Everybody's asking.

I've never done this wth a holiday before. We were enjoying ourselves too much (and being too selfish) to write postcards, so I've documented a holiday blog, with entries below from 16th - 25th April and a picture gallery.

At least nobody's leaning over your shoulder, showing you the hundredth picture.

Enjoy, and please comment on the entries!

We arose early and took a yellow cab through the chilly sunrise, across the Williamsburg Bridge and back to JFK airport. The Concorde flight was noisier (as we sat in the rear cabin) and we certainly felt more "processed" as the ameneties in the airport lounge were pretty poor. The flight was speedy and I felt a natural sense of anticlimax.

We arrived in Oakwood in the early evening and spent a couple of hours with Mum and Dad before driving back to Cambridge.

When Alfred woke, we set out to find an Internet cafe and then had brunch at Katz's deli. This is the famous deli on East Houston in which "Where Harry met Sally" was filmed. The service was amazingly rude, but the food well worth while.

We walked from Washington Square through the maze of streets that make up Greenwich Village and SoHo before retuning to the hotel. We bought handmade nigiri and California rolls from Dean & Deluca for our pretheatre snack before heading up to theatreland to see a strangely neutered revival of Nine with Antonio Banderas and Chita Rivera. An odd and bitty musical - Banderas (not my type) sang creditably but not naturally and Rivera was looking and sounding a bit tired - but a diva anyway.

The real problem was the plot - it just didn't work. There wasn't a story to follow, or meaning in the lyrics. The musical is based upon Fellini's 8 1/2 and revolves around Guido Contini (Banderas), a film director whose successes are all in the past. His last three films have been commercial flops, and he has been commissioned to write and direct a new film but is suffering from writer's block. He suffers from delusions as his present and past amours drift into his real life and dreams. The nine year old Guido informs his forty year old present as he slides towards a nervous breakdown. Oh well - as a bit of fun it was fine.

The highlight was Jane Krakowski (from Ally McBeal) in the number "A call from the Vatican" hanging from the ceiling and having (hmm) an intimate telephone conversation with Banderas while his wife looks on. Unforgettable.

From this morning's New York Times:

Detainees from the Afghan war remain in a legal limbo in Cuba.

US Naval Air Station, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba - Fifteen months after the first hooded and shackled detainees arrived at a primitive tent facility known as Camp X-Ray, some 664 prisoners seized after the Afghan war remain here in a legal, political and geographical limbo... Sir Adam Roberts, an Oxford University professor who is a leading authority on the law of war, said that the United States might not be obliged to treat them as prisoners of war but that officials should recognise that they had some international legal rights - "the US has paid a high price in international opinion. In Britain, people see Guantanamo Bay as a symbol of American defiance of international norms". Forty nations are represented in the camp, the majority being Saudis, Yemenis and Pakistanis. But Canadians, Britons, Algerians and a Swede are also detained.

In the same issue, I read of American plans to punish France for its opposition to the war, prosecutors trying to limit defendants' powers to cross-examine witnesses in terrorist trials, allegations that DARPA research funding was withdrawn from a University of Pennsylvania project after anti-war comments by a computer scientist and a remarkable admission by the FBI that they had seized unclassified documents in a FedEx parcel sent by Associated Press. "The FBI does not have the right to seize material without a warrant, without even notifying anyone, and just making it vanish. That, in our minds, is completely illegal" said Lucy Dalglish, executive director of the Reporters' Committee for Freedom of the Press. The FBI has opened an internal enquiry. I wonder what that will find?

I look out of my hotel window onto a cold, blustery but dry New York. The basketball lot is empty (it's 6:30 am) and the cars and trucks rumble, clatter and hoot their way across the triangular intersection of West Broadway, Canal Street and the Avenue of the Americas on their way to or from the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. Lights change from red to green without pausing at amber. Signs flash with a red hand or white man. Through a sightline along Laight Street, a boat chugs along the Hudson River. SoHo awakens.

