Lord of the Rings

I am not a Tolkein fan. I've tried. Really I have. I have picked up The Hobbit at least three times and just couldn't get through it even once. I've seen parts of the various movies on HBO...couldn't care less.

My sister, on the other hand, is a huge fan. Books, movies, whatever, it's all good to her. She's hobbit happy.

Which is why it is ironic that it was I, and not her, who ended up on a Lord of the Rings tour last year in New Zealand.

They herded us into four-wheel drive jeeps, each named after a different character in the movie and driven by an extra for whom having that ten seconds of fame has become a life altering experience. (Remember the body face down, without an arm and covered with snow two hours and eleven and a half minutes into the movie? That was me!)

It was Gandolf this and Froddo that and these mountains were the whatchamacallit pass, etc. etc. etc...for four mind-numbing hours. Unsurprisingly, my favorite part of the tour was when we stopped for hot chocolate and cookies.

This year...Lord of the Rings, the musical.

Our last night in London, a group of ten of us decided to see a show. Avenue Q? Spamelot? Chicago? No. No. No. Let's not go see anything that has won seceral Tony awards. Equis? No (Okay, probably a good idea. I don't know if I could handle a naked Harry Potter with horse issues.).

So we slogged across town to the west end, arriving fifteen minutes early as they said we should and took our seats. Row R, dead center. Two minutes later, I felt something brushing against the back of my head. As I turned to glare at the person behind me, a hobbit literally climbed over me on his way to the stage. Oh goody, interactive theater. That should make the whole middle earth experience even better.

About ten minutes into it, we were all praying that we were in middle earth or anywhere else besides that theater since the temperature had risen to a balmy hundred and ten degrees.

As we sweated our way through the hour and a half long Act one (our of three acts) with actors speaking Tolkinese as often as English, I fantasized about slipping away and catching Act Two of Harry and his horse. Maybe I could make it in time for the Bert and Ernie characters in Avenue Q to to realize they were gay, or for Roxie to face her big day in court.

Alas, none of that was to be since I was too weak and dehydrared to do more than crawl out the nearest door at intermission like a desert wanderer searching for an oasis and gulp in the cool evening air.

One of our group somehow had the strength left to fight their way to the bar and purchase a couple bottles of water which we debated drinking or simply pouring over ourselves.

Inquiries to the staff confirmed our worst fears...there was no air-conditioning in the theater. But, they offered, there were special vents to draw out the heat. Yeah. Tell that to the people being revived by the EMTs.

It wasn't all bad though, and I did even have a favorite moment in the play. At the end of one of the acts, Gandolf climbs up on a mountain, raises his staff and shouts to the heavens (or the other wizard, or the queen of the fairies or whoever. I'm not sure, but I think I may have slipped into a coma briefly and lost the thread of the plot).

Anyway, what Gandolf did really wasn't important. What was important was what the stage crew did. Bless their little hearts, they put a giant fan in back of Gandolf, a huge block of ice or icy water in front of it and turned it on high, blasting rows A-Z with a cool, wet gale force wind.

That alone was worth the price of admission. Next year, maybe I'll look for a Lord of the Rings jewelry tour deep in the mines of Africa.