Having recently returned from New York, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about cities and how they hold together such intense diversity. I’ve also been revisiting films that capture different aspects of the city — Woody Allen’s Manhattan for its atmosphere, Moonstruck for its Italian-American world, and other works that reflect the layered cultural identity of New York. What stands out is how many different communities have shaped the city over time — Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Chinese, African American, South Asian, Russian, Caribbean, Middle Eastern, and many others — each leaving visible traces in neighbourhoods, food, language, and everyday life.
Within that wider mosaic, I am aware of the strong historical and cultural presence of Jewish life in New York, particularly in the arts, music, comedy, intellectual culture, and food traditions. Figures like Leonard Bernstein, alongside the wider legacy of New York theatre, film, and comedy, sit alongside everyday cultural forms such as delis, bakeries, bagels, pastrami, cheesecake, and other foods that have become part of the city’s broader identity. In places like the Upper West Side or Brooklyn, and even in the cultural memory of the city through film and literature, there is a sense of how deeply these influences are woven into urban life.
At the same time, one of our most ordinary but memorable experiences was going for breakfast at Breads Bakery. It had a strong tradition of Jewish baking, but what stayed with me most was not any sense of entering a defined cultural space, but rather how natural and open it felt. People were simply there — working, eating, talking — and we were warmly welcomed without any sense of separation or boundary. In fact, we didn’t approach it as “a Jewish place” at all in any conscious way; it simply felt like part of the everyday fabric of the city, where different traditions exist in a shared space without needing to be emphasised.

What New York suggests to me overall is not a neutral city, but one where many identities have accumulated and interacted over time to form something layered and continually evolving — more like a living mosaic than a single culture. It feels like a place where difference is constantly present, but also routinely absorbed into everyday life. That raises for me a broader question about whether other cities, or even the world more generally, could sustain a stronger sense of shared civic life across such diversity, where coexistence is normal rather than exceptional.
This is part of why I find myself thinking more anxiously about London. I feel concerned about any situation where communities begin to feel unsafe or under threat in the places they live. It seems to me fundamental that no group should feel frightened simply because of who they are, and that a city depends on a baseline assumption of safety and belonging for all its residents. I am particularly troubled by antisemitism wherever it appears, and by any form of prejudice that turns political tensions into hostility towards entire communities.
At the same time, I wonder how fear and insecurity are experienced differently across groups, and how cities can better manage political disagreement and public expression without allowing it to spill into hostility or prejudice. Whatever one’s views on global or political issues, it feels essential to maintain a clear distinction between political conflict and discrimination against people because of their identity.
Ultimately, what stays with me from New York is not the absence of tension, but the possibility — however imperfect — of coexistence at scale: a city where many histories are present at once, and where identity is layered, ordinary, and continuously shared in everyday life.

British politics is at a point where ambiguity is no longer enough. Brexit is not a settled historical episode—it is an ongoing economic and social condition. It continues to create friction in trade, reduce mobility, and limit opportunities in education, research, and business. These effects are structural, not temporary.
That is why Labour must now speak with clarity and force about Europe.
A government led by Keir Starmer should not treat Europe as a secondary issue or a background policy concern. It should define its European position as central to its political identity, to its own bread and butter .. or fish n chips if you like.

The message should be unambiguous:
Vote Labour, vote for a return to Europe.
For many families, Labour has never been just a party but a political culture rooted in public service, trade unionism, and civic responsibility.
In my own family, that tradition is longstanding. My grandfather was a Labour councillor for the Borough of Lewisham and was considered for the mayoralty of the borough. My father was also a Labour supporter for most of his life.This reflects a wider pattern in British political life: allegiance is often inherited, but it is also reshaped by personal experience, work, and changing economic circumstances apart from its great traditional symbols.

The European question has never followed simple party lines.
Post-war thinking about European cooperation was influenced across political traditions, including figures associated with wartime leadership such as Winston Churchill, who supported forms of European unity as part of a wider peace settlement.

At the same time, Labour’s focus in the post-war period was primarily domestic: reconstruction, the welfare state, and urgent social reform. Europe was present, but not yet central.
Over time, however, Europe became one of the defining political divides in British public life—though never a perfectly consistent one. It has cut across parties, generations, and class backgrounds in ways that resist simple categorisation.
Labour is already moving in a more European direction. It recognises the need to improve relations with the EU, reduce unnecessary friction, and repair some of the practical damage caused by Brexit.

But this is still too cautious.
What is required now is not adjustment at the margins, but a clear political direction: Europe must be placed at the centre of Labour’s forward programme.
That means:
rebuilding economic alignment with Europe
restoring mobility for students, workers, and researchers
removing avoidable barriers to trade and cooperation
committing to deeper reintegration where democratic support exists
This is not about rhetorical symbolism. It is about political direction.
These questions are not abstract—they run through families and generations in inconsistent ways.
My aunt, who lived to nearly 100, was a lifelong Labour supporter and committed socialist, yet she voted for Brexit. For her generation, that position was not unusual or contradictory. Brexit was often understood as an issue of sovereignty and democratic control rather than party ideology.

