CITY SECRETS: London/New York

JACK THE RIPPER WALKING TOUR

I know this sounds as corny as the wax works at Madame Taussaud’s, but trust me, it ain’t. It’s my favorite walk offered by The Original London Walks, the group that organizes hourly tours with subjects ranging from “Charles Dickens’s London” to “Princess Diana’s London,” from “The Old Jewish Quarter Tour” to the “Beatles Magical Mystery.” Show up at the Tube Stop, meet your guide, pay your £4 and you’re off. In two hours, see and learn more about London than most Londoners will ever know in a lifetime. “Jack The Ripper Haunts” meets Sunday nights at 7:30 PM at the Tower Hill Tube and is led by Donald (the world’s leading “Ripper-ologist”) Rumbelow. He escorts his group through the East End of London describing in gory detail the wheres and hows of each murder finishing at “The Ten Bells,” the pub where the prostitute-victims drank their final pints. Despite initial protestations from visiting friends, they invariably return to my flat in a Victorian frenzy saying, “That was the best thing we’ve done in London.”

SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE

Fact: theatre is better in London. Don’t argue. It’s true. They take it more seriously, young people go, and despite the protestations from artists that it is under-funded, the government gives the institutions buckets of money. The most astonishing theatrical experience takes place at the Globe, a recreation of Shakespeare’s playhouse, the “Wooden ‘O’” itself. What initially seemed to the cognoscenti (or “luvvies” as they’re called over here) a potentially Disney-fied experience has proven the opposite. To hear an actor deliver a Soliloquy directly to the Groundlings from a bare stage with only the sun for illumination redefines Shakespeare; in fact, it redefines theatre in general. It almost makes any theatrical innovation since 1595 seem obsolete and twee. Who needs scenery, lighting, helicopters, when you can connect, one on one, with the most glorious poetry ever written? Granted, not every actor is great, not every production is flawless, but, as a rule, these are life-changing experiences. Especially for a theatergoer.

Glen Roven



The Dakota

When I was kid trying to escape the monotony of Flatbush, I’d take the D train across the bridge each Saturday to the place I really belonged: Manhattan. Despite all the mysteries and glories I discovered , I remember the rush I got walking up Central Park West and coming upon that behemoth of a building for the first time, that German Gothic, French Renaissance, English Victorian cacophony called the Dakota. Of course, I didn’t know the architectural styles when I was 15. I only knew this wasn’t Brooklyn. This wasn’t Flatbush. This was glamour. This was sophistication. This was Manhattan. Although half-shutters mask the first floor windows, you can still peer into an apartment or two, now as then; I was dazzled by the enormous rooms, and the spectacular architectural details. I remember wondering, “Who lives here? What kind of people can be surrounded by this luxury.”

Of course this was before December 8th, 1980 when John Lennon was killed outside. Now tourists come by the score to pay their respects and /or gawk. But, when I first discovered the building, it’s pop-culture claim to fame was that it was was where Rosemary’s Baby was set.

The Dakota was designed by Henry Hardenburgh who also designed the Plaza Hotel. Legend has it that it was called the Dakota because it was so distant from the then urban hub. About ten years ago the grime of New York City was sandblasted away and now, instead of the black sooty color I remember, it’s a camel-hair tan. It seemed more gothic, more foreboding with the dirt, but I still can look at it for hours in amazement: the moldings, the terra-cotta panels, the corner pavilions and the story book gables and roofing.

Don’t try to penetrate its court yard. The ever present guard knows exactly who should be there and who shouldn’t. The apartments are for Yoko, Betty, Rex, Mia, and their friends. But we, the mere mortals, can still marvel at the magnificence. I’ve lived on the Upper West Side for over twenty-five years, but every time I walk down 72nd Street , I still become the 15 year old from Brooklyn, gazing up in amazement at my favorite building in New York.