Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow

There's a rather good article written by "Dr. Opera" from the Virginia Opera blog, addressing the issue of wunderkind America's Got Talent belters under the age of 10. In short: let children sing like children, and leave opera to the big kids. It's irresponsible for a little league coach to get his young pitchers to throw a slider, just as it's irresponsible for voice teachers to allow their young students to holler their way through 'I dreamed a dream.' Most successful adult singers I know are the product of children's choir, high school choir, piano lessons, marching band, and a high school theatre program. Their voices were allowed to mature at a pace that matched their bodies. I should also qualify that statement and say that most of the successful adult singers I know grew up in an age without American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent, or any other such heinous crapola. This is me, stepping off my soapbox.

Today, I'm gonna talk about doing my job. Anyone who's watched a baseball game with me knows that I am the lunatic putting 3 fingers in the air and yelling, "Do your job!" I feel the same way about doing my own job, but without the yelling and the fingers. Most of the time.
One of the hardest lessons to learn as a young singer is identifying what your job IS and what your job IS NOT. It is NOT your job to ask the conductor leading questions about whether or not your colleague sang a wrong note. (Um, maestro, I was just wondering if the soprano is supposed to resolve to the octave, or to the 9th? Are we singing this as printed?) It is not your job to ask the director if he really wants you to sing upstage/into the curtain/from inside a crazy set piece.* (Um, excuse me, am I really supposed to be singing into the curtain for the last 5 bars of my aria?) It is your job to make it work. Tim Gunn was never more correct. It is your job to shut your mouth when your colleagues sing wrong notes/wrong rhythms/wrong words/wrong languages. You are not their teacher. It is your job to figure out how to sing over your shoulder, artfully, while executing what the director has told you to do, or to wait until the director has left town and then make for your exit just a little bit early so you can turn around and nail those last high notes to the wall. Exit right, chased by a bear.
*Unless you are in danger, and I mean serious bodily peril. Then, it is your job to speak up, respectfully, and work with the director to find a solution.*

More than these things, which are all about courtesy and respect, it's also important to get comfortable with that job on an emotional level. I'm covering a role I've sung since I was 23. I know this role like the back of my hand, eyes closed, hopping on one foot, in two different languages. Is my job to know the role? You betcha. Is my job to sing it well? Absolutely. Is my job to go to staging rehearsals and watch what's being staged? For sure. Is my job to show up to cover rehearsals and give everything I would give in a performance? ALL DAY LONG that's my job. But I'm the insurance policy. I'm the "if she gets sick/takes a blow to the head/falls off the rock/comes down with scurvy, then they call me" person. And I am okay with this. Because I get paid every two weeks to do what I'm trained to do: show up, know my stuff, and be a professional. That's the contract I signed. Do I have the occasional twinge of jealousy when I see that they're using a dazzling star drape for the first aria? Hello, I'm human. That said - this is part of that 'separating my singing from myself' exercise. If I get to go on, wonderful. I go through my same daily practice (warm up, double-check the triplets, remind myself how to sing in a lyrical but forward-moving 3, go through the long run in the 1st aria, sing through a few art songs, done!), whether I'm performing or not. I can't live in the world of 'what if.' I can't live in the world of 'if I get to go on, then that would be such a big break and then someone might hear me and hire me for blahblahblah noisenoisenoise.' I can't live in that world, because it takes me away from the world I'm living in right now. RIGHT NOW. Same for auditions. When I walk in, I have to be 120% present and ready to do what I'm trained to do. I can't think about what fantastic connections this could foster, or whether or not they like my dress, or whether or not the girl who just came out of the room seemed to know the general director on a first-name basis. I have to focus on doing my job, right then, in that moment. And when that moment is over, I go for a run, meet a friend for tea and scones, finish re-reading another chapter of Stieg Larsson, do my laundry, prepare my supper, knit another few inches of a sock, watch some BBC period dramas, snuggle with my dog, laugh with my hilarious husband, and count myself a pretty lucky girl.

