QuinnRoads

DOS BILLETES, POR FAVOR

So Close, and Yet So Far

PROLOGUE To A Sad Tale
Back in the summer, I read a review of a new CD by the Liberation Music Orchestra, a band led by Charlie Haden and Carla Bley, names unknown to the jazz unenthusiast, but legendary performers. Trust me. The band made, I think, four albums, the first recorded in 1968 in response to the Vietnam War. The political content was not subtle. They played the anthems and marching songs of the revolutionary movements of the world, everything from the South African Congress Anthem to Latin American revolutionary marching songs. The music was raucous and loud and emotional, the voicing was unusual and effective, from tubas to French horns. It was enormously exciting. I own every album. On our third day back in the states, I bought the album, Not in Our Name. Like the first album, it was made in response to the actions of the current administration, though this time the music is classic Americana, a tribute to the American spirit. It cost an outrageous $20. It is worth every penny just to hear America the Beautiful.

A SAD TALE
When we arrived in Granada in October, 2003, we didn’t know that the city hosted an international jazz festival. We found out just in time to attend the last concert. The following year we were away, but got back in time to see Brad Mehldau, one of the finest pianist working today, and the legendary Benny Goldson.
This year, once again, we were traveling, but hoped to get back in time to enjoy as much as we could. We returned to Granada from our trip to the states on Thursday evening, October 27. On Monday, we walked down the hill to see if tickets the jazz festival were on sale. They were. The poster was prominently displayed in the lobby. The second concert, scheduled for the following Saturday, was – you guessed it – The Liberation Music Orchestra with Charlie Haden and Carla Bley. I can’t begin to describe to you how excited I was. The band hadn’t even existed in twenty-plus years and here they were, playing in downtown Granada. Orchestra seats were only €15, $18. I was beside myself.
We were eighth in line to the box office, which was selling tickets to a number of concerts. We reached the window. Sold out. SOLD OUT! It couldn’t be true. I went into mild shock. Kay kept her wits about her and asked the clerk if there were any hope for getting tickets on Saturday before the concert. He shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his hand. Maybe.
How could this be? The band is reformed after a quarter of a century, and is playing, not in Paris, Madrid or even Sevilla, but downtown Granada, only a 25-minute walk from my house. And I Can’t Go! Is there no justice in the world?
A few days later we encountered Mali, our friend, neighbor and fellow jazz lover. I told him my story. He related a similar story concerning Toots Thielemans, the Belgium harmonica player. Mali told me that he went to the stage door and told them that he wanted to pay his respects to Toots, and sure enough, they brought him round. Mali described his plight and Toots got him in.
“Try it!” he said. “You have nothing to lose.”
He was right. We had nothing to lose. I prepared a little speech and Kay made a cardboard a sign. “Necesitamos dos billetes, por favor.” We need two tickets, please. The concert was to begin at nine. We left our house at 7:30.
The glass doors to the ticket lobby were locked. Beyond ticket lobby were the glass doors to the theater lobby. Other than a few people being busy in the theater lobby, there was no sign of life. We walked around the theater looking for the stage door. Nothing. Maybe they brought the musicians in through the café on the corner.
We sat on a bench outside the theater and displayed our sign. Within minutes, a couple approached us. We’d noticed them because the woman, who was very lovely, was completely bald. She spoke English and told us that they’d come from Sevilla to hear the band. They’d ordered tickets over the Internet, she told us. And then her friend here in Granada had informed her that she’d bought tickets for them as a present. So if all four tickets were waiting, she’d sell us the extra two.
Perhaps there was justice in the world.
The glass doors to the box office lobby were unlocked at 7:30, though the box office itself never opened. The woman talked to the guard at the second doors and they were admitted. Through the doors we could see them talking to one person and then another. Then they sat on a couch. She did not look happy. Hold the sign high, I told Kay. It doesn’t look good.
Ten minutes later she came to the door to tell me that there was only one pair. She had no idea what had happened to the others. She was very sorry.
Perhaps justice was waiting in the wings.
Kay and I positioned ourselves on the entrance steps. In usual Spanish style, the audience did not begin to arrive until 8:50. Tickets were being sold. Singles only. We needed two. It didn’t seem fair to buy only one, leaving the other (and who would that be?) to walk back up the hill alone. And if we bought one, would a second be available? As it turned out, we had four opportunities to buy one ticket. Oh, the burdens of fair play.
A nine o’clock I was standing by the inside glass doors, my sad face imploring the guard for help. At 9:05 he shrugged and locked the doors. Across the lobby, I could see the large doors to the auditorium being closed. The show began. Without us.
For those hoping for a happy ending, I’m sorry. Our sign, however, had been a big hit. Apparently, no one had ever seen anything quite like it. For the 40 minutes or so that Kay had held it aloft, it had been the center of attention in the plaza outside the theater. People stopped, looked, pointed and discussed it with their friends. Dozens detoured to get a closer look. A few walked up to within a foot and slowly read it, as if wanting to be sure that it said what it seemed to say. A goodly number commented on it to us, though we had no idea what they were saying. One trio of older ladies passed by three times, each pass a little closer, to read it. An older woman aproached us sign three times; each time she pointed to the sign, laughed hardily and spoke to Kay. We didn’t know what to make of it. Were we being too aggressive? Was it the por favor? There were no misspelled words. Kay had been very careful, looking up each word just to be sure. It did seem to be a seller’s market. Buyers simply stood about waiting for a seller to hold a ticket high.
How long will The Liberation Music Orchestra continue to exist? Would I ever have another opportunity to hear them live? We’d stood in the cold for an hour and a half with no result other than becoming the source of amusement and wonderment. It was all too much.
With heavy feet and even heavier hearts, we began our trek up the hill towards home.

