The Christmas Dance

My Mother and I have begun our yuletide tango.

Every year, we put each other through 6 weeks of teasing, badgering, silent treatments, and deception--all over Christmas gifts. It's Advent, Williams-family style! No candles required.

My mother, if she were here in Basel as I type this, would take offense that I am calling this a partner dance and not a solo routine. To hear her tell the story, it's all my crazy, and none of hers. I believe an objective eye would call it a 60/40 split. Okay, maybe 70/30.

Ever since I was a young child, I have been bad about respecting the tradition of gift-giving around Christmas. I do not wait gracefully; even when I was 6 and should have been wide-eyed and apple-cheeked with the mystery of the season, I was impatient and well...goal-oriented. My goal was the opening of my presents. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

I am not especially proud to admit it, but I was the type of child who would sneak into the living room when her parents were otherwise engaged, hide under the tree, pick a present, and gently pull out the folded corners of the wrapping so that I could see the edge of the box. I would do this to each corner, slowly so as to protect the paper, in the hopes of devining from any visible labels or markings if it was the gift I had asked for. I was methodical, I was determined, and I was sneaky.

One of the few times I ever got into trouble as a child (because I was a pretty good kid, except from about Black Friday until December 24th) was when I threw a temper tantrum over the brand new box of Crayola crayons under the tree. I remember that box of crayons vividly. It was the 84-color box! You can, perhaps, understand my impatience. I knew about the crayons, of course, because I had used my aforementioned technique of gift-wrap circumnavigation. School was out, I was bored, and I wanted to color! BUT, I wanted to color with my NEW crayons. The ones I wasn't supposed to know about. I stomped up and down the stairs. I cried. I yelled. I'm sure I made the Christ child proud that day.

The following year, Mom decided to take the lead in our little dance. She stopped putting my Christams presents out under the tree at all! She waited to arrange them under the Christmas tree until I was asleep on Christmas Eve. Sneaky, right? I guess I get it honest!

I was convinced that I wasn't going to get any Christmas presents at all that year. I spent all of December rummaging though the boxes under the tree in disbelief. I would even check the branches because Dad, for some unknown reason, liked to hide the gifts IN the tree. No box had the label I was looking for: "M.E." (Mary Elizabeth was too long to fit on the sticky Christmas labels.) Not one M.E., anywhere. It was a dark time, my friends.

I have to admit that waking up the next morning and being genuinely surprised by all my presents was quite a novel treat for me; but once I knew her new choreography, I was sure to change mine, too. The following Christmas, I learned to hunt.

She didn't expect such tenacity from an 8-year-old, no doubt. Mom's hiding place that first year was really beneath my talents as a detective: the top of my father's closet. Please. What Mom didn't realize was that she was doing me a favor! Now that the gifts were in a secluded place, I could open them completely, and with finesse! I became a whiz at re-wrapping. I even learned to pack a roll of scotch tape when I would go out on a gift-finding mission.

Year after year, her hiding places became increasingly complex: in the garage. In the trunk of the car. In a locked suitcase (which, by the way, I still consider unsportsmanlike conduct). I think she slowly started to like the challenge of finding hiding places that would confound me. She also learned to tape down the ends of the wrapping paper to the box, which drove me crazy. Dad never understood why we went through so much scotch tape at Christmas. He would mutter under his breath about needing to buy stock in 3-M. What can I say? Our little dance required props.

Long after it was age-appropriate, I was hunting for my Christmas presents. I was hunting, though, because SHE was hiding. It takes two to tango, Mom.

Sadly, I found in my late teens that opening the wrapping at the ends of boxes doesn't work nearly as well when most of your gifts are in department store boxes and don't rattle, so my main method of snooping lost its effectiveness about 1997. It was a rough year.

Mom and I still do our routine. Just yesterday, she and I exchanged a little SMS pas-de-deux:

Mom: Am getting ready to go into Nordstrom's.
Me: What are you doing at Nordstrom's??? :)
Mom: ...maybe some Christmas shopping.
Me: I bought you something today. Oooooh, can you stand it??
Mom: I may buy you something too!
Me: You just CANNOT resist teasing me, can you??
Mom: Nope!

As you can read, it's all a little less frenzied now. There are no temper tantrums, or tears--just civilized text messages and cheshire-cat smiles. Since we've had 33 years to hone our responses to each other, we make perfect dance partners. There's no longer a need to work up a sweat.

We may do only the tried and true footwork these days. We may be years past adding any new and creative steps. But, the dance still goes on.

A Quick Report on Thanksgiving

It's already after midnight and I have big plans for tomorrow, so I won't make this a long post...but Rena and I had a spectacular evening with our Swiss clan tonight, and I just wanted to document it! I'm recording for posterity our fantastic menu, and a pic or two, starting with this one:


Here we all are, post-feast, fat and happy.

I'm going to be honest and say that Rena did the lion's share of the cooking tonight, but I was a very capable sous-chef and chopped like a champ. Christopher Balduc and Laurence Guillod, who both work with Rena at the opera, also helped with the cooking quite a bit. I still can't believe that we all fit in the kitchen at the same time. (Well, actually, we didn't. Rena had to kick us out a couple of times!) Our other guests brought bread, wine, and other lovely foodstuffs to make the meal complete. It was truly a group effort.

Here are a few pics of us hard at work:


Chris prepping the turnips...


Laurence with her lovely pies!


Rena and me, working our fingers to the bone, clearly.

Here's what we served:

Rosemary Roasted Mixed Nuts
Stuffed Mushrooms
Gluehwein (mulled wine) with raisins and slivered almonds

Turkey (of course!)
Cranberry Sauce
Gravy
Roasted Beets and Sweet Potatoes
Green Beans with Garlic, Lemon, and Almonds
Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Carrots and Turnips (Chris)
Wild Rice Stuffing
Apple/Cranberry Stuffing (Chris)
Olive Bread (provided by Rolando)
lots and lots of wine

Apple and Pumpkin Pies (Laurence)

It was a fantastic and complete Thanksgiving dinner, especially considering that we did it all in Switzerland. Chris even contributed California wine!

As you no doubt noticed in the menu, we DID manage to find a whole turkey for the occasion:


13 pounds of deliciousness that Rena referred to as "Lady"

"Lady" was considerably more expensive than her sisters in the USA, but she proved to be the keystone of our meal. She was worth every one of the 73 (!) Francs we spent to bring her home. In addition to being perfectly delectable the first time around, Rena and I have big plans to live on turkey noodle soup for the forseeable future!

The evening was full of merriment, and we managed to send just about everyone home with a care-package. It never ceases to amaze me how we can eat SO MUCH and still have so much left over. It's the miracle of Thanksgiving, I guess!

By the time the party ended, the first real snowfall of the year in Basel had begun! A magical end to a magical evening.

Tomorrow, instead of doing the annual Black Friday pilgrimage to Macy's, I'll be doing a little heavy lifting...I'm helping my friend Iryna move. Although I will miss heading to the mall with Mom in search of bargains, it'll be good to work off some of my Thanksgiving indulgence.

Ugh, we had that meal 5 hours ago and I'm still full! Another words, it was a good old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in Basel

Rena and I have begun discussing Thanksgiving. It's early yet, so we're not too stressed about it, but we're planning: how many can we have over? What sort of dietary restrictions do people have? What kind of stuffing should we make? In or out of the bird (or both)? And, most importantly, where are we going to find a whole turkey in Switzerland (and how much is it going to cost us)?

