36 Hours San Diego

So I'll pick you up at the station, okay?
It'll say Santa Fe but it's Amtrak.

I want you to meet my love, and
Show you movies of girls' love and fears, and
let you play with the dogs in the dog park.

I've got a coupon for sushi!
(Sorry, it's kinda squishy)
And I'll show you the town, from the taqueria on down
To the mall.

There's a place not too far where the cliffs are striped sand and
Twisted trees grow from the salt.
Have you met my fruit man? My coffee stand? My masseuse?
We'll return slightly sunburned to my bichon frisee,
Who will scold us for leaving without her.

Then there's a party at home for a couple
Who's parting at summer's end, and who wanted to
Share their grilled tofu and honeydew
Before they do.

You can sleep in my little house - just the right size! -
Though the neighbor's baby's cries might wake you.

For your last day here's another feast -
A park filled with roses and plants you won't see back East
To savor before you fly.

So are you all set? Want a snack? Magazine?
Have you got all you need?

I sure do. And I'm not coming back with you.
I'm going back home, to my love and my art.

But friendship knows no distance, regardless of the coast.
So till the next trip reunites us, I'm the friend who loves you most.

(Worse has been printed in the New Yorker.)

Welcome back!

Well hello there! Where have you been? Did you think I was fading into blogger oblivion? It was merely my summer vacation, and I must say it was refreshing to take a break from my "public" voice. Although it's hard for me to judge if anyone still checks in here, I am conscious that I'm not just writing for myself, and that I should consider my readers present and readers future by sparing them from unpondered boredom.

So instead I've been trying to turn my writing into a private act. This is how it always has been after all, the original performance art. An act as private and inward-looking as meditation or an expression of love. I have plans for my public voice, however, namely catching up on posts I've been drafting in my head for months, and soon it will be time to start a wedding blog, speaking of boredom. And maybe later today, when no one is looking, I'll post here a poem-like fragment for a friend of mine.

And I realize I am getting back to blogging right around September 11, which I've made comments on year after year after year. Maybe it's time to turn that into a personal act as well, instead of public pageantry.

Chakra bleu!

Easterners always hear about the different kinds of energy found on the West Coast. And it's true, it's an ineffable energy you pick up within minutes of setting foot on the sun-bleached soil and feeling the eye-contact from a well-tanned inhabitant. The fact that I even mentioned the word 'energy' indicates that I am on the West Coast. Back East, we generally talk about our lack of energy instead.

As far as I can tell, life in California is similar to life on Mars. That is to say, it is bloody hot, and you never forget the volatility of the ground you're walking on. These factors explain why Californians build their buildings to expand outwards instead of upwards, turning the endless mountains and valleys into endless sprawl and mansions. That's why Los Angeles County is the size of Connecticut. And why literally nothing is in walking distance. And why you see many more cars than people on the multi-lane streets.

What brings me out here? (Where it's 109 degrees today.) Why, a cult, of course, as my mother fears. And that's our impression of this place back home- you'd have to be a bit mad to live here, and once you do, if you're not fried by the sun you're shaken by an earthquake.

But my membership in this particular cult is independent of geography, as the home locations of the other participants attest. I'm part of the international cult of singers. In LA, I'm with a flock of singers attending a workshop that claims to be "an incomparable experience that redefines the artist and the person." Sounds pretty cultish so far. And we spend our days doing quite disturbing things: movement improv, conversations in gibberish, yoga, visualization, and the mysterious experience of Alexander technique, to name a few. All in the name of trying to improve our singing, to feel like we really own our craft and are more comfortable onstage.

There actually are 3 parallel programs in one: Emerging Artists for college kids, Voice Teacher Training for grownups, and the Advanced Accelerated program (also known as AA) for the rest of us. As shorthand on the schedule, symbols stand in for acronyms. So the AAs are hearts, the teachers - who tend to be longer in the tooth - are diamonds, and the kids, adorably, are stars. There are 47 participants. Four are male. Living and working together, largely in isolation from the real world, I feel like part of a very large polygamous family. Feigning affection for our sister wives (my competitors, after all), each of us hoping that the opera industry will choose to get in bed with us over all the others.

Each morning, after a 1.5 mile walk in the heat from our dorms to the music building, we begin our day with yoga. The teacher moves at an achingly slow pace, which caused me to be impatient during the first few sessions. But as it's become routine, I've enjoyed starting my day with some stretches to open myself up, rather than a real workout that leaves me knocked out. It's one of the habits I've begun here that I hope to continue when I return.

With yoga every day, you can't help but feel calm. Usually with such a high concentration of singers, I flip out. I did that a bit initially, as usual, but I soon found myself breathing deeply. Besides, we're all just here to hone our craft. And likely, we weren't accepted to better young artist programs.

So for two weeks we take out our audition arias and try new things with them to make them more appealing. In general, this means going WAY outside the realm of reality. For example, during the first performance techniques class, I sang Voi che sapete as a strip tease. (Don't worry, my name tag was the most revealing thing to go.) What's the point? This is one way to stop listening to the inhibiting voices that pipe up when you nervously sing in front of strangers. Eventually, you do different things to bring the piece back to a presentable work. We've been issued sets of flashcards with different physical cues or attitudes to assume (surprised, angry, miserable, etc.), to spark some ideas for dramatic choices and to give you something to focus on. The second time I sang Voi che, a week after the first, the director assumed Cherubino's inner dialogue by whispering in my ear, a welcome alternative to my own self-conscious voices (what gesture would they like here? Am I locking my knees? Damn, I forgot the double n.) After I sang it on my own, able to focus on communicating with an imaginary Countess and Susanna in front of me, the director raised a fist, and shouted, 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' If I can get Voi che to work, I can do anything.

The same person also runs the improv classes. Yes, vocal improv. It's not as terrible as it sounds. Some was free-from in small groups, each of us responding to the tones of the other. Then, we improvised arias, duets, and entire scenes over an improvised accompaniment. It was challenging, and maybe not ready for the public, but I learned something valuable: when I stop worrying about my voice and just focus on committing to the scene, the right notes, technique, and musicianship all fall into place. And just think what I can do when I actually know the words and the notes beforehand!

