Theatre

I really can't talk about theater. It's just too hard to write about. I tried writing about an abstract notion of how theater is everywhere in London, from the stage to the streets, but it just wasn't coherent enough to really work. Then I tried talking about my own theater experiences, but that just sounded ridiculously self-centered. Plus, it's something that I'm not entirely comfortable talking about, since it was so close to my heart at one time and I really should have continued with it in college but didn't. Now I'm really, truly stumped. Honestly, I've never had this much trouble with a journal entry. Hmmm, what to write about? Well, maybe I'll just write whatever the heck is in my head. Sorry, guys. This might get boring. Here goes:

1) I think it's funny how Brits spell "theatre." Why is it different from the way we spell it? Or, perhaps, why is the way we spell it different? As far as I can figure out, it's just one of those odd little things that makes the English and American languages separate. Weird.

2) I really do think that London has a lot of theater going on in everyday life. Maybe "theater" isn't the right word, but I'm not sure what would be. Let me give an example: Our flat, 37 Hyde Park Gate, looks quite nice from the outside. It's shiny and white and seems not out of place with the the beautiful building beside it. Inside, though, it's old, falling apart and pretty darn ugly. The facade is nice, but the interior isn't. It's like it's a frumpy, tired actress who put on a whole lot of makeup and a smile and became a prima dona. Underneath, it's still the same crumbling old house, but outside it's impressive. I've also noticed that just about every back yard in this city is made up of a dirt floor, piles of rubbish, and a few plants surrounded by a brownish brick wall that was ugly when it was first put up a century ago. The front is usually nice and pretty, with window boxes and lace curtains, but the back yard is nothing to look twice at.

3) West End theater is lots of fun to go to. I don't know what more can really be said about this. If you like theater, you go to Broadway and to the West End. That's where good theater lives. Besides the shows we've seen as a program, I've also gone to Jersey Boys, Phantom, Les Mis, and a second production of WarHorse (with a new and much better cast). Each and every one was simply amazing.

4) "Theater people" are different. Really, they are. Lots of my friends are "theater people." Most of them are wonderful, happy and funny people who have turned to the theater because they like to perform. I love these people. Others are not so nice. Some seem to become actors not because they enjoy making others happy through their performance, but because they like the thrill of being on stage and being looked at by hundreds of people. I really, really can't stand these people. My roommate freshman year dated one and he was the most self-centered SOB I've ever met. Literally everything he did was for his own personal gain and I really hope I never have to see him ever again. The kicker was, he was actually a darn good actor. There's just no justice in the world, I guess.

5) There is something magical about seeing someone famous on stage. There just is. I know it's silly and stupid and morally corrupt and blah blah blah, but everyone likes to see someone in real life they would otherwise only see on the big screen. Seeing Tom Hollander (from Pirates of the Caribbean and Pride and Prejudice) in A Flea in Her Ear was fun, and the man who played Javert in Les Mis is an old Broadway hero of mine, Norm Lewis. In Blithe Spirit, I immediately recognized Ruthie Henshall from her work in musical theater as well. The most exciting sighting was, however, not on a stage. On the way to Mogadishu, I walked right past Mr. Johnny Depp. Yep, the man himself. Turns out he was in London for early work on the new movie Deep Shadows. I don't know why it should matter to me, but of course it does. I saw Johnny Depp on the street, and he looked straight at me. That makes me happy. Granted, it was a "Uh oh, is this girl going to make a scene?"-type look, but still. I'm only human, and I just love seeing people I know about on stage, or people I would normally see on the big screen on the street.

Routine

At home, I have a strict routine. During the school year, I wake up no later than 7 and get up no later than 8. On days I have class, I shower, let my hair air-dry while I eat cereal and fruit, dry my stupid hair, get dressed, and leave for class with at least 5 minutes of extra time, just in case I want to stop and smell the roses along the way (and I do mean that in a literal sense. I frequently make garden breaks). At night I eat dinner early, usually have dance practices or lessons to teach, do homework, read a few hundred pages of Shakespeare or whatever author I'm assigned for English classes, and then read at least a few pages from a well-worn favorite book to give me nicer dreams. On Saturdays I go to Salsa practice all afternoon, eat with friends, then go ballroom dancing till midnight or later. On Sunday I wake up early for church, dance rehearsals, and homework.