Last night, Rena was googling Ina Garten as we sat together on the couch watching a Mad Men marathon (it was a very good night). We perused the food network website too, salivating over all kinds of Thanksgiving recipes. Roasted winter vegetables. Rosemary cashews. Pecan pie. Times like these, I wish I had two stomachs.

At one point, she looked at me and said, "Do you have any special requests for the menu? Anything you need for Thanksgiving to be Thanksgiving?" And, I said no.

She seemed a little surprised. Upon further reflection, so am I, actually. No specific Thanksgiving requests? Really? I LOVE Thanksgiving. What is up with that?

I do have specific foods that I associate with Thanksgiving, like everybody else. My Aunt Barbara's sweet potatoes and apples, for example. I love that recipe, but I don't really like to make it myself. I prefer to eat Aunt Barbara's recipe from her very own pyrex dish while sitting across the table from her.

What I like most about my mother's sage stuffing is watching her mix it up in our big yellow mixing bowl, bread crumbs with melted butter, chopped celery and onions...it's been the same as long as I can remember. It's a Thanksgiving I can count on.

Of course, I can't always have Thanksgiving at home. Sometimes, I'm in a hotel room. Sometimes I have an apartment, but I'm subsisting with 2 burners and a microwave. A person in my position can't always count on Thanksgiving being predictable or traditional.

This year is no different. No Mom. No Aunt Barbara. Maybe no turkey! Rena and I are blazing a new trail in Basel, so why not start by christening a new menu? Rena's gluten-free, so...maybe wild rice stuffing? One can't walk two blocks in this town without being tempted by the street vendors offering heisse marroni (roasted chestnuts), 3 Francs per 100 grams. Maybe we can do something with those, too, as a subtle homage to fall in Europe. In addition to the Americans that we have invited, we're also having guests who hail from the Ukraine and Mexico. Maybe we can incorporate something yummy from those cultures? At this point, the options are endless!

Rena and I have 10 days to make a menu, divvy up the responsibility, and whip our little apartment into festive splendor. I may not be sure what this Thankgiving is going to taste like, but I'm already sure that it will be a wonderful holiday with all the necessary Thanksgiving ingredients: a toasty house with a bustling kitchen, a table full of delicious food prepared with love and care (and research!), and some wonderful friends to share it all with.

So far in this life, no matter where I am, what size my kitchen, or how far away I get from my traditional Thanksgiving at home, I've always been able to celebrate in a way that makes me feel like I've had Thanksgiving. I'm very thankful for that.

Happy Holiday, everybody!

A Clear Sign from the Cosmos

A weird thing happened to me tonight.

It's around 3am in Basel, and I've been playing with writing a blog post for quite some time now. I have felt the need to write for several days, but I didn't have any idea what to say--which is a strange and new state for me! For better or for worse, I am rarely at a loss for words.

I've been in one of those pensive Autumn moods where everything seems a little sad, but beautifully so. Tonight, I was determined to finally write something. I was trying to find a subject that wouldn't be completely depressing (for me and for you!) but still authentic, and I came up with what I still think is a clever idea: an open letter to the Cosmos.

The premise was this: my thirty-fourth birthday is coming up on January 7th, which is less than two months away (!). I wrote a (very charming) little letter to the Cosmos asking for a special birthday gift: a brief outline of how the rest of my life will go.

In the letter/blog post, I specified that I wasn't looking for a fortune-telling. I didn't need specifics of where I'll live in the future, or how long I'll live or with whom I'm live. I also urged the Cosmos to avoid any direct divulgences of future ailments. I just wanted to have a quick consultation with the future me to find out if the older and wiser Mary Elizabeth felt content with the choices I am making now. After all, there's still time to try something else, right?

I even gave examples of what I was looking for, because I realized my request was a little unorthodox. I wrote, I'd be just thrilled to receive a missive that reads something like this:

KEEP IT UP, YOU'RE ON THE RIGHT TRACK. IT ALL WORKS OUT PRETTY WELL.

or

STOP NOW. NOT WORTH IT. SURPRISE US BOTH AND TRY SOMETHING ELSE. BRAZIL, MAYBE?

or, lastly

BRACE YOURSELF FOR YEARS 38-43. THEY WILL ABSOLUTELY SUCK, BUT YOU'LL SURVIVE.


I closed my letter to the Cosmos by again recognizing that my gift request was a little unusual, apologizing for my boldness, and explaining that the only reason I wanted to know anything at all about my future is to make sure I was doing this magical lifetime the proper justice. I added, at the very bottom, that if direct instruction wasn't possible, I'd also gladly accept a (clear) sign.

I was proofreading my blog entry in preparation for publication, when my computer suddenly froze up. That doesn't happen often, since my computer is still young and spry (unlike me, haha). Still, I wasn't particularly worried because the program I use to write my blog posts automatically saves my work every 2 minutes. At the most, I'd lose a few sentences.

So, I restarted, and don't you know the ENTIRE thing was lost? No trace. It was like I never even wrote the letter.

I would be naive not to recognize a sign as clear as that. Point taken, Cosmos. I will mind my own damned business and wait for my life to unfold like everyone else.

You can't blame a girl for asking, though.

An Homage to Dad

A week ago today, my mother and I passed a tender milestone together: 9 years since the death of my father.

Whenever I talk about my father's death, I always say the same thing--almost like I'm reading from a script. It goes something like this:

"What does your father do?"
"My father passed away in 2001."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"I really can't complain. He lived a good long life. 80 years is nothing to sneeze at."

And then I smile.

It's true. Eighty years is a pretty damned good run. My Daddy always said jokingly that we were only promised three score and ten; he got ten extra, either for good behavior, or as punishment. Maybe a little bit of both.

My father had lived 55 years before I had even formed as a twinkle in his eye. He worked as a math teacher, a principal, a WWII soldier, a late-night deejay, a speechwriter, a consultant, a landlord, and a bowling pin attendant (not in that order, or course)--all before I was born. Those, by the way, are just the jobs that I am aware of. There are, no doubt, thousands of stories and experiences that he forgot before I was even around to hear about them...and thousands of his stories I forgot before I understood how much I would treasure them in his absence.

In the 24 years that I knew him, he was stern, but generous-spirited. He could be very intimidating, but had a fantastic sense of humor. He was a great host, and could mix a deadly drink. He loved to be in control, and was usually pretty good at running things. He rarely admitted being wrong...about anything, ever. He had a well-worn wisdom that came primarily from life experience. He sought always and above all things to be a productive individual. He was very demanding of those he cared about, and was intolerant of indecision or lack of direction.

He was, as my mother would say, a piece of work.

My father and I spent most of my teenage years at each other's throats. He thought I was spoiled and entitled (which I probably was), and I thought he was out of touch and unreasonably strict (which he definitely was). We fought often, but rarely went to bed angry. With the mediation of my persistent and patient mother, we always managed to find common ground and remember that we loved each other.

Just last night, I was talking about my father with a patron of the opera here in Washington, DC. I was remembering going to the tailor with my father as a young girl (Dad was, by all accounts, something of a clothes horse), and watching him pick out fabric for his suits. He was partial to mohair blends, I remember. In the telling of the story, my senses came along for the ride; suddenly, I inhaled the dry cedar of his closet, recalled the deep cordovan of his lace-up Johnston and Murphy shoes. I could hear the creak of his armoire, and smell his Bay Rhum cologne.

