August 20th – 25th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: London, England.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: London Theatre Overview (Part One) – “The Seagull” (@ The National Theatre), “The Plough and the Stars” (@ The National Theatre), “Yerma” (@ The Young Vic), and “The Entertainer” (@ The Garrick Theatre)

Isn’t it delightfully ironic that I should visit Bath for the weekend – the classic destination to take “curative waters” – only to come down with an irksome sore throat? Ugh. Like Jane Austen, I blame the weather, which is damp and chilly even in August. Remember that scene in Austen’s Persuasion when Anne Elliot gets caught in a Bath rainstorm and then Captain Wentworth gallantly offers his umbrella? Well, I do:

[Wentworth] "But it rains."

[Anne] "Oh! very little, Nothing that I regard."

After a moment's pause [Wentworth] said: "Though I came only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath already, you see," (pointing to a new umbrella); "I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair."(Volume II, Chapt.VII.)

Unfortunately, there weren’t any handsome sea captains (who’d secretly been pining after me for years and years and years) to offer me umbrellas or get me chairs. Consequently, I was left to cope with Bath’s sogginess all by my lonesome. Like any unchaperoned heroine, I immediately came down with a little sniffle, Marianne-Dashwood-style. Oh, woe is me. 

But! Fear not, dear readers of “Strange and Sundry” – your fair Sharon is a modern woman who believes in medicating early and often. I have faith that the combination of namby-pamby organic treatments (ineffective), hardline over-the-counter Advil (more effective), and a generous helping of medicinal Calvados (quite effective) have set me on the road to a full recovery. Plus, I eschewed the sulfurous curative waters, and I haven’t let anyone bleed me with leeches either. Good choices, I think. Moreover, I’ve awakened from my three-hour nap. All’s well.

Although there’s plenty to relate about Bath, I absolutely must recount my past week of London theatre-going before I inaugurate another week of London theatre-going. (Yay!) Here are four short play reviews. They’re a bit brief because I should get some more rest. I’ve gotta take care of myself until I ride away from this infectious Regency germ-scape. (For more info on Austen and illness, see here: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2337371/Jane-Austen-right-Her-characters-known-falling-ill--historians-say-19th-century-people-WERE-prone-disease.html)

1. The Seagull @ The National Theatre (https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/the-seagull)

To say that I was looking forward to this production is a bit of an understatement. Not only did The National’s marvelous Platonov (https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/platonov) raise my expectations, but I was thrilled that the amazing Anna Chancellor would be playing Irina Nikolaevna Arkadina. I adored Chancellor in 2010’s “The Creditors” (http://www.bam.org/theater/2010/creditors) and 2013’s “Private Lives” (http://www.digitaltheatre.com/production/details/noel-coward-private-lives/play), and I had every confidence that her Arkadina would match Kristin Scott Thomas’s wonderful performance in 2008 (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/03/theater/reviews/03seag.html?_r=0).

Oddly, Michael Billington’s glowing review of the “Young Chekhov” cycle playing at The National Theatre gestures towards the limitations of the company’s take on “The Seagull”. Billington writes, “[Y]ou see Chekhov move from farce (Platonov) and melodrama (Ivanov) to the creation of a symphonic realism (The Seagull)” (https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2016/aug/04/young-chekhov-trilogy-platonov-ivanov-the-seagull-national-theatre). I agree that the play-texts themselves chart this progression, but the company’s broad acting (that relies on over-sized comic gestures) illuminates Platonov’s satirical farce while it undercuts the “symphonic realism” of The Seagull, which (quite frankly) is a problem.

Take the scene when Anna Chancellor’s Arkadina hangs all over Geoffrey Streatfield’s Trigorin as she begs him to not to leave; she wails and moans and wraps around him like a child, transforming this agonizing moment into bald comic farce. The interpretation doesn’t do justice to the text. In playing Arkadina’s desperation for easy laughs, it diminishes the character, an aging woman resisting a life alone. Here, Arkadina only comes across as an unsympathetic and silly narcissist. In good productions of “The Seagull”, the audience feels sympathy for Arkadina even though she’s a narcissist. In the best productions, Arkadina’s narcissism reminds viewers of their own narcissistic, selfish foibles. One of Chekhov’s many gifts was to render every perspective valid – there are no heroes and there are no monsters in Chekhov…only flawed humans. In great productions of Chekhov’s mature plays (The Seagull, Uncle Vanya, Three Sisters, and The Cherry Orchard), one laughs to keep from crying. There are no easy laughs.

