THE THEATER MIRROR, Boston's LIVE Theater Guide
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Reviewed by Rosanna Yamagiwa Alfaro
It’s not surprising, given the times, that no less than eight of the 25 plays I saw in London this summer had to do with Utopia: Aristophanes’ The Birds, Richard Bean’s The Mentalist, Toby Wilsher’s The Adventures of the Stoneheads, Tanika Gupta’s Sanctuary, Helen Edmundson’s Mother Teresa is Dead and Stoppard’s nine-hour trilogy, The Coast of Utopia: Voyage, Shipwreck, Salvage. With the exception of "The Birds", all the plays are new. Edmundson’s play was at the Royal Court, the rest were at the National.
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A Letter from Paul Barstow
On Sunday, September 8, I returned from a twelve-day Elderhostel program in London. This was called "Inside the Monarchy: Royal Lives and Homes," and it seemed very appropriate for Her Majesty's Golden Jubilee year, everywhere featured and festuned. I found this adventure splendid, stimulating and satisfying. It was also kind of a review program for me, since I had previously visited almost all of the sites but, in some cases, years ago. I could drop my sophistication and be a tourist again -- correction, "traveler." We had an excellent Group Leader, an enthusiastic Course Director, and a fine lecturer. Everything ran with confident assurance -- meals, busses, entrance times, etc. Our hotel in South Kensington was very comfortable and near enough to tube and bus stops to make trips to the West End fast and easy.
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A Journal from Carl A. Rossi
My first impression of Oregon was one of smoke - the soothing voice over the plane’s intercom said that if we looked out to our left, we could see the smoke drifting over from the forest fires raging in the western part of the state. I looked beneath the chin of the man partially blocking our window, and there - almost in silhouette - were the famous mountains and forests of Oregon (I’d been reading my guidebook), blanketed in what appeared to be the cool, gray mists of dawn. Here and there, trees tore through this blanket like spikes, and I could see winding, narrow dirt roads lacing the sides of their mountains; roads so narrow, you’d swear a child had traced them in with its finger. The flatlands were yellow - not golden fields of wheat, but parched, tinderbox grass. Oregon is in a drought.
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