In earlier interpretations, the European project was sometimes associated with post-war statesmanship and figures such as Churchill, rather than the later institutional reality of the European Union. As a result, political identities around Europe did not map neatly onto left or right positions.
This is why Brexit was not a uniform political shift. It cut across Labour and Conservative traditions alike, often reflecting generational outlooks more than party loyalty.
Rejoining the European Union would not be immediate. It would require negotiation, democratic consent, and time. It would be a staged process, not a single decision.
But politics is defined by direction, not just procedure.
And that direction must now be stated clearly and without hesitation.
Britain should move steadily back towards European integration, not continue dilly-dallying with it.
Labour is already recognising the importance of Europe. But recognition is not enough.
It must become conviction. It must become policy direction. It must become political identity.
The clearest expression of that position is also the simplest:
“Vote Labour, vote for a return to Europe”.
Not as sentiment. Not as nostalgia. But as a clear, forceful statement of Britain’s future direction. It might even help to save the PM’s position.

On our last full day in New York, we were reminded of an important truth: it is impossible to do everything in this city in a single visit. There were still so many things left undone — Broadway shows, nightclubs, Coney Island, Governors Island, the Cloisters, the Frick Collection, Ellis Island, the Museum of Modern art, St Patrick’s cathedral.. New York leaves you with unfinished business, and perhaps that is part of its magic.
But there was one thing we absolutely could not miss: perhaps the greatest art museum in the world, the Metropolitan Museum of Art — “The Met.”
To reach it, we enjoyed a wonderful walk through Central Park. It is interesting to remember that Central Park was itself a great civic creation of the 19th century, designed when New York decided it deserved a grand urban park to rival those of London and Paris. Before its creation the land included Indian settlements such as Seneca Village, whose residents were displaced to make way for the project — a reminder that even beautiful things can emerge from complicated histories.
Whatever its origins, the park today is magnificent. I remembered visiting it back in 1970, when parts of it felt rather tired and neglected. Today it looks beautifully restored and alive with energy.

As we crossed it, we encountered musicians, performers, walkers, lots of dogs (with their owners) and New Yorkers of every kind, all contributing to that uniquely vibrant atmosphere. Near the museum entrance stands New York’s own “Cleopatra’s Needle,” the ancient Egyptian obelisk that seems somehow perfectly at home amid the trees and skyscrapers.

And then we entered the Met itself.
We began in the classical galleries, astonished by the quality of the Cycladic, Minoan, and Cretan figures. Yet our real destination was the magnificent Temple of Dendur, gifted by Egypt to the United States in gratitude for American assistance in saving ancient monuments threatened by the construction of the Aswan High Dam. The temple stands inside an immense glass hall beside a reflecting pool suggestive of the Nile, and the effect is unforgettable.

The Met building itself is equally remarkable — vast, elegant, and wonderfully eclectic in style. But what struck us most was the sense of space. Unlike some museums where masterpieces feel crowded together, the Met allows works room to breathe. You can stand quietly before great art and properly absorb it.
The Egyptian collections were superb, but eventually we moved on to the European paintings. Of course, the museum contains infinitely more than one could possibly see in a day — armour, African art, American collections, decorative arts — but we realised we had to focus our attention.
And for me, that meant Vermeer.
America possesses an extraordinary number of paintings by Johannes Vermeer — nearly half of his surviving works — and five of them are in the Met itself.

It seems remarkable, but the explanation lies in history: during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, European aristocratic families were often forced to sell treasures just as American wealth was rapidly expanding. At the same time, New York was determined to establish itself as one of the world’s great cultural capitals. The result was that masterpieces crossed the Atlantic in huge numbers.
The Vermeers were breathtaking. Yet it was not merely the range of the collection that impressed us, but the consistency of its quality. Again and again, room after room, we encountered masterpieces: Rembrandt, the Italian Renaissance masters, even fabulous Turners and Constables, French neoclassicism, and Rembrandt’s unforgettable Aristotle with a nust of Homer, glowing with depth and intelligence.

We wandered on into the Impressionists, where delight followed delight. One especially charming painting by Renoir showed a family of musical girls gathered around violin and piano — domestic happiness transformed into art and a masterpiece at that.

Eventually, however, reality intruded. We had to begin preparing for our journey home. We returned across the city and settled one last time into our favourite café, Bread’s Bakery, where we enjoyed excellent coffee, fine bagels, cheesecake, and pastries. We also sensibly bought provisions for our flight home with Icelandair, knowing that our budget economy tickets would provide coffee and water, but not much else in the way of food.
And as we sat there, preparing to leave, both Sandra and I reflected on what an extraordinary experience New York had been.

What struck us most was how completely the city shattered so many preconceptions. One grows up with images of New York as hard-edged, dangerous, perhaps even dominated by the gang mythology of films such as West Side Story. Certainly one must exercise common sense, as in any great city, but the reality we encountered was entirely different.
Again and again we found warmth.
People spoke to us naturally and openly. Conversations emerged in parks, on buses, in cafés, and on street corners. Whenever we looked lost, somebody stepped forward to help us. The city may be famous as the “city that never sleeps,” a place associated with business, ambition, and relentless movement, but beneath that surface we found enormous humanity.
We were also struck by the remarkable sense of integration. New York is a city of many ethnicities, cultures, and backgrounds, yet we sensed a shared belonging, a feeling that people simply accepted one another as fellow New Yorkers. We found that deeply refreshing.
Even the bus drivers became memorable figures to us — commanding their vehicles with authority, firmly organising passengers, ensuring disabled travellers were accommodated properly, and somehow maintaining order amid the endless movement of the city.
There were still so many things we never managed to do. We never went to the top of Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center. In the end we decided we were quite happy to save the ninety dollars or so for the tickets. After all, we had already experienced magnificent views of New York from the Staten Island Ferry, from the Brooklyn Bridge, and finally from the air itself as we departed.
And perhaps that decision captured something essential about New York. It is undoubtedly a city built on money, industry, ambition, and towering commercial power. Its skyscrapers seem almost to stretch endlessly upward in pursuit of success. Yet despite all that, we felt that New York possessed something profoundly human — a genuine heart.
That is what we shall remember most.
New York was energetic, cultured, overwhelming, chaotic, ambitious, and astonishingly alive. But above all, it was kind.
And so we left it not feeling finished with the city, but longing to return…as I have done since that journey in much younger days……