Upon reflection, all the actors fell into this broad interpretative mode (in which each scene is so comic or so tragic), and so I’d guess that this one-note “Seagull” – that resists the “symphonic” complexities of the text – must be a case of directorial overreaching by usually excellent Jonathan Kent. The directorial decisions that make the “farcical” Platonov shine diminish the “symphonic” Seagull, making it a wee bit…obvious. Dull, even.

2. The Plough and the Stars @ The National Theatre (https://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/the-plough-and-the-stars)

Before I begin ripping apart this terrible production of “The Plough and the Stars,” keep in mind that I adore The National Theatre. Really! Why do you think that I try to see everything it produces?

That said, here we go.

Wasn’t there a single Irish person consulted about this production? Wouldn’t an Irish consultant have offered the handy note that several cast members can’t manage to do Irish accents? Wow.

How do I know? Well, firstly, I’ve spent a decent amount of time in Ireland; moreover, you wouldn’t believe how many real-life, genuine Irish actors come to New York for productions at The Irish Repertory Theatre and Origin’s 1^st Irish Theatre Festival. New Yorkers love the Irish. Love them.

As I sat in the half-empty auditorium, I couldn’t believe the atrocious accents. Hearing English people murder an Irish accent is almost unbearable. (Couldn’t The National have ponied up the dough for more Irish actors to perform? Ireland’s pretty darn close, after all.) A terrible chain effect takes place when key cast members don’t bother to master the Irish accent when mounting Seán O’Casey’s “The Plough and the Stars”:

-       -Without the accent, you lose the language’s music.

-       -Without the language’s music, you lose the text’s timing.

-       -Without the text’s timing, you lose the human comedy.

-       -Without the human comedy, you lose the first half of the play.

The first half explores how mundane, quotidian concerns don’t disappear even when revolutionary violence threatens to sweep across a city – people still laugh and bicker even as bullets whiz by. It’s a profound insight considering the importance of liberation and The Easter Rising to Irish society. In losing O’Casey’s observation that ordinary people’s lives continue (unless they come to a violent end) in times of political tumult, the characters’ actions seem off-note, off-putting, and inexplicable. In short, no one associated with the production appeared to “get” Irish humor, which can be pretty dark. Well, no kidding. 

To be fair, the performances (if not the accents) improve when the play becomes a blatant tragedy in the second half. Apparently, tragedy is easier to do than tragicomedy. When Judith Roddy’s character Nora Clitheroe descends into full-Ophelia mode, I imagined that the actress might make a pretty good Ophelia, actually.

There’s another big problem with mounting “The Plough and the Stars” at The National – I wouldn’t say that the audience was particularly open to the whole idea of The Easter Rising. (To be fair, the cast so garbled the text that the audience might’ve been confused what the play was even about.) However, the guy seated next to me said, “I read the play this morning. Can you believe they rioted during the war?” His dismissive attitude to the idea of Irish independence left me a little breathless, and I only said, “Well, it was The Easter Rising…not a little riot.” He sorta shrugged.

Oddly, the conversation made me wonder how well Lin-Manuel Miranda’s “Hamilton” will play in England. It’s a question that’s occurred to me several times on my trip. I’ve been listening to the “Hamilton” soundtrack incessantly, and I have to imagine there are some plans to mount the successful juggernaut on the West End. “Hamilton” is so concerned with the rectitude of revolution, the American linguistic/musical/hip-hop idiom, and lampooning the old British Empire -- could it be possible that "Hamilton" will sink in front of a half-empty auditorium, too? Hmmmm….

3. Yerma @ The Young Vic (http://www.youngvic.org/whats-on/yerma)

Yerma is brilliant. It may be the best play that I’ve seen this year… It’s certainly in the top five alongside Charles III, A View from the Bridge, Hamilton, and Eclipsed. Billie Piper is astounding as “Her”. If you’re in London, go see Yerma. I hope it transfers to Broadway so all my New York friends can see it.

I almost don’t want to write anything because it should just be seen.