Other classes are interesting, but not as successful. When we've moved around in free-form 'dance' during movement class, I've had a lot of fun. (Someone even asked if I used to be a dancer!) But the same teacher gave a lecture about how the brain works that, if you'll pardon the expression, went over our heads. And now we're putting together a show -performing tonight, in fact- that I would have gladly skipped in favor of more classes.

But I'm hoping I'll remember what it's like to trust that I probably do know how to sing by now, and that my body and brain will figure it out on their own when I go to perform, and that my only conscious task must be to commit to the scene at hand, and replace my insecure voices with fun, joyful chatter about the message I'm conveying. And that the result will be better than anything I could have done if I had tried too hard.

It sounds very campy writing this down. But then again, I'm in a campy part of the world. Where we talk about chakras and sufis and Tasmanian actors and Italian opera. Maybe when the sun shines on your mind year round, your abilities grow as tall as cypresses.

Memento

Lost among the many shipwrecks along the whale-bitten shores of the Channel Islands, California's ferocious answer to the Galapagos, lie the remains of the great expedition of Scott Faulkner Robert. Recently, in a journey nearly as perilous as that of Robert's, the tattered remains of a diary were found, still clasped lovingly in the dessicated hands of a skeleton. Below are the legible excerpts from that work.

Day 3

We have made good time, launching ourselves across the ice caps that litter the channel between the island of California and the islands of the channel, which have yet to be named. Simon has become adept at catching our dinner (usually flamingos) and Walter has designed attractive headdresses with their feathers. We'll use them in the talent show next Friday. I have chosen to head our expedition due west, as our attempts during the first few days to head east only left us in the sand of the main island. I have great expectations of our discoveries ahead.

Day 4

Sooner than expected, we have struck land! The cliffs of this tres petite island are most imposing, and I do not expect to make a landing unless we can scale the steep, ashen walls. Surely this monolith was formed by a volcano, or else placed by God's hand himself. Surrounding the isle are the most unusual dogs: they are friendly, they bark, and catch frisbees, but appear to be largely water-bound. Walter has expanded his practice to construct magnificent coats out of their pelts, though none of us believe dog-fur coats will have any following. No matter. A few more dinners of flamingoes (or pelicans, or whatever they are) and we will push off to explore the other nearby islands.

Day 6

Ah yes! This is what I expected all along! Dappled inlets of kelp forests and pebbly bays, purple sea urchins, and a quacking, tasty sea-ducks. (Cedric has elided the name to 'sucks.') We discovered a type of fish that is so bright orange, it resembles your typical greasy-skinned Italian mechanic. We shall call it: Garibaldi.

Onshore, tall trees give gracious shade, the sand gives way to tender earth, and a certain herb makes the whole place smell of roasted rosemary potatoes. I have high hopes forthis place. I can picture a razed plane, demolishing the mountains to turn them into fertile farm land, habitable living spaces, and ample parking.

Here, sheep may safely graze. (We're planning on swimming them over the 18-mile channel, surely enough will arrive.) Here, we can found a chapel, to glorify God and save the inhabitants: the island skunk, the scrub jay, and those swarthy aborigines underfoot. Here we can make a home. I am bold to say, but I will name this land for myself. I claim this land: Scottland!

Day 9

On further exploration, our immediate plans for colonization may yet be thwarted. Numerous difficulties loom, not the least of which is turning this mountain into a mole hill. The boys have been chipping away for days, yet it still resembles a mountain. But more seriously is our recent misadventure at sea, during which we attempted to circumcise the island with a mere 6-foot clipper.

Cedric, Walter, and I were in the dinghy. We set out at low tide, admiring the sealife in the tidal pools and weighing more varied dinner options among the fishies. We discoveried a series of caves, some of which connected deeper in the rock formations. We set about exploring, even as the tide grew higher and the waves grew rough. Suddenly, a rogue wave knocked the boat over, spilling out dear Walter, gentle Cedric, and my own tender self into the roiling sea. The wild kelp lashed our bare skin, the delicious fishes nibbled at our ankles, the seabirds licked their lips at our plight. As I stood there in the 3-foot deep water, I thought all was lost. Then, Roger came in from the dryland and gave us a tow back to port. It actually wasn't all that bad.

Day 13

Haven't been able to blog as much recently as times have been tough. Discontent reigns at base camp, as my men wonder how long we must stay, and cannot seem to fathom my need to catalog every pelican inhabitant of the island. (Or are they flamingos?) We must push on, even as food runs short, and tempers run high.

Day 19

An excruciating hike today. We became trapped in a canyon with a man-eating fennel, and had to amputate our own fingers after a case of rapid onset frostbite. It still stings a bit. I am writing with my nose. We returned to camp at dusk. After a brief supper of the remains of one of our companions (poor Cedric), we entered the tent where we recently had huddled for safety from the wild, cat-size foxes that rove the island at night. It was there that I knew the true struggle would begin.

Hear me, posterity. Night after night I have endured the most cruel torments at the hands of my compatriot. When darkness falls and we beg for sleep to accept us, I alone am left awake to contend with the most fearsome beast of all. Walter! Walter! That purported fop, that milksop pansy boy. Oh the terrors he wreaks at night with his loathsome noise, his thunderous ululations, his cavernous snore! In my mind, I wrestle with it, I fight it, I am bigger than the snoring, dammit! But, alas, I fail, and stagger sleeplessly each blinding dawn out of the little tent portal. I fear I will go mad. I have already lost track of all those pigeons I was cataloging, and now must start anew.

Day 21

Situation desperate. Food scarce. Mutiny afoot. Send help.

Day 22

PS, And if you happen to be a network producer, won't you please consider our story for a possible reality show? History will thank you. Thank you.

Damn Spring!

I can't remember if I've mused on these words before, or if I'm merely so used to thinkg of them with the return each year of good weather. Thomas Mann used them to express how artists feel in springtime. Flowers and sunshine are lovely, but they distract, and make it challenging to create art that surpasses their beauty. To create real beauty, the artist must have cold, darkness, and heartbreak to react to, to have an urgent need for beauty instead of beauté accompli.