A ROOM WITH A VIEW

The Prices Aren’t the Only Stratospheric Thing about London


Since Granada Airport became an international airport last spring, getting to and from Granada is no longer quite as difficult as it used to be. There are only a few flights, but fortunately, one of them is to London, one of only three cities (at least in 2005) that United serves. Unfortunately, no matter which flight we take, the morning Ryan Air flight to London’s Stansted or the evening Monarch Air flight to Gatwick, we can’t get to Heathrow in time to make the connection. We have to stay in a hotel.
Everything in London is very expensive, including hotels. Because we’d be arriving at night, and because the train from Gatwick terminates at Victoria Station, we chose to stay in nearby Belgravia. We’d have plenty of time to get to Heathrow next morning via the Underground.
We looked once again to our trusty travel consultant Rick Steves. The least expensive hotel Rick listed was £70, $126. As we’d be there for only ten hours, it didn’t seem worth it to pay more. Kay called (Kay does hotels, I do trains). The hotel was booked. Our next choice was listed at £90, $162. Those rooms were also booked. But, the friendly lady said, there were small “student” rooms on the top floor available for only £45, $81. The facilities are not “ensuite,” the European way of saying the bathroom was located elsewhere, but they were, she said, only steps away and she felt sure we’d find it convenient. In fact, she promised to put us in the closest room. Kay booked the room.
The flight went well and we caught the Gatwick Express just as it was leaving. The 30-minute ride cost £13 each, only $47. What a deal! We walked out of Victoria Station into a blowing drizzle. Our walk to the hotel was approximately six blocks, two blocks longer, we discovered, than the more direct route, but then reading a map under a streetlight in the rain is not one of life’s easiest tasks. By the end of the second block, Kay’s umbrella had turned inside out. Neither of us was dressed to walk through a horizontal shower. Fortunately it wasn’t pouring, so we weren’t completely drenched when we reached the hotel, just very damp and windblown.
The hotel was in the middle of a block of identical buildings, mostly bed and breakfast hotels, each narrow building fronted by two thick columns and five or six steps up to identical small porches. The other side of the street was lined with similar buildings, as were most of the surrounding streets. It was knockdown beautiful and right out of Masterpiece Theater, Upstairs, Downstairs, etc.
After being buzzed in, we walked down a short hall to the reception room/front pallor. A very pleasant young woman gave us our room key and the following advise. “Take it easy going up. Don’t hesitate to take a break.”
Am I looking that old? Oh Fie! I’d take these stairs like the rambunctious young lad I once was. I took our two rollers (not to be macho but for better balance) while Kay handled the backpack and soft shoulder bag. We began our ascent.
The staircase was so narrow that it was almost impossible not to bang against the wall or the railing. Up we went, a flight of steps, a small landing, another flight, to the second floor. We continued, a flight of steps, a small landing, another flight, to the third floor. We continued to the next landing, where I decided to take the receptionist’s advise. I was breathing deeply and now as damp inside my clothes as out. We began again. A flight of steps, the third floor, a flight, a landing, a flight, then, at last, the top floor. Was I gasping from exertion or from lack of oxygen?
Just inside the fire door was the door to the bathroom, and only a few steps further, our room. We peeked into the bathroom. Sink, toilet, tub with glass door, all clean and bright. It seemed nice enough.
Our room was small. How small, you ask? There was just enough room to get around a double bed. At the foot of the bed there was a narrow table with a hot pot and tea makings, a wardrobe, on top of which perched a small tv, and a small sink. Fresh towels were folded on the bed. There was no place for our suitcases, not even on the floor, so we put them on the bed, retrieved what we needed, then stacked them under the sink. Because the room was located under the eves, Kay had to bend her head when getting into and out of bed so as not to bump the ceiling. But talk about a room with a view. Through the small window I could look over the rooftops of London. Not knowing the east-west orientation of the window, I didn’t know if the lights I saw in the distance were in Ireland or France. I wondered if we were higher than the Eye of London, the giant ferris wheel.
It was ten o’clock, we were both hungry, thirsty and a bit damp. We needed a small snack and a drink. We went back downstairs (I counted them), and asked the young woman if she could recommend a nearby pub. Her favorite was only two blocks away, she said, but they stopped serving at eleven. So off we hurried through the drizzle.
The pub was pleasant enough, typically English and almost full, with lots of smoke and a soccer match playing on two screens. The only food came from the adjoining restaurant and they were closing. So two pints it would be. We took the only remaining table and, for the first time in hours, relaxed. It took less than five minutes for Kay to discover that she wouldn’t be able to endure the smoke. We’d noticed three picnic tables outside, in fact one had been occupied when we arrived, so we took our beers and went outside. Work was being done on the buildings, so the tables were almost completely sheltered from the rain by scaffolding. Our first night in London and there we sat on a damp picnic bench, watching the London taxis drive by in the now pouring rain. It would have been romantic - 35 years ago.
The rain let up just as we finished our pints, and back we went to the hotel through a light rain. I counted the steps again on the way up. Eighty-one, just as before.
We got up a six-thirty. The plan was for me to shave in the small sink while Kay showered. She would hold the bathroom until I was ready, just in case someone else wanted it. I shaved, stepped out into the hallway and knocked on the bathroom door. Kay peeked out.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said as she let me in.
I looked around. She held the glass door open and pointed at where the shower head should be. Should be but wasn’t. Quickly putting two and two together, I realized that there was no shower, just a tub. I looked at Kay. Her hair was wet, so it could be done. Then she pointed at the drain and the stopper. The stopper was obviously smaller than the drain. Then she pointed to where the spout should be. There were two spouts, one hot and one cold. there was no way you could simply put your head under the water.
The hot water, she warned me, was very hot. She wished me good luck and returned to the room. This would be a challenge. But we had a long day ahead of us, a flight to D.C., where we would standby for who knew how long for another to Jacksonville, Florida, then an evening with old friends. A shower and shampoo was an absolute necessity.
I put in the stopper and turned on the water full blast. The water very slowly began to fill the tub. I stepped in. Now what? Did I want to lie down in the tub? Would the water get deep enough? I decided to go with the prayer position. I got down on my knees and splashed water over my body, then cupped my hands and poured water over my head. I shampooed and rinsed, shampooed, washed as best I could, then rinsed. Or tried to. My knees hurt. I splashed and rinsed and splashed some more and hoped for the best. It was the first, and probably the only time, that thinning hair had been an advantage.
We dressed, repacked our bags, and made it back down the 81 steps to the pallor, where I left the bags while we ate the English breakfast that came with the room. There was no way I was climbing back up for the bags after consuming a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, sautéed mushrooms, beans and toast. We left for the Underground full and clean.