For this reason, I have to tell myself (and many well-meaning friends and family) that we only allow good juju. No wishful thinking about anyone getting the plague, or falling down a flight of stairs (how very Showgirls), or catching the flu. On any given night, I'm the person in the role, with another person covering me. And I'd rather not get anthrax, so let's not wish it on anyone else. This job I'm doing right now is my job. Next month, I go to another city and sing the role. That is also my job.

Lesson for the day: live in the present, not the potential. You'll be an informed participant in your own life!

woman on the run

The info bar tells me it's been nearly a year since I wrote a post. Since that post last February (the massive Germany/Switzerland audition ridiculousness wrap-up), I made my debut as a mainstage artist at my first A-level house in the USA, trained for and ran my 3rd half-marathon, went through ridiculous post-injury recovery for knees/hips/lower back that made me absolutely bonkers, and was commissioned to be the general editor on a new edition that grew out of my dissertation. I turned 31 with some dear friends, ate at some amazing restaurants with my husband, celebrated my 6th wedding anniversary, sang at the wedding of a dear friend, and came to some quickfastsudden realizations.

1. I've spent way too long trying to figure out what people don't like about me. Worse, I've burned valuable daylight trying to change those things to make people like me. This is folly, and it doesn't honor who I am as an individual. There are people who have known me since I was an unfiltered, brassy, cocky, 15 year-old disaster area, and they still love me today. People who can't be bothered aren't worth my time.

2. I get more singing gigs in a black dress and red murano beads than I ever did in the "right" audition dress with the "right" singer hair and makeup. This is also folly, and doesn't honor who I am as an individual. They may be listening to the voice, but they are hiring the person.

3. I used to think I could create families wherever I went, and that they would take the place of the family I couldn't get to visit. This is a falsehood. I can create families wherever I go, and I do, but they will never supplant my family, the aunts in whose pockets I puked as a baby, the uncles who strapped me into their monster trucks and took me to the movies, the cousins who wrap their arms around me and let me squish them as tight as I like.

4. I. Love. Football. I love watching college football - the invincible, headstrong, crazy-stupid-fast players who take serious chances. I love the crazy coaches who eat grass. But mostly, I love the heart-stopping drama. I love cheering for teams who come from where I'm from. I love posting about the games with my friends from all over, hearing about whether or not my friend Kristy has banished someone else to the kitchen/porch/carport/second floor. I love the strings of profanity that pepper our closed group so our bosses don't see that we're actually lunatics. I love that my husband actually suggested I get my Honey Badger shirt sent 2-day shipping so it would get here in time for the BCS game. I love this game.

5. My husband might turn out to be the person who knows me best. This doesn't come out the way I want it to. When I got married, I figured that I would have my husband, and that I would have my best girlfriends and my best gayfriends and my teachers and whatnot. All of these people would have their roles in my life, and that would just stay the same. WRONG. SO WRONG. I used to love packing the suitcase and going far, far away to see the friends I never got to see. I used to long to go places new and different. Now, I long for an evening on the sofa with him. (I am so boring now.) I long for seven solid nights in the same zip code as him. I long for a dinner that he cooked (let's be real here) on our dining room table, with both of us sitting at it. Mostly, I want to be near him. I feel like the best version of myself when we are together, with the dog. I'm dense - it took me six years of marriage to figure out that this was not only what I wanted, but what I needed as well. Oy.

6. When I don't exercise, I turn into the college me: overstressed, overeating, undersleeping, crazypants paranoid about everything. When I do exercise, I sleep regularly, I take things in stride, and I don't ratchet everything up to the 12th power of hysteria. Running = calm. And I need calm. Like whoa.

7. These little ones can all be grouped together:
7a - I can't shop for clothes at the mall anymore. Skinny jeans were never meant for this body, 'tissue tees' are just half a t-shirt for the same price, and I like fibers I can identify.
7b - I really do wear a size 11 shoe. 10 is a thing of the past.
7c - I am totally willing to pay for convenience - direct flights, more leg room, taxi cabs. Get me where I'm going and to the ones I love faster/warmer/more comfortably. I'll do it.

