“The world is there, the world is not awaiting our interpretations but unresisting when we compose them and it may be that the mere semblance of the world’s acquiescence to our metaphor-making leads us deeper and deeper into illusion.” Joyce Carol Oates

AN AMERICAN IN…UM…LEICESTER: Or I used to love jet lag, but I was so much younger then.

“This year, of course, entertaining our crowd (for my husband’s birthday) at our usual multi-star Michelin hotspots would simply not do…We ultimately picked the cozier restaurant—even though it ended up costing us more, so eager was the more chic outfit to host the party. Why spend the extra bucks? Because our chosen place is distinctly low-profile and rarely mentioned in the press.”

No, those are not my words, although we did just recently celebrate The Mister’s fiftieth birthday. The quote above comes from the wife of the CEO of one of the biggest TARP recipients, of late deprived of ostentatious opulence. On my fiftieth—which still appears closer in the rear view memory mirror although it is many, many miles down the road—The Mister and I hiked into the Grand Canyon for a very nearly overwhelming experience in the land of the Havasupi Nation, which bears retelling someday.

For The Mister’s fiftieth we flew out of Newark International airport on the last day of March and found our sleepy, fool hearty selves in the Midlands in England on the first morning of April. And just like the newly frugal rich, we didn’t use the company plane; though we saw no sign of even a lone paparazzo staked out at the arrivals terminal at Birmingham International airport; just the early morning welcome on the smiling face of our friend Jazz. She bravely navigated the rush hour motorway back to Montague Road in Leicester before heading off to her office.

The Contessa, whose comfortable house on Montague Road she so generously made available to us for the next five nights was about to head back to the airport. She was on her way to one of the 70 islands of the Orkney archipelago to the north of the mainland of Scotland in search of family history. Both of her parents are Celtic; neither side landowners, and she supposes they were probably warring tribal robbers from the English Scottish border region. The cast of characters on my maternal side lists French Canadian fur thieves, so there’s a romantic link to our friendship. But before she left we three enjoyed a much-anticipated breakfast at The Jones Café on Queens Road within steps of The Contessa’s front door; veggie for me and The Mister. Over a traditional English breakfast, though free of meat—Quorn bangers (yay, no pigs), beans, potatoes, mushrooms, and tomatoes—she handed us the keys to her house and garden and left us in charge of her chatty gray cat, dubbed Pusskin.

After breakfast, The Mister and I curled into the only nap (or kip as they say) that we would manage in a hectic, non-stop week. We were looking forward to catching up with friends before they left for the Easter holidays, a birthday party for The Mister, and four of his gigs in addition to a live interview on BBC Radio Leicester—all in a week. The first gig was only hours away. 

We met for an early dinner with friends at a Spanish-style restaurant we visit when we are in Leicester. It’s called Barceloneta and it’s on Queens Road. Tapas selections are larger and more liberally portioned with patatas bravas and croquetas than I can recall being served in Spain years ago or even at the splendid tapas bars in New York. On our very first visit the waiter at Barceloneta had blanched as I ticked off numerous offerings on the menu visualizing the little canapés we enjoy with our wine or sherry at tapas bars in Manhattan. He finally routed his British reserve and suggested to this American that I had overdone it and we choose heedfully now. Garlic mushrooms always a favorite. We ordered three plates among us. 

Our lively party, well sated and buzzed with sangria, headed off to the open mic at The Donkey on Welford Road. Phoebe and B.L. Zeebüb were off to Scotland the next day so we were lucky to catch up with them. I had one of those delightfully convoluted, rabbit-hole conversations with B.L. that only make intangible sense in the sangria and jet lag context. Siggy and Jazz, joined by their 18-year-old daughter who is a dynamite sax player were our nearly constant companions in Leicester. Siggy serves The Mister well as not only a good friend and fellow musician, but is also a super-charged cheerleading manager for him in Leicester.

It’s always a new experience for me, listening to the songs that The Mister and I write and he performs publicly. For most of my life I had been a painter. When a completed canvas was transported outside my studio to a gallery show or eventually hung in another’s home I was often, well, disappointed. Certainly not by the appearance of the painting itself, but rather by a sense of attachment I’d had to it while creating it in the studio, which seemed to have disappeared when it had gone. I could see it and appreciate it but it never evolved once the pigment was dry and I let it go quite easily. Not so with the songs. As long as we work on a new one and as many times as I hear them coming from the back room of our apartment in Manhattan when The Mister is rehearsing it never fails to surprise me when I hear the song played out in public. And it is always a pleasant surprise. It’s as if the song, unlike the painting, has an organic life of its own. I often catch myself humming our tunes. You can’t hum a painting. Hearing the newest songs like “Living In a Mike Leigh World” and “Feral Woman” played out live can’t be beat. Hearing our song, “Greenhill Road” played for the very people who inspired it—Jazz and Siggy—well, it’s just icing on the cake, or rather to the point, the foamy head on a pint of Guinness where a clever bartender scrawls a cloverleaf.

