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.

Satisfaction Guaranteed

I don't know how I have managed to write as many blog posts as I have without yet discussing my love of movies. I actually had to check, because it seemed hard to believe. I read through every single one tonight. (I'm funny sometimes, by the way! Good for me.) Although I have mentioned movies in passing, I have never spent more than a paragraph in this blog on the one thing that I do in every town, at every season of the year, alone or with friends: I find the nearest movie theater, and I go and see a movie. I try to go about once a week, because I find after about 10 days of not going, I start to get cranky. It's best for everyone if I get my fix.

I should specify right away that I can only calm the beast within by GOING OUT to the movies. I have to sit in a theater, in the dark. I have to have the big screen and the slightly uncomfortable seats with the sticky cup-holder armrests. It's part of the ritual for me.

I was just at the movies this evening, to see Drive (Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan). As I was walking into theater number 11, my customary kid pack in hand (seen here)...



...grinning ear to ear, I realized that this might just be something I should write about.

I have been like this for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my parents and I used to go to the movies on Friday afternoons, after school, for the cheap twilight show. Those were the days that you could get in for $3.50 per person before 5pm. The weekend entertainment section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, with all the movie reviews, would accompany us in the car on Friday morning. Mom and I would have our plan in place by the time she dropped me off at school. Dad sometimes made requests, but usually he was up for whatever we decided. Mom and I would get home around 4pm, drop off our school stuff, and the three of us would be out the door again in a half-hour or less. My parents and I would dissect the movie afterwards, over dinner, and talk about the characters. We would argue over nebulous endings and holes in the script. Mom, ever the English teacher, would often take an opportunity to point out a dramatic device or familiar plot motif. Sometimes, (mostly during my mopey pre-teens) we would split up, and see different movies--but we still maintained our tradition of talking about what we had seen.

When it was time for me to get my first “real” job, my mother advised me to get a job around something I liked. That was a no-brainer. I was a popcorn girl at The Ritz at the Bourse in downtown Philly. I was 15 years old, and I was like a pig in slop. I got to see all the movies (and eat all the popcorn) I wanted. I never had to be there before 10am. My coworkers were all film students who knew much more about the foreign films we were showing than I did, but they tolerated me and were amused by my enthusiasm. Beyond the obvious perks of the atmosphere for a cinema-phile like me, the concessions stand itself conformed wonderfully to my need for order; my favorite shift was the Friday day shift, because I was responsible for stocking the store for the weekend rush. I would pack the Twizzlers in like nobody's business. The soda cups were stacked to the ceiling. The popcorn warmer gleamed.

When I went to college, it was a rough time for my movie addiction. The local theater in Decorah, Iowa had only three screens. The movies would languish there for weeks without changing--and often I disagreed heartily with the owner's taste in films. My friends and I would regularly drive the hour it took to get to a larger theater (across the state line in Rochester, Minnesota). It never bothered me that we spent as much time or more in the car as we did in the movie.

In Paris, when I was a young artist at the Bastille, there were 2 theaters across the street from the opera. Although that was awfully convenient, I also learned quickly that the best place to go the movies was the enormous cinema at Les Halles. There were at least 15 different movies playing at any given time. Everything was in “version orginale” with subtitles. No wonder I remember Paris with such fondness! During the first week of my contract there, contemplating what to do with one of my first nights off, I looked at a long table of fellow singers in the cafeteria at the Bastille at lunch and said unabashedly to anyone who was listening, "Who wants to come to the movies with me tonight?" A young Russian-Israeli bass cocked his head, interest piqued, and the rest was history. Yuri and I dated for two years, and it all started at the movies.

In the summer of 2009, when I was in Frankfurt by myself, feeling alone and miserable, I got online and found a theater that was showing Star Trek (the new one) in English with German subtitles. It was 4pm on a Thursday afternoon. There were two other people in the theater, way in the back. I don’t they heard me giggle happily when the lights went down, but I’m sure they heard me when I said with a sigh, my voice pregnant with contentment, “This is SO GOOD!” about 30 minutes into the movie. It was an uncontrollable reaction brought on by complete satisfaction. Those two hours in the dark watching a movie about space with a bag of popcorn in my lap made my entire week.

I am still completely undone by a good afternoon at the movies. Mom and I still go to the movies when I'm home for a visit. I drag my colleagues with me when I'm on a gig. When nobody wants to go with me, I go alone. When I am in Switzerland and it costs me $25 to go to the movies (not including snacks!), I go anyway. When I am in provincial Germany and everything is dubbed, I go and hope I can read lips. I go. And I am never disappointed.

It's good to remember that I can be so easily satisfied.

Back in the Saddle

It's been a while, folks.

It's not that I haven't been thinking of writing. It's not that I haven't wanted to write. It has been, mostly, that everything that I want to write about these days is too personal/depressing/embarrassing to share on the internet. There it is.

The bare naked truth of it is that I have not been so good about keeping the drama on the stage, these past few months.