The mystery of the horde outside the bank was explained in today's New York Times. The manager of the Abacus Federal Savings Bank was dismissed, suspected of embezzling over $1m. The depositors, mostly Chinese, read of this in a local newspaper and descended on the Mott Street branch in a scene reminiscent of newsreels from the Great Depression, a mob, fearful of the bank's collapse, demanding to withdraw their savings.

We travelled by subway the dozen blocks or so to the site of the World Trade Center. A place of sombre reminiscence, made more poignant by my memory of being at the top of one of the towers in early November 2000. On that day, we saw the shadows cast by the twin towers across the tickertape parade as it passed below, celebrating the victory of the Yankees in the World Series. The skyscrapers seemed so bold, so purposeful, so American.

And here was a twenty acre lot, with workers busily excavating the new subway lines to replace those destroyed. Tourists took photographs - some respectful, some tasteless - as they read the placards and graffiti on the fence erected around the site. Hawkers pestered us with offers of rubble and dust.

An inscription on one of the placards exhorted America not to succumb to the hatred that led the terrorists to perpetrate such an evil act. But how their government has failed in that purpose! Thrashing about, trying to apportion blame and retribution, they have positioned America as the world's greatest rogue state, massacring civilians in Afghanistan and Iraq, still detaining over six hundred prisoners without trial or legal rights in Guantanamo Bay and bullying its own citizens and other nations through progressive reductions in civil liberties and the policy of "if you're not with us, you're against us". All in the name of the freedom, justice and "inalienable rights" that were the cornerstone of this nation's bid for greatness.

Whilst we were at the WTC site, I received a call from the office saying that tomorrow's Concorde flight has been cancelled "for technical reasons". Hmm, sounds like loading to me. They offered us a downgrade to First Class, but after checking with colleagues about Friday's meeting in London; we decided to stick with the dream of flying back to the UK by Concorde and rebooked our tickets for Friday. A surprise extra day in Manhattan!

After that excitement, we met with Sara at her apartment in Christopher Street, in the heart of the village. Sara was glowing, a changed person from her life in Bushey. A year at film school in New York has given her a new self-confidence and a radiance that glows through her skin. Her next step will be difficult, as finding a job in television must be ever so hard. But with her new-found independence, I'm certain she'll make it. We ate and chatted for several hours before realising that we had to move on.

We squeezed in a little shopping on the way back to the hotel. No luck finding presents at Dean & Deluca on Broadway. Then back uptown for supper with Sylvie and Sondheim's Gypsy with Arwin, Sylvie and John (her pleasant work colleague).

Gypsy was an excellent show, with a strong ensemble cast and an outstanding lead. Unlike many of Sondheim's musicals, I wasn't familiar with the story or the music, so I came to the performance with an open mind. The story of Gypsy Rose Lee was well told and the strobed transformation sequence from child to adult actors was most effective. Our evening out concluded with frozen cocktails in TGIF at Times Square.

We spent much of today walking around the Lower East Side. We strolled past the famous old knish bakery, fish deli and Katz's restaurant on East Houston before turning into the narrow streets of crumbling synagogues and tenement buildings. The tailors' shops, bookstores and schmutter merchants all had a poignant feel, of the Jews who formed this immigrant community from 1860 to at least the 1940's, before the Chinese immigration replaced them at the bottom rung of the ladder.

Before we crossed the road, we were already in Chinatown. Bright reds and yellows, signs scribbled in Chinese, synagogues next to noodle factories and Buddhist temples, incense wafting through the air. A mob of Chinese people was gathered outside a closed bank, with several policemen trying to keep the crowd on the pavement. We stopped for dim sum at a busy restaurant. Steamed and fried dumplings and turnip cake served by waitresses, hustling between the tables with their metal trolleys.

Little Italy was a few blocks of the Mediterranean clinging on against the encroachment of Chinatown. Sultry waiters encouraged us to stop at their pavement cafes. Red, white and green bunting fluttered in the spring-like sunny breeze, and the theme from Godfather floated soundlessly through the streets.

