A nightmare in the skies

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It’s April: so I’m off to Europe for a spring and summer of music, opera food and friends. And nowadays, since I’ve switched to business class travel, I have even been looking forward to the huge, four-part plane flight with Emirates Airlines.

Wrong.

All started well. Jo from North Canterbury Shuttles picked me up and delivered me to Christchurch airport. Small annoyance, no on-line boarding passes: so I had to wobble to Emirates check-in, and thence to the Lounge (pleasant) and the plane (ditto) and off to Australia.

At Sydney I boarded my first wheelchair (no more wobbling) to go to their lounge (very superior), to relax, sup, write and wait. And wait. And wait. The nightmare had begun.

We finally boarded the plane (what can suddenly be wrong with a plane that self-fixes in an hour?) two hours late. And waited and waited. And then we were told that the flight had been cancelled, due to curfew restrictions. Everybody out. And chaos began. I got to the door, was dumped unceremoniously into my wheelchair by a fat man and shoved to one side while hordes of folk headed off to be rebooked. And I waited and waited and waited. But I never saw the fat man again. Finally Colleen, a fellow passenger, took pity on me, and trundled me off in pursuit of the throng.

Colleen was to turn out to be my saviour over the next hellish hours.

But where were Emirates? Where the Sydney ground staff? You don’t leave an old man in a wheelchair sitting in nowhere land!

Colleen took control, got me to (re)check in, and, and after an eternity, managed to get the one lady of the seven who seemed to be actually working instead of chatting to rebook us for 6am the morrow. Right through to Berlin? I queried. Yes, right through. I just had to pick up my boarding pass at the end of the Emirates flight at Munich. OK.

It was now after 1am. Our flight would check in at 3am. No use taking the proffered bus to an hotel, we’d just have had to turn round and come straight back. The lounge was unavailable (why? And why did we have to immigrate into Australia, anyway …) but there was a coffee shop….

Not for long. A little man told us to get out. The airport was closed. And he meant it. I was trundled by my saviour out into a car park … becoming, by this stage, a mite teary ... and there we sat until 3am. $10,000 for a night in a carpark. Food and drinkless, lavatory and medicationless.

At three, we re-entered the fires of Hell, and struggled to check-in (I’ll swear those seven people were still chatting) and just looked forward to getting back to the lounge! Why did we ever leave it!?

But no. Security didn’t open till 4am. Another hour. So we waited and waited. I should add that we, as business class passengers, and I as a handicapped traveller received, in all this time not one iota of aid. Were it not for Colleen, I would still be there.

6am back on a plane. Where we were 9 hours ago. All the staff bright and cheery (yes, but where were you when you were NEEDED?), I bleary and teary and 36 hours without sleep. I fell into my seat, and shut my eyes. No sleep of course, every few minutes an announcement. In multiple languages. Well, last time this flight was 14 hours of enjoyment. This time it was 14 hours of suffering. NO! I do not want some huge meal! NO! I do not want bubbly reflux-making champagne. No I do not want to hear this or that publicity, or listen to the next man’s murder movie. I want to shut my eyes until Dubai. Or, better, Berlin.

Calvary. And more to come. Something made me look at my ‘revised’ ticket. How long would I have to wait in Munich? And …Where was my Munich-Berlin flight? There wasn’t one. The last Berlin flight of the day left even before we landed. Was that woman evil or just incompetent?

But even calvary had an end. At Dubai, I bid farewell to Colleen (who’d slept, damn her!) and was trundled some more to the rather unattractive lounge and curled up in a corner where, with the help of a kind waiter, I managed to finally get on a slow internet to let everyone know that I woudn’t be reaching the heaven of Berlin’s Katz Orange in time for tonight’s show .. I was stuck in Purgatory. And my Dante had gone to Abu Dhabi!

It was a broken Kurt who got back on another Emirates plane. Some nice person had put me in row 7. I thought it was a consolation prize, but the staff didn’t know about Sydney, and were all keen to hear about the aborted flight. ‘No one tells us these things’ confided the head lad ‘there’s no contact between ground staff and air staff’. TELL ME!!!!!!!

