Vacay debrief

I'm back at home after a largely lovely vacation in Abruzzo. Lorenzo and I are still working on finding a way to travel -- a "holiday formula," if you will -- that will give us (and our dogs) a reliably satisfying vacation. I would say that our attempt this year, while far from perfect, was our most successful yet. I'd just like to remind my readers that we've been married 10 years. It takes the time it takes!

As I mentioned in my last post, traveling with dogs is inherently limiting. Unless one has a private plane, traveling with two dogs (one medium-sized and one large) usually means that wherever you go, you have to get there by car.

Have you seen my dogs yet? No??

Here they are, in the car on our way down to Abruzzo:

The larger one on the left giving me side-eye is Greg. The trip to Abruzzo was 7 hours and this photo was taken at about the 4-hour mark. Disapproval noted, Greg. The one on the right is Viola. She looks demure here, but she can be quite domineering. We often refer to her as "la strega," which means "the witch." I am beginning to think we need to stop that, though, because it's insulting to witches. Greg's nickname is "Booh-bah," which means nothing but says everything about his personality. Lorenzo also calls Greg "il patatone," which literally means "the big potato." So, you get the idea. Now you know my dogs.

Greg and Viola were both strays in Sardegna before they came to us, so the first chapters of their life stories are most probably pretty sad. They don't like to talk about it much. 😉 Greg has been with us 5 years, but we think he's at least 10. Viola has been with us 2 years, and we guesstimate her age at around 5. At the very least, we know that Greg is in the grey-hair-arthritis-and-frequent-peeing stage of life, while Viola is still sleeping through the night, chasing lizards in the yard and flirting shamelessly with the neighbor dog, Achille. So, finding a vacation rental that makes them both feel at home, comfortable, and entertained is a challenge.

The apartment in the farmstead we found in Abruzzo had a yard. With lizards for Viola. With shade to nap in for Greg. With farm cats for both of them to bark at! We hit the motherlode, in other words.

The apartment itself was not tiny. It had a big, comfortable double bed (we Americans would call it a Queen) PLUS a single bed for the dogs to sleep on, a sitting area with two chairs, a kitchen with a dining table that fit 4, and a bathroom. 

There was also a vegetable garden down the hill from our apartment, where we could pick fresh veggies and herbs at will. On the way down to the vegetable patch was a cute little pool, and chaise lounges for sunbathing. We spent most of our time at the beach, but it was nice to have the pool option when we wanted a quick dip.

The place sounds pretty good, right? Now, for the downsides.

There were no creature comforts. No dishwasher. No washing machine. The shower curtain was about 10 inches too short, so water sprayed all over the bathroom when we showered. The furniture was a mishmash of grandma's leftovers, and thrift store finds. We did not have a change of linens, and there was no cleaning service (see above: no washing machine).

There was also no air conditioning. I imagined this would be a much bigger problem than it really was, thankfully. The hill-top position of the farm plus the sea breeze kept the place very comfortable. But the other large appliances were sorely missed. It may be shallow of me to say it, but the thing I missed the most was a washing machine...and a vacuum cleaner. And if I want to be REALLY honest...I missed a housekeeping service to use said washing machine and said vacuum cleaner. I "cleaned" several times during our vacation, and we did laundry by hand pretty much every night. There was a fair amount of muttering through gritted teeth going on. I hope my descant of "this is not a vacation, this is camping with plumbing" was drowned out by the sounds of my scrubbing and sweeping. I wasn't always the sunniest of vacationers while I was in the apartment, but the fresh (cheap!) fish, the gorgeous sunsets on the beach, and the late night strolls with gelato in hand always cheered me up quickly.

So, I guess the bottom line is that I love Abruzzo, but the apartment I found worked best for the furriest among us. I would like to find a place that has a similar set-up for them, but is less rustic and more conveniently furnished. At the very least, I will know to bring more things with me if we ever go back to that particular place. A second set of sheets, and towels, for example. And maybe a vacuum cleaner! 

The search for the perfect vacation continues...maybe we'll have it all figured out before our 20th wedding anniversary!

Vacating

Vacations have been hard for me for all of my adult life. Hard to plan. Hard to enjoy. Hard to justify. 