Today we had two great ambitions for our stay in New York: first, to take the famous Staten Island Ferry, and second, to cross the great Brooklyn Bridge on foot.
Although the subway is undoubtedly the fastest way of travelling around New York, buses are infinitely more rewarding because they allow you to see the city unfolding around you. So we boarded a bus at Columbus Circle and travelled all the way down Manhattan to Battery Park and the South Ferry terminal. It was a long but fascinating journey through the changing landscapes of the city — Midtown slowly giving way to Downtown, the luxuries of Fifth Avenue, then the Financial District, each neighbourhood with its own distinct atmosphere and rhythm. Watching New York transform itself through the windows was an experience in itself.
At Battery Park we boarded the Staten Island Ferry. Most people assume the ferry has always been free, but in fact it only became free in 1997. Before then passengers paid a small fare, but eventually the city decided that collecting tickets was simply not worth the trouble, especially given the enormous crowds already using the service. Since becoming free, the ferry has evolved into one of the world’s great urban journeys — not merely transport, but a genuine New York experience.
The crossing itself was magnificent. We sailed out through New York Harbour under brilliant sunshine, passing the unmistakable silhouette of the Statue of Liberty, alongside Ellis Island and Governors Island, before heading into the broad waters of the bay toward Staten Island. It was one of those perfect New York days: clear skies, glittering water, and a skyline so dramatic it scarcely seemed real.

Arriving at St. George Terminal, we set off for the Garibaldi-Meucci Museum. Once again we travelled by bus, entering yet another completely different New York landscape. Staten Island feels far removed from the intensity of Manhattan: quieter, slower, more residential. There are fewer towering skyscrapers and instead long avenues lined with detached clapboard houses, modest gardens, and peaceful streets that feel almost Midwestern in character. It struck me as a deeply attractive part of New York — comfortable, unpretentious, and calm.
The journey also stirred old memories because I had actually been here once before, many years ago, in 1970, visiting relatives from my Italian mother’s side of the family. Returning after so long gave the day an unexpected personal resonance.
Before visiting the museum, we stopped for a light lunch of tacos at a small place opposite the house. The museum itself occupies a charming historic residence dedicated to two remarkable Italians: Giuseppe Garibaldi and Antonio Meucci. Meucci, according to many, was the true inventor of the telephone, though history has long disputed his claim. He was a brilliant but unfortunate man whose life was plagued by financial hardship and patent disputes. Garibaldi, meanwhile, stayed with Meucci for a time after escaping revolutionary struggles in South America. Their friendship forms the heart of the museum.
Inside, we were warmly welcomed by an elderly lady whose enthusiasm and knowledge brought the place vividly to life. She explained the significance of the museum and guided us through rooms filled with relics, photographs, and memorabilia connected to both men. It was a sweet and deeply human museum — modest in scale but rich in atmosphere and historical feeling.

Afterwards we returned by ferry to Manhattan and turned our attention to the second great experience of the day: crossing Brooklyn Bridge.

Reaching the Brooklyn side required a mixture of buses and subways — not everyone’s favourite mode of transport — but eventually we arrived and began the walk. The crossing is no short stroll: depending on pace, it can easily take forty-five minutes to an hour. Yet on such a beautiful afternoon there could hardly have been a finer place to walk.
The bridge itself is extraordinary. Built in the 1870s, it was for many years the largest suspension bridge in the world and remains one of the great engineering monuments of the nineteenth century. Its immense Gothic arches rise above the East River with almost cathedral-like grandeur, supporting the vast web of suspension cables stretching across the water.
For Sandra, however, the bridge held an even more personal significance. Her grandfather had actually worked on restoration and reinforcement projects there in the early twentieth century, when the original structure was struggling under the ever-growing pressures of modern traffic. Tired of village life and Sunday school in Italy, he had seized the opportunity to emigrate to America, finding work among the teams responsible for strengthening the bridge’s cables and structural supports. To cross it today was therefore not only a tourist experience but also a journey into family history.
The walk itself was unforgettable. First comes the gradual climb upward, then the long central span high above the river, the wooden walkway stretching ahead with the skyline unfolding on every side. To the right stood the elegant Manhattan Bridge, while beyond rose that astonishing forest of skyscrapers: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Woolworth Building, Rockefeller Center, Wall Street, and countless others.
Ordinarily I dislike skyscrapers intensely, especially when they intrude upon historic cities such as London. There they often feel destructive and alien. But New York is different. Here the skyscrapers are the city. Together they form not chaos but a kind of magnificent fantasy landscape — almost like the backdrop to some colossal fairy tale. Seen from Brooklyn Bridge, they cease to be individual buildings and become something far greater: the defining image of New York itself.