However, I’ll just say that the play offers a wrenching portrait of the torment experienced by women who desperately want children and cannot conceive. I’ve known so many women who’ve experienced similar feelings, and I found myself recognizing friends in the searing details of Billie Piper’s brave performance. (Note: Over the years, it’s been startling and rewarding to watch Piper develop into such a strong actor.) The play deals intelligently with this timely issue, and I hope it reaches a wider audience. 

4.The Entertainer @ The Garrick Theatre (http://www.branaghtheatre.com/the-entertainer/)

I’m not positive why I bought a ticket to a preview performance – it isn’t my wont to make such a mistake, but there you have it. Ever so occasionally, I make mistakes – gasp and faint!  

Since there’s a slim chance that Kenneth Branagh, Rob Ashford, the production team, and the cast might solve the myriad problems with this troubled production of John Osborne’s “The Entertainer” before Press Night on Tuesday, I’ll stop my poison pen for splashing too much acid and arsenic.

Instead, I’ll share some ancillary reflections that occurred to me as I sat through the performance – I had a lot of time for daydreaming:

- “Gosh, I should watch Laurence Olivier in the movie version again. I watched it over and over and over in high school, and I remember it being so good. I’ll definitely need to figure out why I used to like this play so much. I’ll watch the movie soon.”

- “Who would make a good Archie Rice? I used to dream about a production with Christopher Walken – he can tap dance, and he’s pretty much the Archie Rice of cinema. (The performer who stays on the job even as his act ages and grows crusty.) But maybe Nathan Lane? Because Archie Rice needs to get a few laughs even as he shows his inner torment. Hmmm… Olivier really was excellent as Archie Rice, wasn’t he?”

- “Golly, I love Joan Plowright. Watching an execrable performance like this one really makes me appreciate talented actors like Joan Plowright. It makes sense that Plowright played Olivier’s daughter, actually. It was creepy since they were together, but the casting highlights the inappropriateness of Archie’s behavior. Brilliant choice, actually.”

- “Too bad that John Hurt had to drop out of this cast. Who would’ve made a good replacement as Billy Rice? Hmmm, I might cast Ian McDiarmid (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001519/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1)  – he was so brilliant in that 2006 production of “Faith Healer.” Or maybe Alun Armstrong! I love Alun Armstrong (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0035605/?ref_=tt_cl_t5). He would blow this role out of the water.”

- “I wish that I hadn’t been seated next to the production’s tech guys. Sure, they need to take notes for the tomorrow’s rehearsal, but their groans are really getting irritating.”

-“Huh, I remembered that monologue being a lot more moving and a lot less racist. Really gotta watch the movie again.”

August 20th – 23rd, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Continental Memories of Budapest, Venice, and Dubrovnik, followed by My Not-So-Triumphant Return to London

SUNDRY LAND: Hungary, Italy, Croatia, and The United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: Art Round-up, concluding with a vexing account of my tête-à-tête with UK Immigration

No doubt the faithful followers of “Strange and Sundry” are on tenterhooks to hear the hair-raising tale of my run-in with a surly UK immigration official, but first, I bring word of the marvelous contributions of Hungary to painting in the years 1890-1930. Plus, I’ll touch on Picasso fan-art and Max Ernst’s cuckoo-for-cocoapuffs surrealism at Venice’s Peggy Guggenheim Collezioni, with a short explanation why the art in Dubrovnik stinks.

Even from my comfortable perch in the Members Area of the Southbank Centre (http://www.southbankcentre.co.uk/support-us/membership/members-area), I can sense my readers’ collective groan reverberating through the air, “More fin-de-siècle art? Really!?! Pray, Sharon, how many nouveau-passé paintings are you going to be reviewing on this European trip of yours?”

Dr. Fulton’s Patient Answer: “As many as I please. It’s MY travelogue blog.”

However, wait until the end of this post, folks. You’ll just love hearing about my public humiliation in the immigration line at Gatwick Airport. In the meantime, imagine how smart you’ll sound when you bring up the Hungarian contributions to modernism the next time you attend a swanky cocktail party.