It's amazing how vivid my memories can be, after so many years. It was like I went to 1985 for a visit.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I still talk to my father. It seems only natural, since I can still hear him in my head! Hardly a day passes when I don't quote my father in conversation, or think of something he once said. When I'm in places that I heard him talk about, or even places that he never saw but know he would have enjoyed, I often send him mental postcards: "Having great fun, wish you were here." He's opinionated even in death; when I'm dating someone that my father would like, he always whispers a little approving word--and he's not afraid to tell me when he's not too keen on someone, either. His voice often comes to me when I'm faced with a tough decision or a situation which requires problem solving or strategic thinking. Most of the time, I still take his advice.

In truth, I may not remember my father exactly as he was, anymore. I'm hardly objective, after these nine years; in death, he's become superhuman. The things I admired about him I now hold sacred, and the things about him that drove me crazy while he was alive have become endearing. The implacable distance that death offers has given me a more generous perspective, rounded out the jagged corners of my memories, and allowed me a new kind of relationship with my father.

For one, I actually can win a fight now and then.

Love you, Dad.

Schengen Schmengen

It seems I may have overstayed my welcome in Switzerland.

It was early Saturday morning at the Basel-Mulhouse Airport. On my way home to Philly, I was bleary eyed but happy. I had printed my boarding passes out the night before. I had packed light. I had gone through security and would have time enough to get one last cup of strong Swiss coffee on my way to the plane. Smooth sailing. I am, after all, an expert traveler.

Huh.

I had to have my passport checked as a last step on my way to the plane and out of Switzerland. As the man behind the plexiglass lazily flipped through my passport, I saw him suddenly perk up. He started flipping through with more interest.

"When did you arrive in Europe?"

"June 22nd, I think, in Berlin." He flipped some more, this time with a scowl. Uh-oh.

It was then, dear friends, that this "expert traveler" was informed that she could only stay in the Schengen countries of the EU for 90 days without a visa. I had been in Europe for 111 days without a visa. Whoops.

Now, I knew about the 90 days...but I thought that those 90 days applied to each individual country (I had traveled in Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, and France).

Of course, there was a fine: 850 CHF. Unhappily for me, the Swiss Franc is very strong at the moment, so we might as well say 850 dollars. The man behind the plexiglass asked me if I had any money with me.

My plane was going to take off in 30 minutes. I was standing in a country (actually, a whole Schengen area, whatever that means) that didn't want me to be there anymore. I heard my good friend Rachael Goldfarb whispering her trademark phrase in my ear: "Mary Elizabeth, throw money at the problem, and get the &*%# on the plane."

I smiled my biggest smile at the gentleman and I said, "I don't have any cash, but I have lots of credit."

I was escorted into a back room, and presented to two other uniformed and humorless officers. I filled out paperwork. I smiled. I apologized. When it was clear that I wasn't going to lie on the floor and throw a tantrum, they even smiled back. They decided not to make me pay right at that very moment, because they were concerned it would take too long and I would miss my plane.

They would bill me, they said.

"Great!", I said, with a smile.

The point was, after all, to get me OUT of Switzerland.

I hope they don't hold this against me when I try to get back into the country on November 1. I'll let you know!

Homeward Bound

One week from today, I'll be home. Considering how many places I call home these days, perhaps I should be more precise: in a week, I'll be in Philadelphia.

It's a little hard to fathom. I've been in Europe since June 22. That's more than three months! Three countries (four, counting the day-trip to Strasbourg, France I took today), nine cities, and countless voyages later, I'm headed back to where I started--at least for a 3 week visit. Good thing Mom will be picking me up at the airport--otherwise I might not remember how to get home!

I have big plans for my short visit. I have to fill my tank to the brim with Philadelphia, and remind myself of all that I love about calling Philadelphia home, with a big "H".

Besides spending time with Mom and my East Coast friends (and, in at least one case, kiss the baby born while I was away!), most of my plans revolve around spending money, eating, and enjoying 100% English-language entertainment. Absence makes you realize what you really miss about a place. Sadly for me, it appears that other than the people, most of what I miss about Philadelphia is commerical. Please don't tell anyone how shallow I am.

Although I love cooking at home in Basel (and being cooked for, thank-you-very-much roommate extraordinare Rena Harms), I am very much looking forward to being in a place where it doesn't cost a small fortune to eat out. I intend to make the rounds to visit Marathon Grill for a big old American burger, Vietnam for spring rolls and thai iced tea, and Pietro's for their arugula and parmesan salad.

The eating, of course, will be very important because it will fortify me for the shopping. How wonderful to be in the Land of the Perpetual Sale again! I am already fingering my debit card in anticipation. While shopping in Europe, I spend all my mental energy converting Francs or Euros to Dollars, and thinking, "can I live without this, or do I have to suck it up and buy it even though it is insanely expensive?" In America, the math I'm doing in my head centers around figuring out how much I will end up paying for a pair of shoes if they are 40% off, with and additional 15% off for the 1-day sale, and of course the 20% off I always get for using my store credit card. Sigh. I love that kind of math.

I am planning to go to the movies at least 3 times during my 3 weeks in the US; if I can fit in more, I will. I've been here in Europe so long that I've lost touch with what there is to see at the cinema, I'm ashamed to say. Truth be told, it doesn't matter; give me a dark theater with stadium seating, seats with cup-holders, and a story that holds together at least as well as a Mozart opera, and I'm in. As far as home entertainment goes, I'm still pretty satisfied with my dear landlord's insanely complete cable TV subscription here in Basel...but I will be profiting from a little time with Marilyn Milian in America when I can.

As I'm spending my dollars on Walnut Street and chatting over coffee in Rittenhouse Square, though, I'm going to be missing my little Swiss family. Why can't all the good stuff in my life be in one place?

I love Basel, and I truly enjoy living here. Philadelphia may be my steady flame, but Basel is my exciting new crush. It won't be the same, waking up in Philly and not being greeted by Pete's whirling-dervish happy dog dance on the hall carpet. I'm going to miss the cheap wine, the strong coffee, the abundant Swiss chocolate....and mostly, my new friends.

Having people and stuff to love all over the world is pretty wonderful.

Some nights, when I wake up and can't remember which bed I'm in or who (if anyone) may be on the other side of the wall, I think that I might have officially traveled one mile too many...but when I wipe the sleep from my eyes and get my feet on the floor, I realize that I should never stop being grateful that I have so many wonderful places to enjoy and to call home.

What's 5 Euro, really?

I am gullible. I’m not afraid to tell you, because I’m well known for it. I may be a shrewd businesswoman, but if you stopped me on the street and told me that on the next block there was an elephant running loose, I would probably believe you—at least at first. It’s sad but it’s true.

I’ve always been like this. My first instinct is to believe. My own earnestness, I think, is a huge factor. I’ve never been one who plays with the truth, largely because it’s too much trouble. My friends who are better at that sort of thing enjoy watching my eyes grow wide as they tell me crazy stories that anyone else would see through in seconds. Eventually, I catch on. But I’m good for at least 2 minutes of fun, always.

I’m probably deluding myself, but I like to think that this defect in my personality is a little charming. It could speak to my fundamental faith in humanity rather than plain old stupidity…couldn’t it? Even as I get older and grow (slightly) more shrewd about the common con, I still end up erring on the side of credulity.

What happened to me yesterday is a perfect example. I was getting on a train in Milano, headed to Basel. A man stopped me, all out of breath. He was a well-dressed black man, who spoke English with an accent. He said he was from South Africa. He explained that he and his pregnant wife had been traveling for days (from Africa) and had purchased tickets that were incorrect. They were able to change them, but for a fee. They had all the money they needed except 20 Euro.

Are you smelling a con yet?