Having crossed this extraordinary bridge, we then faced the practical question of how on earth to return to our base at the West Side YMCA. Sandra, quite firmly and understandably, declared that she was absolutely not going down into any more subways. After a day of ferries, bridges, museums, and endless walking, the thought of descending yet again into the underground tunnels of New York held little appeal.
So began another small adventure: navigating the city entirely by bus.
As so often in New York, fortune favours those willing to ask questions. Between Sandra’s determination and the extraordinary helpfulness of New Yorkers — especially the bus drivers — we somehow pieced together a route home. In the end we took three separate buses, each carrying us through another sequence of changing cityscapes.
We travelled first through the Lower East Side, then through Greenwich Village and the East Village, watching the atmosphere shift from old immigrant streets to bohemian cafés and lively evening avenues. Gradually we moved northwards again, eventually reaching Sixth Avenue, where we caught another bus that rolled up Broadway toward home.
As we approached the area affectionately nicknamed “Sesame Street” near the YMCA, the vast towers and noise of Midtown somehow began to feel familiar and welcoming rather than overwhelming. By the time we finally arrived back, we were utterly exhausted.
We decided not to eat out that evening. By then we had already done some shopping and had enough food in our room — coleslaw, bread rolls, buns, and various small things — and after such a long day even a simple meal felt deeply satisfying.
And so the day ended: two ambitions fully achieved, tired feet, aching legs, but enormous happiness. We had crossed New York Harbor on the Staten Island Ferry, explored the quieter world of Staten Island, visited the remarkable Garibaldi-Meucci Museum, and finally walked the full span of Brooklyn Bridge itself.
And that walk, stretching high above the East River with the skyline blazing around us, must surely rank among the greatest urban walks anywhere in the world.

We started our first full day in New York by changing rooms at Westside YMCA. The new room was slightly better—still a bunk setup, but more practical and easier to manage. Nothing special, just an improvement on what we had before.
We were hungry, so we went out for breakfast and explored the area around where we were staying. We walked to the end of the street (Sesame Street), and ended up near Lincoln Center. This is the main performing arts complex in that part of Manhattan, home to opera, ballet, and concert venues. I had visited it years ago, (in 1970 to be precise!) so it was interesting to see it again. When I first visited the centre it had only recently been opened; I found it had weathered well.

For breakfast, we went to Breads Bakery. We had coffee and pastries, including buns , bagels and other baked items. It was a simple but very good breakfast with excellent cappuccino and a solid start for us to the day.

After that, we headed toward our main plan, which was to visit the Museum of Natural History. We crossed 8th Avenue and entered Central Park. The walk through the park was very pleasant. The weather was slightly overcast but comfortable for walking. We followed paths through the park, passed the lake area with statues and sculptures, and continued across to the west side. It was refreshing to find how central this park is to so many NY inhabitants out with their dogs and children or just feeling romantic. A lovely place indeed.

We reached the American Museum of Natural History. It is a very large museum with extensive collections. One of the most striking parts was the dinosaur halls, with an extraordinary collection of skeletons—larger and more complete than anything we had seen before. The scale and preservation were genuinely impressive.
The most memorable exhibit was a reconstruction of a gigantic long-necked dinosaur, a titanosaur (often referred to as Titanosaurus in popular descriptions). It was presented at full scale, stretching through the hall, and gave a powerful sense of just how enormous these creatures were. It was astonishing to see something of that size reconstructed so convincingly in an indoor space.

Alongside the wonder, there is also a more reflective feeling running through the museum. The dioramas and reconstructions are extremely detailed and educational, but they also raise a quiet sense of distance from living nature—these are preserved worlds, not living ones. It leads naturally to the thought that we hope future generations will still be able to experience real wildlife in real environments, especially as so many species today are threatened or endangered.
The museum also includes displays connected to Theodore Roosevelt and his role in conservation, linking him to the broader history of environmental protection in the United States.

After finishing there, we crossed Central Park again with the intention of visiting the Met, but it turned out to be closed.

So we changed plans and went instead to the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, which is nearby.
The Guggenheim is architecturally very distinctive, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. The building is organised as a continuous spiral ramp, so you move through it in a single flowing descent (or ascent depending on entry), rather than through separate rooms and floors. It can feel slightly disorienting at times, especially after a long day of walking, but it is also very precisely controlled in its design.

There was a temporary exhibition of contemporary sculpture by Carol Bove. The works drew on industrial materials and plastic-like forms and often appeared spontaneous or improvised, but they are clearly carefully engineered and constructed. Some of it was difficult for us to engage with directly, though it felt like the kind of work that is meant to be challenging rather than immediately accessible.

The highlight of the Guggenheim was the permanent collection. It included works by Kandinsky, German Expressionists such as Franz Marc, Russian constructivists, and also Impressionist paintings including Monet and early Picasso. These wonderful testimonies of late nineteenth and early twentieth paintings more than made up for the difficulty we had in appreciating the post-modern sculpture exhibition.

Taken together, this collection gave a clear sense of the movement from figurative painting toward abstraction in modern art.

After leaving the Guggenheim, we made our way back toward Columbus Circle passing some extraordinary architecture.

We stopped at Whole Foods Market, which we found to be a lively and temptingly filled superstore, and bought basic food items—yoghurt, bread, coleslaw, and other simple things for dinner. We enjoyed seeing an Italian car we once owned turned into a a gelato stall

We then returned to the West Side YMCA and had a simple meal in our room.
That was the end of the day: a long walk through Central Park, an extraordinary encounter with dinosaurs and deep time at the Natural History Museum, two very different modern art experiences, and a return to something simple and domestic after a very full first day in the city.

We’ve arrived in New York — the Big Apple — and what an arrival it’s been.