József Rippl-Rónai and János Vaszary at Budapest’s Magyar Nemzeti Galéria

The Hungarian National Gallery in Budapest (or Magyar Nemzeti Galéria) displays the striking contributions of a panoply of artists painting between the years 1890-1930 with obvious pride. In emphasizing this golden age, the curators remember a time before WWII and the Siege of Budapest, which resulted in 80% of Budapest being destroyed – including all the bridges spanning the Danube. What the Nazis didn’t blow up on their way out, the suppressive Stalinist regime crushed with its iron fist (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Budapest). This bloodshed precipitated the Communist takeover (http://visitbudapest.travel/guide/communist-past/), inaugurating an era of state-imposed censorship that forced all artists to toe the party line or starve (http://www.nytimes.com/1991/12/11/world/freed-from-censorship-culture-in-hungary-now-suffers-lack-of-security.html). Given this historical background, the paintings of József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927) and János Vaszary (1867-1939) capture the freewheeling glamour of a time that Hungarians today are eager to recapture with decadent ruin bars (https://www.thrillist.com/travel/nation/the-coolest-ruin-bars-in-budapest), long soaks in bath houses (http://visitbudapest.travel/activities/budapest-baths/), and art nouveau tours (https://www.getyourguide.co.uk/budapest-l29/budapest-art-nouveau-private-walking-tour-t21951/).

One striking feature of the Magyar Nemzeti Galéria is the painstaking effort of the curators to teach the casual viewer more about the history of Hungarian painting. Unlike the slapdash academic efforts littering the walls of some European (and American) museums, the textual blurbs accompanying pieces in the Hungarian collections were uniformly informative, well-researched, and well-written. Someone in the Magyar Nemzeti Galéria obviously cares about communicating as much as possible about Hungarian art, and it’s only right that I should spread the news.

József Rippl-Rónai was the golden boy of this golden age – towards the beginning of his career, he spent a decade in Belle Époque Paris, where he became known as the “Hungarian Nabi” for hanging out with Bonnard, Vuillard, and Malliol, and then he returned to Hungary in 1900 to “earn a reputation among his compatriots as a reformer of Hungarian art and one of the vanguards of modernist painting.”

Accordingly, many Rippl-Ronai paintings look like Vuillard or Whistler knock-offs, but he also developed a more unique style, as suggested by this decorative piece, “Painting for the Schiffer Villa (1911),” which (yes) he painted for a villa.

The informative blurb relates, “In this characteristic ‘corn style’ painting, brightly coloured brush strokes are placed side by side to construct magnified mosaics”; in essence, the style is like Seurat’s pointillist efforts with bigger dots…corn kernels? It works! In my opinion, Ronai’s most distinctive pieces employ this "corn" brushstroke, yellow/red color palate, and side-by-side compositional scheme for the figures. For examples, see “Girls Getting Dresses (Red Furniture and Yellow Wall) [1912-1913]," 

AND my ultimate favorite, “My Father and Uncle Piacsek Drinking Red Wine (1907),” which strikes me (at any rate) as quintessentially Hungarian. Is his father thinking, worrying about his artistic son, or does he have a headache? Maybe all three, but you can be sure that's a tasty Hungarian red wine from the Villány region. 

János Vaszary had a long career that stretched from the prettiness of fin-de-siècle art nouveau to the pared-down modernist angularity of the 1930s. In every decade however, it’s perfectly obvious that this guy appreciated a good time. In “Masked Ballroom Dance (1907),” Vaszary’s loose brushwork conveys the decadent swirl of costume ball – it’s a swirling, shimmering frill of a painting:

In contrast, look how much Vaszary’s style had changed by the time he painted “Morphine Addict (1930)”: 

Abstract shapes and figures dominate the 1930 piece, and his brushwork has taken a linear turn. Although the color schemes and compositions are comparable, it’s difficult to believe that these paintings sprang from the same hand. Taken together, they offer some sense of the cultural shifts between 1907 and 1930: Ball gowns to beachwear! Champagne to morphine! Only top hats are timeless.

Egidio Costantini’s Picasso-Inspired Sculptures and Max Ernst at the Peggy Guggenheim Collezioni in Venice

Like her uncle Solomon R. Guggenheim who founded one of the most important modern art collections in New York City (https://www.guggenheim.org), Peggy Guggenheim had the vision to collect Cubist, Surrealist, and Abstract Expressionist artworks, ultimately founding the gorgeous Peggy Guggenheim Collezioni in Venice (http://www.guggenheim-venice.it/inglese/default.html). As a New Yorker who’s visited Frank Lloyd Wright’s roundabout Guggenheim building on 1071 5^th Avenue countless times, I’d say that the Venetian collection feels like a natural extension of the NYC Guggenheim…without the vertigo and grit.