Maggie and her "boyfriend" Trix



In the summertime, my bird wakes me up every morning as soon as the sun comes up, so I only get to sleep in on cloudy days. I can assure you, she has no "snooze button." I get her out of her pen and put her on my pillow and we snuggle till I have to get up for work at 7. Maggie is a particularly good snuggler. Then we (and I do mean "we") have cereal and apples (because the bird likes them more than pears)  for breakfast, and Maggie gets scrambled eggs plus whatever I'm eating or anything else her little heart desires. Then I clean up the (giant) mess she's made and we get dressed and brush "our" teeth (Mag always has to "help" with everything) and then we play the "stick-the-little-bird-in-the-cage-because-Mommy-has-to-get-to-work" game and I drive to the greenhouse and stay there till 6, when it's time to come back so my bird can yell "Mommy's home! Mommy's home!". At night, it's garden time with my mother and then a movie and/or a board game with my sister and the "Birdzilla" (whose favorite game is "Life," where she can carry off the little pink and blue people to throw at the mischievous house bunny lurking like a crocodile below the table). My sister usually wins, but then she usually cheats. Bed time for the birdie is at 10, and I usually go to bed around 11 or midnight. Then it's the same thing the next morning, calls of "Mommy, Mommy!" that get louder and louder till I get up. Obviously, my summer days revolve completely around my bird. I can't help it: I love her and she's a smart little ball of feathers who will not be ignored. She has seen me through some truly nasty times, and even though she's certainly a handful to take care of (think a super-smart 3-year-old with wings), making sure she's happy keeps me happy.

Here in England, I really have no routine. I go to bed at different times every night, which dictates when I get up in the morning. I usually wake up between 6 and 7 out of habit, but I try to at least stay in bed til I get 6 hours in. I know it's not good, but I kind of like having no set routine. Maybe it's because at home I have a little feathered 3-year-old to take care of, as well as an acre's worth of gardens, a pond filled with expensive fish I do not want dying on me, family to keep happy, and friends to socialize with. Here I have no responsibilities at all. I can get up when I want, eat when I want, go to bed when I want. It's a nice little vacation from the work I have at home. As long as I feed myself, shower, go to class, do homework and get at least some sleep, I've got nothing to worry about. It's nice, but I do admit, I miss the responsibilities of home. Having so much to do each day is a real pain, but I like knowing that I'm needed, even if only by a little white bird. Yesterday I learned that apparently makes me a freak. It's a sad lesson to learn from an unexpected source, but oh well. I've decided I just don't care. I need to be needed. Maggie fits perfectly into my life and I owe her more than anyone could imagine. Somehow, she found me and the two of us muddle through life pretty well together. So what if my daily routine is a little different than most people's. I can guarantee that life is far more fun with a goofy little bird around.

While I'm not at all homesick here in London, I know it will be nice to get back to my gardens, my sister, my family, and the little bird who calls me Mommy.

Birdzilla destroying a doughnut

Music

 I love music. Yet somehow, I find myself unable to write about it. I don’t know why exactly, but every time I’ve started my journal, I’ve hated it. I have deleted four starts now. Maybe this one will be next, or maybe I’ll just decide if I can’t come up with anything after five tries I may as well give up.

Music is in literally every part of my life. I grew up learning little folk songs from my great grandmother, semi-inappropriate old ditties from my grandfather, rock from my father and everything else from my mother. I loved going to church so I could sing hymns. My sister and I did the best Disney voice-overs for our favorite movies. The first time I really sang in public was when I was in 6^th grade. I sang “Part of Your World” for a school talent contest and won. It was such a good feeling. When I got to high school, my choir teacher decided I was to be one of her “projects”: basically, I was going to be a darn good singer, or else. I learned quickly. The first song I performed at a competitive level was an Italian piece called “Se tu m’ami.” It was easy and I received highest honors. I had gotten the bug and gotten it bad.

My freshman year of high school, I jumped into the musical scene. I was chosen to play Chava, daughter of Tevya in “Fiddler on the Roof.” I was the only freshman in the cast. The next year I played Guenevere in “Camelot” at age 15. The next year it was Sharon in “Finian’s Rainbow,” then the promiscuous “Mae” in a horrible show called “The Pajama Game” and Rapunzel in Sondheim’s crazy difficult “Into the Woods.” Meanwhile, I started singing more and more competitively. In the state’s Solo and Ensemble competition, I was never given a score lower than a first place with honors. I also started singing outside of school, for community events, for church, and for anything else I could find. A friend of mine was a piano genius, literally one of those people who are born to play an instrument, and we would go wherever we could to perform.

When I got to college, I thought I’d keep singing, but things didn’t work out that way. I joined several choirs my first year, which was good though I longed for solo work. My second year, I developed a horrible infection in my throat right before a major concert with the UW Choral Union. I was told to rest for awhile till the doctors could fix me. I performed anyway, but that was the last time I sang in front of an audience.

I’m healed now and I think I’d be able to sing with a choir again. When I get home I’ll start reconditioning my voice to reclaim as much of my range as I can. As a coloratura soprano, I doubt my scarred throat will ever be able to soar to the notes I was once capable of, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

Meanwhile, since I haven’t been able to sing for an audience for a year, my head has been bursting with melodies. I am never without a song or two playing between my ears, and I hate having to repress the music in my head. At home I just let it out, and between my musically-inclined mother, father and sister, there is always a lot of opposing music happening in our house. Even the bird joins in.

