“Why, oh why, do the wrong people travel?” sang Noel Coward back in the ’30s. Lucky Sir Noel, he never met the present bunch. Just like the Bolsheviks deemed the aristocracy and the intelligentsia as enemies of the people back in 1917, good manners and conservative dress today are viewed—at least in the Bagel—as false and affected. But I’m getting away from the subject at hand. I just bought Masquerade, a doorstop biography of Sir Noel, but I remember the song from way back, before the one time I met him. It was June 21, 1969, in Vevey, Switzerland, and Charlie Chaplin’s daughter Josephine was getting married to a Greek friend of mine, Nicky Sistovaris. I was the only journalist invited and allowed to take pictures for Paris Match. Chaplin was gracious and eager to talk, whereas Oona, his wife, was very guarded. After the wedding Noel Coward arrived and we were introduced. “I’m no paparazzo,” I ventured. “I can see the Via Veneto rising up behind you,” answered the great one.
Needless to say, it’s good to be back in London again. Two encounters took place, both totally unexpected. I took an early flight from the Bagel, checked into the hotel, and went to Sloane Square for a bite to eat. As bad luck would have it, I drank a bottle of red on an empty stomach—when flying, the trick is never to eat—and when I walked out for a cigarette, my head was spinning and I had to lean against the wall in order not to look even more ridiculous. That is when a young man approached me. “Oh, oh,” I thought, “he probably thinks the old boy is easy pickings.” It shows how good a judge I am of human nature. The polite and handsome young man’s name is Anthony and he’s in banking—and has been reading Takimag all his life. “Please keep writing,” he said and disappeared into the night. “If I keep this up it’s going to be curtains,” I said to no one in particular.
What is it about good things coming in pairs? The next day, outside Sandoe’s bookstore, another young man stopped me and asked if I was who I am. His name? Jack Gallagher, and he’s a reader of you-know-what. However silly all this sounds, I am not only flattered but also amazed. I don’t use social media, so how does anyone recognize an old man hanging around Belgravia and its environs? Perhaps it is the bump on my forehead thanks to the last karate session in the Bagel.
Never mind. The difference coming from New York to a sunny London is the women. In the Bagel they’re loud and brash, in London they’re demure, prettier, younger, and much more feminine. Actually Londoners are much friendlier than Bagelites, but that’s a cliché, like saying some sports team is owned by Saudi Arabia. Mind you, London might one day belong outright to the Saudis, or the Qataris, but I don’t see it becoming third-world like New York has, and that’s because of the people. Londoners will never flee like Bagelites have in order to escape high taxes, out-of-control crime, and a homeless population that is violent and ubiquitous.
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