First of all, let's be honest: I spend my life making music and dressing up in costumes and pretty dresses. Yes, it's challenging and stimulating and stressful, but I am grounded enough to realize that my work stress is, well...negligible and insignificant, relatively speaking. As an ex-agent of mine succinctly put it: "nobody dies if we do our job badly." And that, my friends, is a relief.

Then, there's the undeniable fact that if a job comes up at the last minute, I'm doing it. I can make all the plans in the world. I can reserve the nicest suite in the loveliest hotel. When the crunch comes, none of that matters. I will drop everything for a good singing job. That's just the way I was made. I have canceled Christmas. I have missed weddings. I have quit school (three times). The costs are often non-refundable, both personally and financially, but the pull to perform is irresistible.

On the off chance that I do actually book a vacation and no last-minute singing work crops up to foil my relaxation plans, I have been known to then spend my time off stressing about why my career is slow enough that I can actually take time off! As I lie on the beach, I ponder: Will I ever sing again? Is this the end? What will I do with the rest of my life???

I'm now a singer with considerable experience, and a mature woman. I've been at this for 20 years, speaking conservatively. When I was in my 30's, perhaps it was forgivable that I worried about the longevity of my career and prioritized singing over all else. But now, at 47, do I really still have to be ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of my career?  No! I want to prioritize my inner adult and tell my singer-self to shut up while I order another spritz and read my book.

Enter the second strata of complication: marriage.

I have managed to find a man to love who is even worse at vacationing than I am. Lorenzo has never taken a proper vacation in his life. Before we met, his idea of a vacation was to sleep in a friend's guest room in another part of Italy for a few days. It was life as usual plus a duffel bag, shared with people he loved, in a different place (with a smaller, less comfortable bed and a shared bathroom).

Don't get me wrong; visiting friends and family is fun, and a totally worthy way to spend a holiday, but it is not a VACATION. To me, a vacation is where you go someplace and have fewer responsibilities and tasks than in your normal life. A vacation is about doing less work in a more beautiful and luxurious place than you normally inhabit. It is spending money to be pampered. When we were trying to decide what to do this summer, I said to my husband "I don't want to travel to be less comfortable than I am at home." And, I think that pretty much says it all.

Oh, and one more pesky issue: now that we have two dogs -- one of them geriatric-- my husband also wants to take them with us everywhere we go because, well...how can he possibly have fun if they are all alone, panting miserably in some boarder's cage? Sigh. Lorenzo has a point, but traveling with dogs is limiting, to put it mildly.

I ask you now to imagine me, trying to organize a vacation that will 1) satisfy us both, 2) include our dogs, and 3) not break the bank. Has your head exploded yet?

This year, I have hung my hopes on an agriturismo called Case Vacanze Pozzitello in Abruzzo. It is a sprawling hillside property, with lots of land and beautiful surroundings. They provide small self-contained apartments with private gardens. They allow dogs of any size! They are minutes both from the beach and from our closest friends in Milan who also happen to have a summer place in the same town.

Is it luxurious? Probably not. But it will be a beautiful, restful place that the whole family (even the furriest among us) can enjoy. We will have our own space, but I will be close enough to my friend Lucia that every once in a while we can escape to the spa or a girls' aperitivo date at the beach. It is a compromise, and if it works, it could become a regular solution. Here's hoping.

I have been talking to my brain and I hope it is ready to vacate its normal stressful premises and inhabit a calmer, slower existence in Abruzzo.

I will keep you posted from the road...but in the meantime, no news is good news!

I never thought I would have thoughts on ERWARTUNG -- but I do!

I want to share something I worked on in April and May, ahead of my debut of ERWARTUNG with Peter Sellars and Essa-Pekka Salonen in San Francisco. I wrote an essay on my process around understanding the role of THE WOMAN in Schoenberg's ERWARTUNG. 

Preparing Erwartung: Interpretive Notes and Translation

This piece is special to me, because in writing it, I realized how much thought and research I put into each role I sing...even the ones I have sung many times (a post on AIDA is coming soon)! 

