Macbeth

On Saturday, in celebration of breadandroses last final exam ever, we took the shiny new cheap bus up to NYC. We brunched in Brooklyn with breadandroses's college friend A and her husband. The husband is as charming and conversationally engaging as the wife, though from his name I had expected someone large, blond, and dourly Scandinavian, who might sit in a corner carving a longboat and occasionally grunting.

After zucchini-watercress soup, porcini-and-cremini-mushroom-quiche, mimosas, strawberries with yogurt cheese, and tea, we hopped on the subway and headed back to Manhattan to see (sit down, please, the management is not responsible for injuries incurred in envy-induced collapses) Patrick F**ing Stewart in Macbeth.

Unfortunately we had to wait a while for a subway, and then our train had to hold at a few stations, so we got to 42nd Street with only minutes to spare. We ran the several blocks to the theater, thrust our tickets at an usher, then pounded up, up, up, up an oval stair and through into the back of the upper balcony just in time to hear, over the whine of a heart monitor and the rattle of machinegun fire, "When shall we three meet again?"

( scattered thoughts about the show )