I slept solidly the 5 hours of the flight. Shame. It was the cleanest plane, with the sweetest staff ... and they ordered me (and an entire family of crippled Arabs) a splendid wheelchair with the most splendid driver who trundled terrifically. We negotiated Passkontroll (stern man ‘what are you doing here?’ me: ‘nothing’  sous-entendu ‘what do you think a 70-year old man in a chair is gong to do in Germany? Dance in the ballet?’), customs … and then our next trial. Get me a ticket to Berlin for the morrow.

Teddy the trundler excelled himself. Through terminus after terminus to Air Berlin … ah finally my luck has turned! Two ladies … at ten to ten. What? We’re closed. Come back at 4.30am. But its not 10! Come back at 4.30. Like Hell I will.

Unfrazzled Teddy’s next mission was to get me to the Kempinski Airport Hotel . But the lift was broken. Poor Teddy had to cheerfully trundle to the next terminal… Well, he got me there before 11pm. Got me booked in. And promised to come and get me in the morning and take me to the plane which the Kempinski boys had promptly booked for me on line without problem. I’d stopped tipping since the Sydney fat man: Teddy got the lot!

So here I am, at dawn, after 3 hours sleep, in my nice white bed in Munich. It doesn’t matter that its cost me 215e plus 11e for wifi which doesn’t work properly. Cost? The flight to Berlin from here, bought last minute, cost me over $1000. Ah yes! Lufthansa is on strike tomorrow!

I should have been in my little bed at Invalidenstrasse, after a lovely luxurious trip.  It’s been none of those things. Colleen and Teddy have saved it from total disaster … which is what the next week will be! I hope I didn’t have too many engagements …

My worst flight in sixty years. Not to mention the most expensive.

In Amberley?!!!!!!

We don’t eat out much when I’m in New Zealand. Apart from anything else, there’s nowhere of my er … taste to go, and as Wendy rightly says, her food and cooking is better than most (all?) the local restos. So … after a hard day’s work it’s easier to stay home.

But the other evening … well, it was Wendy’s birthday, and one of my last nights in NZ, and Yoshie had earned a night off the dishes, so we thought: Let’s kill it. Somewhere? Where?

We’ve tried most local places over the years and really wouldn’t repeat many. Well, we settled on the friend-recommended, prize-winning (?) Nor’wester Café in Amberley. Amberley, for God’s sake.

It’s a pleasant place, on the main road. Pleasant staff. And we were early, so not crowded or noisy.

Things didn’t start well. The drinks the girls ordered were ‘off’. If your wine list isn’t available: don’t offer it. Height of amateurism. I was ready to walk. But where to? In Amberley?

I’m quite glad I didn’t. Because I had a nice meal.

I started with seafood ravioli. Yes, ravioli! There were three, instead of the pretentious one offered by posh places, topped by two really delicious prawns and sprinkled with a truly tasty sauce. I would have liked one more yummy prawn, more filling in the ravioli ... and I’d have it as a main course any day.

But my main course kept the standard up. Rare (advertisedly) venison with blue cheese, red onion, spinach, kumara … it sounded too good to be true!  But it was true. The venison looked fabulous, tasted great, and if sliced a bit thinner (thus tenderer for us with false teeth) would have been a triumph. I devoured the accompaniments greedily … except the kumara, which goes soggy in an instant and would have been better pureed … it was very nice.

But, all in all, it was a splendid supper ($200 for three), and if they get their winelist under control … I’ll even go back. With friends!

Duchess writes for the press: 2005

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Hello

My name is Duchess

Strictly speaking "La Grande-Duchesse" but Reon never got to (try to) say it which pisses Kurt off a lot for some reason I don't quite understand.

I'm the daughter of Gwen .. Remember Gwen? .. The little black Robinson lady who did great things around Trentham (until they threw a bloody crossing thing in front of her when she wasn't looking, well that's how SHE tells the story) and who stopped Gee a Maiden from getting a win after twenty something seconds? She's still black and bonny, my one-win, everso-well-bred mum, but she's a wee bit wrinkled now (I mean, she's NINE!) ... showing her age… Not like me. I'm gorgeous.

I'm also the first horse Kurt ever bred, so I've been spoiled rotten all the four years of my little life. First by Rachel and Gary and then by Kurt himself. And don't think I haven't enjoyed it. Chuckle. It's all right. Kurt? I can control him.