8. My natural hair color is the one I like the most.

9. I can separate my singing from my personal identity. And it may be the best thing I could ever do for myself. Someday, my high f's will stop showing up for work every day like clockwork. And on that day, I will have to say to myself, "Self - today is that day. No more Queens for you." That day does not have to be the end of life as I know it. And I'm taking steps to work on the rest of my life as much as I work on my coloratura, if not more.

10. I have nothing to hide, but I do like privacy. Just today, when that damned alumni operator got me on the horn about the directory, it occurred to me that I didn't want my classmates or professors being able to look up my address or my email or my phone number. If they need to find me, I have a website. I don't need everyone all up in my business.

So if I want privacy, why am I blogging? Because I like to say what's on my mind. Put it out in the abyss, see what bounces back. It feels good to write things down. Plus, I've had this idea that, in the grand tradition of La Stupenda (Sutherland) and La Divina (Callas), I could be La Cucina - the soprano who likes to eat. And I'm pretty sure only singers would get that joke.

Which brings me full circle to where I began. Running again. Every year brings a new set of ouches and reminders of old injuries. I can't burn miles and just hope everything knits back together the way it should. So instead of following the long-form marathon plan, I'm going to do my own spring training on the dreadmill (ugh) in the basement, slow and steady, until it gets warm enough to run outside again. And I'm gonna cross-train for real, and lift for real, and stretch for real. I'm not sure which marathon I'm running this year, but I think I'm ready to get back on that horse. Make way for La Cucina!

Part 8: Basel - Karlsruhe - München, the wrap-up

I woke up this morning before my alarm. Paranoia about being late does that. I cranked open the window shades (sidebar: don’t you love those window shades you see on the windows in Germany and Italy and Switzerland? They shut out ALL of the light. It’s so rad.) to see a lot of cloudy and grey, and sighed. I made myself an egg, ate a yogurt, and sighed. I packed. I sighed. Eugene walked me to the train, there were people smoking on the platform, I sighed.

Somewhere between Basel and Karlsruhe, Grey’s Anatomy rescued me from my funk. I got off the train in Karlsruhe and was greeted by my dear friend Tobi, whom I had not seen since he and his girlfriend Babsi came to London to see my ENO Queen in 2009. Far far too long. We visited in a lovely little café in the Hauptbahnhof, playing catch-up on everything in our lives, talking about the future and our careers and our work and our play. It was absolutely delightful and totally what I needed. I got back on the train an hour later, refreshed (and caffeinated) and ready to get to Munich.

Ganking wireless abroad

Starbucks now has free wifi, internationally. That means for the price of a latte (which really could be anywhere from reasonable to rent) you can sit in a warm, dry place and check your email, do some work, watch trashy television, whatever. So when my friend Corey told me he was going to be late picking me up, I got a latte and some shortbread cookies and hunkered down in the Munich Hauptbahnhof Starbucks. And somewhere between an episode of the Vampire Diaries and a whole lot of work emails, the unthinkable happened. Again. A German opera house made an offer within 48 hours of having heard me. And somehow, that made all of the previous funk seem less important.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Auditioning is like dating. You either have an interest or you don’t. You either have chemistry or you don’t. And it’s no one’s fault if you don’t, but you can’t beat yourself up or try to remake yourself in the image of someone else’s expectations because that destroys the possibility of a real connection with the right person, or in this case, the right opera house.

I’m singing a fantastic leading lady in a few years and it delights me to no end. Which is what I told Corey when he picked me up a few hours later. I got settled at his apartment, went to have supper, had a small nip of very yummy scotch (Glenmorangie Port Wood is a revelation!) and went to bed.

I woke up feeling less than enthusiastic. Singing for the Staatsoper is a huge deal. HUGE. And I didn’t want to screw anything up, so I warmed up carefully, did my hair and makeup, packed my suitcase, and left with plenty of time to spare. I schlepped from Marienplatz to the Starbucks for a quick little breakfast – note, sometimes people get surly when you ask questions before they’ve had their coffee – and found my way to the KBB at the Staatsoper. Warmed up, met with the pianist. Who had never played L’Enfant et les Sortilèges. Or Rake’s Progress. This could be very bad.

An afterword....

