare. It didn't really come as a surprise to hear that she was invited to choreograph a dance with masterful dancer Akram Khan for the National Theatre. With the financial backing of the prestigious Fondation d'entreprise Hermes to seal the deal, In-I looked like cultural history in the making.
I gladly signed up to review it, expecting to be dazzled by a show of Franco-British magnificence. Yet, there is a true risk involved in juxtaposing amateur and professional dancers on a stage and I have to admit that In-I was a great illustration of that danger. Amateurs, no matter how revered in other areas of their lives are just not in full possession of their body the way professional dancers are. Last night, as I was watching actress Juliette Binoche clumsily plowing her way through the show, as heavy as Akram Khan was weightless, as clumsy as he was graceful, I felt real annoyance. I felt, unfairly perhaps, that Khan's animal grace was held back by his partner.

I made my way home mulling over the review I would write the following day. This morning I was still thinking about it as I was making my way to ballet class. Should I focus more on the narrative aspect and treat it as a play? Perhaps I could simply present it as an interdisciplinary project aiming to offer Akhram a platform to act and Binoche a chance to dance, regardless of the outcome. Then I caught sight of my face in the mirrored wall of the rehearsal studio. My, do I look angry when I'm focusing on achieving the correct form of a plié! Maybe I should start by relaxing my face in class so the teacher doesn't think I'm about to scratch her eyes out. The essential quality that brutally separates the pros from the amateurs is the ability to make it all look effortless which can only come after decades of excruciating daily training. Suddenly, I felt a surge of sympathy for Juliette Binoche who was exposing her incompetence as a dancer to hundreds of people every night, angry face, clumsiness, excessive sweating and all. I certainly would not be willing (or invited) to do a similar thing but if she is, who am I to judge?

Local Time

After a restful holiday, I took a flight that lasted a little over 6 hours, a train ride of about twenty minutes, a tube journey of half an hour and then I sat on a bus for another thirty minutes to arrive home bleary-eyed and feeling as if had been run over all these vehicles. Although I was greatly tempted to drop my bags and to jump under the duvet for a much deserved snooze, I followed the advice dolled out by all good travellers: get in step with local time as soon as you land and the jetlag will magically evaporate (or last less than a week). Muttering away, I started unpacking but just transferred all the content of my bag to the bed, then I started making breakfast but left my eggs in the pan while I sorted through the mail and ran a shower that I didn’t get into right away because I had started too many things and suddenly found myself trying to scramble eggs while folding clothes and looking for the shampoo.

Normally a powerful multitasker – yes I can talk to you on the phone while painting my toenails and watching a film – when in the grips of the effects of jetlag, I found myself utterly useless: a danger to myself and others. I came to terms with this fact in time to turn everything off, slip into inconspicuous sunglasses and head to the Turkish café around the corner. There, a lovely gentleman proudly wearing the thickest moustache I had ever seen promptly brought me a piece of cake (actually, two pieces separated by a mound of whipped cream) and a strong coffee. I was saved. What with the coffee being a much needed source of fog dissipating stimulant and cake being such a good source of… cake, I was able regroup long enough to make a list: Top-up Oyster for public transport journeys of the upcoming week, buy fruit and vegetables at the market (still not bored with my market…) wash holiday clothes, mend jacket for meeting tomorrow. One by one, I tackled these apparently mundane tasks, abnormally proud to tick them off my list. By about 5h I was more or less back on London time, but only thanks to a few Turkish minutes.

Veggie Heaven

To say that I am not a vegetarian would be understating how much I enjoy the primal satisfaction that I get out of consuming a mixed grill or a kebab at the Turkish restaurant up the road. Although I would not be considered a raging carnivore as I don't even eat meat every day, I find that I am truly satiated only after a meal that includes a good piece of iron rich meat. Anemic self-righteous vegetarians often annoy me and I get a smug pleasure out of scientific discoveries that confirm my views such as the research published last week linking soya with infertility. As a friend once said after a talk I organised on the subject of meat, “these people don't smell right and they tend to pair off.” I wouldn't go that far and I do know a few people who are non anemic, non self-righteous vegetarians and I like them in spite of their choices. I am open minded in that way. I just don't invite them over for dinner as I can't fathom the thought of serving a big salad followed by a piece of fruit... I've always enjoyed my vegetable side dishes but they don't make for a meal now do they?
Since I've moved close to one of London's biggest/cheapest/most chaotic outdoor food market though, I've had to come to terms with a new frenzied consumption of fruit and vegetable. For instance, this morning I left the flat with my little cloth bag to pick up milk and paper but I came back with a dozen courgettes (which I will grill with lemon juice, olive oil and garlic for dinner), three gigantic avocados, half a dozen lemons, a pound of satsuma oranges (so sweet and seedless!), a pound of tomatoes (which I will turn into sauce) and a box of litchis. Yes, a box that could easily fit a pair of shoes, full of litchis. All this set me back less than a fiver...

Of course, all that is delicious and healthy and I get to cook and prepare it while I'm writing which fills my little doll's house of a flat with lovely smells but what really gets me to fill my little bag with vegetarian goodies every time I leave the house is the market itself. It's the perfect cross between my memories of living in Congo, my souvenirs of traipsing through Istanbul and a typical London outing. I ask you, where else could you get a “Ta, love!” for buying a big stinking durian fruit and plantain? What's more, the displays are stunning in a mouth-watering way. It's all so colorful: the stalls, the stall owners, their language when they curse at people who haggle. Why wouldn't I want to bring a bit of that home? The vegetables, that is, not the stall owners or their colorful language.

Well, I might eventually get used to it and be able to resist the siren song of this vegetable paradise but right now, I have courgettes and tomatoes to process...

Bring in the clouds

Have you ever noticed how certain cities don't fare very well in extreme weather conditions? As I sit at my computer in my bikini, refusing to stray more than a few feet away from a whirring fan, I'm thinking more specifically about London in the Summer heat.

If London were a person, it would be a city banker. A youngish man, still hungry for recognition but not yet sucked dry by the long days at a stressful job and the short boozy nights. Good looking in an angular, slightly rumpled way, London is both attractive and distant, as if it were withholding the best it has to offer. It needs a bit of a cloud cover to mask the edges and the dirt. Yet when it gets too sunny and hot, London becomes overbearing like an old sweaty uncle wearing a scratchy, ill-fitting polyester suit. It smells and it sticks to you with clammy paws. You want to get away from it but wherever you turn, there it is.

If you think you will have a picnic in the park and get a bit of fresh air, there it is in the form of loud, overweight half-naked sun bathers guzzling cider. Try and get out of London and just entering the urban inferno that is the tube during heat waves will send running to your overcrowded local lido for a dip in lukewarm water or any cinema showing a longish feature (I recommend the latest installment of the Batman franchise: two hours and a half of dark action. Not a minute of onscreen sunshine) for the air conditioning.

People can complain all they want that it's never warm or sunny enough, but I still think London is most agreeable in the Spring and the Autumn. At the moment, I'm secretly wishing for a nice Summer storm followed by a few gray days to cool everything down and get London back to its louche/aloof best.