Salon Wanderlust | Wimbledon's grand finale

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

A L S O _T O D A Y

Dancing in the streets
By Ethan Zindler
Dancing in the streets -- Paris celebrates the World Cup

T A B L E_T A L K
Is train travel the best way to experience Europe? Share your thoughts in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y

My Serengeti crapshoot
By Rajiv Rao
The safari was spectacular -- until lions took over the outhouse
(07/10/98)
Mondo Weirdo
It's a jungle out there: The naked truth about the best nude beaches
(07/10/98)
The Grand Eurotrash World Cup Bar Tour
By Gary Kamiya
To catch World Cup fever in America, you've got to find the rest of the world. That's why God invented bars
(07/09/98)
Letter from Wimbledon
By Simon Worrall
Of mice and mist and other misadventures
(07/08/98)
The Cup runneth over and over
By Ethan Zindler
Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille
(07/07/98)

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Wanderlust Postmark archives

Wimbledon's grand finale
FROM JACK NICHOLSON TO NUBILE KNICKER
SHOTS, OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT POKES
BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE ALL ENGLAND CLUB.
BY SIMON WORRALL | WIMBLEDON, England --As I woke on July 3, in a small village to the west of London, the weather was as dreary as it had been the whole of the previous week. For six days I had not seen the sun (except for a few cruelly brief spells), and I was already beginning to miss the champagne days of my adopted Long Island home. How do they stand this? I wondered, as I peered through the curtains. Above me was a 20-mile-thick meringue of cloud. It leeched the sun out of the light so that the little bit that managed to penetrate to earth was as pale as the tomb. The mud on the footpath outside looked as though it had been mixed with motor oil and whipped in a blender.
"At least it isn't raining" was about the only thing one could say, and so that is what we said as we made our way, on tubes and buses, toward the Holy Grail of tennis, with that chins-up cheerfulness that only a people who have survived thousands of years of miserable weather could muster.
I was hungry when I arrived at the All England Club, so I headed for the Aorangi Cafe, underneath Court One. Earlier in the week, it had been packed to overflowing. Now the place was almost empty. The reason was that most people assume that, unless they have a ticket for the "show courts" (Centre and Number One courts), there is no point coming to Wimbledon on the final weekend. In fact, it is one of the best times to watch tennis. For a grounds pass costing seven pounds, you can watch the stars of today on the giant TV screen that has been erected on "The Hill," or see the stars of yesteryear (the Over 35s) and the stars of tomorrow (Junior Wimbledon) on the outside courts. If you keep your ears open and ask around, you may even get your hands on a Centre Court ticket -- for face value, not at scalper's price. You won't have to battle the crowds. And you may even have, as I was about to, a surprising encounter.
I had just paid for that classic Wimbledon combo -- a Styrofoam cup of tea, brewed so strong that it looked like coffee, and a pot of strawberries and double cream -- when I noticed a man in the line behind me. He was in his late 50s, with thinning, black hair swept back off a prominent forehead, dark glasses, a blue blazer, tan trousers, white golf shoes and a burgundy Ralph Lauren sport shirt. In one hand he had two bottles of mineral water; in the other, one of the red seat cushions you can rent for the day. A fancy, carved cigar-holder poked out of his breast pocket.