I say 'damn spring' for other reasons, however. (And I will leave you to decide which is more beautiful, the English version or the orginial German: verdammte Frühling, which has its own melody.) This season surrounds me with beauty that causes more and more severe allergies each year. Spring distracts me from its own beauty, and everything else I wish to appreciate. Even though I now have the time to pursue my leisure and ambition projects (writing! gardening! music-making!) that had to be pushed aside during peak work-season (music-making! freelancing! gigs I'm never going to do again!), I'm too trapped in my own histamines to take action. It's a very confusing time: pain and pleasure rolled into one.

This particular spring is especially confusing, but for different reasons. You see, I have something I want to tell you. But it's none of your business. I'm bursting with happiness. I'm trying to tone it down. It's the most unique, transformational thing in the world. It happens every single day, and most of us can expect to experience it. It's extremely private. It's public knowledge.

I could tell you the story here. I could even remember some of the words we spoke or how I cried, and it's a lovely story. But words have their limits. This is why artists give up when they try to capture springtime, or love. So I won't try very hard here. I'll just say that for one moment, after dark and with snow on the ground, there was a new universe, with otherworldly light and warmth but only two inhabitants, who were content to gaze wordlessly at each other for hours, the way you would gaze at your newborn child.

I'll leave you with one more word: Yes.

Happy Easter, From My Peeps To Yours

Coincidental, but not related, to the apparant wide-spread popularity of peep art, I created this "sculpture" as my Easter celebration.

My God, why hast though forsaken me?

My other Easter weekend peeps included these affable folks, Taylor Horner and Alan Bailey, in the red, in a jaunt onstage in the most difficult opera I will do in my life. Yes, we're wearing sheets. Chiron, Artemis, and Socrates, couldn't you tell?

We were all given holiday roses afterwards, can you guess how this one was grown?

With Jacon Wise, our fabulous clarinetist, who wondered how to follow the composer's instruction to play 'doctorly,' and Michael Sakir, our fearless conductor, who kept the whole thing together! It's my shirt that looks funny, not me.
Castmates Alan Bailey and Brooke Larimer are enjoying their beers, with Sheena Ramirez in the center, who sang in the tonal antidote to our opera.
To round out the day, we tried to go bird watching, finding only Canada geese and mallards. But we caught a rare sighting of the horrible giant green fly!!

more thoughts

The rest of that evening last year was the verbal equivalent of snorting cocaine: one of us would say something (express our feelings, relate a story, reminisce), the other would react as if deeply inhaling a drug, and then come down before the next hit. I learned that he had cried on New Year's Day as well, and that I had unconsciously let a furtive "I love you" slip as we were getting off the phone weeks before. The next day, singing love songs at my recital, I finally understood what the words meant.

I am thinking of this because (I really wanted to get that awesome drug simile on paper!) and it's not unlike how I'm thinking of my singing right now. Although it's hard to pin down lessons with my new teacher, her ideas are moving my technique to another level, and proving applicable to other things too.

The idea is that you create volume and richness of tone by turning your focus extremely inward, creating resonance, compression and strength deep within your body, in order for the sound to be focused and concentrated enough to project outwards. So after years of worrying about what my throat was doing, and my mouth and tongue, she has gotten me to think more about my sinuses- where the sound is resonating before being released by my mouth -and the center of my abdomen, where the muscles support the placement of the air. It's a beautiful idea, that by going inward as much as you possibly can, you can project an expression that travels far and is understandable to everyone who hears it.

And that idea can work for your emotional interpretation as well. Singing a song about love and expressing general happiness about it doesn't carry at all. No one will believe you when you sing. But if you make it personal, if you sing that song because there is nothing else in the world you could possibly sing in that moment, because you must tell your story and because the audience must listen, then it is the most truthful moment in the world.

Just like being in love. Yes, I'm saying that singing is like being in love- is that obsessive or what! It wouldn't work if you tried to emulate what you think love/singing should look/sound like. It only works when you go as deep into yourself as you can, trust your gut, fill yourself with focused, beautiful intentions, and allow that to project.

Am I deep or what? ;-)

Cutting to the Chase

Ardent fans of this website - both of you - have noticed that I have been back-dating my posts to correspond with my trip last month. I did this for historical reasons, to inscribe those events here for all time on the right dates. But I was also trying to do an artistic and creative lead-up to some quite personal news. Because, you see, I'm in love.

And you thought you were bored with my travelogues! Let me regale you with the most tired story of all time! Let me get snagged in that quicksand that has caught many finer poets and let me tell you all about love. Let me fail with the best of them, and what of it? It's Valentine's Day, and I just have to tell the world. (Well actually, in true fashion, I'm finally posting this more than a week later, but we're all still in V-day afterglow, right?)

It's quite a boast, to claim Love's good graces. Most music and art from any period of time decries the vicariousness of the winged boy, begging for mercy or for the sweet release of death. To declare that you love and are loved in return is a vanity equal to boasting of your great beauty or wealth, or of deep intelligence. Finding love is like receiving a gift. But like all adult experiences, being in love is different than one imagines as a child. Being in love is more like being in good health: a condition that take cannot be imagined when you don't have it, takes some effort to maintain, and once you have it you don't know how you lived without it.

But the metaphor of a gift is more apt, as my love arrived over a year ago, on my birthday. Jumping out of a cake. Wrapped in one red ribbon. (Kidding! Kidding!!!!)

I was turning 30. I spent the weeks leading up to the date in late October in a sort of grim advent, the way one both dreads yet guiltily looks forward to the death of a terminally ill loved one. And it was a death that awaited me on that birthday (and really, on every birthday). Another year was dead and gone, and so was my youth.

My life was certainly not bad, but, as often happens to me, every disappointment or unrealized expectation hit me close to the bone: Not quite the right teacher at school. Not quite the best experience overall at school. Disenchantment with life (and men) in Mass. Job turmoil, difficulty making friends, no family nearby. Was my life in New York so bad that I had to give it up for this?

In late September, I had arranged to get my first professional headshot. It's something of a milestone as a singer, and I also looked at it as a photo to preserve an image of my youth. The last shot of me in my 20s! But days before the shoot, I had my hair cut at a salon, where they chopped my hair off shorter than it had ever been. A friend commented that while my headshots looked fine, that haircut did make me look older than I was.....

