July 4^th – July 7^th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Keswick and Kendal in the Lake District, Cumbria; Arrival into Manchester, England.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: Cumbrian Peregrinations – Goodbye to the Lake District; Hello to Manchester

Is there an American equivalent to a Cumbrian? If you took an American Midwesterner, plopped her (or him) in the hillier regions of New Hampshire, provided a year’s worth of jam, and then explained that a sheep rampage might take place at any moment, you’d have a Cumbrian, I think. They are hearty, welcoming people, and they want to feed you. Moreover, they have a relationship with dogs that only repeated viewings of "Wallace and Gromit" explains.

I had assumed that the adventures of Wallace and Gromit were fictional, but these stop-motion cartoons reveal a deep-seated truth about Cumbria and its environs. (Its creator Nick Park has indicated that the “Adventures” take place closer to the country near Wigan in Greater Manchester, but the analogy still works, I believe.)

Cumbrians take their dogs everywhere; dogs are always welcome; dogs are treated with the upmost respect and deference. For instance, if there’s a dog lying down in the aisle of the local bus – and there probably is – you (the human) will need to step over the dog quite carefully. The dog is not expected or encouraged to rise – the dog needs its rest, and you’re only a human. Get used to it.

Now, I’m from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where dogs are typically treated with as much deference as the average two-year-old human toddler, but Cumbrians would never leave their dogs outside a store, outside a bar, outside a restaurant, or off the bus. In New York City, there are certain prohibitory laws; in Cumbria, it would just be rude to the dog.

Upon reflection, I sorta see the Cumbrian perspective. If I were surrounded by thousands of bleating sheep at all times, I too might value the companion who was willing to bite a sheep on the ass.

As much as my human friends and family may love me, I cannot think of even one who would attack a renegade sheep on my behalf. Not with teeth bared.

My favorite instance of dog appreciation came in “The Factory Tap” in Kendal – it boasted a convivial local crowd, and the publican greeted each dog with a little treat, a kind word, and a smile. This is not unusual behavior, however. In the Cumbrian pubs of Keswick and Kendal, you half expect the dogs to raise a glass with their “masters.” I say “master,” but Cumbrians appear to view dog-human relations as a meeting of equals. Wallace’s fond asides to his “chuck” Gromit hit much closer to the mark.

Best Entertainment – Sophocles’s Elektra at Keswick’s “Theatre by the Lake”

One morning as the jovial proprietress of the “Burnside B&B” was feeding me my morning complement of toast and jam, she mentioned that I should visit Keswick’s “Theatre by the Lake.” As a jaded New Yorker who appreciates the occasional theatre-going jaunt to London, I sighed internally like a true snob contemplating summer stock – externally, I thanked her for the recommendation and shoved some more jam in my face.

Later that afternoon however, I reflected that there’s only so much time a traveler can spend watching dogs and humans drink alongside each other, particularly when one lacks a canine companion of one’s own.

So I looked up the theatre listings, and there it was. Among less interesting plays in the troupe’s repertory (“Dial M for Murder”, “Watch It, Sailor!”, etc.), the Cumbrians were mounting a production of Sophocles’s Elektra (in translation by Anne Carson) that very evening (http://www.theatrebythelake.com/production/14638/Elektra). I started at this unexpected surprise.

If you (like me) have spent the last five years teaching Greek drama to college freshman and scouring the library to find reasonably contemporary productions of “Oedipus the King” or “Medea” to show their easily bored, post-adolescent minds, the discovery of any production of a Greek classic is a boon. To find a theatre troupe performing a Greek tragedy that you've never seen staged? In any context, this is cause for jubilation. Sure, I’d seen Euripides’s Elektra, but to see Sophocles’s rendition of Elektra? Awesome.

Before heading out to the lake’s playhouse, my informative B&B proprietress assured me that “Theatre by the Lake” only employs professional actors. Well, okay then.

Not too unexpected once one encounters the theatre’s patron saint:

As for Elektra, let’s forget the odd smatterings of modern dance and rock music employed by the director to unintelligible and frustrating effect during the scenic interludes; overall, it was marvelous performance. It turns out that I rather prefer red-blooded Northern Brits in these Ancient Greek parts than fastidious Londoners with their classic RP accents. (As much as I loved Michael Pennington in his recent outing as King Lear, it’s still rather difficult to forgive his leisure-suited Oedipus from 1985. Over the course of teaching, I cannot tell you how many times I’ve watched this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ynLrKcqKzI. Excuse the “classroom” picture quality.) In contrast, Keswick’s production of Elektra offered a visceral heartbeat, vitalizing the text, and the lead Joanna Simpkins raged electrically as the heroine consumed by righteous fury.

All in all, it made me feel rather sheepish about my prejudice against summer stock – an apropos feeling for the Lake District, to be sure.

Manchester – First Impressions

As the train lulled me from the sheep-dotted slopes of the Lake District to the center of Manchester, I saw something horribly familiar, a billboard advertising shampoo. For all that time in the Lake District National Park, I hadn’t been forced to look at a single billboard, something that I hadn’t noticed until the awful sign invaded my sightline. This unpleasant vision was soon accompanied by the tender sound of a nearby jackhammer, which happened to be stationed outside of my flat’s window. “Welcome to the city, sucker,” it beat out in its own terrible Morse Code.

 

Indeed, a certain depression descended as I entered the center of England’s first industrialized city. Squat bricks surrounded me in every direction, and cars shunted past pedestrians with blaring horns. Where was the elderflower jam? Why hadn’t anyone offered me a loaf of freshly baked bread? I felt confused and despondent.

I settled into a nearby bar, which was a little too hip for its own good, and ordered an Aspall Suffolk Cyder to allay my mounting ennui. Had I made an error in visiting Cottonopolis? A Mancunian variation on the Brooklynite hipster left me to meditate as I tuned out a techno-jazz pumping through the speakers.

I sighed, deciding on a walk – it’s impossible to weigh a city without a walk, after all. How can any city entice or intrigue if you don’t give it a chance to lay out its treasures? As I modulated my steps in time to the urban thrum, I noticed something wonderful, the people.

While I hadn’t seen a single billboard in the Lake District, those bucolic lanes also lacked diversity. For five days, I had been surrounded by white people. Even after racking my memory, I could only recall one occasion (in a delightful Thai restaurant named Jintana located in downtown Kendal) when I’d run into someone who wasn’t of Caucasian descent. And oh wait, that great chorus member in Elektra:

But who else? I drew a blank.

Meanwhile in Manchester, there were Brits of African descent, Asian descent, South Asian descent, and many beautiful people who were mixed race. This realization comforted as I set out to explore the rich cityscape. In the following days, the news reported that my own country had descended deeper into a state of civil violence – police officers murdered two African-American men (Philando Castile and Alton B. Sterling) in cold blood, and then I woke up to read about the retaliatory slaughter of five police officers by an angry vigilante in Dallas. I am against murder (period). I am against the undertow of racial segregation that afflicts too many modern societies.* I felt conflicted about being abroad when my country is suffering such tumult and horror, but at least I had rolled into a city where people of every race and creed walked the streets.

*As a short note, read the “The New Jim Crow” by Michelle Alexander (http://newjimcrow.com) if you haven’t already. It’s a crucial book about institutional racism, and my friend, Jaime Arafin just posted a link to this powerful Op-Ed in the NYTimes (http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/10/opinion/sunday/what-white-america-fails-to-see.html?action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=opinion-c-col-left-region&region=opinion-c-col-left-region&WT.nav=opinion-c-col-left-region). Thanks, Jaime!