For our trip home to Granada, we allowed ourselves a three-day window to make the connection to our paid-for Monarch flight to Granada. If we made the United flight out of San Francisco on Monday, we’d spend two nights in London; if Tuesday, one night; if Wednesday, we’d go straight from Heathrow to Gatwick. The Monday flight looked good, so Kay called the hotel we’d chosen. A room with a double bed was £76, a standard room with twin beds was only £63. Kay booked a standard room. When we received our confirmation via e-mail, we learned that the standard rooms were not ensuite. With memories of our first London hotel still fresh (who can forget 81 steps up to a tub where you bathe on your knees), we e-mailed back requesting a room with double bed and facilities ensuite.
We arrived at the hotel a little after nine in the morning, not knowing whether we’d been upgraded or whether our room would be ready. We had been upgraded but the room would not be available till one. With nothing else to do, and although we’d left San Francisco the morning before, we left our bags at the hotel and walked 40 minutes to the Tate, wandered the galleries for two hours, then walked back. We arrived back at the hotel at twelve-thirty. We were exhausted. Happily, our room was ready.
On the way up the narrow staircase to our room, I looked into the facilities on the landing. Modest indeed. Upgrading had been a wise decision. Though not large, our room was large enough and had a window that looked out over the yards below. And not only did we have our own modest bathroom, the climb up was a mere 37 steps. Child’s play.
We’re planning a trip to Greece and Turkey next spring. I’m wondering when we should begin training. I have visions of a large, tiled room in a whitewashed hotel overlooking the sea, the only approach being 137 steps cut into the cliff side.