The journey itself felt like a small expedition. We started in Italy, then headed to London, partly out of necessity and partly convenience. From there, we took a flight across the Atlantic with a stopover in Reykjavik. Iceland, even from the airport, felt otherworldly — vast stretches of dark, lava-like terrain, almost lunar in appearance. Stark, beautiful, and noticeably expensive. Our stop was brief, just a couple of hours, but it left an impression.

Then came the final leg into New York. As the plane descended, the clouds lifted and revealed Long Island stretched out below us. It’s one of those moments where literature comes flooding in — I couldn’t help thinking of The Great Gatsby and that whole world tied to that landscape.

Arrival at JFK was smooth. Passport control was efficient, and before long we were on the AirTrain to Jamaica Station. That part was impressively easy. From there, we navigated the subway — eventually picking up the D line — and made our way into Manhattan.

When we emerged at Columbus Circle, it was night. That first moment hit hard. Lights everywhere, towering buildings, an overwhelming verticality — it genuinely felt like stepping into a science fiction film. New York doesn’t ease you in; it just presents itself in full force.

Our base is the YMCA on the West Side — chosen not just for cost, but for its location. It’s close to Central Park and within easy reach of places we want to visit like the Met and the Guggenheim. Practical, central, and perfectly placed for exploring. It’s also the original place made famous by the Village People hit.

The room, however, came with a twist.

We were given a small private room with a bunk bed. Sandra sensibly took the lower bunk. I, somewhat optimistically, took the top. Getting up there was… challenging. The ladder was steep, quite vertical. Still, I made it, and after the long journey, I slept incredibly well — helped, no doubt, by the time difference working in our favour.

Getting down the next morning was another matter entirely.

After some unsuccessful manoeuvring, Sandra moved a table into position. With a combination of caution and commitment, I climbed down via the table and made it safely to the ground. Not elegant, but effective. The eagle has landed.

We’ll be asking today if there’s any chance of a room with a more manageable setup — ideally two beds at ground level. One can only hope.

For now, though, we’re up, we’re ready, and we’re heading out. First stop: breakfast. Then on to see the dinosaurs.

New York has begun.

Our visit to the new V&A East, sited in London’s former Olympic park, felt more like an architectural and social experience than a conventional museum visit, especially when compared with the main V&A. It is very much a case of taking the building, with its origami-like suggestions as the primary “exhibit” — the space, ambience, and design carry much of the experience.

That said, this is not to suggest we were disappointed by what we saw in absolute terms, but it did fall short of expectations in terms of depth and substance. It is clearly a very different model from the traditional V&A experience.
The emphasis now appears to be on short, fragmented “art bites” rather than substantial, sustained exhibitions. While some of these are interesting — particularly the sections on making things, textiles, furniture, eco-friendly technology and fashion (including both historical and contemporary dresses) — the overall impression is of something intentionally light and selective rather than comprehensive.

The building itself is striking, and the terrace offers excellent views over London, which is one of the strongest elements of the visit.

However, there are significant practical and curatorial issues. The most frustrating aspect is accessibility: to see any of the major exhibitions, it is essential to book well in advance. When we visited, everything was fully booked, and we were unable to see the Black music exhibition at all. Our visit was therefore limited to the main ground and first floors, plus the top level.
Navigation outside the building also needs improvement. While movement inside is straightforward, actually finding the place felt like a treasure hunt, and getting there from Stratford station — including locating the correct bus — was unnecessarily difficult. These may be early operational issues, but they significantly affect the visitor experience.
The friendly and helpful staff made up for much of what was lacking in the signage and wayfinding
If visiting, it is also worth not forgetting the relatively nearby V&A East Storehouse, which we saw previously (https://longoio3.com/2025/07/01/expedition-to-the-east/) and which, in my opinion, has greater interest and depth than the main East site itself.
The visit also worked very well as a social experience — it is a good place to meet up with friends — and on the day itself the atmosphere was enhanced by that, as well as the fact that it was a pleasant outing.
In the end, the visit felt more like an exercise in exploring a new public space than engaging deeply with art. While the building itself is worth seeing, the experience felt somewhat thin but at least it’s not that big and exhausting like some museums. Compared with the main V&A — which remains a far richer and more structured encounter with art and design — this feels more like an experimental outpost still finding its identity.
It is still worth visiting, but expectations should be adjusted accordingly.

We arrived back in London from Italy two days ago, as we usually do, flying from Pisa to Stansted and then taking a National Express coach that stops at Golders Green. From there, we take our usual London bus to where we stay.

The day itself was strikingly calm. The sky was a clear, beautiful blue—everything above us felt still, open, almost untroubled.

But something felt different when we reached the bus stop.

The shelter’s electronic display showed none of our usual buses. No familiar numbers appeared. Instead there was uncertainty: people standing, checking phones, looking up the road, waiting without clarity. Slowly, the crowd at the stop began to grow, forming a longer and longer queue as time passed.

Above us, a helicopter circled steadily and noisily in the sky, tracing wide loops overhead. It did not immediately translate into panic on the ground, but it created a quiet sense that something was happening beyond what we could see.

Then I checked my phone.

It became clear that there had been a serious violent incident nearby in the Golders Green area, involving an attack in which two Jewish men—one older and one younger—had been stabbed. Reports indicated that a suspect had been arrested by police following the incident, and that the matter was under major investigation. The suspect was reported to be a British passport holder of Somali heritage with a history described as violent and associated with mental health problems. The police were treating the incident as terrorist-related.

