There were many alternative titles to this entry:
Far and Away
Verfluchte Ruh
You Can Get There From Here, But Why Would You Want To?
'Hi!' Has Two Syllables
Macaroni is a Vegetable
WalMart: The American Piazza
Civic Life in the Big Box
Not a Chance in the World
In addition to the usual excuses (one full recital coming up, in addition to a lecture recital, concerts to plan for BEMF, yet another summer audition, aargh!), I hit the road a few weeks back to participate in a singing competition. Yes, opera has come to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, a dismal place about 30 miles from Nashville, a dismal place in and of itself. I hesitated to go (aren't all competitions rigged?) but decided that the experience was worthwhile, I could always network, and the odds were actually in my favor to win (I was one of 28 semi-finalists, 18 actually competed).
So we were off! Of course, I went about things slightly unconventionally. Apparantly, that first weekend in March, tous le Bible Belt descended on humble, sprawling, Murfreesboro. There was not a hotel room to be had, I was told, and public transportation between nearby cities quite literally does not exist. So, I took the logical step of arranging to stay in the home of strangers. And I trusted that everything would be okay. Right?
Oh, one wrinkle. I would have to travel back and forth between Nash and Murf. To do this, one required a car. I, staunch New Yorker and something of an environmentalist, have not owned or driven a car in ages. I can't remember when I last drove to the drug store near my parents' house. Of all the unfamiliar things I would encounter on this trip (new people, cities, state, experience, Civil War prespective....), I most feared the driving.
"Buy the full insurance, buy they most coverage they offer." On the phone with my Dad from the DC airport, I had accidentally let him know about the car, and I was listening to him disintegrate as I told him I would spend three days driving. It gets a little tough to buck up your confidence when your parents are convinced that your every encounter with the modern world will likely lead to your quick and violent demise. (I'm not kidding. Before my first solo car trip of 2 hours, my Mom prayed on her knees for my safety. When my brother was once minutes late for his curfew, my Dad call area hospitals to see if a kid named Matthew was there - there wasn't.) Mom, Dad, love you!!!
Anyway, after a day of travelling; anxiety about one too many new encounters; dismay with the bland, uniform, Applebeed look of the American highway; wonder at the caramel-chewing drawl of the Tennessee twang, I said to myself: "I want lasagna."
And the lord provideth! The competition hosted a dinner for the singers and donors who sponsored prize money, which featured a big tray of veggie lasagna, which I spooned it up with them all. I had been advised that the occasion was casual, but casual down South means just wearing smaller diamonds than usual. I found a nice old man named Bud to talk to, to lose my self-consciousness in my clunky shoes and wool sweater.
Around 8, I was ready for bed and dreading the long drive back to Nash to stay with this couple I had never met. "Skip it," offered Bud. (His name, by the way, is pronounced with two if not three syllables: Buuuh-öööööö-ehd.) He offered for me to stay at his house, a huge McMansion in a gated community just about a 10 minute ride away. Faced with a choice between a long ride to a host I don't know and a short ride to pops, I chose the latter, and set aside my lasagna and headed out with Bud.
Speaking of ready for bed, I'm going to have to finish this when it's not 1:30 in the morning. For now, four video clips from the Stones River Civil War Battlefield and a quick tour of Bud's abode can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/thewooddove
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