London - then and now
- havasalad
- Oct 31
- 5 min read
Updated: Nov 6
Before the current visit, I visited England six times — twice in the seventies as part of a family trip and completely against my will, once in the mid-eighties as a props operator for the original Israeli play "Abandoned Property" which was invited to perform in some festival (those were the days), a fourth time in 1990 when I was accepted as a trainee in the props department at the National English Theatre, a fifth time when I came to visit the love of my life and discovered terrible things about myself, and the sixth time when I was accepted as an apprentice of a production management team at the English National Opera. The opera produced then was "Orpheus and Eurydice" by Gluck, directed by Martha Clark.
So, in the Seventies, the first time I came to Britain and in complete contrast to my extreme antagonism, I felt as if I had returned home. Frequently I was asked if I wanted a nice cup of tea, and then offered butter and Marmite on toast — that bitter-salty brown spread that no one but the Anglo-Saxons can tolerate. People spoke English like my father and mother, and there was a smell, a kind of mixture of soot and fish and chips that I actually recognized — it could only be because of the genes that run in my blood. It was a truly overwhelming experience. On the one hand, I didn't want to be on this trip with my family because I had to hide my addiction to cigarettes from them, but on the other hand, I felt there was nowhere else I would rather be.
In the 80's, when I arrived in London as an employee of the Cameri Theater, I came with a friend who developed severe tonsillitis, and I was in love with one of the actresses in the play. The outcome of this situation was that I was miserable. On the one hand, I had to nurse this unfortunate girl I didn't really care for, and to this day have no idea why I even suggested she come with me to London. On the other hand, the actress I was in love with ignored me completely, and I couldn’t shake off my obsession with her and that made me hate myself.
A decade later, when I came to work and study in the British cultural institutions, I felt the complete alienation between me and most of the staff members there. Everyone knew I was from Israel, and they expressed no opinion or emotion about that fact. But no one invited me for a nice cup of tea or in fact any kind of a drink, and aside from professional talk, hardly anyone ever spoke to me.
In a separate memoir I will tell about the time I came to visit my one and only true love.
Before I move on, I will mention just three points:
A. Every time I was in London, I was exposed to culture and art I would never have encountered in Israel — from David Bowie's Stardust gig, to visiting the coolest nightclub in Camden Market, to watching plays at the English National Theatre while creating props for these productions, as well as seeing and hearing some of the best opera productions in the world.
B. In the two times I got educated at the theatre and opera in London, I learned that the English religion is professionalism — the more professional you are, the more respected and valued you are.
C. During this visit in 2023, I am discovering a significant decline in the standard of living of the people themselves and of Britain as a country, and along with that, the locals have become disillusioned with professionalism and with living in the city.
And now I stand at the rusty, hollow train station in Flitwick, waiting for the train that will take me to Saint Pancras — King's Cross in London — and, as usual, it is late. I am excited about meeting my good friend who lives in London and has a cat named Mimi. I will watch over Mimi while my friend stays in Manchester to produce an American musical in distinct Bollywood style, with only Anglo-Indians participating, and for about three weeks I will stay in a large house, equipped with the best amenities, on the quiet Mafeking Street, not far from the northern end of Piccadilly line.
About three-quarters of an hour later, I get off at the London station platform, and from the overground train, I try to find my way to Piccadilly Line, which runs underground. The crowds, moving like a swarm of wasps through tunnels, escalators, and platforms, are somewhat terrifying, and for a moment I find myself wandering in circles, completely unsure of where I should go.
Again, neglect, dirt, and poverty are everywhere. Above all, there is a noticeable absence of light-haired and blue eyed English natives. Yes, it’s August, the month when most Britons, like most Europeans, escape their countries for summer holidays in Spain and the Canary Islands. But still, the number of migrants, whom I believe are mostly Middle Eastern or North Africans — that is, Syrians, Iraqis, Palestinians, and the like — is unsettling to me. I feel a certain discomfort.
But, on my platform, I see from afar a nice kosher Jewish family; the father wearing a wide-brimmed shtreimel covered with a plastic bag, the mother has a high thing-a-me "Bobby" hat, and around them are seven children — the daughters in long-sleeved dresses and tights, and the boys all dressed in black, with kippahs and payot. A wave of warmth fills my heart. Me! Who in my homeland cannot tolerate this strange isolated sect of the Jewish people, and here in this moment, among hijabs, niqabs, burqas, jalabiyas, and prayer beads roled between rough fingers, I feel closer to more than anyone in the world. Here stand brave members of my people who either do not want or cannot hide the dress code of their faith. I hurry to be near them and can hardly stop myself from approaching and hugging them tightly.
At the penultimate station of the Piccadilly line, my friend meets me and takes me to her house. I first met her when she came to work in the Municipal Theatre of Tel Aviv's lighting department. I was then the head of the props department, and because of my English background, we immediately formed a close connection, though not a romantic one. At the theater, we all hoped she would eventually move to Israel and settle there, but in retrospect, it turned out she had a difficult time here with us. She was lonely, unable to learn the language, missed her family, and generally felt that Israel was not her cup of tea (ha-ha). And she really is very English.
When we enter the house and after a hesitant introduction between me and Mimy the cat, my friend shows me the kitchen and mentions that she keeps a kosher kitchen. I raise an eyebrow. She explains, “Right, right, sometimes I treat myself to a ham and cheese sandwich,” but the kitchen has to be kosher, and she would very much like me to observe this. I promise to be diligently kosher.
It turns out that there are so many different types of Jews, and even those whom we dismiss as Jewish, or those who dismiss their Jewish identity themselves, cannot escape the Jewish DNA flowing in our blood. Here in England, for an unexplained reason, I feel my Jewishness — I, who all my life believed in my complete secularism and didn't want to hear anything about the dispersion and persecution of Jews — here I feel my parents, my grandparents, and the place of the Jewish tradition in their lives and mine. And just now, Mimy the cat is rubbing against my legs as she purrs loudly.
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