I was only in my 20th summer when I read those words, and am now in my 51st, but I have never forgotten them and they frequently spring to mind, as do memories of that magical time.
I believe I emerged from my mother's womb a born Anglophile. All through my formative years in elementary school and high school, my nickname was always "Mary Queen of Scots," so deep was my obsession with all things related to the British Isles. Dreaming of the time when I would actually step foot on that "sceptered isle set in a silver sea, " I never could have guessed how special and magical it would turn out to be.
My father is a composer/conductor, and in his youth he had the good fortune be studying conducting at the same time as Claudio Abbado came to Zagreb, where we were living at the time (and where I was born), to conduct a concert, with my father put in charge of preparing his rehearsals. They became fast friends and spent all their time together while Claudio was in Zagreb, forging a friendship which would endure for many years. My father and mother were already together at that time, 2 highly attractive individuals who shared the gorgeous Adriatic coast as their homeland: my mother from a lovely seaside town called Omis, my father from an island so beautiful it seems more fantasy than reality, Hvar. They met in Zagreb, where they were both studying, and with Claudio formed a sort of Jules et Jim camaraderie. My mother was breathtakingly beautiful, and I just know Claudio must have been very taken with her, and probably jealous of my father.
Life swept them in different directions, my mother and father to marriage and children, then a move to Los Angeles in search of the good life, which unfortunately eluded them. Claudio returned to his native Italy, just across that selfsame Adriatic, where the good life found him. He scored one triumph after another, becoming one of the most successful and sought-after conductors in the classical world, a destiny my father could only dream of and envy, as he eked out a meager living giving piano lessons to the likes of Dean Martin's son (when he got lucky). For the uninitiated, make no mistake, the top echelons of the world of classical music are among the most glamorous and elite that there are, most of their denizens people of extreme education, discriminating taste and wealth. It all seemed to come so easily to Claudio, and before long he became the conductor of the London Symphony, one of the world's top orchestras.
Meanwhile, my mother had divorced my father and remarried, and I was off studying English Lit. at Berkeley. My Anglophilia was raging unabated, and I couldn't believe I hadn't yet been to this beguiling land. The summer after my sophomore year, my boyfriend, Steve, and I planned to meet in London after I spent some time on Hvar, and he in Jerusalem interning at Hadassah Hospital under the aegis of his family's friend Dr. David Weiss. My mother, who had kept in touch with Claudio, contacted him to let him know I would be coming to London for the first time. I still remember where I was sitting in my bedroom in the lovely house on Arch and Glen when she called to incredulously read me the letter he'd sent in reply, telling my mother that although he and his family would be away on tour, he would be happy to offer his home at 36 Jubilee Place, SW1, for my use, household staff included. My mother and I were both gobsmacked, to say the least. Now my trip was really shaping up to be something special!
I visited Steve for a while in Israel that summer, which is another post, then returned to Hvar. Finally, the summer was almost over, and it was time for London. Steve arrived a day or 2 before me and met me at the airport, and together we took a taxi to 36 Jubilee Place. It was a lovely residential street off of the Kings Road in posh Chelsea, and the home a white-washed multi-level dream of chintz, lace, and china. The Abbados' maid/cook welcomed us inside, but propriety dictated that we not share a bedroom. Because only one guest room had been prepared for our use, poor Steve had to sleep in the downstairs living room, in the sleeping bag of the Abbados' 7-year-old son, Sebastian, until another room could be prepared for him the next day. My peals of laughter at the sight of 6'4" Steve stuffing himself into that little sleeping bag still ring in my ears.
Steve and I marveled at our great good luck that we were ensconced in this neighborhood of unutterable poshness. We were living like "toffs," even though we were scruffy college students on our first visit to London (well, my first, Steve had already been and was a wonderful guide). I remember opening my bedroom window that first morning, looking down at the garden with its honeysuckle, lavender and begonias, and the first thing I thought of was the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's marvelous song "Chelsea Morning":
"Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses"
The happiness I felt can only be felt when one is 20, madly in love for the first time, convinced it is the last time too, there will never be, COULD never be, another, and in Chelsea with Claudio Abbado's home for just the 2 of us, and London as our oyster.