I sniffed the air, and smelled a con, too…but as quickly as I could form the words “I don’t have anything for you,” my mind flashed back to the time that I was traveling from Chicago to Belgium by way of Paris. In all the planning, I had mistakenly purchased a train ticket for the wrong day. When I arrived in Paris, my 100 Euro ticket to Bruges was invalid. Luckily, the train conductor let me slide and I rode for free.

Quickly on the heels of that recollection came another—a story that my friend Rebecca Carr told about being stranded somewhere in Europe (I forget the precise details) and having a man give her an unsolicited handful of cash to tide her over until she could get things straight.

People really do have crises, sometimes, I said to myself. Sure, this man is probably lying, but how much would it cost me to help him a little?

I had a 5 Euro bill leftover from my ridiculous shopping spree for wine and salami on my way out of Italy. I gave him the fiver, told him that was all I had and that I hoped he could find someone else to give him the rest. I wished him good luck and boarded the train.

End of the story, right?

Wrong. Would you believe that this man followed me into my train car to ask me 1) what my name was, 2) where I was going and 3) if we could “stay together and get to know each other”. I asked him pointedly, with my mouth dropped open in shock and horror, “What about your pregnant wife?” He looked startled only a millisecond before he recovered. “Oh, she is very tired.”

If I had a husband like that, I’d be tired too. I told him he was a disgrace and walked away.

Either way, it’s shameful. If he ran a con on me to get 5 Euro, it’s shameful. If he did in fact have a wife somewhere on the train and he was chatting me up 3 cars down, it’s shameful. I got to my seat, sat down, and looked out the window, pondering humanity. What did he intend to do, buy me a cup of coffee with the money I had given him??? I comforted myself with the thought that I had only been taken for a 5 Euro bill.

When I meet people like that, and invariably give them the benefit of a doubt that only I would have, I am tempted to regret my generous and trusting nature. I am aware that I end up looking the fool, now and then. But, I guess I’m okay with that.

At least I got a good story out of it, right?

Ciao from Bologna...

Just when I got used to the charming structure of Switzerland, I am thrust into the chaos of Italy.

I've been in Bologna a week now, and I have another week to go. Since my arrival, I have thought many times of writing a little in my blog, to memorialize my time here, but frankly I was too tired. I'm here studying--and have been speaking (and listening to) Italian at least 90% of the time. I know I am prone to hyperbole, but this is absolutely the truth, I swear! Although I'm proud (and a little shocked) that I can actually do this, I'm TOTALLY spent at the end of the day, every day. There is no energy left for blogging. Sometimes, there's no energy for anything at all except crawling into bed.

It's a good fatigue most of the time, though. I have met some nice people--mostly other singers, who are here to study at the Scuola, like me. I am staying in an old folk's home--yes, you read that correctly. Here, they have a much nicer name for it: Casa di Riposo. The Casa Lyda Borelli is a residence that is dedicated to retired artists specifically. In addition, they have a relationship with the Scuola and house young singers who come to study. So, picture about 20 elderly Italian ex-singers, conductors, pianists, and so on...and me.

I exaggerate. Other young people are here too: for example, a group of about 7 opera singers from Kazakhstan (!) who are working through three months of intensive study in Italy. There are people from Brazil, Puerto Rico, Turkey, Japan...it's a wonderful cultural exchange. At breakfast, we speak grammatically-incorrect Italian together over coffee and painfully sweet pastries (the Italians do not believe in savory breakfast). It's a nice little community.

Besides the breakfasts, I am eating well, even if my diet has been a little carbohydrate-heavy. My newfound addiction to coffee continues. I'm getting around better and better, every day, and learning the city's small curvy streets and pedestrian zones. The bus system, while widespread, annoys me; after Basel where every stop is notated in triplicate and verbally announced, the haphazard system here is extremely frustrating. Some stops have a sign, some don't; some buses announce as they go, some don't. The bus schedule is approximate at best. It's all very fluid. Once the bus actually comes, it takes about as long to ride it to the school as it does to walk (30 minutes).

No matter how I get to school, by foot or by bus, trouble finds me anyway. I marvel daily at the shamelessness of the Italian male. As most of you know, I have a list of crazy man stories from all over the world--I seem to attract them everywhere I go. But, this city, my friends, has been a fantasy of ridiculousness.

It started (as was documented on facebook) almost immediately upon my arrival last Sunday, when a man on the street tried to get me to go with him to get a drink. When I ignored him and kept moving, he caressed my behind, I suppose because he figured that was better than nothing! I was so shocked that I just sort of jumped, and then walked (briskly) away as fast as I could. I would like to say that I cursed him out with my newfound Italian language skills, but alas, I did not.

I did, however speak very sharply the next day to a man who followed me for at least 5 minutes, walking just behind me. I could feel that he was there, but he wasn't saying anything. I finally stopped, reeling him in, pretending to look at something in a window. When he worked up the courage and made his move, I turned around with all my accumulated ire, looked him straight in the eye, and said (in Italian, loudly) "I do not want to talk to you. LEAVE ME ALONE!" Ouch. In retrospect, I might have been a touch nicer.

My Italian female friends, however, say that I need to be that nasty all the time, or else these men won't get the hint. I'm just glad I don't live here! I can't imagine having to deal with being accosted on the street every day...

...On second thought, if I lived here, maybe I'd work my way through all the crazy men of Bologna in the first month or so and then they'd leave me alone. Maybe I'd develop a reputation among them: "Leave that tall brown one alone, she's mean!"

Either way, my crazy-man story collection is growing exponentially with every day I spend in Bologna.

On that note, I should stop for the evening...a good night's sleep (and another full day in Bologna tomorrow) awaits me.

Ci vediamo a dopo!

Finding My Flow

Monday was my 4-week anniversary in Basel. Life is good here. After 4 weeks, I feel that I've arrived just yesterday--but also that I've been here longer than I can remember. I'm fully submerged and I've found my flow...again.

Let me explain by backing up. I lived in Paris from fall of 2002 through the winter of 2005. Life was good there, too. I was happy in Paris in a different way than I had ever been, living anywhere else. Between 2005 and now, I had forgotten the specificity of this feeling. I have been reminded. Basel reminded me.

So what is it about Europe? I was never able to say with any kind of clarity what exactly about living in Europe did it for me. When people asked me, I would talk about lots of little things: how much I liked the way the cities are set up here, for instance. Pedestrian friendly. Good public transport. The food is good. Cheap healthcare. Slower pace. When I talked about it, everything sounded so banal. My reasons were shallow, and I knew it. Life in Philadelphia is pretty good, too, after all! But there was something about Paris...it was hard to quantify why I liked it so much--why living in Europe brought out a better me...but it did.

I have a new theory. Actually, it's not my theory. It belongs to Mihály Csíkszentmihályi. About 20 years ago, Mr. Csíkszentmihályi introduced a psychological concept called "Flow". Here's an overview of the princple, in the words of the man himself:

"A sense that one’s skills are adequate to cope with the challenges at hand in a goal-directed, rule-bound action system that provides clear clues as to how one is performing. Concentration is so intense that there is no attention left over to think about anything irrelevant or to worry about problems. Self-consciousness disappears, and the sense of time becomes distorted. An activity that produces such experiences is so gratifying that people are willing to do it for its own sake, with little concern for what they will get out of it, even when it is difficult or dangerous."

The Flow is a state of being. Athletes find the Flow. Musicians do too, of course--especially improvisatory artists. I have always thought of Flow as a very desirable state to find while singing. I think that I do get there, actually, a fair percentage of the time when I perform. Artists, writers, teachers and learners all can find Flow--anybody can, really, who is so intensely challenged in an enjoyable way that it requires his or her complete concentration.

