National Health

Roberto Alagna was sharing his 'Desert Island Disks' on Radio 4 while I went about my morning hour in the bathroom, and when I wasn't thinking about this wife's body, I was thinking, what a soulful guy. Big tenor star. Gets to sleep with Angela Georgiu, and he's still modest. He's also, it turns out, from quite a poor background. And for what it's worth Angela is his third wife. Why I should care about this while I'm trying to get the soap out of various crevices? Well this has to do with my newfound status.

Alagna described how his second wife started getting headaches, began avoiding the sun and dropped in to see her doctor...who was very cruel, the tenor said. They were in Paris, not that it matters, and their doctor of many years was not kind...and I liked this part of the interview. It was only a snatch from a lighthearted show about what's-your-favorite-music, and in a couple of artless moments, Alagna said how it felt. For all his fame, he has a simple innocence about his expression. The doctor was cruel. Alagna's wife had two months to live. And that was all of the radio exchange, and on to the next disk, and I can't even recall what his favorites were, except one bit from Eugene Onegin. I just heard him. He lost a wife. He hasn't forgotten it. Yes, he has a new one, and they're quite the international opera duo. And still he hasn't forgotten.

And you can have a new life, and not forget the old one, and it's all okay. On this, my last day in London, damned if I'm rolling all over hill and dale in search of touristic experience. I'm sticking to Bloomsbury. I'm sticking to Brunswick Square. I might venture into the gardens and stare at others venturing into benches in the gardens. I might have a cup of tea. Make that two. But what I really plan to make is the Virgin Airways flight to San Francisco. It's time. I'm ready. It's time.

Only because it's the schedule, the plan. When life is directionless, you take direction where you can find it. The customary placement of one foot in front of the other provides a welcome structure. Because in the end it does not seem to matter where I am, I might as well be where the airline tells me. Although there are limits. Seat #35E, for example, will not do. I would yell at these fucking 'virgins' and their silly airline, except that we are currently communicating entirely by website. We will have words tomorrow, live ones. And if this substitutes for a life, the occasional shoving match with airline personnel, so be it. I am not accustomed to being aimless. But like it or not, I have not always been in a position to aim. Someone took aim at my spinal cord, fired...and rendered me aimless for many years. This is another one of those times. And this time, at least I'm traveling. The purpose and even the worth of the trips may be unclear...but there is nothing to do but let them unfold.

In late morning Elliot, Marlou's nephew, set out with my friend Evelyn for Portobello Road, the famed antique market, in Notting Hill Gate. I encouraged him to take the tube back. Elliot wasn't very keen on this, and I didn't push the concept too hard. The entire state of Iowa has a population that is about one quarter of greater London, and his exposure to subways and pushing, rushing humanity is limited. And what I've seen in Elliot is that fate limits everyone. He is more emotionally mature than I was at his age, and I have told him so. We learn different things in different ways, some remarkably late. More important, the details don't matter. He is open, taking in a foreign land without harsh judgments. Which cannot always be said for the Brits themselves.

The British newspapers and the BBC offer a daily education in...I don't know...call it reality? Take the release of the Lockerbie bomber. Many people in Britain, educated people, people not given to conspiracy theories, never believed the Crown had much of a case against the Libyan. Oil and Middle East politics tilted things away from more plausible suspects closer to Saudi Arabia. Whatever. People here never bought the Libyan story, and whether they are right or wrong, this is where public sentiment stands in the UK...and does this ever turn up in American news coverage, outside of the New York Times?

As for the American health care debate, which is actually a juvenile, anarchic screaming match out of some daytime TV show, well, it is interesting to see the UK pull together on this one. Brits are fond of complaining about everything. The railways are falling apart...youth unemployment is at record highs...taxes are killing the middle class...and housing prices are stagnating...while EU regulations make it hard to know where a pound of sausages originates. Naturally, they complain about the National Health Service. But not now. For a refreshing moment, everyone is proud to be British and have a longer life expectancy than Americans while paying approximately half as much for health in terms of gross national product. There are almost twice as many intensive care beds available per Briton, compared to the US. And your chances of surviving a heart attack in Britain are substantially higher than in America. Britons love a joke, and they are endlessly self-deprecating. But they don't like being insulted. At their core, they have a better capacity than Americans for pulling together. Right wing drivel from the US will have, I predict, an overall good effect on the NHS. But that's me. Got to go print my boarding pass.