I'm fascinated with yin-yangness of it all: The pull of the music and the push of the words; The black and white of the notes and words on the page and the rich colors of the emotions behind them; The echo of past voices singing through (but hopefully not drowning out) mine. I like the confrontation. I need the contrast. It turns out, there is contrast even within me: the words I write are the counterbalance to those that I sing...and it's time that my words had their time on stage.

Reclaiming my space

I love writing, and I always have. But something about modern technology, and the ease of publication, cheapened the process for me. A little voice inside my head said "Why add your voice to the noise? Why create more linguistic litter?"

For many years, the little voice won--which is why this blog went silent. I still wrote, but I never shared. I've decided to reclaim this little corner of the internet to keep an archive. The fact is, I have lots of thoughts, and some of them are worth sharing; maybe If I take the time to write them down, I'll sleep better! It's worth a try. 

So, here I am again. Thanks for reading.

--ME

How long has it been?

As someone who never stays anywhere longer than absolutely necessary, I am no stranger to fond farewells and fonder reunions. Hey, blog, is that really you? I can't believe it, you look exactly the same! Let's have a coffee and catch up, shall we?

Well, where to begin? It's been 8 years and some change since I last wrote. I could have raised a second-grader in this time, but I didn't...which is why I have time to catch up with you over coffee!

Anyone who knows me well is aware of my abysmal memory--so I can't promise accuracy--but I'm pretty sure that in these last 8 years, I have:

• Moved out of Paris
• Moved to Milan
• Married a fellow singer, something I said I would never do
• Stayed married to a fellow singer, which is (let's be honest, if we're blogging) a minor miracle
• Become an Italian citizen
• Sung for Prince Charles 3 times

There's been some other stuff that has happened, but those are the biggies. Ok, you're caught up!

This has been nice. I think we should do this more often.

Can't we all just get along?

I’m on a train.  I know you’re surprised.

I’m headed to Wiesbaden from Paris, from one home to another, on a Deutsche Bahn train overflowingly packed with tourists. The poor American man across the aisle figured out just a few minutes before we arrived in Saarbrücken that someone had stolen his wallet from out of his pocket at Gare de l’Est.  He can’t even figure out when or how it happened.  I keep hearing him exclaim under his breath to his wife, speaking almost respectfully, “That guy was REALLY GOOD!”  

It’s July in Europe.

Behind me is a lovely young German mother with her son.  I’m no good at guessing ages, but I’m going to give it the good old college try and say that this kid is four.  He’s little and stocky, but interacts with the world with confidence--and speaks German very fluently.  I know this because he hasn’t stopped talking since we left Paris.

He is giving his mother a very thorough (and nuanced!) running commentary.  On a packed train like this one, there are plenty of happenings about which to have an opinion.  He’s making up little songs (with melodies overwhelmingly dependent upon the minor 3rd) that he sings quietly to himself and his mother, tapping occasionally on the back of his seat to provide percussion.  He is perfectly charming, and it is clear that he is both a smart little boy and greatly loved.  It is a heartwarming scene to overhear.

At least, that’s my take.  

The man on the other side of them does not share my opinion.  About the same time the pick-pocketed American across the aisle was patting his own behind fervently, hoping upon hope for a lump of leather SOMEWHERE, this other, younger man two rows away turned around and said in accented English to the German mother (in a voice a little louder than absolutely necessary), “Can you keep your child quiet? It’s very difficult to rest with him talking all the time.”  The woman responded very politely in English, “This is a public place and you cannot expect perfect quiet. If you would prefer not to hear my son, you are very free to change your seat.”

And that was the end of that.

A few minutes later, I looked back at the serenity-seeking twenty-something: he was watching a movie on his laptop, earbuds in place.  Necessity is the mother of invention.

I realize that perhaps this man had a right to quiet.  But this mother and her son also had a right to converse with each other.  Basic human rights sometimes do not coexist with complete agreement.  Sometimes we have to compromise.

I’m sorry that German mother wasn’t there to coach me two weeks ago, when I was confronted about my mid-afternoon practicing.  I was in my new ground-floor studio apartment in Paris, on a weekday afternoon, right around 2pm.  I could tell from the absence of scooters out front that my building was empty. I had closed all the windows and was warming up a little before heading out to meet a pianist at the Bastille for a coaching.  I had been singing for no more than 10 minutes.  I was mid-9-tone-scale when I saw a small woman come from down the street (as opposed to coming from the door to my building) to stand at my window.  In retrospect, I would compare her overall bearing to that of a bulldog, but perhaps I’m being slightly unfair.  At any rate, she was frowning and shaking her finger at me.  She was talking to me, but I couldn’t understand her because her voice was muffled--a fact I mimed through the closed window as I fumbled to open it.  A few seconds later, when I got the window unlocked, I was greeted with a flood of loud, fast French.