Maybe my sense of well-being here in Europe can be explained with the same concept!

I know, it's a little trippy. Maybe I drank too much wine with Rena tonight. But, stick with me...

I might be taking some liberties with the theory, but I think it makes sense. Living here requires more of me. I'm operating in fifth gear here, firing on all cylinders. The newness of my surroundings combined with my questionable command of the language(s) keeps me on my toes--but the challenges that life here presents are challenges that are within my ability to master, eventually.

Flow.

I don't always know where I'm going, but I can read a map. When I don't have a map, I may not be able to ask directions speaking perfect German or Italian (or, these days, even French!), but I have a working (if poetic) vocabulary in each language. Additionally, I'm a fantastic gesturer. In the worst case scenario, I can sing them something. Sola, perduta, abbandonata, maybe...or Kennst du das Land? in a pinch...

I can get along. And I'm learning that it's the game of getting along that rings my chimes--at least for now.

So, maybe it's not the French food that I especially loved, but the satisfaction of figuring out how to ask for what I want and then savoring it. Perhaps it's not that the pace here is really any slower: maybe it's that I allow myself more time to play the game, and reward myself more lavishly with each hand I win.

I'm sure it helps knowing that I can stop the game at any time; US Airways has flights to Philadelphia daily. Enough said. But for now, I'm enjoying the flow.

Ikea isn't just for bookshelves...

Last night, Rena and I christened the kitchen by having a dinner party. I am proud to say our tandem entertaining skills bode well for a long happy future together as roommates!

The idea of a dinner party started because Kevin was in town for a visit on his way home from Bregenz, and we wanted to do something festive before he left for the USA today (by the way, Kevin, we miss you already). Of course, it did briefly occur to us that we have been in Basel for five minutes and might have trouble finding people to invite...

So, Rena asked her two friends and I asked two new acquaintences and Voila! Instant party of 7. Normally, I don't like odd numbers at dinner parties--but Rena and I have only 7 dinner plates, so it was meant to be.

Because we wanted our food to match our furniture, we served swedish meatballs from Ikea--which, are incidentally, fool-proof and delicious. Rena made some roasted potatoes that were coated in a yummy garlic paste. I was responsible for the salad (with home-made honey ginger salad dressing). Kevin provided the dessert. It was truly a family effort.

Our guests were kind enough to bring wine, which we tore through with gusto. The atmosphere was convivial and the conversation flowed without effort--mostly in English, but sometimes in German and Spanish. It truly did my heart good. There's something so wonderful about throwing a good party.

I love my place in Philadelphia, but that's one thing I regret about my little studio. My condo is the perfect size (and mortgage payment!) for me. I can squeeze in one guest, MAYBE two, if we really like each other. But 7 people for dinner? We'd have to spill out into the hallway all the way down to the elevators. We'd have to have hors d'oeuvres on the bed and dessert on the windowsill. The maddening irony is that in Philadelphia, I have service (on matching plates, no less) for 8.

So, while I'm here in Basel and have both a roommate who is an ex-chef (you should see her dice a head of garlic!) and an apartment big enough to entertain in, I'm going to milk it for all it's worth!

Bregenz, Rena and Zen Master Pete

This has been a pretty good week.

Mom left to go home to Philly on Tuesday, but before she braved the 9-hour trek across the ocean, we went to Bregenz to see Aida. I loved every minute of it! Of course, it helped that my two friends Arnold Rawls and Kevin Short were singing the night we saw the show, but honestly--it was good. Despite all I'd heard about the show, it was still a spectacle for which I wasn't prepared. The stage was built for this production from the ground up--or, from the water up, actually, since the stage sits amphitheater-style on Lake Constance. The singers are often asked to swim to their entrances! As one might imagine, the demands that these conditions place on the performers are extreme--but the cast rose to the challenge and delivered an exciting evening of opera.

After spending the weekend with Kevin and Arnold, and then seeing Mom off in Zurich on Tuesday, I had about a day and a half in Basel on my own before my new roommate, Rena arrived. It's been wonderful to have (English-speaking!) company to brave the new world of Basel with, and we are getting along swimmingly. She's here working with the Theater Basel, so her life here will no doubt become way more hectic in the next few weeks--but for now, we are both lounging in the living room, enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon, and typing away on our respective computers. I think they call this parallel play.

Rena has a dog. His name is Pete (or Petey) (short for Pitufo, which means Smurf in Spanish, Rena tells me). He is a Shih-Tzu. Here he is, in all his glory:



Besides a little jet-lag which caused poor Rena to have to walk him at 4am Thursday night, Pete has settled into his new life in Basel like a real champ. He takes real joy in life, and has (thankfully) incorporated me into his definition of home quite quickly.

He does lots of cute little dog things. I could spend five or six paragraphs telling you all the cute things he's done since Thursday--but I think this one example will be the best proof of his fantastic nature:

Friday night, the household was getting ready for bed. Rena, I think, was in the bathroom taking a shower. Pete found himself without a friend, so he padded his way into my bedroom and looked up at me. I was in bed, studying Adriana Lecouvreur, which is something I seem to be doing constantly these days. He put his front paws on the bed and made a half-hearted attempt to jump up, which was, I now believe, his way of asking me to pick him up. I did. He pawed at the covers, leaned up against my right thigh, lay down, and promptly curled up into a furry doughnut and fell asleep. All this took less than 10 seconds.

Pete is a revelation, especially for someone like me who is trying desperately to live in the moment, to trust, and to experience life with complete abandon.

Thank you, Cosmos, for sending me this consummate example of Zen living! I can't wait to see what other lessons you have in store for me.

Unknown Quantities

Most of the time, I love the variety of my life. Sometimes, however, it can be very disorienting.

I'm having one of those weeks. Not bad, actually--just surreal. This time last week, I was firmly tucked into a tour of an opera I know like the back of my hand. I was required to sing my part in that opera 3 or 4 times per week. I spent every day with the same people, who were likewise employed to perform on (or manage) the tour. I had a schedule. I knew exactly what was expected of me and how to fulfill those expectations. I got paid regularly. Life was simple.

Now, less than a week after the tour is over, I am suddenly living in Switzerland. I am writing this from my new bedroom in Basel, which is sparsely but lovingly decorated by me with items bought two days ago at Ikea. I have made plans to live for at least the next 4 months in a city where I know nobody, have no contacts or job, and don't speak the language. My life is no longer simple.

What am I doing???

I should admit that all this madness was planned by me, and has a kind of method. I've moved into my friend Kevin's apartment. Kevin is away singing alot, so he's sublet a bedroom to me at a price I can afford, and I will forever be grateful. He and my mother both were here to help me move in on Monday. I've moved to Basel with the hope of making musical contacts in Europe. My goal (necessarily so, I think) is vast in its scope, nebulous and open-ended. I don't have the foggiest idea where this adventure will lead me or how long it will take (or even what it will look like if I ever achieve it!). All these unknown quantities are freaking me out a little.

Everything is suddenly messy: no schedule, nobody to report to, no expectations except my own. I am building the framework of this production as I go, as opposed to being a cog someone else's production. I liked being a cog. The pay was better, for starters!

What am I DOING???

I keep asking myself this question. Over and over again. I began asking it, I think, when I realized that all my friends and colleagues who were on the tour with me are now at home with their families, posting pictures of tour on Facebook, and moving on with their real lives. I asked it at the Ikea as I picked out a new comforter cover, and recognized the fabrics of covers I already own at "home" in Philadelphia. I asked it this morning, sitting at the tram stop with a map in my lap, listening to people speaking German that sounded like Dutch, and Italian that sounded like German, and not understanding a word of any of it.