The Peggy Guggenheim Collezioni showcases it abstract treasures in a charming villa that wafts on the Grand Canal, and the aesthetic appreciation of the modern art is enhanced by the Renaissance staging – the paintings strike the eye like freshly cut gems that have been affixed in an ancient setting.

The happy juxtaposition between old and new certainly magnifies the beauty of Egidio Costantini’s “Glass sculptures after sketched by Picasso (1964),” which are displayed in a window overlooking the canal. Sunshine flows through the blue glass, and the antique wrought-iron accentuates the sculptures’ modern curves by presenting a patterned counterpoint. I could’ve looked at the light glide through these sculptures at different angles all day.

As I moved onto the paintings, I adored Max Ernst’s “La Toilette de la mariée (Attirement of the Bride) [1940]” for providing a surrealistic spectacle so reminiscent of the commedia dell’arte masks for sale all over Venice. 

Then I remembered that this painting graces my much-read Penguin edition of Sigmund Freud’s “The Uncanny”(http://www.bookdepository.com/Uncanny-the-Sigmund-Freud/9780142437476?redirected=true&utm_medium=Google&utm_campaign=Base1&utm_source=UK&utm_content=Uncanny-the&selectCurrency=GBP&w=AFC7AU99ZZHZ9FA8ZT4L&pdg=kwd-104942168979:cmp-177155787:adg-15139031667:crv-44091921627:pid-9780142437476&gclid=CPmA8pyc2s4CFYW4GwodjvwCJg), which just made me love it that much more.  

Although Peggy Guggenheim was reputed to have slept with 1,000 men on her travels through Europe (wowza), she did settle down and marry Max Ernst (her second husband) from 1941-1946 (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peggy_Guggenheim), which means that Ernst developed this bird-bride imagery immediately before their the happy(?) wedding day. Although it’s tons of fun to pose psychoanalytical interpretations of surrealistic paintings by referring to biographical factoids in the artist’s life, I daren’t even guess why Ernst might’ve been thinking of giant feathered headdresses and four-breasted hermaphroditic sea creatures in the year before his marriage to Peggy Guggenheim. Still, there’s a good premise for a short story, eh?

The Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik

As I walked around the Rector’s Palace in Dubrovnik (https://www.dubrovnikcity.com/dubrovnik/attractions/rectors_palace.htm), I felt a bit confused. Everywhere else on my European journey, I’d encountered spectacular works of art of every shape and size, but the beautiful city of Dubrovnik showcases – sorry – a load of crap in its cultural history museum. Minor, ill-preserved paintings by so-so artists – I couldn’t understand it. Where was all the good stuff? I just couldn’t believe that the clever artisans of Dubrovnik who’d engineered an awe-inspiring architectural jewel of a city hadn’t picked up at least a few good pieces in 600 years. Moreover, the Rector’s Palace isn’t even air conditioned! Considering the Adriatic heat, I was a bit flummoxed why the Croatian curators weren’t doing the bare minimum to preserve their oldest pieces of art (such as they were).

It wasn’t until I read Christopher Hitchens’s Introduction to Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West that this mystery was partially explained, “The cultural treasures of Dubrovnik, on the Adriatic Coast, were shelled and looted by Montenegrin irregulars fighting on the Serbian side…[in the 1990s].” So the good’s stuff in Montenegro?  

Next time, I’ll have to check out the contemporary holdings in their modern museum, which promises a better experience (http://ugdubrovnik.hr/en/?file=home).

Now…What You’ve All Been Waiting For! Sharon Is Humiliated! Huzzah!

I blame British Airways.

There I was eager to fill out my immigration form on the plane. No pen! If even one of the bubble-headed stewards or stewardesses had handed me the pen that I’d requested twice, all might’ve been well. But no. No pen. They all had to sit down for landing instead of risking life and limb to accommodate my needs. If you ask me, that’s one undedicated cabin crew.  

As a tip, arriving at the UK border with an blank immigration form isn’t such a good idea – it results in a hurried rush to complete the form before reaching the front of the line. You may be thinking, “Wah? But immigration lines are always so long, Dr. Fulton.” Well, they aren’t if you’re the only non-EU passenger on a plane from Dubrovnik to Gatwick.

HARK!