As we emerged from the narrow streets, we found ourselves back in the shopping area of Broadway and Canal Street.

The day didn't end quite so well, with a disappointing seafood meal in Tribeca. Service in American restaurants can be even worse than in Britain - contradicting the much vaunted stereotype.

We ate at Osteria del Circo, a trendy Italian restaurant (the chocolate soufflé was heavenly) before moving to the SoHo Grand today. Downtown Manhattan feels so much more ‘happening’ than the Theater District.

We had time for some shopping but Canal Jeans has given way to Bloomingdale's - we managed to find jeans and shirts in OMG, another nearby store on Broadway.

Back uptown to see Al Pacino in a semi-staged production of Oscar Wilde's Salome. A riveting experience, let down, curiously, by Pacino's clown-like antics as Herod. Marisa Tomei in the title role was especially memorable. She had a seductive, bewitching quality that emphasised the hollowness of Pacino's interpretation.

Pacino is quoted as saying "We made the decision to mount Salome in this way because we felt it would better serve Wilde's text. A staged reading yields a significant style unlike any other - it allows an audience the freedom to imagine and connect to the play in a different way". Without him, preferably.

To round the evening off, we went to the XL bar in Chelsea, where we caught a live performance by Shoshanna Bean (surprisingly good - ex "Hairspray"). How pleasant to be in a bar with no cigarette smoke and not too much attitude! The waterfall and walls that changed colour made this a pleasant space.

This morning we joined the hordes on 5th Avenue for the Easter Parade. The sun streamed through the skyscrapers and fashion boutiques and danced on the hats of the small-town beauties who had travelled into Gotham to display themselves.

Lines of smartly dressed churchgoers awaited entry to the gothic temples and television cameras recorded the melee.

We had brunch at a diner (chicken soup with matzo balls and noodles on Passover - oy vey). The hot pastrami with Swiss cheese on rye bread was filling and tasty. Then back to museum mile - this time to the twentieth century collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We had time to see old friends (Bonnard and Pissaro), curious relatives (Jackson Pollack) and blotchy neighbours (Clifford Still).

The highlight of the day was Cabaret at Studio 54 on 54th Street. The production was directed by Sam Mendes and based upon his Donmar Warehouse production of the early nineties. The nightclub setting (we sat at small tables with lamps and drank cocktails) and titillating cast made for a satisfyingly sleazy rendition of Berlin in the 1930's. It was only a few months ago that I saw the film for the first time and I was even more shocked this time as the audience was suckered by the racist "tomorrow belongs to me" and applauded wildly at "if you could see her". An effective performance, which reminded me (if reminder were needed) of how insidious the rise of National Socialism must have been.

After the theatre, we were hungry, but not enough for a large meal. So I suggested cocktails and oysters at the hotel bar. This made for a pleasant end to the evening. I sat at the bar next to the actor Roscoe somebody-or-other who seemed to be well-known. Several people walked up to him and said "don't I recognise you from somewhere"? All he would divulge was that, yes, he is an actor on screen and stage and that he played the part of the narrator in the film "Babe". Whilst this strange conversation was proceeding, Alfred decided to have his tarot cards read by "Tyler", who'd been hustling for work since we arrived. Now I'm quite worried by kabbalistic stuff - with good reason from my own past. Alfred discussed career choices. I decided on the basis of several cocktails and oysters to overcome my inhibition and try it myself.

Tyler is a nice Jewish guy from New York with kind eyes. He travels around making money from his tarot readings. It wasn't clear whether he was sincere or not. The experience was disconcerting. After several cuts of the cards, he told me that somebody called Bobby would become significant in my life. When he asked me if I knew a Bobby, I could only remember the Bobby from Company.

He moved on to draw several cards. I was represented by the Pope, Alfred was Death and between us was the Empress. He said that meant that Alfred was going through major changes in his life, but that there is a strong love between us. The sun card was next - meaning that I should be calm and happy, no matter what was to come. The next two cards made a very bad omen. The eight of cups and the two of swords meant that our relationship wouldn't survive the changes in Alfred's life.