Being a cog is much less lonely. In a good production, there are lots of cogs to rub up against. So far, my Swiss production is just me.

WHAT AM I DOING???

I guess the only answer I can give is that I'm following that brave kernel of my imagination that can see past the unknown quantities. When I am not worrying about how to meet these people I've come all the way here to meet, all the money I'll spend in the process and how lonely I'll be when Mom goes home--when I'm not trying to write the end of this story before it begins, I can see that this might be a good thing for me. It will make me stronger if I let it. I think that this Swiss adventure has something to teach me--maybe many things.

The first thing I'm learning is that the unknown is scary to me. Maybe this chapter of my life will teach me to enjoy the page I'm on, and not to worry so much about how the story will end. The glory of this story might just be in the writing of it.

For everything there is a season...

...this, evidently, is my season for sloth.

All of a sudden, I am tired all the time. Here I am in Berlin, the cradle of German history and culture, and all I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep another 2 hours. What is wrong with me?

Some of it, I have to say, needs to be blamed on this hotel. We of the tour are staying at a lovely place, called the Adina Aparthotel Checkpoint Charlie(even the name of my hotel is historic!). Anyway, it's lovely. I have a ground floor apartment with a small kitchenette. There is a door leading out to a lovely terrace where I can sit and drink the iced tea that I made for myself, in a glass crowded with ice cubes. There is a grocery store right across the street. All my bases are covered. But that's not my biggest hindrance against sightseeing.

My bed, dear readers, is a revelation. I just can't seem to get out of it--at least, not for long! I managed to do the show last night, but I'll be honest, it was difficult to stay away. Luckily, this bed didn't hold my absence against me, and welcomed me back for a full 12 hours last night! It's wonderful to be loved unconditionally.

As some of you know, Europe in general believes in the no-fuss, no-muss bed-making technique. A made bed here consists of one fitted sheet (or a flat sheet folded under and used as a fitted sheet), and a down comforter (or duvet) housed in a comforter cover. That's it. No blanket. No top sheet. No beadspread. It's a dream...especially if you're working with a superior mattress!

I became an aficionada of the European bed dress the very first time I visited, when I was 13 years old. I came home and badgered my parents into buying me a down comforter, and I slept only under that (and have done so ever since). My parents were happy, because I finally started "making" my bed in the morning. I was happy because I didn't wake up tangled in my sheets with the bedspread on the floor and the blanket up around my ears (I'm an...ahem...active sleeper).

Now, on this providential trip, the next phase of my perfect sleeping experience has been realized! Here, on a king-sized bed, instead of one big down comforter (which is, trust me, a PAIN in the rear end to stuff into a comforter cover), they use two twin comforters! It's genius! Sometimes, on the same bed, they have two different weights of comforter, since some people run hotter or colder than others.

I know it seems like a small thing, but I think this revelation has the capacity to save my future marriage. I have never been a sharer. On the few occasions, LONG AGO, that I have been fortunate enough to share my bed, I must confess that sharing my duvet was not an easy thing. I like to tuck myself in, sort of like an apple turnover, in my comforter. When someone (whom you are supposed to like...love, even!) is tugging on one end and exposing you to the elements, it's a hard thing to take. Night after night. Letting in drafts!

Now that I know that I don't HAVE to share, this changes everything!

Thank you, Berlin.

Eating my way through Cologne...

Here we are, in Cologne. The weather has cooled off and it finally feels like summer in Germany! The sweaters I packed are finally useful. I’ve been busy with singing stuff here, but I’ve still managed to enjoy myself—in fact, I’ve enjoyed myself so much that I haven’t had time to write!

I really like the cosmopolitan feel of this city. My culinary experiences would be a good example of the variety here: I have eaten GREAT Thai food here at a little restaurant along the river, Nakhon Thai. The food was so good, I went there two days in a row! I stumbled upon one of the best mojitos I’ve ever tasted at a random happy hour. There are sushi restaurants everywhere. This week, I went on a few dates with a very nice man from New Zealand (thank you, OkCupid); on Thursday night, we ended up in an Irish bar. The night before, we went out for tapas. There seems to be a little of everything. The tour leaves on Monday, sadly. I feel like I haven’t even scratched the surface of possible nightlife!

I was here once, a long time ago, with my parents. I don’t remember much, and I’ve had a much better time this visit than I did then; after all, I was an awkward and sulking pre-teen. I remember sleeping through all the historical lectures our tour guide gave, and only rousing myself in order to shop for (shocker!) cologne. Even then, I was a firm believer in the Power of the Purchase.

They make this very famous scent here in Cologne called 4711. It has a very fresh, unisex-y feel. I’m convinced that it was first intended as a bathing-alternative; now, thankfully, it seems to have matured into an after-shower body tonic. When I was here as a child, I spent all my money on a big bottle of it. I used 4711 faithfully for years—if I remember correctly, it was my “summer scent.” I used Love’s Baby Soft in the winter. (My father bought me a new bottle of that every Christmas. Aww.) When I got too old for Love’s Baby Soft, I graduated up to Jean Naté in that horrible yellow and black bottle. I was such an 80’s girl!

Now that I am older and wiser, I have managed not to spend all my money on perfume—I did buy a little bottle of orange and basil cologne made by the same people that came up with 4711, but otherwise, I’ve resisted. There are some lovely pedestrian shopping plazas around the HUGE Dom, but I’ve steered clear of them for the most part. Like the rest of my friends on tour, I am anticipating that the real shopping should be done while we are in Berlin, next week.

Speaking of the Dom in Cologne: our theater is right behind the Dom, so I walk past it every day. People come from all over the world to gawk at this awe-inspiring behemoth. Night and day, there are tour groups with multi-lingual guides holding up ratty umbrellas or little signs on paint sticks as identification. (They are no doubt recounting the same historical information that I slept through twenty years ago.) There are always people on the plaza in front of the Dom taking photos from weird angles in a futile attempt to get the whole thing into the frame. There are artists that draw intricate pictures in chalk on the plaza, and musicians that serenade the tourists. All around the Dom, in addition to the shops, are restaurants and cafes, with cheerful tables spilling out into the streets—not to mention the main train station just at its back. The Dom is where it’s at.

I remembered being horrified by this structure as a child. The flying buttresses, the skinny little windows, the statues of sour looking men nestled into the outer walls—it seemed to belong atop a big barren hill, accented by a full moon and shrouded in black clouds, with eerie organ music for a soundtrack…DUN Dun DUN!

I have to admit that even now, as a 6-foot tall and fully capable 33 year-old, it’s still pretty creepy. I don’t know. Maybe I’m missing something. My colleagues seem enraptured, and sigh over how beautiful it is. They pay money to climb up the 500 some-odd steps up the tower. I think it’s definitely impressive: but beautiful is not a word I would choose. Foreboding, maybe. Gothic. Sinister.

Oh, and DIRTY.

Is it totally unreasonable for me to think that maybe the city of Cologne would take up a collection and get its most recognized and celebrated landmark power-washed? I mean, seriously, look at this:



I’m just saying: cleanliness is next to Godliness.

How I spent my Tour Vacation...

I had an adventure today, and I feel compelled to write about it. Part of me doesn't want to make a bigger deal about it than it deserves. On the other hand, it was a significant rite of passage, and deserves a word or two.

I went to a German spa today, and I was publically naked in broad daylight !