“NO. No, NO! This simply CANNOT go on.  It’s just too much!  I’m having to leave my house because I simply cannot stand it anymore.  I understand that this is your profession, probably, but it’s annoying.  You CANNOT continue to sing like this here!”

Etcetera, etcetera.  She went on and on.  Her face was crimson with anger.  I apologized.  She yelled some more.  I apologized again.  She was blue at this point.  I promised never to sing there again.  She threatened to call the police.  I began to speak at one point, when she had paused in her rant (presumably to breathe).  I wanted to explain that I had chosen this time specifically because I knew my immediate neighbors were not at home.  As it was the middle of the day during the work-week, I had hoped it would be the least possible annoyance to sing a little during that time.  I wanted to say to her that I was sorry that I had upset her despite my best efforts to avoid bothering people.

That’s what I wanted to say, but I never got past, “It was not at all my intention...”  When I began talking, she turned on her heel and walked away.  It was as if I no longer existed now that she had vented her fury upon me.  I called after her, my French grammar getting worse with each flustered phrase.  The only acknowledgment that she could hear me at all was the sight of the back of her head, shaking back and forth NO!--just like a dog might shake a bird upon capturing it in its jaws.  

Yes, the image of the bulldog is quite accurate.

If I had only just a little smidgen of that German mother’s sense of entitlement and poise.  If I had stood up for myself a little, maybe my neighbor would have invested in a nice pair of earplugs and I’d still be practicing in my apartment!

Weather Report

Well, it turns out that I had to wait until late May to experience the kind of Spring that Ella Fitzgerald seems to have enjoyed, in her time, weeks earlier...but it has finally arrived. Paris is finally worth singing about.

The sun has been shining down from cloudless skies for the last 5 days or so. It seems a magic apology from the Cosmos for the preceding 30 days of horribly unseasonable wind, rain, and cold--an apology I gratefully accept. I've been here in Paris for 5 weeks, rehearsing for an outdoor production of Aida. And, let me tell you, I have been OUTDOORS. Five and six hours a day, we have been working in damp and windy 40 to 50 degree weather. When it rained really hard, we would all run from the unprotected stage to take shelter under one of two tents nearby, huddling together against the rain (and sleet!) that would attack us at the flanks like some sort of meteorological battle maneuver, until the storm cloud passed. Most of the time, though, the sky just spit at us nonchalantly...and we would carry on working, wrapped in Polartec, dressed defensively in layer upon layer of perpetually damp fabric, runny of nose and low of spirit.

How quickly things change. This evening, I am writing from the round café table of my balcony. It's 10:30 at night and around 70 degrees. I can hear the percussive clink of fork against plate, of muffled conversation sprinkled with occasional laughter as my neighbors two terraces down enjoy a late dinner party. There are flickering candles and hanging laundry. Everybody's windows are open. It is warm and lovely, and I am not the only one who is happy for the change. The whole city seems reborn.

Reason demands acknowledgement of the fact that the bad weather may not be over. Crazy Springs don't just turn themselves around in a week's time. I may very well have to pull out the windbreaker again and set aside the sandals. But, the rarity of this year's "spring feeling" has at least taught me to appreciate it when it comes by for a visit--however fleeting--and seize the moment with both (gloveless) hands.

"You can't let the weather run your business" was one of my father's favorite maxims--and he's right. I guess you can't. We certainly didn't, during these weeks of rehearsal. We carried on, we got things done, we ignored the inky clouds and did our jobs. We pressed forward.

But, now that I'm leaned back in my plastic patio chair, feet up, unwrapped and unprotected from the elements, it's hard to ignore the sweet relief I feel to my core, now that I'm not working against an angry sky. It may be true that you can't let the weather run your business, but it certainly helps one's business when the weather's at your back.