"Mr. Nicholson! Good afternoon."
The face that sent shivers down the spines of millions in "The Shining" turned toward me and smiled an edgy smile that could not quite conceal the actor's irritation at having being spotted. By now, the girl at the checkout had realized who it was, too; and I was worried that if she did not breathe again soon, she would drop dead on the floor.
Nicholson pulled out a wad of pound notes held in a gold bill-clip, paid for his mineral water and began to amble back toward Centre Court.
"I am amazed that you can walk about like this ... incognito," I said, falling in beside him.
"Yeah," he replied, in that inimitably gravelly voice. "It has to do with my former life as a bank robber."
"Surely you can't do that in New York," I said, chirpily.
"I can do it anywhere." He paused, eyeing me meaningfully. "Tell me: Were you the second person I saw in there?"
I felt like Darzee, the foolish bird, as it meets Nag, the cobra, in Kipling's "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi."
"Yes ... ?" I said tentatively.
"And did you say hello to me?" continued Jack, with that unnerving mixture of jocularity and menace that is one of the hallmarks of his acting.
"Yes ... ?"
"You're asking the wrong question then," he said with a grin.
I decided it was best to come clean. So I explained to Nicholson that I was a toiler in the salt mines of journalism. Would he mind saying a few words ? He did not say no, so I pulled out the micro-cassette recorder I always carry with me. Naturally, this attracted attention, and I could sense Nicholson growing tense. A girl asked for an autograph. A steward extended his hand and invited him for a drink in the LTA Sponsor's Lounge.
"See what I mean?" Nicholson said to me, dryly. "Isn't that a silly question when you think about it?" He paused. "But I changed it," he continued. "Like a bank robber. "
I let out a nervous chuckle. Then Nicholson bared those famous canines, threw back his head like a wolf and let out one of those long, howling, manic laughs that have made him a screen legend. It was as though a land mine had been detonated. It echoed off the walls. It shook the windowpanes. It sent the molecules in the bottles of mineral water Nicholson held in his hand crashing into each other, like particles in an accelerator.
I knew he was as much laughing at me as with me, but such was the infectious energy released by his laugh that I joined in. Seconds later, we were roaring like old buddies over a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
When the last tremors of his laugh had subsided, I asked him about tennis. He is a big fan (he never misses the U.S. Open, either) and spoke affectionately of some of the legends of the past. Ilie Nastase, he told me, is an old friend. Indeed, during the mad Romanian's election campaign for the post of mayor of Bucharest, Nicholson had written him a letter of recommendation. "In Romanian," said Jack, pulling a face.
I asked him what he thought about the bratty young kids who dominate the tour today. "Well, I'm a bratty old kid," he said, with a chuckle. "What do you think I think of them?" After a pause, he added: "They're good lads. Tennis needs people like that. It would be dead if McEnroe wasn't in the commentator's booth."
And Wimbledon? "I love it," he replied emphatically. Then, once more baring those famous teeth in a grin, he added: "I sell a couple of parking places to pay for the tickets."
N E X T+P A G E | Knicker shots and teen stars