We're here in Bremen, performaces over, with a 3 days of vacation before we head to Cologne. A few of us wanted to go to the spa, and began to loosely talk about it last week. I used to go to the spa in Paris--a Moroccan-style hammam. I loved it, and have always kept my eye out for similar bath houses in other cities. Truly, you never ever feel as clean as you do after a day in the Hammam. It was like being reborn. I always went in the middle of the week, on a ladies' day. I was naked, but it was a controlled nakedness. Besides, the splendour of the experience overwhelmed any fears I had about being naked in front of two or three other women whom I would never see again.

I figured it would be a similar experience here. All women. Mood lighting. Totally doable. Then, this morning at breakfast, I found out that the "good" spa wasn't having ladies' day today. My first reaction was, "Oh well, nevermind. Count me out." But then, I began to wonder if my knee-jerk self-consciousness was going to keep me from a truly wonderful experience. Thousands of German people do it every year! Why shouldn't I be able to? Besides, my colleagues assured me, you can wear a swimsuit if you simply must. Oh, well, I thought, that changes things. With a swimsuit, anything is possible.

So, six of us from the troupe (which six will forever be a mystery; all I am willing to confirm is that I was there!) headed off on the tram (and then the bus), an hour on the other side of town, to Oase. When we got in the door and began discussing fees, the lovely woman behind the counter quickly informed us that not only was this a mixed-gender day, it was also a "textile-free" day. No swimsuits. No clothes of any kind. Nakedness as far as the eye could see.

There was an audible groan from the group. Pretty quickly though, we all put on our big girl panties (or, rather, took them off), paid our money, and went in.

I am here to tell you that it was pretty wonderful. This place was a big compound, with indoor and outdoor pools and saunas, all at different temperatures. There were also steam rooms of varying strengths. Each treatment offered you a slightly different cure--rejuvenation, healing, relaxation, detoxification--I'm not really sure of the specifics because I had no pocket to carry around my little German-to-English dictionary! After a while, I stopped trying to read the signs and just wandered around aimlessly. My favorite was the indoor pool with the sprinkler that rained cool raindrops down on you as you swam. The outdoor pool was lovely too and had these super strong massage jets at one end, but the indoor pool was warm, so I spent more time in there. There was also a heavenly steam room that had real Eucalyptus oil being pumped in with the steam. It smelled wonderful, and I could feel my sinuses rejoicing with every inhale.

About halfway through, I had a 20 minute upper-body massage with Fabian, who pummeled me mercilessly. It was wonderful, but I found myself grateful that I had only reserved 20 minutes. I'm not sure I could have survived an hour!

We steamed and bathed, slept and read. We ate lunch there at a restaurant overlooking the pool and started up again. All told, we spent 4 hours at Oase.

People are always saying that after 5 minutes of everybody being naked in a room together, the nakedness loses its shock value, and is forgotten. In fact, people said that to me just this morning in an attempt to make me feel better about going!

Now that I've experienced it firsthand, I don't agree that we forget about nakedness. I will admit to you, dear and tolerant reader, that I spent a fair amount of my time this afternoon looking at the one hundred or so naked German people around me, and I felt people also looking at me. The thing that was refreshing, though, was that neither in the looking or the being looked at did I feel any discomfort. I was looking because I was curious, and they were looking at me because they were curious. There wasn't any leering, or inappropriate attention being given. We were just people, in our most natural form, acknowledging the proximity of other people. In this case, nakedness is not exciting sexually, but it is still a little exciting in a vague, anthropological way.

I'm proud of myself for pushing past my inhibitions and actually allowing myself to enjoy the experience. What a liberating way to spend a day off!

Which begs the question: what will I do with the rest of my vacation?

Lipton dreams...

I am writing this post, dear readers, from a Starbucks in the shadow of the Dom (which is the big central cathedral) in Bremen. My hotel internet access, which I have whined about via my facebook status, is not so great. They want to charge 14 Euro a day (!) for wireless, which I refuse to pay on principle. Through trial and error, I have learned that if I hang my upper body out of my hotel room window, laptop in hand, I can occasionally get a rogue wireless signal from a neighboring building--but it's iffy, and hard on my lower back to boot. Say what you want to about Starbucks' coffee, but their free internet is simply delicious.

I am getting quite accustomed to German life, thank-you-very-much. I was prepared for a much harder transition. It's been not quite three weeks and I feel as settled as one could, considering that we are picking up and moving to a new city every week to ten days. I would even go so far as to say that I am happy here. Shocking.

I thought I would miss American TV (Judge Judy!!), but no, I don't. The Germans have their own judge shows, and funnily enough, I find I don't even have to speak German to understand what's going on. The stories are all the same, and just as sordid, in any language.

There is a French movie station in my hotel too, so I can cheat occasionally and watch something that I actually understand. They've been playing this (mildly offensive) movie about two men who go to Thailand on vacation and pay women to be their girlfriends while they are there. It's on every other day, so I have seen bits and pieces of it over several days. One of the guys falls in love (the one who isn't married, predictably), and ends up coming back to Pattaya (after whining for a few days at home) and whisking his Thai cutie away and into a new, pimp-free existence. I guess it's the French version of Pretty Woman. There is evidently a sequel. I can't imagine what that would entail, but they are supposed to show it (over and over again) next week, so I'll let you know.

Besides the vacuous distraction of American TV, I thought I might also miss the heat of a good old East Coast Summer. I didn't even bother to pack any of my cute summer clothes because I was convinced it would be rainy and cool here. People always talk trash about German weather. It seems that Germany prepared a special heat wave for my arrival: it is just as hot and sticky here as it was in Philly, except without the air conditioning. It is definitely hot enough for me here. I will refrain from saying anything further, for fear that the German weather Gods also read my blog. No, the weather is great. Really.

I am not a particularly picky eater, so I was never worried about that aspect of my trip. The food here is good, if a little pork-heavy. These people have more words for pork than I could have ever imagined. Every sausage has a different name! I don't go hungry, though, and I find plenty that is good to eat, schinken aside.

The one thing that I can't get over missing, though, is iced tea. These people do not know about iced tea. I'm not southern, so I'm not talking about sweet tea, you understand--I'm just talking about regular old Lipton tea that has been steeped in boiling water, and then poured into cool water and then served over LOTS of ice. I like one packet of sweet'n'low (which they also do not have here) per large glass, and a lemon wedge for color. It's so simple. And so good.

Here, they think they have iced tea. When you order iced tea, they nod ("Ja, bitte schoen!"), and then they bring you a (room-temperature) plastic bottle of Nestea peach "ice tea" (notice the lack of "d", which I think is very telling). And if you are lucky, the smiling waitress (who really thinks he or she has done something wonderful) will bring you a large glass with two sad ice cubes in the bottom.

I realize, of course, that if I actually lived here and had my own apartment, this iced tea issue would not be nearly so grave. I could fix large vats of it at a time, and offer it to these poor people who have yet to experience iced tea except in its bastardized Nestea form: an iced tea that is neither iced, nor tea. A base misrepresentation at best.

I have heard a rumor that when the tour moves on to Berlin, we will all have kitchens. I am afraid to ask anyone for confirmation, because I can't stand the idea that someone might tell me I heard wrong. For now, I am operating on the hope that if I can survive for two more weeks, I can make my own damned tea and put as much ice in it as I want.

It's good to know that I have such simple needs, isn't it?

Auf Wiedersehen, Leipzig!

I really don't have the time, energy or focus to write a real post tonight, because I should be packing in preparation for our morning departure to Bremen tomorrow; but, considering that I have had a pretty spectacluar time here in Leipzig, I figure the event of my departure deserves a word or two in closing...

