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?