A spooky experience.

The actor turned out to be Roscoe Lee Browne.

The day worked out rather differently than expected. Alfred's friend from Toronto didn't turn up (upsetting for Alfred, who hadn't seen him for ten years). We made for the hotel gym and then trawled around the Theater District in an unsuccessful pursuit of tickets for some more shows. I could feel it was turning out to be one of those days. But hey - the sun was shining and we're in New York!

Brunch filled us up for the day with ribs, chips and cole slaw - after which we cruised around Bloomingdales for ages. It's a sign of the times that I would tolerate three hours of shopping.

We were still too full to eat a proper supper, so bagels and smoothies were just right before an evening in Midtown (not what you expected, eh)? Languor, boredom or both made me unaccountably tired this evening and definitely not ready to face the bar we'd planned to visit in Chelsea. That'll just have to wait until I catch up with some holiday rest. I felt very old-mannish being in bed by 1 am without having been out, but I had to give in to my exhaustion.

I bought another copy of Ricercar, this time orchestrated by Webern and played by the Münchener Kammerorchester with Christoph Poppen

Today was German day. We traipsed back to the Upper East Side to visit the Neue Galerie on East 86th Street. What a pleasure it turned out to be (and how disappointing that the museum shop left me with no memorabilia. The highlights were portraits by Christian Schad in "Christian Schad and the Neue Sachlichkeit" and a room full of Gustav Klimt sketches and early paintings. Delicious. One room had several handsome clocks from early twentieth century restaurants and shops.

But this was a mere amuse guelle to the main course of the day. I approach a live production of Parsifal with some "fear and awe". I'm intimidated by the scale of the work, some guilt at dragging Alfred along and the likelihood that I'll fall asleep during the performance. There. Most Wagner fans wouldn't admit that. But Parsifal is an opera both grand in its ambitions and very ponderous in its illustration of the central messages of purity, purpose and redemption. The sacred nature of the opera was underlined by its performance on Good Friday.

This production, my first experience at the Met, was delectable. Placido Domingo sang the title role, accompanied by an outstanding Rene Pape as Gurmenanz, Linda Watson as Kundry and Falk Struckmann as Amfortas. Valery Gergiev conducted the orchestra. This strength in depth made for a memorable evening. Three features distinguished the experience from earlier Parsifals. First, the lavish and entrancing set, which seduced the audience into a world where the Grail shines and magic castles exist. Second, the famous singers - Domingo and Pape were outstanding. Third, and less fortunate, was the poor audience behaviour. Inappropriate applause at the end of each act tarnished the gravitas of this most solemn work of Wagner's oeuvre.

As to the work itself, after listening through my recording four times in anticipation, I am inclined to leave this grand but slothlike myth alone for a little while.

We ate in the swanky Norma's restaurant this morning. The eggs Benedict were fluffy and satisfying. Fully refreshed, we went to the Upper East Side to visit the Whitney Museum of American Art. I enjoyed some of the photographic and installation pieces but left the gallery somewhat unmoved.

In the evening we met up with Neil and Sylvie, who treated us to a delicious meal at Gascogne restaurant in Chelsea. They made for such pleasant company.

I salved my conscience by going into work for a few hours before leaving for London. Mum and Dad looked hassled with preparations for Passover supper - and that only added to my guilt at flying off today. I enjoy the family Seder, and would have liked to have seen Vincent, Cosmo and Fif.

After some tea and Passover biscuits we left for the tube, only to find that there were no trains. Dad was a hero and drove us to Heathrow (which resulted in us arriving even earlier than we'd expected).

We proceeded to the hallowed halls of the Concorde lounge. There was nothing to do there except drink champagne and munch canapés, so that's what we did. The nature of the Concorde clientele was revealed when the aeroplane drew up to its stand. A number of passengers took photographs and became noticeably more animated, whilst the rich and famous skulked in corners of the lounge.