One of the best parts of spending time here was that I got to reconnect with my friend and colleague, Morgan Smith. It was the strangest thing: I was wandering around the Hauptbahnhof (main train station), trying to figure out where my hotel was and how to get there, and he called out to me from across the street! Morgan and I were young artists together at Seattle Opera, back in 2000. Now, 10 years (and thousands of miles) later, I run into him, randomly, in Leipzig. Life is strange and wonderful.

It was truly a pleasure to meet his wife, Lori, and their super cute 3-year old, Sebastian. It made my visit to Leipzig all the more personal--and gave me a reason to come back. Our freak meeting, however, did make me realize that I have officially entered into that period of life where one finds one's self saying "Wow! I can't believe that was X years ago! It feels like yesterday!" Yes, I am old.

Speaking of old...

I hesitate to write much about my dating life on this blog for the whole world to see (not because it would be too salacious, but rather because it would be too depressing!), but I have to include this little tidbit:

So, last week, just when we were getting the show on its feet, I was walking down the main shopping street of Leipzig (fussgangstrasse) when this handsome, smiling man walked up to me and began speaking German to me. I looking at him blankly, as I am wont to do when people speak German to me, and I explained that I couldn't understand much German. So, we discovered quickly that we had French in common and we switched. He said (and I will never forget this) "I want to know you". That was it. So, I said "Okay!" and stuck out my hand with a big smile. What can I say? He was cute.

We introduced ourselves and I told him I was on my way to get a bite to eat before rehearsal, and I invited him to tag along. In our brief first meeting, I found out that he was French, but that he had been in Germany for 9 years. He said he was just finishing his studies in Math. I assumed he was finishing up his PhD, and was probably in his late 20's, early 30's...

I assumed wrong. We went on a date yesterday (which was a day off for me). During the course of the afternoon, I realized that he came here to Germany during HIGH SCHOOL (!). I never got him to tell me exactly how old he was (he said, "I think it's nice that we don't exactly know each other's ages"--yeah, I'll bet you think it's nice), but I know now that he can't be older than 25, and he's probably younger. Oh, the shame.

My mother always said the surest way to get a good man was to get a young one and take him to raise...but I'm not convinced. There's young--and then there's YOUNG. Even though our date was perfectly innocent, I still feel a little dirty. I guess I'll have to cleanse my palate with a more appropriate date in Bremen. :)

Remodeling in my mind...

I love my shower here in Leipzig. (If you'd like to read about my hotel, click here.) It's one of those big round ones that hangs directly above my head and gently rains the warm water down on me in a luxurious deluge. It's heaven, and I can't help but emit sighs of pleasure every time I get in there and re-experince the glory of that showerhead. I'm serious, I actually sigh. Why do I not have one of those in my bathroom in Philadelphia?? How expensive can they be? It's a plastic disc with holes punched in it!

It's much better than the shower I dealt with earlier this week in Berlin; that was a more typical European construction, with the vertically adjustable shower bar towards one end of the long wall of the tub. There was no shower curtain; just a fixed plexiglass shield that closed off about one third of the tub at the same end as the shower head. I've dealt with this kind of shower before, but I was out of practice. During my first shower, I got water ALL OVER the bathroom. I managed to douse the towels that were hanging on a rack on the other side of the bathroom, and also somehow knock over the fake plants that perched on the shelf above the sink. The tub mat was soaked to such a degree that I had to wring it out. I blame my clumsy showering technique on my jet-lag. I did much better on day two.

Still, I shouldn't complain. At least I had a tub in Berlin. When I was living in Paris, my little studio apartment on rue de la Roquette was charming, except that there was just a corner shower, with a floor that was about as big as the platter my mother serves the Thanksgiving turkey on. When I'd lift my arms to wash my hair, I'd often bang my elbows against the plastic doors. Good times.

Tubs are important, I find. I'm not a big bather, but it's nice to have the option; otherwise, I feel a little cheated. When I was asked to sing for a benefit concert in the English countryside, I was lodged at a beautiful manse owned by the the family who makes Dyson vacuum cleaners. I will never forget that tub. Hammered copper, HUGE, and so deep that the water came up to my chin as I was sitting normally. Bliss! There was no shower, though, so I'm sure I would have gotten sick of that, eventually.

OOOH! Maybe I could get a copper bathtub with a rain dome showerhead when I do my remodel! That might be damaging to my career, because I'd never want to leave my house...

Maybe it's best to keep it simple at home.

On a separate note:



I'm still trying to figure out why these strange cat-like scupltures are scattered all over Leipzig. I'll do some research and get back to you on it.

Ich liebe dich, Deutschland!

I have to admit--I haven't had the best attitude about this trip.

I am typically a very positive person, but the idea of spending my entire summer wandering around Germany on a tour of Porgy and Bess instead of lolling comfortably at home in Philadelphia made me a little sour. I kept saying to anyone who would listen, "Why won't they pay me to stay home??" Ha. Fat chance.

Maybe it's because Germany and I have had a rocky relationship in the past. I've visited many times--and I would say that I even have had fun. But, it was always a qualified fun; "This was a great time, considering." I've had my share of bad memories in this country:

In Dresden, I remember that people openly stared at me like I belonged in a zoo, and when I would smile at them, just to break the tension a little, they would just continue staring. To this day, I don't know if they were staring because of my height or my color. Maybe both! Frankfurt was weird, too. I once got off the train there alone, and an oily man followed me from the station for about 10 blocks, hanging back two steps behind me and occasionally trying to take my suitcase from me. What?

I should add also that for some reason, I have a strange mental block for the language. When I see words like "Bewerbungsunterlagen" or "Einzelzimmerzuschlag", it honestly makes me just want to run for the border. I don't have the attention span for 7-syllable words.

Despite all of my negative impressions and irrational fear of the language, I signed the contract anyway, and, it was time to shut up and go! One, because I am not in a position to turn down solid singing work, and two, because a part of me recognized that being in Germany for 6 weeks might actually (gasp!) help my German language skills.

I still managed to spend most of May and June pouting about missing going to the Jersey shore (I think last year I made it down once), and my weekly (or bi-weekly) visits to Capogiro. I whined about missing all the cookouts and general laziness by Mom's pool; I worried about having trouble finding places in Germany to get my cinema fix in the original language.

I feel a little foolish admitting it now, but I've been here 3 days and so far I'm having a blast. I arrived in Berlin on Tuesday and fell in love! I will post pictures as soon as I figure out how. What a cool city! I spent most of Wednesday walking around, soaking up the energy. (I also had a date, but we will save that bit for another post...) Berlin has a very cosmopolitan, open feeling. My date told me that of all the cities in the world, Berlin has the most nationalities represented in its residents--even more than NYC. Anyway, I felt good there. I went to the Alexanderplatz and saw a public exposition on the history of Berlin. I ate bratwust und brotchen. I drank weissweinschorle (white wine spritzer). I smiled at people and they smiled back. In general, the people in Berlin were very nice; a very sweet hooker on Orienburgerstrasse even tried to chat me up last night! I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted; either way, though, it was nice to be noticed. :) I'm glad that the tour is going back there in a few weeks, because I definitely haven't gotten my fill of Berlin yet...

So, I'm writing to report that I officially have a new attitude. I am ready to enjoy Germany. Today, as a symbol of my commitment, I bought a pocket-sized German-English dictionary, and I started two conversations with strangers. In German. Yes, really! I'm proud.

I arrived in Leipzig today. We begin rehearsals tomorrow. I can't say that I've seen much yet here, but I have more than a week here to discover the city, so I'm sure to have something interesting to say about Leipzig soon. Stay tuned!