I keep waiting for my life to clean itself up so that I can want to write about palatable things again--like lovely walks I take in picturesque neighborhoods in Norfolk, Virginia...interesting conversations I have on the train to Bremen. A great meal I had in Portland: something engaging yet decidedly impersonal.

It hasn't happened yet. After all these months of patiently waiting for the drama to recede, my life is still kind of a mess.

I don't know what's going on with me. Maybe it's my age. I'm in my middle thirties (roughly), and all Hell seems to be breaking loose. I hate to sound melodramatic, but it's been a time for me of real heartbreak and loneliness and anxiety. I'm exhausted. I keep having these deep and unresolvable thoughts about LIFE (yes, it's the kind of thinking that requires the caps lock) and my FUTURE and what I REALLY want. I'm very ambivalent about everything, and my vacillation is beginning to annoy even me, so I am loath to imagine what kind of bother I'm putting my family and friends through. Is this a third-of-life crisis, or something? I'm a little young for a mid-life crisis. But if this were a third-of-life crisis, I would have to plan on living to 102. That seems excessively optimistic.

I've spent more time than I would have liked this year mourning and getting over lost or unrequited love. I've spent a lot of time, too, feeling displaced and home-less. All of the rest of my time, it seems, I have spent singing.

Of course, that's not entirely true. I've had some very good non-musical moments this year. I've laughed and felt cared for and experienced lots of new and interesting things. But, when I'm in a hotel room with a noisy refrigerator and generic wall-art, by myself, pondering unanswerable and enormous questions--if I'll ever have a man in my life who will hang in there with me for longer than 3 months; if I will ever own a house that has all my stuff in it that I can afford to leave empty (and waiting for me) when I'm on the road singing; if I'll ever have the fortune to express my humanity as a mother or a wife (or both!!) in addition to expressing it as a soprano--that's what it feels like; that I'm floundering except for when I'm actively engaged in music-making. It's a crappy feeling. It makes me feel like a one-horse show. I have more to offer this world than my two little vocal chords, don't I?

The kicker is this: all that's wrong with my life right now, all the things that I would change if I could, I can't change by myself. Everything I have control over is going well! I realize that fact, and am very grateful. I almost feel ashamed for wanting more. Who am I to complain? I'm working regularly, I'm proud of the way I'm singing, and I'm able to pay all my bills. I have great friends who love me and a small but very supportive family. I have my health. SERIOUSLY, who am I to complain?

And yet, I do complain. I am genuinely terrified about being alone for the rest of my life. I'm afraid that all I'll have at the end of this career is anecdotal stories and a full passport. I want a family. I want to feel part of a unit. I want the kind of stability that comes from building a home with someone, and filling it full of stuff that one cares about and takes responsibility for. I want to build something beyond me and these two little vocal chords. And yet, I can't will this stuff to happen. This seems to be the crux of my current frustration: the impotence of my will.

The people who are around me to witness my frustration, who love me, tell me that I have to be patient. That "things" come when they are supposed to. That I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, and that "things" will work out as they should. Maybe they are right. I just wish "things" would hurry up already. I have an agenda.

Let's talk about this again in 10 years, at my real mid-life crisis. I still hold out a faint hope that I will have made some progress by then. Whether the progress will be made in my agenda or my ability to patiently wait remains to be seen.

Meine neue Wohnung (My new apartment)

Oh, how annoying I'm going to be, now that I know three words of German. I apologize in advance!

So, here I am in Oldenburg. I can't say that I know much about the town yet, because I just arrived on Saturday (very late in the day to boot, because I missed my connection in Munich). On Sunday, of course, nothing was open--and we've been in rehearsals since Monday. In my few free waking hours, I've walked around a bit, found the Fussgaengerzone (pedestrian area), opened my first German bank account, done some grocery shopping, and spent considerable hours cuddling up with my Rosetta Stone software. I've been pretty industrious, so far. The weather has been crisp and VERY windy--which is, I suppose a direct result of Oledenburg's proximity to the North Sea. I have not had a good hair day since I arrived.

I'm staying in a Ferienwohnung (vacation rental) that was generously provided by the opera. I am tempted to ask why anyone would vacation in Oldenburg...but I won't. At any rate, my little apartment is very well-appointed. It's just a little studio--really nothing fancy--but since it resembles my own place (at least in size) in Philadelphia, I am quite comfortable here. Here are a few pictures (taken with my Blackberry, since I--shocker!--forgot to pack my camera):


View from the bed. Perfect for watching TV, except that I don't understand a word of what's going on yet. I have a feeling I'll be reading my kindle a bunch these next few weeks...



My bed. I hope this picture adequately illustrates for you that for some unknown reason I have a twin comforter for a double bed. This decorating choice by my otherwise very accomodating landlord remains a mystery. I am seriously considering an IKEA run to remedy this situation.



My kitchen. Nothing special, really, but pretty large considering the size of the apartment. I have an oven, too! I'm considering having a dinner party so that I'll have an excuse to cook a pork roast. Something about Germany in winter makes me crave pork.