So I did not arrive at my birthday party with joy. Then an acquaintance walked in, who I barely recognized, and whom I barely remembered inviting. She had brought someone with her. He was wearing a blazer and carrying a bottle of wine. A barolo.

My new party guest proved to be a balancing element to my assembly of laconic musician friends. He was eager to chat about music, which countered nicely with musicians' inclination to whine about the competitive life. He amiably drove some people home, and he laughed at my jokes, though we didn't talk one-on-one much at all at the party. Although I do remember meeting his eyes when I volunteered that I enjoy sleeping in bed diagonally. I can't recall what the topic could have been. He gave me a ride home, and on parting we exchanged cards (which we both still carry in our wallets today), as we both seemed interested in making new friends. I had not thought of him as someone I would date.

A polite week went by. I received an email invitation to attend the symphony, which was performing Schoenberg. I can't say anyone else had ever suggested that as a fun thing to do! I had other plans, but we go together and ended up seeing each frequently over about a month. Neither of us called them dates. At first I found it a little odd that this new person in my life seemed so intent on hanging out with me, especially since we weren't officially dating. (HA! Amanda, get a clue!) But over time, I realized I was more relaxed because of my new companion, and that spending time together was the most natural feeling I had had in a long time.

On December 8th, my mom's birthday, my new friend gamely offered to drive me out to the wretched suburban city of Lynn, where I was singing and dancing (don't laugh) in Amahl and the Night Visitors. Afterwards, when he drove me home, we had a conversation that I hadn't expected to have when I woke up that morning. "Are we dating?" I finally asked. "Well, I would like to be," came the reply. The subsequent kiss was not just our first kiss. I felt as if I were a young girl, and had just had my very first kiss.

The following weeks proceeded as they were destined to. By Christmas my fate was sealed, and by New Year's I had entered fully-fledged into the Gaga Phase. All the things that you think never really happen any more were there: the world looking rosy, butterflies, excitement to be together, missing each when we're apart. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying. On New Year's Day, after we spent a long brunch together sharing family stories and more about ourselves, I went home, hung up my coat, and had a little cry. I was so happy, and yet frightened at the newness of it and at the risk.

Valentine's Day 2007 in Boston was like hell frozen over. Hail, frozen rain, sleet, snow, wind- you name it. I'd never felt particular emotional attachment to the holiday, which I found commercial, meaningless, and an excuse for restaurants to overcharge. I hadn't wanted to dine out, but once the storm subsided we ended up going to a neighborhood Mexican place decorated with balloons and chocolate where they gave all the ladies carnations. Though I probably looked like a drowned rat, having trooped around in the snow all day, the restaurant was cozy and canoodle-friendly.

Afterwards, we returned to his apartment to do some work. He had papers to grade, and I had a recital the next day and I still had to write the translations! We sat down at respective computers. When I got up to retrieve something from my bag, he said "Wow." I thought he was commenting on my curves, but was only reacting to emails from his students. I expressed mock dismay. "Haven't I objectified you enough today?" He said jokingly as he walked with me back to my computer.

He told me a story. At Carnegie Hall the month before, where he was singing with the BSO, (yeah, that's the kind of person I date) he nearly swooned. The piece was Berlioz's Faust, which, although the love story is doomed and overshadowed by Satan's charismatic presence, contains a beautiful moment when Marguerite is singing to herself the story of the faithful King of Thule. "I thought about you," he said. "And I thought about love." I was seated, looking up at him, conscious of my smeared makeup and matted hair. He gave me a hug. "Because you know I love you, right?"

And there it was. Not a gift, nor a challenge, nor an arrow through the heart. Just a rhetorical question, which only had one answer.

Paris Stopover

So that was that. A meandering trip whose purpose I never made clear to myself, where I found myself reliving the lonely parts of my first Rome trip even as I was presented again with great beauty. But maybe I learned a good lesson: you know you're in love when you're staring at a masterpiece, wishing you were in a Brooklyn basement, doing your boyfriend's laundry.

I had arranged to return to Paris one day early to have a more civilized time catching my return flight, and to finally do the sightseeing I hadn't done during the week before. It was to be another day of solitude, alas, and even though I have a few acquaintances in Paris it was my own ghosts that were more readily available for company. I left Rome early, arrived at my fleabag hotel right back in Montmartre off the Rue des Abbesses and dropped off my suitcase although my room wasn't ready. It was a cool drizzly morning, before the museums opened, so I bought myself a baguette from the usual bakery and sat in a cobblestone courtyard before I set off.

It was a Saturday, a market day, and I walked around the neighborhood a bit, watching with envy as people purchased beautiful seafood and meats for their suppers. In the interest of economy I went to the supermarkets, buying what Parisians might consider uninteresting staples, but to me were luminous little treasures of Frenchness. Below is the group photo of the goodies that made it nicely home in my suitcase. The scallop shells are for a scallop paté, those are tubes of chestnut cream, various cheeses, meat patés, harissa (still sitting in my cabinet a year later!), cookies, tea, and, of course, chocolate. Not shown are the numerous pleasantries I gobbled up toute suite: the pastries, the yogurt, the dairy desserts such as a diaphanous rice pudding sitting provocatively sur un lit de caramel.

After the shopping, and realizing that I had limited time to travel to the sights, much less spend much time there, I hopped into the metro to head to the opera.

There was a photo shoot going on that day, which is why this picture is so nicely illuminated. I stood for a while admiring the Chagalls, choosing just to enjoy, and not peer through the view finder. For me to set foot in the Paris Opera house was to turn 13, when, don't laugh, I was slavishly obsessed with the Phantom of the Opera, first the musical then the book. I walked through the halls playing make believe, seeing the grand ladies and tailored gentlemen of the past, as if they could step out of the gilded statuary.

I tried to read my street map in the dim lavender light, hoping to prepare for an urban stroll. But I was too fearful of losing my way, and too self-conscious to walk the streets with a book in hand, so I permitted myself only a brief walk around the area before I went back to the metro for my next destination.

Paris is like a very Parisian New York. Urban, crowded, busy, and fast-paced, but set against a backdrop of elegance, cleanliness, quality, and beautiful detail. I was there during the chaotic post-Christmas sales, when people descend on stores like wasps. If only I had an eye for style and a bottomless wallet, I too would have sorted through the goods on street corners, where vendors sell designer shoes like New York sidewalk salesmen sell fruit.

