Hamilton -- side notes

I can't say anything meaningful about "Hamilton", which we saw last evening.  It is at least as good as you've heard, and probably better. The largely British crowd whooped and hollered in spite of being "the bad guys" in the American Revolution, and everybody sang along with King George's 'da-da-dah da da" in his first song, and everybody stood and cheered and clapped for minutes at the end.

I wish I could have gone from seeing the show to talking about the show with the Brits and Europeans, for whom it was not (a) familiar history and (b) our side winning. Maybe it's just testimony to what a marvelous work of art "Hamilton" is, such that its art overcomes its historical setting. But I'd like to hear what a Brit saw and experienced, what a European saw and experienced. I was often moved to tears by the recreation of familiar history in a mode and medium so much of the present. Damn, that show is SO GOOD!

On our way in, we had another "kindness of strangers" episode. As we walked toward the theater, we saw a line stretching for about a block from the entrance. I wasn't sure what it was for -- maybe people hoping for released tickets? I saw a gigantic man -- over six feet tall and bulky like a wrestler or mafia enforcer -- in a suit coat clearly posted to control any unruliness in the waiting crowd. I asked him what the line was for. "Tickets", he said succinctly, his eyes never leaving the people in line, as if he was expecting to have to enforce the rules at any moment. "Oh, we have tickets, so I guess we should join the line," I said. "Is she with you?" he asked, looking over at Joyce, standing with me, leaning on her cane. "Yes," I answered. "Oh, no, mother, we can't have you waiting in that line, come with me," he said, and led us to the front of the line, clearing the way before us like an ocean liner with two row boats in tow. He was so big and so intimidating and so unexpectedly kind, and I loved being called "mother" in that British usage that I only knew from BBC dramas.

People over here are much more soliticous of the aged than I'm used to. When we got into the black cab to go to the theater, I slipped and fell back onto the sidewalk. Fortunately, I landed on my backside instead of my head -- I put it all down to the fact that I was wearing a long skirt (believe ir or not) in a vain attempt to "dress up" for the theater. It was my first outing in the skirt, and I wasn't used to the odd binding effect of the loose material around my knees. (Joyce says it wasn't that, it was my inability to find grab bars inside the cab's back seat, and she asked several times if I was sure I hadn't hit my head, probably fearing a potential concussion. Me and professional football players.)

So as I lay there on the sidewalk, a guy from the hotel, the cab driver, and two random passers-by, one east Indian and one with a French accent, helped me to my feet, inquiring after my well-being.
Repeatedly. I guesss I actually am obviously a little old lady.