	A L S O _T O D A Y Dancing in the streets By Ethan Zindler Dancing in the streets -- Paris celebrates the World Cup T A B L E_T A L K Is train travel the best way to experience Europe? Share your thoughts in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y My Serengeti crapshoot By Rajiv Rao The safari was spectacular -- until lions took over the outhouse (07/10/98) Mondo Weirdo It's a jungle out there: The naked truth about the best nude beaches (07/10/98) The Grand Eurotrash World Cup Bar Tour By Gary Kamiya To catch World Cup fever in America, you've got to find the rest of the world. That's why God invented bars (07/09/98) Letter from Wimbledon By Simon Worrall Of mice and mist and other misadventures (07/08/98) The Cup runneth over and over By Ethan Zindler Professional scalpers and amateur partyers in Marseille (07/07/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		FROM JACK NICHOLSON TO NUBILE KNICKER SHOTS, OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT POKES BEHIND THE SCENES AT THE ALL ENGLAND CLUB. BY SIMON WORRALL \| WIMBLEDON, England --As I woke on July 3, in a small village to the west of London, the weather was as dreary as it had been the whole of the previous week. For six days I had not seen the sun (except for a few cruelly brief spells), and I was already beginning to miss the champagne days of my adopted Long Island home. How do they stand this? I wondered, as I peered through the curtains. Above me was a 20-mile-thick meringue of cloud. It leeched the sun out of the light so that the little bit that managed to penetrate to earth was as pale as the tomb. The mud on the footpath outside looked as though it had been mixed with motor oil and whipped in a blender. "At least it isn't raining" was about the only thing one could say, and so that is what we said as we made our way, on tubes and buses, toward the Holy Grail of tennis, with that chins-up cheerfulness that only a people who have survived thousands of years of miserable weather could muster. I was hungry when I arrived at the All England Club, so I headed for the Aorangi Cafe, underneath Court One. Earlier in the week, it had been packed to overflowing. Now the place was almost empty. The reason was that most people assume that, unless they have a ticket for the "show courts" (Centre and Number One courts), there is no point coming to Wimbledon on the final weekend. In fact, it is one of the best times to watch tennis. For a grounds pass costing seven pounds, you can watch the stars of today on the giant TV screen that has been erected on "The Hill," or see the stars of yesteryear (the Over 35s) and the stars of tomorrow (Junior Wimbledon) on the outside courts. If you keep your ears open and ask around, you may even get your hands on a Centre Court ticket -- for face value, not at scalper's price. You won't have to battle the crowds. And you may even have, as I was about to, a surprising encounter. I had just paid for that classic Wimbledon combo -- a Styrofoam cup of tea, brewed so strong that it looked like coffee, and a pot of strawberries and double cream -- when I noticed a man in the line behind me. He was in his late 50s, with thinning, black hair swept back off a prominent forehead, dark glasses, a blue blazer, tan trousers, white golf shoes and a burgundy Ralph Lauren sport shirt. In one hand he had two bottles of mineral water; in the other, one of the red seat cushions you can rent for the day. A fancy, carved cigar-holder poked out of his breast pocket. "Mr. Nicholson! Good afternoon." The face that sent shivers down the spines of millions in "The Shining" turned toward me and smiled an edgy smile that could not quite conceal the actor's irritation at having being spotted. By now, the girl at the checkout had realized who it was, too; and I was worried that if she did not breathe again soon, she would drop dead on the floor. Nicholson pulled out a wad of pound notes held in a gold bill-clip, paid for his mineral water and began to amble back toward Centre Court. "I am amazed that you can walk about like this ... incognito," I said, falling in beside him. "Yeah," he replied, in that inimitably gravelly voice. "It has to do with my former life as a bank robber." "Surely you can't do that in New York," I said, chirpily. "I can do it anywhere." He paused, eyeing me meaningfully. "Tell me: Were you the second person I saw in there?" I felt like Darzee, the foolish bird, as it meets Nag, the cobra, in Kipling's "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi." "Yes ... ?" I said tentatively. "And did you say hello to me?" continued Jack, with that unnerving mixture of jocularity and menace that is one of the hallmarks of his acting. "Yes ... ?" "You're asking the wrong question then," he said with a grin. I decided it was best to come clean. So I explained to Nicholson that I was a toiler in the salt mines of journalism. Would he mind saying a few words ? He did not say no, so I pulled out the micro-cassette recorder I always carry with me. Naturally, this attracted attention, and I could sense Nicholson growing tense. A girl asked for an autograph. A steward extended his hand and invited him for a drink in the LTA Sponsor's Lounge. "See what I mean?" Nicholson said to me, dryly. "Isn't that a silly question when you think about it?" He paused. "But I changed it," he continued. "Like a bank robber. " I let out a nervous chuckle. Then Nicholson bared those famous canines, threw back his head like a wolf and let out one of those long, howling, manic laughs that have made him a screen legend. It was as though a land mine had been detonated. It echoed off the walls. It shook the windowpanes. It sent the molecules in the bottles of mineral water Nicholson held in his hand crashing into each other, like particles in an accelerator. I knew he was as much laughing at me as with me, but such was the infectious energy released by his laugh that I joined in. Seconds later, we were roaring like old buddies over a bottle of Jack Daniel's. When the last tremors of his laugh had subsided, I asked him about tennis. He is a big fan (he never misses the U.S. Open, either) and spoke affectionately of some of the legends of the past. Ilie Nastase, he told me, is an old friend. Indeed, during the mad Romanian's election campaign for the post of mayor of Bucharest, Nicholson had written him a letter of recommendation. "In Romanian," said Jack, pulling a face. I asked him what he thought about the bratty young kids who dominate the tour today. "Well, I'm a bratty old kid," he said, with a chuckle. "What do you think I think of them?" After a pause, he added: "They're good lads. Tennis needs people like that. It would be dead if McEnroe wasn't in the commentator's booth." And Wimbledon? "I love it," he replied emphatically. Then, once more baring those famous teeth in a grin, he added: "I sell a couple of parking places to pay for the tickets." N E X T+P A G E \| Knicker shots and teen stars