For my one day I chose a museum slightly off the beaten path: the Guimet, which houses an expansive and particularly beautiful collection of Asian art, mostly Buddhist. Click here for my highlights tour. (I'm still trying to work out how to post it here directly.) Can you feel anything but peaceful there?

I lingered because I knew that the real feature that I wanted to visit would be open late, the l'Orangerie with its oval rooms of Monet water lilies. It was the one stop I absolutely wanted to make, because my first visit the museum was as crowded a subway, and I left the paintings feeling angry and cheated, surely the opposite of the intended effect. But arriving at 8 pm on a Saturday, the museum was as still as a pond. Informed by the stern admissions lady that "you 'ev an 'our," I ducked down the stairs into the grotto below.

Monet himself designed the rooms for these lilies, and their size and shape are just as important to the experience as the colors and shapes in the paintings. To experience them as one of only a few visitors, pastels floating from ceiling to floor, is to be inside an aquarium, or maybe the brain of Odilon Redon. I went to the second room first, where a young family was lingering, their son softly snoring on the central oval bench. I soon realized that the other visitors provide perspective on the rest of the painting, like mangrove trees or storks in a luminous swamp. I circled around the room like a pilgrim, zooming in on the dancing abstractions in the panels, or drifting back to admire the whole effect. The couple's smiles and the child's slumbering only added to the peaceful effect.

My companions in the first room, the one with the sunrise, were two Japanese fashion plates who used the art as a backdrop to their constant chitchat. They were the flies ruining the picnic. Eventually they tired, took a picture using a flash, and left.

As we approached closing time it was only me and one other visitor going back and forth between the two rooms, like barges or night watchmen. We were buoys to each other's experience, we circled politely in complementary circles, each one attempting to stay out of each other's sight line, or glancing in each other's direction for a perspective. The museum guards eventually encircled us, closing off one room with their bodies and then the other. I wondered if my companion and I had entered an unspoken contest to see who would outlast the other. I chose to leave first, leaving the memory of the lilies first in my mind and not a brusque escorted exit with the guards. Here is a spot from the painting that looks like a smiley face:

Leaving the grotto and entering the misty night was like going from one moist body of humidity to another. The chill was milder in Paris than it was in Rome, more like a companionable embrace from a stranger than a cold remonstrance from an old love. I walked through the Tuileries to make my way to a bus stop. With the Louvre in front of me I realized I was probably passing the very spot where I sat, years earlier, listening to man explain to me that he hadn't needed me for a very long time. I walked on, and sure enough my ghost eventually joined me, with baby fat and her hair in unfortunate bangs. We walked in silence, she still sad and I only able to offer my company as solace. I offered to take her out to ice cream, but she demurred, and the next time I looked up, she had slipped back silently into the swampy air.

So I went on to the Ile de la Cite alone, enjoying the last scoop of salted caramel before Berthillon's closed. It was across from a luxurious shop window, which caught my eye when I saw something move in the window:

The one old friend I could meet in town was Nathalie, the art historian I had met through others in Rome. I made my way to the end of a metro line to a neighborhood far more authentic looking than most of the tourist areas I had seen, but elegant and lively. She lives with with her boyfriend in a lovely one-bedroom that is filled with books, modern furniture, and snapshots of the couple gazing at each other. The peeling ceiling paint and small window seat of her tiny kitchen made me wonder if Julia Child had lived in a place like this when she was in Paris. Even the small foyer outside her apartment door was simple, sturdy, and beautiful:

My Italian had its last good workout as we chatted for a couple of hours over white wine and crackers before I took my leave. I was starving, but I didn't dare set foot in one of the cafes on Nathalie's street, where hipsters gathered close over small tables and the bars thronged with a Paris more intimate and vivid than I could have navigated.

I found a late-night cafe along the Rue des Abbesses in Montmartre, frequented by the occasional tourist and seedy characters from the nearby red-light district. I mouse-like man with a rumpled top hat sat near me, trying to make conversation in bits of French and English. "I wrote poetry," he told me, "I have a MySpace page." I finished my salad of frisee, tough beef, and cold goose fat and returned to the fleabag, spending a fitful night on an awful bed covered in hairs. The community shower, I discovered the next morning, was operated by a special coin, available only from the proprietors. The family apparently made a home for themselves behind the front desk, and I had to wait until they woke up before I could knock on their door for a coin.

The most eventful part of the trip lay before me. Most people would have showered and gone straight to the airport. I lingered for one more stroll around the hood, one more glance at the spectacular butcher shops with their jewel-like racks of glistening meats, one more sip of coffee and plate of attitude at the bakery, another duck into a supermarket, and oh what the heck another snack at another bakery. I then set off for Charles de Gaulle.

I not only left scant time, I didn't quite know where I was going. Words cannot describe an experience at that particular pit of hell, but I will try. There are two places to get off at Charles de Gaulle, the right one, where the planes are, and the wrong one, where the trains are. I somehow opted for the latter. After exiting the train and realizing that I was not only in the wrong place but also had no cash, I frantically asked a conductor how to get to the airport. He explained to me, and I went on my way, only to flip out, get confused, and come back and ask him to clarify in English! I finally got on the right train, nervously nibbling on a salty speck baguette.

Then there's the sorry airport itself. The traveller must know that her airline is housed in D16 or F29, and take the most convoluted paths to get there. There is no clear arrangement of the terminals-like every other airport in the world-information booths tend to be closed, and wherever you are, you are always very, very far away from where you need to be. The airport in Guatemala City is easier to navigate.

But the mistake lay entirely with me. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle with no ticket in hand, no flight number, and merely a hazy recollection of my itinerary. I was focused on other elements of the trip-like singing!-and the tour manager hadn't reconfirmed the trip with me. When I finally managed to find my airlines, I couldn't find myself when I tried to check in. With 50 minutes to go before I had to board a plane, I was directed to a long, stagnant line of passengers with problems. With my heart pounding and tears welling up as I considered that I would need to spend all of my fee on a new flight, I miraculously found an internet kiosk, where I checked my email with trembling fingers to discover that I was not flying through London, as the tour manager had originally informed me, but flying direct. Luckily, I had the time and date right. With this revelation I took the people mover to the check-in to the monorail to security to the shuttle bus to the gate, and waited with everyone else: the flight was delayed.

