Day Two: Diwrnod yng Nghymru and an Intimate Evening
"A Day in Wales" for all those too lazy to google it
For the first time in my life, I woke up in Wales. Sounds dramatic, but when you think about it, it does make sense. I went to sleep in Wales after all.
After showering, making an in-room coffee, learning the Tanya of the day and davening Shacharit, I hit the town full of energy and ready to make waves in the country whose greatest claim to fame is its association with the heir to the British throne—a fact every local I said that to told me to quiet down and to not make a scene.
Either way, I headed out of the hotel at a reasonably early hour and enjoyed a drip coffee at the Black Sheep. Solid 7/10 for you coffee lovers. I then made the trek up the hill and down the main road to the monument looming over the entire city: Cardiff Castle. On the way, I am proud to say I was the recipient of exactly one ‘F*** Israel’; a fact I am entirely proud of. I spent the morning by the castle, enjoying Lord Butes’ contributions. The castle itself, while interesting and somewhat opulent, was not particularly awe-inspiring. The Arab room was nice, and the library was noteworthy but other than that, I can’t see why you’d spend more than a few minutes walking through. I’m sorry if I offend any Welshman by saying that.
Walking through the castle, I bumped into a nice couple from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who are celebrating their wedding this coming week; I was asked by a nice Asian woman if she could take a photo with me and happily obliged (honestly, what says more about a trip to Wales than a photo to bring back home posing in front of a castle with a dashing, Hasidic looking Jew). I then visited the old keep above the hill and can admit that I was pretty impressed by it. It may be an empty dodecagon that has seen better days, but it’s not the sort of thing you see every day.
I toured the rest of the grounds and just when I thought I had seen it all, I noticed a group of school children being led to a part of the grounds I hadn’t been to yet. Hearing the children converse in Welsh, I followed, excited that I was now in on a little local secret. Turns out they were heading to the restrooms. I can only imagine how I looked as I made a dash to join them. Facepalm.
Having completed the Cardiff Castle Circuit in record time, I found myself with some extra time. I decided to buy a fridge magnet for back home and then to visit the National Museum. When I entered the building, I was immediately accosted by a bald man who sported a Palestinian flag as his lapel pin. I geared up for battle but was pleasantly surprised when all he wanted to do was tell me all about how amazing the museum is! He showed me around, gave me a map, and was proud as punch to let me know that admission to the museum was free for all. When hearing I was from New York City, he beamed. His daughter lived in Los Angeles!
Roy, if you’re out there: it was a pleasure to meet you!
Here’s the rundown of the museum in a paragraph or two: the evolution stuff was nice, albeit useless for us G-d fearing yidden. The natural history stuff was cool. I think it was the first time I saw a complete fossil of a wooly mammoth. The Italian art was a little too Christian for me; the Dutch was nice, but I could never quite bring myself to stare at a still life of a bowl of fruit for too long and today wasn’t the exception; the British art was as you’d expect, quite British; dominated by portraits of imposing looking gentlemen.
I’m not going to lie, as a self-proclaimed art aficionado myself, I was a little disappointed. But then I turned from the British art to the local Welsh art, I was shocked. Standing in front of me were a group of Beis Rivkah girls! Uniform and all. I was quite literally baffled. What were they doing here? Had the school so famous for its money problems somehow found the budget to fly a class of what looked to be 12th graders over the pond to visit a Welsh gallery?!
Upon second look, they were most definitely not Jewish, just dressed frum. That makes a lot more sense.
The Welsh art was ok, but the Impressionist exhibit is where the museum shone in my opinion. From Van Gogh to Monet, Manet to Renoir, the gallery had a small collection, but it packed a punch. I particularly enjoyed the Alfred Sisley landscape titled “Storr Rock, Lady’s Cove, Evening” and the Claude Monet composition “San Giorgio Maggiore by Twilight”.
The rest of the museum was fine: the video exhibit was not for me and the photograph gallery, while nice, was overhyped by Roy downstairs.