The wings of the plane appeared far more curved and birdlike than I had remembered, resembling an elegant bird of prey, powerful, metallic, gleaming and humming.

At last the time came to board. Although well fitted out, with blue leather upholstery throughout, the cabin was quite cramped. More so than on an economy seat on a 747 (or so it felt).

The take-off and flight were fascinating. The aeroplane accelerated at full thrust, with afterburners roaring. We took off and ascended rapidly, before the afterburners were switched off to reduce noise. This was an eerie sensation (the afterburners were only reignited at Mach 0.7).The sounds of the aircraft were unfamiliar and, for that reason, somewhat disconcerting. The only surprise was that I didn't notice any sonic boom as we passed the speed of sound. I'll have to look out for that on the way home.

We ascended to 55,000 feet and cruised at Mach 2. The main onboard activity was eating and drinking. A middle-aged man in the most garish of pink striped shirts proposed to his girlfriend in the seat behind us. She accepted, to the applause of neighbouring passengers - and then spent the rest of the journey vomiting. I couldn't tell whether it was the excitement or the shirt.

The experience of flying Concorde was great. The atmosphere was different than I had imagined. Fewer of the rich and famous (although I recognised a few faces), and more people there for the trip of a lifetime. Like us, I guess.

We arrived at JFK at about 17:30 and sped through immigration and customs. Our yellow taxi slewed scarily through the rush hour traffic in Queens and over the Triborough Bridge into the city. We checked into the Le Parker Meridien on 57th and 7th tired and a little too late for the theatre. Sylvie had reserved a pleasant suite for us. So we made the most of it.

Our impending holiday has started to become real for me. I don't know how I'll cope with over a week away from work.

We apparently judged our timing perfectly. Next week we'll fulfill my ten-year dream of flying by Concorde to New York (thanks to air miles - it took me years to save for the two tickets). This morning, British Airways and Air France announced that they will be discontinuing the service from the end of October.

I've spent the day catching up, surfing the Internet - and thinking about our proposed New York / Toronto holiday in the Spring. It's a great antidote to post holiday blues! I think that I have now passed the magic limit with my American Express card whereby I can take Alfred on a Concord flight to New York with my BA miles. Yay!

Off to see Lord of the Rings - The Two Towers this evening.

Back to the Olympiazentrum where the BMW museum was open. It was interesting to see old versions of PEW. The forward-looking elements of the exhibition (those concentrating on intelligent cars and traffic management initiatives) were rather disappointing, compared with the much criticised Ford zone in the Millennium Dome. Concepts such as satellite navigation were displayed as future developments. I suspect that this part of the museum should be updated with a conceptual display more befitting BMW's image.

We saw Die Zauberflöte at the Bayerische Staatsoper in the cold Christmas evening. Excellent performances by Diana Damrau as the Königen der Nacht and Aga Mikolaj as Tamina. The production was atmospheric and employed excellent scenery and costumes designed for the 1978 première.

The highest voice of all is the coloratura soprano (inaccurately named, in that coloratura literally means rapid passages, trills, and ornamentation). A genuine coloratura has an unmistakable light, birdlike quality to her voice. She often sounds much like a flute or piccolo, and these instruments often are given music to accompany her. Two of Mozart's most famous operatic roles were written because his sister-in-law, Josefa Weber Hofer, was a coloratura, and she sang the parts of the Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute and Constanze in The Abduction. A number of operatic roles call for high sopranos with voices of great flexibility which can trill, sing scales with the utmost rapidity, and make wide jumps, but do not go to the astronomical heights (F or F sharp, two and a half octaves above middle C) of Mozart's coloratura or Zerbinetta in Richard Strauss' Ariadne. Some of these roles, with top notes of an E flat or an E natural, are Lucia in Donizetti's Lucia, Gilda in Verdi's Rigoletto, and Norma in Bellini's Norma ( 1831). The flutter of the vocal cords in high registers demands constant practice (presumably a soprano high C gives off about 1,025 vibrations per second). A coloratura must be a slave to vocal exercises that keep her voice in tip-top condition to prevent the vocal cords from thickening.