And so adieu, to my first trip as a true professional musician, to another Paris and a completely fresh set of memories, to new and old friends and colleagues, to new and renewed visions of beauty. And to my ghosts, be they living or dead. Until we meet again.

A Walking Tour of Rome: Nostalgia

E pur io torno qui, qual linea al centro,
Qual foco a sfera e qual ruscello al mare….

Of course, continuing the nostalgia tour I began in Paris meant that I had to spend a few days in the city that will never live down its past: Rome. Just by setting foot there, I began thinking in the lilted, British Isle prose of Georgina Masson, whose wonderful book was my chief companion during my first visit. Here are some impressions from my trip, emulating her inimitable voice as best I can – with a few excursions of imagination and absurdity.

If the visitor is organized she will have arranged to stay at Casa Sanctissimo, Altissimo, and Really Nice Guy Paolo, a villa on the southwestern outskirts of town. As we enter Casa Paolo, we are struck by the graceful height of the ceilings, the comfortable sense of space, and the airy light flooding the loggia. This last characteristic comes from a narrow terrazza along the north border of the residence, a requisite comfort among the Roman elite.

Casa Paolo

Note the splendid marble floor, and the antique oriental tapestry. In moments of privacy, the visitor may use either one for a few yoga stretches. Most of the furnishings are contemporary Swedish, no doubt in homage to Queen Christina of Sweden, who abdicated in 1654 and moved to Rome, where she was feted for months by Pope Alexander the VII with elaborate celebrations.

The Porta del Popolo, redecorated by Bernini with the Chigi coat of arms, to celebrate the entrance of the Queen. Felici faustoque ingressui, it says: for a happy and blessed entrance.

After fortifying ourselves with tortellini, we set off to the ancient town (Paolo will drive). And what better entrance than the Baths of Caracalla and the Circo Massimo? The cypresses are as perpendicular as ever, the ruins are still ruined, and the branchless trunks of the distinctive pines still support the blue sky with their evergreen cushions.

If our visit is during the winter we must acclimate ourselves to an environment very different from the summer months. In high summer, the heat is like a constant, generous travel companion, never leaving us, embracing us wherever we are. Now, the surprisingly frigid air goes straight through our clothes and cold sunshine melts into winter darkness at an early hour. Fortunately, a bit of the excitement of the holidays lingers in the air, and the streets bustle with more Romans than tourists.

We continue our walk downtown until we come to the Pantheon. Standing beneath the portico on the left we spot Isabel, an almond-eyed Spaniard who shares our taste in guidebooks. Kiss her on both cheeks. Over biscuits and cups of cioccolato caldo (as thick as Greek coffee but sweeter than French cocoa), she may confide that she is grappling with the prospect of leaving Rome, having begun to grow tired of always being a straniera and eager for other career prospects.

We eventually push off to our dinner appointment with the indefatigable Sarah, our lively English friend who has been teaching in Rome for several years. Past the Colosseum, over the Celian hill, up some steps and behind a door with a broken bell we find Sarah’s flat. She has impossibly light blue eyes and will give you a hug that cuts off your circulation. During the meal we marvel at how her Italian has grown- three years ago she couldn’t roll her r’s, now every word gets a trrriple rrrrrr! Nonetheless, her Italian is easier for a foreigner to understand than her strong York brogue.

The next morning, we set off from Casa Paolo on our own. Hopefully he has given us keys to the apartment, which resemble something that might have opened your Grandmother's lingerie closet:

Spend 45 minutes figuring out how to lock the door. We set forth from the loggia, witnessing the quotidian bustle of a local Roman neighborhood. If we arrive just right in the season, we will notice copious quantities of cyclamen at the markets, which perhaps arrived from the Near East in the bellies of animals brought to the Coliseum:

If the visitor is tall, blonde, and/or female, she will likely be regarded as a rock star. Live it up. While difficult for foreigners to become accustomed to, the attention actually invigorates, making us feel like a walking piece of art. After a few minutes we arrive at the magnificent "Spanish steps," replete with loitering "businessmen" at midday.

The central post office, in a restored villa.

A winter visit is the best time to acquaint ourselves with the famous winds of Rome. If we were here once in summer, we are already familiar with the sirocco, the sandy heat blasts that sweep up from the Sahara. In winter, we can expect to encounter the tramontana, bringing rain and cold northern air from the Rhone Valley. On fair days, the air is swept free of clouds, and frames the city in picture-perfect colors and shadows.

On one visit to the ruins we are ogled by a man. He could be 40, he could be ageless, a condition mastered by so many Italian men. Eyeing your blonde hair (after surveying your midsection and behind), he hesitates to greet you in his native tongue. He begins the guessing game: Are you from Norway? Germany? England? We go through all of Europe. Americana? Si. Pause. Do you like Rome? Si. Ciao.

We spend our days as before, traversing layers of history and style, accompanied only by the tramontana, our own will, and the murmurs of the locals, who take to the streets for the after-Christmas sales. And it's all just so wonderful.

Or it's not. You stuff your guidebook and umbrella in your purse, which is too small for all your things, and you walk around with your hands stuffed into your autumn jacket, which fails to warm you against the cold. But is it not a joy, you think to yourself, to be here again? To take the same pictures, to eat the same gelato (now slightly stale in the off season), to see the same exhibit you saw years ago, to walk the same streets, if only this time you are even more out of place as an out-of-season tourist, and even more lonely as you wonder why you chose to spend time away from your loved one, even if it meant an encounter with beauty. Everywhere, we are confronted by the purposeless of the journey, and reminded of the places where once we were greeted with kisses, but now we can expect only closed doors.

But if it's humanity you want you need look no further, as you also will be keeping company with la bella Cinzia! Cinzia, a mystery writer, resembles a delicate, rare bird. She lives in the Palazzo Barberini.