On the ground, however, there was still very little visible police presence at first. No obvious cordons where we were standing—just the growing queue, the confusion at the stop, and the slow realisation that the system around us had been temporarily reconfigured.

As we waited—over an hour now—the situation became gradually more legible through fragments: conversations, phone updates, and movement in the crowd. And it was not a small gathering. It was quite a large gathering.

At one point, at the crossroads near Golders Green Station, an Israeli flag was visible and a gathering had formed. There were chants, and signs of a demonstration connected to what had happened. Only then did a clearer police presence appear—not initially as a barrier, but as coordination and control around the gathering and the surrounding diversion routes.

Eventually, our bus arrived, though the journey itself was far from straightforward. The driver had to navigate altered routes, and at one point we passed through the same stretch of road twice due to the diversion layout and confusion over the temporary path.

In the end, we made it home.

Later, more details emerged through news reports, and the full seriousness of the incident became clearer in retrospect. It was widely reported and became a major news event, with the suspect later formally investigated within the legal framework of the case.

The Jewish community in the area was very shaken by what had happened, particularly as in recent weeks its voluntary ambulance fleet had been torched, its wall of memory defaced, and its synagogues attacked.

What stayed with me most was the atmosphere at the time: the contrast between a bright, ordinary London sky, a functioning city still moving, and the subtle but unmistakable sense that something sinister was unfolding just out of full view.

That experience also led me to think more broadly about Jewish life in London.

It struck me that, unlike many other demographic patterns in the city, the Jewish population has remained relatively stable in overall size—but with a very significant change in its distribution.

Historically, Jewish life in London was rooted in the East End. Areas such as Spitalfields, Whitechapel, and wider parts of Tower Hamlets were once densely populated Jewish neighbourhoods, particularly before the Second World War. That area had synagogues, schools, and a dense community life.

But over time, that centre of gravity moved. After the war, and through the later 20th century, the Jewish population gradually shifted away from the East End, largely in a north-westward direction. When we first moved to Woolwich there was a synagogue and a kosher butcher -all gone now. Today, one of the largest concentrations of Jewish life in London is in the borough of Barnet.

Within that overall stability, there is an important internal difference. In places like Golders Green, the presence has remained relatively constant. But in Stamford Hill, it has increased quite significantly, largely due to the growth of more Orthodox Haredi Jewish communities. In those groups, large families are common—often seven, eight, or more children—encouraged by religious traditions, which contributes to demographic expansion within that community.

These Haredi Jewish communities largely trace their origins to Eastern Europe. Before the war, Jewish populations were widespread across places such as Lithuania and Poland, where entire communities were destroyed during the Holocaust. That catastrophe, which we saw and experienced first-hand when visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland last year, gave a very direct and visceral sense of what had been lost.

In the aftermath, survivors and their descendants rebuilt their lives in places like London. That history has shaped how identity is preserved. It is often the case that communities which have experienced deep historical rupture place greater emphasis on continuity—through family life, tradition, education, and visible cultural identity.

The Haredi communities in particular are distinctive in appearance—the long coats, fur hats on special occasions, black Homburg hats, and the white garments with fringes that reflect religious obligations. The clothing itself reflects high-class fashions prevalent among Eastern European Jewish people in the nineteenth century. They are not a single uniform group, but a collection of related sects, each with its own leadership and tradition, many rooted in Eastern European Jewish history.

The fact is that what has happened has created, among many Jewish people, a greater sense of fear. And, of course, many are now—according to what I hear and read—thinking of moving out of London to other parts of the UK, and in some cases even to the continent itself, where they feel safer.

And yet, despite all of this complexity, what remains striking about London is that these communities—Jewish, Muslim, and others—generally live alongside one another without constant friction. The reality is one of coexistence, often parallel rather than fully integrated, but still largely stable in everyday life.

At the same time, events of violence or tension inevitably create emotional and political strain. In this case, the incident quickly became a major news story, and public reactions followed, including demonstrations and counter-presence in the area. This included a quite large gathering—not a small one—with visible signs and chanting.

There is also a wider context in which perceptions are shaped by global events, including developments in the Middle East, which can influence how communities are viewed, or how they feel they are viewed. Within the Jewish community itself, there is also significant diversity of opinion, including strongly religious Haredi groups that are explicitly non-Zionist or anti-Zionist in their theological outlook, alongside other Jewish populations who may feel differently.

All of this creates a very complex picture. But alongside that complexity, there is also something very ordinary and important: Jewish people in London living normal lives, working, contributing to cultural life—particularly in areas such as music, museums, education, and public life. Among my Jewish friends dating back years, children of refugees who escaped the Holocaust miraculously, are those who have become mayors of London boroughs, heads of museums, well+known musicians and generous patrons and directors of the arts.

That leads to a broader reflection on how London holds itself together. Because for all its tensions, it remains a city where different communities largely share the same space, negotiate daily life side by side, and continue to function within a shared civic framework.

And that, ultimately, is what stands out: not a city defined by a single identity, but one that remains layered, complex, and—despite everything—still held together in everyday coexistence.