The lyric soprano is the embodiment of the high, bright, clear female voice. Susanna in Figaro and Mimi in Bohème are examples. This is the voice of young womanhood or of the youthful heroine. When the role is quasi-comic, the description soubrette (French for "cunning," "shrewd") is often applied. Another term used is spinto (Italian for "pushed" or "urged"), which signifies a soprano whose tones have greater brilliance and carrying power than the usual Iyric soprano. Many Verdi heroines are in this group: Leonora in Il trovatore, Elisabetta in Don Carlos (1867; 1884), Leonora in La forza del destino.

Last in the soprano group is the dramatic soprano. This voice is rarer because it often takes on the heavier and darker hue of a mezzo or a contralto but is still a genuine soprano with a high range and ringing sound. It is generally a big voice with very full medium and low tones. The voice may not develop fully until the late 20s or early 30s although it is embryonically present earlier. Two of the most famous dramatic soprano roles in opera are Brunnhilde in Wagner's Ring and Isolde in Tristan und Isolde. Leonora in Beethoven's Fidelio also is a dramatic soprano.

Ausgezeichnet.

Slept

Swum

Went to museums and galleries which were closed

Looked for somewhere to eat in the evening. Ended up with pizza and Weissbier.

A strange experience today, returning after fourteen years to the Haus der Kunst. My last visit was to the Entartete Kunst exhibition in 1988, which was a very creepy reconstruction of the opening "decadent art" event staged by Hitler.

Today's exhibitions were of some intriguing sound sculptures called "Tune the World" by Stephan von Huene, and some odd beeswax sculptures by Wolfgang Laib. Hmm - modern art is rubbish (that'll get me into trouble).

We enjoyed our walk through the Englischer Garten.

I slept until gone nine o'clock this morning. The relaxation therapy is already working.

We had a super idea - skipped breakfast and wandered down to the Christkindlmarkt to enjoy the shopping and traditional fare. We enjoyed the Bavarian equivalent of potato latkes, mulled wine (Glühwein), sausages in Semmel rolls, sweet roasted macadamia nuts and Apfeltaschen (cooked apples and cinnamon in a yeast pocket). Lovely.

I forgot to write yesterday that I'd read some reviews about yesterday's restaurant. They're very amusing, if your German is ok. The service was rather haughty.

We enjoyed the swimming pool and sauna in the hotel and then went off to a traditional Bavarian restaurant zum Franciskaner. We had Leberknödlsuppe, and a soup with oxtail consommé and shredded pancakes and chives. Then two pints of Weissbier (the dunkles- and Hefeweizen) with a mixed grill, potato dumplings and red cabbage.

No room for dessert.

Oh, what an early flight! I still had time to buy a pair of shoes at the airport before we left.

We arrived a little late, but our luggage took a further hour to reach the terminal. After a ride on the S-Bahn, we checked into the Le Meridien Hotel. We stayed in a "Queen Suite" (don't laugh) and were treated royally by the staff. Our champagne was ready and chilled - we couldn't leave it to suffer, so toasted Alfred's birthday and downed it before whistling off to the Christkindlmarkt at Marienplatz to give Alfred his first taste of Weisswurst with sweet mustard and Bretzn.

The weather was overcast and drizzling when we set off for the Glockenbach restaurant on Kapuzinerstrasse. But was it worth the Michelin Star? We had a superb meal, although the handwritten menu with lots of especially long words to describe the particular goose that made up my confit and the berries that made the sauce with Alfred's roe deer. All washed down with champagne cocktails and a rather good Frankenwein.

After such a lovely day, all there was left was to argue before bedtime. Over an umbrella. Dunno why.

We drove down to Heathrow this afternoon and checked in at the Sheraton Skyline. Apart from a miserable-looking man at the hotel reception, the afternoon off work provided an opportunity to wind down. Even JustNathan bunks off once in a while. We had a decent, if rather expensive, meal at the hotel and went to bed early.