It is at the Palazzo Barberini that we encounter an old friend. No, not the sleeping drunk who does not prevent us from walking down the Borromini stairs. Not the adolescent guide at the ridiculous exhibit of Bernini paintings. The Toilet of Bathsheba, by Iacopo Zucchi, which we last saw in, of all places, the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, until they had discovered that it was pilfered wartime art, and willingly sent it back home. It is a sweet reunion, as neither of us ever thought we would see each other again.

Up these stairs - the Borromini stairs - we encounter Cinzia's sumptuous apartment, which she shares with her husband Giovanni. The two welcome you as if you had never left, with rich pasta and cordials and conversation. After paying respects to Janus, the two-faced god in the palace's newly restored hanging gardens, we set out on our way refreshed and invigorated.

The days pass and we find ourselves with much too much time and not nearly enough. There are people to visit, but the visits are shallow and contrived. For although all past acquaintances indeed welcome you again, your sporadic emails and limited language skills do not a friendship make, and after your brief appearance, you will once again fall into internet obscurity. After a few awkward encounters, we limit ourselves to our more forgiving friends, or we pass the days alone.

But there's a break in the rains to revisit an old site, the magnificent Santa Maria Maggiore, whose origins as a papal basilica date to the 4th century, on ground that was sacred to Romans for millenia. The early Christian mosaics on the apse are indescribable, like a glimpse of the heavens themselves, and merit return visits again and again. Only this time we arrive too late, and the apse is no longer illuminated, and the church is being used for a few evening prayers before closing. We can only glimpse through the gloom and use our imagination. We had a similar experience trying to see the Pinturicchio frescoes at the Santa Maria del Popolo.

Again we tire of our own company and we chose to spend time with the lively family we knew those years ago. Their 4-year-olds are now world-weary boys of seven, and they scarely notice you as they slink off to the television set while you chit chat with the parents. Again, regrettably, we have an encounter that neither satisfies our need for a human touch, or illuminates us with a revelatory tourist experience. But perhaps there is one thing we can take away from our boring evening with the fam:

A creche. A family creche. Families traditionally keep a creche in their homes until epiphany, just like catholic churches do. The family creche is dying even in Catholic Italy, but this family's is nonetheless immense, replete with running water and a train.

Another greeting, another parting, and we are back on the streets, making our rainy way back to Paolo's to collect our things and return to Paris, beginning the long leg of the journey home.

Roma, una vita non è basta! True. It would take millenia to truly know the city in depth, from the highest terrazza to the lowest pebble of ruins. But a meandering trip - where friendships were once sunnier, where high ramparts that were once open to you are severely shut, where the flickers of connection are too easily extinguished by distance - serves only to sadden you. We depart like a ghost, unable to truly relive our sunny past, but backing in the glowing remains of the beauty we remember, and open-ended friendships.

perry

As expected, the minute I got on site and on task, there was little room for emotion. And even less room for sightseeing! The downside to making your debut in Paris is that you might have been making your debut anywhere- we spent four full days in rehearsal, and in the off hours, I only wanted to study and review and rest. The rehearsals were productive, collegial and nurturing, and demanded my full concentration. I would have loved to have seen more of Paris, but on this trip it was really more of a distraction.


But oh what a distraction! Even if I didn’t get to spend full days touring around, I got to know Montmartre well, and the small excursions outside the rehearsal room were enough contrast to keep the trip in balance. After all, I did spend my days immersed in culture, if not in museums, then in singing in long-forgotten languages and trying to pick up enough of French to understand my cues! And even our rehearsal rooms had some panache: at the Theatre de la Ville at Chatelet our sundrenched suite overlooked the fountain on the plaza and the Eiffel tower in the distance, and another room was filled with Sarah Bernhardt paraphernalia, which we enjoyed playing around in.


Moreover, it was very satisfying to feel that we were contributing something to life in Paris, not only walking the streets looking for thrills. Je suis ne pas un touriste, je suis artiste!

In front of Sarah Bernhardt's mirror at Chatelet.

And in her bathtub!

Here's most of the group in the metro, on the way to rehearsal.

This version of Tristan has nearly as much of a curse on it as does the more famous one. Two previous Tristans died after the performances. The woman who narrated the original version of the story by Gottfried von Strassburg also passed away. More than once during rehearsal, our director was in tears. I had never known that medieval music was so impassioned and dramatic. And I was reminded of the wordless comradeship that develops in chamber music, with every person giving and helping each other and the performance. Two of my solos were accompanied only by a single-note drone, a companionable experience, as my line harmonizes, clashes, or unifies with theirs. Companionable in a very naked way....


But let’s see, what were the extra-curricular highlights? A Parisian croissant is like a well-poached filet of fish: buttery, tender, slightly flaky, and sweet. It is revelatory. So are all the pastries and breads in most any corner bakery. The one difficulty I found is that the starch made me so incredibly tired, and when I woke myself up with bitter French coffee, I was irritable and jittery. My singing companion – a French native herself! – explained that this effect accounts for French grumpiness overall. After dining at Bofinger, I glimpsed the gold standard of service and cuisine. I also discovered what it was like to have a pound of butter in your gut.

Beneath the art-deco ceiling at Bofinger.

On Rue des Abbesses in Montmartre, where we trod between our hotel and one of the venues, I tried to sample the different shops and restaurants and bakeries. One charcuterie in particular, where my grandmother would have been in seventh heaven, was piled high with sausages, seasoned chop meat, pan ready duck confit covered in white fat, roast meats and delectables. The shopkeeper served me a lovely piece of rotisserie chicken, and a heaping portion of attitude.

But how much fun was it to pretend that I spoke French! I took what I could from Italian, added a few words I've learned from songs, tossed in a prayer and voila! I was actually delighted that I could understand far more than I expected to, even if I could most steadily reply en silence.


But the music was the main event. If you had told me when I was a child that I would eventually be singing French music to Parisians, the stars would have lit up in my eyes with equal parts thrill and terror. What was the whole process really like? Nerves. Winning one gig doesn't mean you've "made it." Only that you have the chance to continue to prove yourself. Did I gaze into the footlights, enjoying myself to the core, thinking about how beautiful I must look and sound, how everyone in the room must really love me? Please. Was I frightened out of my mind, apologizing when I sang and dreading every note? Well, no. But the job was just that, a job. I was concentrating on doing my best, and felt some relief afterwards. I drew praise from the director (yehoo!), but I learned that work is work, even if you do have some glamour to it. I had to wonder, is this something I could do every day?