The BEST part of my apartment are the automatic roller shades. All I have to do is press a button and metal screens magically (and silently!) unroll outside, directly in front of each window. Sunlight (or lamplight) is blocked completely. I slept for 14 hours the night I arrived, and it wasn't just the jet-lag that did it! I think I've found yet another element for my dream apartment...

So, here I am. Now you can imagine me, perpetually windblown and frizzy as can be, holed up in my little apartment: drinking hot tea and eating ritter chocolate, nursing my German language-induced headache, and trying to keep both ends warm under my ridiculous little comforter.

Wish you were here.

On the Road Again...

I write this, dear readers, from an exit-row aisle seat in a stunningly unexceptional Airbus 320. We’re all packed in like sardines, fighting over peanuts we have to PAY FOR and trying to avoid breathing the air of our coughing and sneezing neighbors. So: it's the same as always. I am on my way to Seattle for a little giglet with the Symphony. It’s my first contract of 2011. Since there’s no movie on this 5-hour flight (for shame, US Airways!) and I’ve already read my New Yorker magazine, I am left with writing for my little blog as my most viable option for in-flight time-fillage. It’s about time I checked in with a post, anyway.

First of all, Hi! Happy New Year, and all that…it’s been a while, my friends. I spent my holidays having a 6-week long break from the road, and it was nice. SO NICE. I actually teared up yesterday at the new Pain Quotidien on Walnut Street, having brunch with my wonderful Mom and contemplating my impending departure today. This little run-out to Seattle is short…but when I am finished in Seattle, I head home for 3 days and then I’m flying back to Europe to sing a last-minute Aida contract that sprang up for consideration just before the holidays. The indefatigable roll has begun. For all intents and purposes, this new contract fills up all the empty spaces in my spring schedule and will mean that I won’t be back in Philadelphia for any length of time again until November. And, frankly, November isn’t looking good either. Realistically, I’ll be gone until next spring.

Good for me, right? This is what I wanted. To work in Europe! To be busy singing! To be fulfilled.

All true. ALL TRUE. I’m thrilled to be working, and thrilled to be able to count on being able to pay my mortgage for the next 12-14 months. I’m overjoyed that the big gamble I took spending my Fall (and all my money!) auditioning in Europe has flowered into something so quickly. I am truly fortunate, and I know it.

I find myself wishing, however, the world were just a little smaller. Wouldn’t it be just lovely if I could pop back and forth across the ocean like I hop on Amtrak and go to New York? Now that I’m reconnecting with my Philly friends, I cringe a little at the idea that I’m leaving AGAIN, after being away for months already. Last week, I had dinner with Melinda Albert, a friend of mine from high school. She lives in the suburbs of Philly and works in Delaware, so weekends are really the only time we can get together in the best of times. Over the holidays it proved impossible, with parties, houseguests, trips to New York and general family-related merriment confusing our schedules further. The last time I was home, in October, my visit was too short to get together and we passed like ships in the night, SMS-ing each other as we went. We finally got it together last week. Over appetizers and sangria, I told her about my gig in Germany, and that I would leave again in early February. Her face fell.

“Oh, so you’re not going to be here for a while, then?”

Sigh. No. I’m not.

All fall, I’ve been telling my friends with breathless optimism, “I’m gone a bunch this fall, but then in the New Year, I’ll be home for most of the spring! So we’ll have plenty of time to get together!”

I’ve been telling them that at the end of quick skype calls, when it’s 1:30 am my time and 7:30 pm their time and convenient to neither of us. I’ve been writing it at the end of e-mails that should have been five or six paragraphs long instead of the two I ended up writing. I’ve been saying it to myself when I think of all the quality time I’m missing with the people in my life whom I really love, and who love me.

Now, I say: “I’ve got this gig in Germany now, and I’ll be based there most of the spring, BUT I’ll be back for a little while in April!” They look at me skeptically these days. I think they are starting to catch on.

I’m sounding dramatic and over-wrought. Sorry. Having friends to love all over the world is a good thing, I know. Maybe it’s because I am getting older: I’m officially 34 now, which is as we all know, ANCIENT. (Please imagine a wry smile here.) Seriously, though--I’m the age my mother was when she had me. Clearly, I’m a little behind in the Williams clan life plan. More important than the pressure from my gene pool, though, is this prime directive I’m feeling to simplify my life, to deepen my relationships, and to NEST. Ironically, another prime directive of mine seems to involve continuing to travel all over the globe as often as possible and singing for whoever will sit down long enough. It’ll be interesting to see which directive wins…and for how long.

As I prepare to leave America again for destinations uncharted (and far too close to the chilly North Sea for my taste), I am going to start this new German adventure (and this new year) with a resolution I can’t afford not to keep: to hold my friends and loved ones as close to my heart as possible, even when shores divide us, and to remind them often how happy and grateful I am that they still remember me and make room for me when I come back to them.

I know that without this love to come back to, I would have nothing to sing about when I am away.

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!