Oh I suppose I should mention that my daddy (whom I've never ever met, the usual old story doubtless, did a runner before I was born) was a chap called Sundon. I've heard people say that this is why I am what they call "such a handful". I'm not sure whether they mean his doing a runner, or just him being Sundon.

I don't know what it means being a handful, either. It must mean that I like to go fast. But that's me, I just like to run. Fast. I'm not mad keen on walking, but I love to run. Fast. Faster the better. It's good when Kurt has  one of those things they call a "lead" hanging from my chin. If you tug really hard and suddenly, he ends up on the ground and I get a jolly good munch of grass while he's getting up and, with any luck, if I time it right,  a run as well. Fast. Good game. And when Kurt gets up and chases me and ALMOST catches me, I run a little more. Walk? Why? Walking is for packhorses.

And, heck, I'm a racehorse. And racehorses are SUPPOSED to run. When Kurt first put one of those carts on me, I was a bit off put, so off put I forgot to object for MONTHS, but second time in I knew what was up and, hey! I was in my element. He got into the sulky and whee! Off we went. Fast! It was GREAT! I'm not quite sure what the comment I heard afterwards was supposed to mean: "she does her fast work before her warm up". I just dragged Kurt back to the paddock and had a good pant and some more grass. Fast, yeah!

I don't know why, but after that Kurt didn't drive me any more. I had Wendy. And Wendy wouldn't let me go fast. That was boring. And I let her know it. It wasn't fair. I wanted to go like a rocket and I wasn't allowed. And damn it, I couldn't control HER. But I tried. Oh yes I tried. I mean, I'm a racehorse and I wanna go FAST!

Then one day a big truck came. And I was shipped away to the depths of a place called Banks Peninsula. No Kurt, no Wendy. A new man in my life. Murray. Nice bloke. But he had this same mania for wanting to make me WALK. We did some strange things. Trotting up and down roads, would you believe. Not mad about that. So I backed him into a gorse hedge. But that didn't stop him. Men! Then after a while we went on to a real race track. OK. This was my thing. But we had to go through some rotten places to get there. WALK through some rotten places. I mean I do object to being taken through a Car Park. At 1 mile an hour. So I thought I'd let him know. Next time he took me there, I said "well mate if you want slow, you get slow". And I sat down. It's quite hard to sit down with a sulky and a big tall man attached to your rear end, but I did it. Point made, right?

And guess what! The big truck came back. Next thing I'm back home with Kurt and Wendy and mum and Davey Crockett and Master Ado and Wee Tree (Weet and I grew up together as dorm mates and I bully her a lot .. its great fun). But after that no-one came to get me to have a run. And to be honest, before long, I felt kind of bored. Well, I bore easily. Heck, nothing better to do but lead all the paddockmates on frequent hoons around the five acres. I hoon brilliantly.

And then one day, at last, Kurt came to get me. Yippeee. Fun coming. He took me down to the barn. Cart time? Nope. Just a nice brush and shampoo and one of those foul wormer things which I spat all over the place.

Nyaaah!  No run! Blow that for a joke. I'll show him. Hehe. On the way back to the paddock I did my gotcha bit. Cool, cool and then .. Whoops! Off we go, Kurt hits the ground and ... arrr dammit he didn't lose the lead. Ouch! He HIT me! He never hits me. No-one is allowed to hit the Duchess! He HIT me! And what's this he's saying?

"OK. That's it. She's not going back to Murray. Its turkey baster time."

Next thing I was back in the five acre. But I didn't have my nice expensive fur coat on. And I didn't get any yummy hard feed. And no-one EVER came to put the cart on me. I had to content myself with bossing Weet and Ado (you can't boss mum, and certainly not Mr Crockett, dammit) and I was MEGA-BORED. And all the visitors, when there were visitors, were for someone else. I mean Crockett and Dodo Ado got CARROTS, but I was being IGNORED.

Then, at last, this week the visit was for Me. Me me me me me! Kurt came with a lead. And some other people. The other people took Weet away. She doesn't play up, silly soft cow, she just lets them boss her about. So those other people were all over her. Not ME. Her. So I thought I might as well go without fuss too and see what happened. I mean ANYTHING is more interesting than life with Dodo Ado, grumpy Davey and I'm too big a girl to still be living with mother. So, as I say, I didn't play up too much. Just enough to let them know that I can if I want.