And it was a kind of surprise when mates of his he had not seen in yonks had heard the radio interview and showed up at The Donkey: Phil Croxford, Allen Jones, Romeo Challenger. Bendy Alex hadn’t remembered meeting me (when I was blonde, sporting a short, punky haircut and much younger) until I reminded him that he had framed a portrait of The Mister I had done for his parents. He remembered that. Many more familiar faces appeared. The Howard Road gang turned out. Our mellow trumpet-playing friend “Uncle” Stanley greeted us with an expansive grin; calling me his American friend—his only American friend. His son Drew was there, a saxophonist extraordinaire who now tours with The Specials, recently re-formed. We had the pleasure of seeing Drew last year back home at Otto’s Shrunken Head, a hole-in-the-wall dive on East 14^th Street, where his ska band, El Pussycat, brought the house down and showed New York musos how it’s done. He would appear with The Specials on the Jools Holland Show the following evening in London. Among our friends it was as if there had been no time between the last time, a couple of years ago. Characters in the audience, like the vociferous woman with the enchanting sobriquet of “Liverpool Annie” added to the colorful palette. John Butler from Diesel Park West—the band that very nearly made it—was there. I suspect his presence was more down to making sure that The Mister, who would be opening for him and Rick Wilson at The Musician the following night, wasn’t a complete wanker onstage. The Mister did not disappoint and jet lag notwithstanding, he rocked.

Jazz had decided to take a few days off from work to hang with us and wisely directed us to Bradgate Park the next morning, a Friday. We opted for the very lovely (and for this American, authentic) Jade Tearooms across the road from the park’s entrance. The menu promised a wealth of delicious choices, and possibly one of the best omelets I have had. I’m not a cake eater but the scones oozing with Devonshire cream never left my line of sight until one had arrived before me.

Tea cups with a handle are held by placing one’s fingers to the front and back of the handle with one’s pinkie up again allows balance. Pinkie up does mean straight up in the air, but slightly tilted. It is not an affectation, but a graceful way to avoid spills. Never loop your fingers through the handle, nor grasp the vessel bowl with the palm of your hand.

I’m afraid my big American paw fails tea etiquette, so I opted for a large cup of coffee; that and the fact that only coffee serves to reconstitute my American brain after a late night.

Bradgate Park holds a special place in our hearts; in mine it’s more recently held. But The Mister has fond childhood memories of family outings. It was a place his mum championed and after her first visit to Central Park she crowed confidently: “Just wait until you see our Bradgate Park.” And she was right. Only fifteen minutes from the center of Leicester, it trumps our park with a river running through it—the Lin. It’s an open ruggedly rocky heath covered with bracken, affording spectacular views. We once sighted the elusive white deer! Fabulously weird trees—Jazz called them Monkey Trees—tower over the path into the park. The ruins of the birthplace of Lady Jane Grey crown a rise in the distance. A killer plant called Deadly Nightshade is allowed to grow among the ruins for “historical purposes.” Not much fun being a Queen, I suspect, even if for only nine days.

Stopped on the path by the comical sight of a youthful gang of deer considering how to navigate over a stone wall, we noticed a parade of stags streaming down a steep hill in the protected area the little ones were aiming for. We watched transfixed as these majestic beasts hurtled down the slope, unhindered by the weight and extravagance of their impressive antlers, first stopping to dip shoulder-high into the river before making their way to a herd of females. Getting ready for a little  snogging action, perhaps? Sure, maybe when tourists weren’t gawping at them.

Sleepy from a day of inhaling country air and the kind of hunger that walking in nature brings needed an excellent resolution. So, we headed back to Leicester, collected the sax-playing daughter, and made our way to an Indian restaurant highly recommend by her parents. Poppadoms on Welford Road revealed a capacious ‘Restaurants-R-Us’ interior, which belied the very good quality of the food. And nothing better goes with excellent curries than to wash it all down with a tall, chilled bottle (or two) of Kingfisher beer. The teenager (fully old enough) rounded out her meal with a shot of Southern Comfort. Brought back fond memories, that did.

Undeterred by copious amounts of spicy vindaloos and kormas, chutneys, paratha, and rounds of beer, we said good night to the Greenhill Road crew at their door and raced back to Montague road. This time we were determined to make it to the Clary before last call. And we did.

The penultimate day of our trip—a Tuesday—started with breakfast at The Jones Café as it was on our way to a good walk across Victoria Park to the City Centre of Leicester. The Mister got some new shirts at Pilot and I added to the collection of fridge magnets growing like colorful acne across the face of the kitchen cabinet at home. I was able to replace the souvenir Leicester tea towel, which his mum had given me years ago and now was hardly less worn than the scrap of linen it is claimed shrouded Jesus. These aren’t the souvenirs that get stored away until they get thrown away. I had happily packed up all the tea towels left behind in mum’s house after she died; the used ones as well as those we had given her. They were still unwrapped in kitchen drawers—good linen dishtowels from the gift shop at The Metropolitan Museum in New York just up the road from us—never used and perhaps too precious to her. Sure his sister got the monetary bulk of the estate, such as it was, but she’ll never feel the love of an old tea towel.