Click here for another slide show of a walking tour of Notre Dame!

Here are some views from the top of Notre Dame, and, though barely visible, the glistening Eiffel Tower in the distance from the dressing room at Theatre des Abbesses.

Voyage

It's as if I've been living someone else's life lately. Right now, I am sitting in an airport, waiting to depart on a trip usually taken by undergraduates and retirees: Paris and Rome. But it's no ordinary trip: I will make my debut as a professional singer in Paris. After the shows, I will spend a few days in Rome, retracing my steps from two years ago. Then, I will return to Boston, having shed my drab old job for a new one, one with 'Senior' in the title, a healthy pay raise and generous benefits. There's another circumstance that is cause for celebration, but that will need its own post, and I do want to avoid the malocchio. Just in case it reads this blog.

Ah, Europe, that lock-box for American nostalgia. To go there means to go back in time, to sense deeper layers of history than can ever be possible here in the colonies. This is an odd trip for me in that I am visiting two cities I've known before, two places that call up strong emotions....

When I listen to a familiar piece of music, I am reinforcing the memory I have of it. I do not expect to hear anything new, so much as to enrich my understanding of what I already know. Because the experience of hearing a piece is temporal- there's only so much that can happen at any one moment of it- there are only so many different ways the ear can receive it. A piece of visual art, however, gives you no temporal beginning, middle, and end. In that way, you can never see it the same way twice. While each performance of a piece of music is entirely new and different than any other, we hear what we most want to hear no matter what the new interpretation is. But we revisit a piece of art expecting to duplicate the wonder of our first experience, and walk away disappointed. Even if the image has not changed, our way of seeing it has.

Apart from the musical demands of this trip, I will be walking around cities of art expecting glimpses of my first experiences. Will I find the palatine warmth that thrilled me the first time? And in Paris, will I turn into the sad and hopeless girl I was during my first trip, nearly 10 years ago? If there's any city in the world that needs some reclaiming for me, it's the ville de l'amour.

Spring 1998. After many months of an increasingly less passionate letter exchange with the person I thought was sort of, kind of, maybe, hopefully, just a little bit, still my boyfriend, I decided to pick myself up and see for myself. This was the German I had met during my semester in the Vaterland the year before, and he was spending a year in Paris. We had never officially broken things off in our letters, even though neither one of us spoke of visiting. Even though I intellectually understood that he was an idiot, he was my one strong tie to Europe, and staying connected to him meant a validation more important to me than anything.

To make this (fool's) errand appear less dubious, I had my brother tag along under the guise of a tourism trip. I wrote to the boyfriend. He knew I was coming. He wrote back. Yes, we would see each other. We would meet in from of the Louvre and spend the day in museums, sending my brother off to fend for himself. I greeted him with an enormous embrace. He had his hand extended.

Still, while I was sitting with him in the Tuileries, listening as he itemized his accomplishments, I felt the sun on my face and relaxed. My German had somehow improved since I last saw him, and I no longer had to exert myself just to understand. He was rather boring, I realized. And the only reason I had liked him was because he liked me, and because being with him meant a triumph on my part: that I was fluent enough in a foreign culture and language to win the heart of a native. (Bear with me, I was thinking like a 20-year-old.) "I don't need him anymore," I remember thinking.

Somewhere in that reverie I started listening again. He was informing me that he had met someone else, and had been together with her for nearly an entire year.

So we spent the day together. I was in a cool shock, but lacked the German skills to become indignant. He showed me some masterpieces, including the first time I saw this gem by Rodin's old flame Camille Claudel, whose story is one of the great tragedies of art history.

I will not be seeking another look on this trip.

Being the good, foolish person I was, I pledged allegiance to the newfound "friendship" with my apparantly ex-boyfriend, and I even agreed to meet his new woman. He walked me back to my hostel and gave me a hug that I would not let go of. Still in denial, I asked if it was a serious relationship. When he looked puzzled, I guessed that that expression didn't work in German, so I asked him outright if he was going to marry her. Without even closing my eyes, I can still see his face now as he silently nodded 'yes.' Backing towards the hostel door, I stepped in dog shit.

Well, if you're going to get dumped, do it in the most romantic city in the world.

I met the two of them a day or two later, in front of the Hôtel de Ville. In my revised memory, I see them on the plaza, approach just close enough for them to recognize me, and I turn and disappear down the streets. But that's not how it happened. I spent the whole evening with them, down to another awkward goodbye. My only solace was thinking that the occasion might have led to the couple's demise: he and I spoke German and walked together, and he rarely translated for either of his ladies. She trailed behind us as we walked, like an ill-favored wife in a mormon family.

My brother met us later on. After I had said my goodbyes and turned my back to them, he gave me some much-needed comic relief: "Boy, you sure are prettier than her, Amanda!" I was relieved to laugh! "Rabbit teeth, bug-eyes, and nostrils so big you could open a beer bottle with them." Oh my little brother, what would I do without him.

Paris was grey to me, despite springtime and waterlilies and Versailles. Salted butter and glace and fromage were delicious, but pleasures vanished the minute they melted on my tongue. I returned home, feeling as if all of Europe had rejected me, and I composed a carefully worded letter. I was hurt, I explained, not angry, but I still wanted to be his friend. I even quoted Edna St. Vincent Millay, for chrissakes. Day after day, he filled my mailbox with nothing.

So here's hoping Paris won't be so grey this time. That she'll reveal herself in pinks and yellows, with delights and pleasant memories. But I am certain I will meet my own ghost one evening. And what shall I say to her?

Too Funny

While reviewing the flex-spending plan at my new place of work, I found the following eligible items under "Medical Equipment:"

• Air conditioner, if medically necessary for relief from allergy or difficulty breathing
• Reclining chair if prescribed by physician
• Wigs, if advised by physician because of hair loss from disease
• Clarinet lessons, if advised by dentist for treatment of tooth defects

So, if you have just the right curious combo of ailments that requires this curious combo of treatments, you could crank the A/C, lean back in that easy chair, don your fancy locks, and play a little Benny Goodman tunes counting your tax savings!