When I first came to London shortly after my marriage, I needed an immediate job and found myself in occupations that, at the time, felt entirely ordinary. Yet looking back now, they seem almost like relics of another information age — roles that have largely been absorbed, streamlined, or replaced by the rise of digital systems and, more recently, AI.
At the time, AI was still something abstract, something being developed in research laboratories rather than anything that touched daily life. We certainly did not imagine that, within a few decades, it would reshape the very kinds of jobs I was doing.
One of my earliest employments was with the London Tourist Board. The work had two main elements: answering public enquiries by phone and helping with hotel bookings at a front desk in Victoria station. (Cheap flights were not quite there yet although Laker would shortly establish his airline office at the same place demolishing a historic station pub which had seen young men go to the slaughter in World War One after their last drink before boarding the train for the front).

The office itself was very near Belgrave Square, which gave the whole routine a particular geographical intimacy. My wife had been brought up in that area, as the daughter of the Secretary General of the Italian Institute nearby, so there was already a sense of familiarity with the streets and buildings. I used to go to her parents’ house for tea and comfort, and then simply walk from there to the London Tourist Board office. It was a short walk through that particular London atmosphere — moving quietly from domestic life into work routine.
We worked in a shared room with perhaps ten other people. Around us were shelves of reference books covering every aspect of London — museums, hotels, transport, places of interest. Each of us also had folders filled with carefully assembled information. When someone rang, the process was simple in structure but very human in execution: listen, search, interpret, respond.
Information was not retrieved in any modern sense; it was consulted. Pages were turned, details checked, judgments made on the fly, and then translated into calm reassurance down the telephone line. In my case, somewhat unexpectedly, I already knew quite a lot of London by instinct and memory, which proved more useful than I had realised at the time.
There was also a strong social texture to the work. The room was full of young people, and there was a constant low current of conversation, humour, and shared problem-solving. It was work, but it was also a small, informal society.
A further part of the job was that, as part of our training as employees of the London Tourist Board, we were required to experience tourism directly ourselves. In particular, we had to take part in organised coach tours. This was not optional; it was considered essential training. The principle was straightforward: you could not properly advise the public unless you had personally experienced the systems you were describing from the inside.
In practice, this turned out to be quite revealing. We discovered that there was considerable room for improvement, even in something as apparently straightforward as coach tourism. Our own experience made clear that there were inefficiencies in organisation, occasional lack of clarity in communication, and a general unevenness in the visitor experience that would not necessarily have been visible from the administrative side. It was an early lesson in how systems often look different from within than they do from the outside.
On one occasion, my wife and I joined a coach tour going towards Salisbury and Stonehenge. The guide was an older man, somewhat retired in manner, with a slightly sergeant-major tone — authoritative, but very much of another era of tourist guiding.
At one point during the excursion, we found ourselves accidentally left behind at a stop — I think it was Salisbury.. The coach departed without us, and for a brief moment there was a disorientating sense of having been simply left outside the system.
Fortunately, we still had the route details, so we worked out the next destination. We took a train ahead of the coach, moved faster than the schedule, and arrived at the next stop before it did. When the coach eventually turned up and we rejoined the group, there was clear surprise — from the guide in particular, who seemed not especially pleased, and from the other tourists, who had assumed we had simply disappeared.
It was a slightly absurd episode, but also revealing. It showed, quite literally, what it was like to experience the system from the receiving end, including its gaps and assumptions. In that sense, it fulfilled exactly what the exercise was meant to achieve.
Another role took me to Harrods, where I again worked answering public enquiries — this time in a more formal, front-facing environment.

Harrods, of course, is a very upper-class sort of store, and there was an expectation that one should look smart and composed at all times. That required a certain adjustment, but I managed it, partly because I had come directly from a very different world.
Before that, I had been working as a labourer on the construction of the Cambridge bypass. That was heavy, muddy, physical work in the open air, with a strong sense of camaraderie among the men. The contrast could hardly have been sharper: from earth and machinery to polished floors and quiet, controlled elegance.

In Harrods I also worked closely with a girl who was training to become an opera singer. I cannot now recall her name, though I have always assumed she must have gone on to do very well. She was practising Songs of the Auvergne.. There was something striking about sitting beside someone so clearly formed by another world entirely — one of discipline, voice, and performance — while we dealt with the ordinary flow of public enquiries. It gave the work an unexpected depth and resonance.
There was a similar role at Victoria Station, where I helped allocate hotel bookings and respond to queues of travellers. Much of the work centred on accommodation in areas like Pimlico, and part of the job involved actually visiting hotels to see what we were sending people into. We were not meant to be distant from what we recommended; we were meant to know it.
Looking back, that feels important. We were not simply information handlers, but intermediaries who added judgement, context, and lived verification to what we passed on.
It is hard to say now, but some of the hotels people were being sent to were rather dingy. We had to inspect them ourselves, so we knew exactly what we were recommending, but standards were uneven. Today, with systems like TripAdvisor and similar platforms, people are far more informed in advance, and far more selective. There is a collective filtering that simply did not exist then.
When I was working at the London Tourist Board I remember thinking I should perhaps have come there earlier, because the girls were very attractive. It was a particular moment in time — everything had that slightly softened, recognisable look of the period, with tweed jackets and leather elbow patches returning in fashion, a kind of understated workplace style that now feels very specific to that era.
I noticed it, as one does when one is young and the world is still full of immediate visual impressions. But at the same time, I was very aware — and quietly reassured — that I had married someone who, to me, was more beautiful in a deeper and more complete sense. That awareness sat underneath everything else, steady and unspoken.
It was the time of Saturday Night Fever. The music, the discos, the fashion, the sense of movement and nightlife — it was simply there in the air. Not something reflected upon, but something lived inside the background noise of everyday life. London itself felt as though it was slightly moving to that rhythm.

