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.