I then went to meet with the Chabad rabbi in Cardiff who picked me up and took me to his home to meet his wife and children. They told me about Jewish life in Wales and a little bit about their shlichus. I think they’re doing a wonderful job in a city where I felt like an absolute alien under the stares of the locals who clearly don’t know much about me and my kind. The rabbi’s son then showed me the shul around the corner.
As I headed to the gas station with Asif, the Uber driver from Syria, who did not find it funny when I told him that us Jews have a very similar name Asaf, I got a strange phone call. My caller ID showed up a former co-worker of mine, a middle-aged lawyer. I wonder what he wanted. Well it was his secretary and it turns out she wanted to let me know that there was a pasuk on Chabad.org that needed updating and she had a question to relay to me from her boss: “In the opening of Parshat Chayei Sarah, why does Onkelos depart from both the literal Hebrew text and Rashi's interpretation by translating Sarah's age simply as ‘127 years’ rather than distinguishing between the hundreds, tens, and single years as the Torah explicitly does?”
I was stumped.
Either way, I took the train back to London. It was an uneventful ride, but I did notice one man stuck in Feudal times wearing the full garb of a gentleman: hat, vest, tie and all. My respect goes to him. I was still—and am still as I write this at midnight—wearing my Chabad.org cap and it’s backwards.
When I got back to London, I headed straight for the World Heart Beat, the venue for my evening concert. Funnily enough, this hall is located a mere 100 feet from the U.S. embassy, one of the very few places in London I had actually been to. What are the chances?!
After a brief wait, I entered the theatre, but I guess it’d be more honest to call it a viewing hall. It was tiny. There couldn’t have been more than 100 seats there. I was the fourth one to take my seat and chose to face the musician who would rock my world. Slowly the place filled up with perhaps some 60 people. The man that sat next to me was a nice fella and we talked about Yehezkel Raz and Ludovico Einaudi and Phillip Glass and Yann Tiersen. He had been to more concerts than me! I finally asked him his name and just as he said ‘Yaron’ the lights dimmed, and Yehezkel himself walked in. The space was so small that I believe he must have physically brushed past me as he walked in.
He performed magnificently. It was both tender and powerful; introspective and provocative. He masterfully used both silence and sound to make the experience all the more memorable. There are also some cute things one can only notice when seeing a performance live, like the color of his shoes (black Converse with White laces) or the color of his hair when the spotlight hits it (much grayer than I thought) or what he wore (a dark zipper sweatshirt that he flung aside mid concert to reveal a t-shirt with three quarter length sleeves).
Then, there are the things you can only notice when you’re sitting not ten feet from the performer. Like how he grimaced when he hit a wrong key or how he stopped playing with his left hand and lifted his index finger to his temple in concentration mid song while he continued playing with his right hand. Or how he smiled whenever someone’s phone camera flash went off. Or how he lifts his hands dramatically to usher in applause after he finishes a song; or how his hair flops in front of his face as he’s playing.
While I wouldn’t call him a ‘natural performer’ I definitely enjoyed it immensely. To quote the wise old sage Albus Dumbledore, the performance was ‘sonorous’. Dumbledore used the spell to amplify his voice, Raz used it to amplify the impact.
I left the concert with my new friend Yaron and we took the underground back together into London. He told me of his life as a “digital nomad” and how he spends each month in a new country. He’s also been to all 50 U.S. states and plans to do the same—albeit to the much less impressive sounding—in the eight states and territories of Australia. He’s a good one this Yaron. He got off on Goodge Street, while in the middle of telling me to visit Alaska and I got off a few stops later at Golder Green Station.
I alighted the train and headed for a much-deserved dinner and bumped into two Australian family friends and enjoyed a schnitzel wrap (7/10) at the ‘Pita’ of yesterday.
I then walked them home, promptly booked a hotel for the night in the ghetto of Golder Green and that’s where I leave you off at the end of day two. Thanks for joining!
I am certainly afoot and alighted
Classic Roy overhyping the photography exhibit