And, what? ANOTHER big truck. OK,where to this time? Murray..? Pleeeeeze, I won't flop in the Mot carpark again.... Please let it be Murray...

WHAAAAT???????

 WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!!!

 A STALLION?!!!!!!!

 A MAN??????

I know about men. I mean Ive spent the last couple of months in a paddock with grumpy Davey and drippy Dodo. This is different?  Well, all I can say is I hope its a man who likes to go FAST.

A what?  A Continentalman?  Sounds kinda sexy.OK. I'll get on the truck. (Look how amazed Kurt and Wendy look as I jump on with no aggro, alongside Weet) A Continentalman eh?HmmmI'll report back later.

 This could be fun.

A virgin? What's a virgin?

For the meanwhile

Yours

The FAST

 Duchess

Kurt's 2014 comments: Well, Duchess had a beautiful baby boy THE SOLDIER FRITZ by Continentalman, and since she liked foreigners so much we sent her to the French sire LOVE YOU. Results: glorious-looking foals with (so far) only one win amongst them.

And now that I'm running down my horse interests, and will breed no more ... Duchess has to go. After 12 years at Gerolstein she's off next week to live with Karina ...  One more BIG TRUCK .. I will miss you Duchess ... Gerolstein (named for you) will never be the same without you.  Have lots more lovely babies ..

and stop writing for the press, OK? That's my job!

A Magical Musical

English-language version:

Kurt Gänzl has found

A MAGICAL MUSICAL …

I’m Kurt Gänzl. For many years, I worked in London’s West End as an agent and a casting director on shows such as Barnum, 42nd Street, Chess, Singin’ in the Rain.  But one of my other functions was to read musicals. Musicals which were sent in to the office, in the hope that my employer, the great Harold Fielding, would produce them.

For more than ten years I read. More than ten years I went to see tryouts of hopeful shows, all round England and as far afield as San Diego, USA, and in those ten years how many good, unproduced shows and sketchily staged shows did I find?  None. When I retired, in 1989, the last submitted show the office had accepted was a little piece called Jesus Christ Superstar.

I retired to write books, in the South of France, and my theatre-going shrank. People still sent me shows, libretto and scores (they still do!) but it was the same thing. Nothing.

In recent years, I have made my main summer home in Berlin. There, of course, my concert- and theatre-going took on a new lease of life. Once again, I was mixing with theatrical people, once again I was reviewing performances and, too late, discovering that there was and is real talent in today’s world of writing musicals.

I met Paul Graham Brown (remember that name) by chance. He was attending a meeting about the possibility of composing a score for a musical based on Deep Throat, at singing distance from my flat. I chanced by, joined the party and … four hours later we two drew breath. A fascinating fellow! The next day, he descended on the Nollendorfstrasse bearing scripts and CDs of produced and unproduced shows, and I put on my reading hat …

I knew within half an hour that I’d found it. That thing I’d looked for in England all those years. A musical with everything … Sitting alone in my flat, opposite the house where Christopher Isherwood wrote I Am A Camera (Cabaret), I was in tears, as the show, Fairystories, reached its beautiful denouement.  Why was this show not being produced? Yes, it had won prizes, yes it had been work-shopped in America … but they did Hello, Dolly instead. Oh, why wasn’t I still in the business.

Things have moved on since then. Paul Graham Brown (who is actually an exported Englishman) has become recognised as one of the outstanding writers of musicals in Germany and Europe. This year, he will have five different works in production, including the musical of Superheroes, the Anthony McCarten hit book and film, and the umpteenth restaging of his hilarious King Kong … with a cast of three.

But Fairystories is coming to New Zealand.

I talked about it, played it to folks, invited “PGB” to Christchurch, to speak to the students at NASDA … and his music started to go the rounds, to get heard and known. And one day my facebook tinkled: Messrs Marshall and McRae, of NASDA and the Court Theatre, would like to know if they could get the rights to do Fairystories. Yessssss!

And so, on 23rd March, Christchurch will get the chance to hear PGB’s magical musical, in a concert performance, and with a stunning cast headed by New Zealand’s show diva, Ali Harper, and former San Francisco Jean Valjean, Ravil Atlas.

A week later I head back to Berlin, leaving New Zealand with my magical musical … while I go, of course, looking for more. Once a talent scout, always a talent scout!