If one looks at these roles now, it is clear that much of their function has been absorbed by technology in layers.
First came digitisation: printed guides, folders, and telephone enquiries gave way to websites and booking systems. Then platforms such as Google Maps and TripAdvisor introduced collective review and comparison at scale. Now AI compresses the entire sequence — search, judgement, explanation — into a single exchange.
The difference is not just speed. It is the disappearance of steps: thinking, checking, comparing, translating, responding. All of it collapses into one moment.
In that sense, the jobs I once did have not simply declined; they have been structurally absorbed into something else.
Yet it would be too simple to say that nothing remains. These jobs were never only about information.
They were about reassurance for uncertain travellers, about judgement made in real time, about small human encounters in unfamiliar spaces. At Harrods or Victoria Station, what mattered was not just correctness, but presence — the sense that someone was there who understood, who had seen, who could guide.
That is something digital systems can simulate, but not quite reproduce.
What remains strongest in memory, though, is not the efficiency of it all, but the atmosphere.
The rooms full of conversation, the shared problem-solving, the steady rhythm of enquiries coming in and answers going out, the sense of being in contact with a city through its questions. It was a social world as much as a working one.
And perhaps that is what is most difficult to replace: not the information itself, but the human density around it — the small, continuous presence of other people, thinking, asking, deciding, and talking.

It is rarely about a single appointment. The controversy surrounding Beatrice Venezi—and speculation over her position as music director of Venice’s Teatro La Fenice from which she has now been dismissed —matters less for its particulars than for what it exposes: a persistent belief that, in Italy, merit alone is not decisive.

The speed with which discussion turns to politics is itself revealing. Venezi’s perceived proximity to Giorgia Meloni is cited variously as advantage or liability. Either way, the assumption is immediate: that appointment, advancement, or rejection is mediated by alignment rather than simply ability. In a system confident in its own meritocratic foundations, such speculation would be peripheral. In Italy, it is central. Incidentally, Beatrice Venezi was born in Lucca and her father, a member of Forza Nuova an extreme right wing party, was a candidate in the 2007 mayoral elections of Lucca.

Her case is further complicated by factors that extend beyond politics. As a young, visible woman in a traditionally male-dominated field, she is subject to a level of scrutiny that is unevenly distributed. Her manner in public discourse—direct, often uncompromising—has also proved divisive. Remarks attributed to her concerning institutional practices at La Fenice, including the suggestion that certain positions are effectively passed down through families, have been interpreted by some as candour and by others as provocation. The result is a figure simultaneously politicised, personalised, and contested on multiple fronts.
But it would be a mistake to treat this as an isolated case. In Italy’s public institutions—universities, cultural bodies, opera houses—formal mechanisms of selection exist and are carefully observed. Yet alongside them persists a widely recognised informal layer: networks, affiliations, intellectual factions, and political sensibilities. None of this is uniquely Italian, but in Italy the perception that these forces are decisive has become deeply entrenched.
Nor does the issue stop at the national border. Even abroad, Italian cultural appointments can appear to reflect political currents at home. Institutions such as the Italian Cultural Institute in London have periodically been viewed as reflecting the priorities of the government of the day. Whether or not each individual appointment can be justified on its own terms, the recurrence of the perception is itself corrosive despite the fact that Venezi’s CV is by no means insignificant with her performances including one with Andrea Boccelli for the late Queen’s Platinum jubilee concert at Buckingham Palace, her appearances at the Torre del Lago Puccini festival and an acclaimed production of Mascagni’s ‘L’amico Fritz’ at London’s Holland Park theatre.
Against this stands a clear contradiction. Italian talent is not scarce—it is internationally prized. Figures such as Antonio Pappano, whose leadership at the Royal Opera House brought sustained global acclaim, and Gabriele Finaldi the director of London’s National Gallery are emblematic of a wider reality: Italian professionals often reach their highest recognition abroad. The same pattern is visible across major British and European cultural institutions, where Italian curators, directors, and scholars occupy senior roles with distinction.

This inevitably raises a difficult question: are such figures more readily recognised in systems perceived as more transparent, or are they constrained at home by structural and cultural filters that are harder to see but widely felt? There is no single answer—but the question persists precisely because the pattern appears consistent enough to invite it.
For some, this is not an abstraction but lived experience. My uncle, a poet of genuine distinction and a serious scholar of French literature, produced a substantial and widely published body of work. Yet for much of his career he remained on the margins, held in less prominent academic posts, particularly in the south of Italy, only achieving fuller recognition late in life. The explanation repeatedly offered—sometimes explicitly, often implicitly—was that he did not belong to the “right” current. Whether entirely accurate or not, it was sufficient to shape the trajectory of his professional life.

This is the core problem. Not that influence exists—every system has it—but that belief in its decisiveness has become normalised. It alters how everything is read. Appointments are immediately interrogated for hidden alignments. Success is treated as suspect. Failure is easily rationalised. Even figures like Venezi become proxies in a broader cultural argument, their professional standing inseparable from assumptions about politics, gender, and visibility.
Italy continues to produce excellence, and its leading institutions retain international prestige. But too often that excellence appears to flourish despite the system rather than through it, finding clearer validation abroad than at home.
The consequence is not simply reputational. It is institutional. When merit is no longer believed to be decisive, trust erodes at every level. And once that trust weakens, every appointment—no matter how justified—carries the same lingering doubt: not whether it was deserved, but whether it was arranged.

BTW Beatrice Venezi also appears in a shampoo advert for Bioscalin