Here in London, I miss being able to sing out loud. I want to sing in the shower, sing while I check my email, sing while I cook breakfast, sing while I get dressed. Instead I keep in inside, the socially acceptable option, but if I happen to leak a bit of a melody now and then, I’m sorry. I can’t always keep them in.

Mind the Gap

"MIND THE GAP."

Getting off the tube and lugging my big blue backpack towards Heathrow airport, I didn't realize how much I would come to miss those familiar words pronounced with such authority in a lovely English accent in the coming days. I was on my way to Italy, and I was too sick and too excited to worry about actually planning or thinking ahead. I didn't realize just how unprepared for a sojourn into a foreign country I was.

Most of the time, before I plan a week and a half in another land I do some research. I like to look up such topics as the local language, cuisine, transportation, customs, and oh yeah: the sights I intend to see. Instead, my friend and I spent the days before the trip in a feverish haze, snuggling a box of kleenex and carrying on a love affair with Nyquil and Tylenol PM. Come the judgement day, we had no plans, no map, and not even a guide book. We did, however, have plane tickets, backpacks, booked hostels and a whole jar of precious American peanut butter, so we figured we'd be ok. We bought a guidebook that first day, got a wonderful map from our hostel, and bought bread and jelly at the train station. Though we didn't have plans, we were game for an adventure, and everything turned out just fine in the end. We had a wonderful trip...but...

But. That's such a frightening little word. So insignificant, and yet so crucial. We loved Italy, but, and this is going to sound bad: we didn't love the people, and they didn't seem to love us. Except for the young men, of course. Before leaving, we'd been warned about Italian men, but I guess we thought it wouldn't be so bad. It was. I figured, the Italians can't be all that different from the English. I'd heard that most Italians in Rome and Florence speak English or Spanish or at least understand a bit of Spanish, so I thought we'll be fine. I never thought to look up useful phrases in Italian, things like "Where's the bathroom?" or "I'll have the chocolate." I knew the word for "thank you" and I thought I was all set. Wrong.

Getting out of the airport, Amanda and I saw a sign saying "Uscita/Exit." We joked that now we now knew three words in Italian, "Grazie," "Pizza," and "Uscita." We laughed then, but later in the trip I was so happy to know that word. In a place where every word is foreign, it's helpful to know the way out. It got me out of grocery stores and tourist shops and crowded and horrifically confusing train stations. We didn't know it then, but "Uscita" was probably one of the most important words we could have learned. Unhappily for us, there were a whole lot of other words and phrases we wish we had known. Words and phrases like "what is that" and "where is it" and "stop it now or I'll kick you" and "hey, I may be American but I'm not stupid." Most of the time everything was just fine. We learned that most people would at least serve us if we pointed and gestured and smiled. But. Some wouldn't. You'd think they'd be more friendly when you're trying to pay them for their goods. We learned to only enter shops with clearly posted prices and friendly-looking employees. We aren't exactly mean or creepy-looking so we usually managed to get by...until the day we decided to buy train tickets to Florence.

I can't repeat the whole story here, or I will start yelling and hyperventilating. The short story: the first man behind the desk at Termini sold us the wrong tickets. I don't know why he did, if it was an honest mistake or an intentional error. Unfortunately, I strongly suspect the latter. We had asked for "Florence Santa Maria Novella Station," which doesn't exactly sound at all like "Stazione Rifredi," which is a station used to connect Rome to Florence trains with trains going to Milan. Thank goodness we realized the problem before we left the station. We waited another half hour in line and got stuck with a woman who was so violently ill I don't want to even describe her or her condition. Next we went to a woman who I can only describe as the nastiest person I've ever met. She cancelled our old tickets without asking and booked us tickets that were 3 times as expensive as the ones we had asked for, then refused to give us back the old ones or let us leave without paying for the painfully expensive tickets. I have never been so angry in my life. She pretended to not speak enough English to understand us, but her name tag declared that she was fluent in both Italian and English. Finally, we found a customer service line, left her, and were able to cut our losses and only lose 9 Euro each just because that woman was having a bad day and refused to help the two American students. Had we been in an English speaking country where we were familiar with the customs, she never would have been able to get away with it. When I demanded her manager she would have had to produce him, instead of claiming to not understand. Her treatment left me angry and helpless, which are not feelings I am comfortable with.

When I left the Heathrow tube station, I didn't understand just what that old, oft-repeated phrase was telling me: mind the gap. I didn't yet realize that the gap I was about to so carelessly jump straight into was one dividing culture and language, thrusting me into an unknown land that I was entirely unprepared for. Returning to London, I have never been more aware of this gap. From this point on I will mind it with the respect it deserves.