The Moral Tale of Sharon Fulton and the Surly Immigration Officer

Picture Sharon Fulton scribbling frantically to fill out the seemingly inane immigration form as a large mass of EU residents stand one queue away, not even guessing that they have front-row seats to the cross-examination about to take place in the non-EU area.

Surly Immigration Officer, laughing before giving a patronizing snort: “I’ve seen doctors with better handwriting than this.”

Sharon Fulton: “Oh sorry, they forgot to give me a pen on the plane, and I had to…”

SIO, interrupting while still glancing over the messy form: “You forgot to give your occupation.”

SF: “Oh, I’m a writer.”

SIO, looking up: “A writer?”

SF, smiling: “Yes.”

SIO, growing grim: “I see.”

SF, still smiling and not realizing what’s about to happen waits until the SIO goes onto say: “Unemployed then. Writing isn’t a job.”

SF, flummoxed: “Oh…Well, I used to teach too, but I’m writing full-time now.”

SIO: “When was your last real job?”

SF: “I taught at Columbia University until May”

SIO, looking unconvinced that I could teach anywhere: “What’s your work history for the last two years?”

SF: “Well, I taught at Columbia from January to May this past year. The year before, I took time to write a novel,” at which the SIO’s frown deepens…possibly in reaction to her deep-seated grudge against novels.

SF adds: “I taught at Columbia 10 years before that.”

SIO: “Oh, so you have worked.”

No response from SF

SIO continues:  “Four months is a long time to be traveling,” in a tone that suggests that I should be garroted.

SF: “Yes.”

SIO: “Especially for someone who’s unemployed.”

SF: “Well, I write…”

SIO interrupts to say, “How are you paying for this trip?”

SF: “From my savings.”

The SIO gives a skeptical glance that anyone like me could have savings before she asks, “What are you doing in Europe?” (She asks this question as if she’s finally pinned me down.)

SF in exasperation: “I’m writing a travelogue.”

SIO’s expression collapses into a grimace that mingles equal parts derision with disgust before she demands, “How much money are you carrying?”

SF hurries to pull out the meagre sum she’s carrying because she needs to visit an ATM.

SIO: “How many credit cards do you have? Show them to me.”

SF: “You want to see my credit cards?”

SIO: “Yes. Now.”

SF fans out her three credit cards and two debit cards as the SIO looks annoyed.

SIO: “When is your flight back to the US?”

SF, starting to get flustered: “Oh, it’s October 8^th… no October 6^th, I think.”

SIO: “Show me the ticket.”

SF: “The plane ticket?”

SIO, as if she’s finally nailed me: “You have a ticket, don’t you?” As she asks, I think that I detect a drop of blood dripping from her left fang.

SF: “Yes, yes. It’s on my iPhone. I’ll get the Wifi working.”

SIO, annoyed waits until I pull up the ticket on the iPhone screen: “I see. October 6^th.”

SF: “Yes, October 6^th. On Aer Lingus. Out of Dublin.”

SIO: “You should print out your ticket for inspection at the next border.”

SF: “Oh, okay.”

SIO: “You put up a lot of red flags. You’re traveling alone for a long time, and you’re unemployed. Writing isn’t a real job.”

SF wants to say many, many things like the only reason anyone would want to visit this pathetic island is the famous writers you anti-immigrant English bastards have squeezed out despite the obvious idiocy of the general population. Instead, SF swallows her words and smiles, “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

By the time SF walks away from the Immigration Border, she’s gone white with an admixture of indignation and panic. Exhaling, she’s about to take everything personally. Then she overhears a stately, white-haired English gentleman say, “Why…? I… I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m English! I thought she wasn’t going to let me through.”

English Gentleman’s Wife: “It’s fine, dear. It’s immigration.”

Nine Moral Lessons for the Dedicated Readers of “Strange and Sundry”:

1. Always take time to fill out your immigration form before you reach the border.

2. Immigration officials are paid to demean everyone. Don’t take it personally.

3. Lone travelers are suspicious – being single is evil.

4. Have a plane ticket home…even if you change it later.

5. Travelogues are disgusting.

6. Books are composed by fairies, gremlins, and brownies who apparate at night to type out their little hearts for the bemusement of mankind…because writing isn’t a real job.

7. The only purpose in life is making money. 

8. Writers should get real jobs like being immigration officials.

9. I should be ashamed of myself.