It’s been two weeks since the audition for Munich now, and I can look back and say it was exactly what I thought it was. The pianist blew on L’Enfant, I nailed my Queen, and they were nonplussed. I was too. But then I got on a plane and came back to the States. Many movies and airplane meals later, I was sipping a beer at our favorite restaurant, and I was so very very glad to be home. After two weeks of German background noise, it is funny to realize you’re hearing English spoken in a restaurant for the first time in what seems like ages.

There’s still more to tell, but this is my final word on audition feedback:

It’s like receiving a re-gift from someone you may not know very well. It could be something really special and speak to a need you didn’t know you had. Or it could be Star Trek steak knives. Either way, it's not up to you.

Part 7: Basel

In Basel

When I finally got to Basel, Eugene and I had just enough time to put down my things in his apartment before Cristi arrived on the train for supper. We wound our way through the city until we found the appropriate mix of carbs and wine (read: Italian food) that would satisfy our needs. One very large piece of lasagna and two glasses of wine later, we managed to get her back on the train so she could get back to Lausanne. I can’t describe to you how much it means that old friends will travel such distances to see me. When you spend most of your life on planes and trains and in hotels, friendly faces are an incredibly welcome change of pace. So Eugene and I visited a little and then I went to sleep. Sort of. I have this terrible habit of not going to bed at a reasonable hour when I’m all by myself. It’s like I can’t relax, and I have no gauge on the lateness of the hour without someone else saying, “hey, it’s time to go to bed.” Wednesday morning was super easy-going. Yogurt and coffee and Grey’s Anatomy before the audition. The pianist was delightful – the director of the studio program – and I felt comfortable and ready. It was also my first day without any kind of nasal meds. My nose is dry as all get-out, but at least I can breathe through it. I met the members of the panel – the Intendant, the music director, the Dramaturg, the assistant to the Intendant, all of them very friendly. I offered Fire, they asked for the Queen, and then asked if I wouldn’t mind swapping out with the HUGE German bass waiting outside. He was very friendly – commented on my very good German – and sang things from Rheingold and Parsifal. My lands, what a voice. They then asked me to sing Musetta and talked a little bit about their interest in me, especially as pertains to the studio program. It wasn’t anything I had considered, but perhaps I should. If I’m going to get work in repertoire other than the Queen, that means I need time to work on that other repertoire and a venue in which to sing it. If Basel is willing to take a chance on me, I may very well take them up on it.

Afterward, Eugene and I went wandering around the city, over the bridge, and around the Rhine. We bought swiss chocolate, groceries for supper, and settled in for a lovely meal with Grey’s Anatomy. And then I had a meltdown.

An email arrived from Düsseldorf, saying that my first two arias were great but that they weren’t totally überzeugend by my 2^nd Queen aria and that they would keep me on the list for Einspring opportunities, which basically means I’m a bench soprano. There are far worse things. But when your hormones are raging and you get such an email, it doesn’t take a lot to pull the lever into crazy. I spent the next several hours obsessing about why I don’t win competitions (um, what?) why I didn’t get into any young artist programs at major opera houses (excuse me, hello?) and why big houses don’t seem to want me (okay, that’s just excessive). And after Eugene left, yeah, you know it, I started to google. This is the biggest red flag ever. When you start to look and see what other people say about your singing.

I’ll say this now – I was tickled pink when Nola Defender took up paragraphs talking about my Queen of the Night in New Orleans. It was a great experience, I thought I sang better than I had in a while, and I loved being there.

Am I still singing a B-house Queen of the Night? Possibly.

Am I on my way to singing an ass-kicking A-house Queen of the Night? For sure.

So when I saw the review in Opera News, my heart fell through the floor. The reviewer said my coloratura wasn’t clean enough. And in one fell swoop, there it goes. Thud. So then I googled the reviewer. Who happens to be???

The head of libraries at Tulane.

Here’s a question for ye masses:

When I’m in my right mind (read: not estrogen-charged in a foreign country between auditions) do you think I go singing for someone with a degree in library science to get their opinions on my singing?

Not so much. But when you’re in the shame spiral, there you are. I didn’t sleep well, I procrastinated the whole way to bed, and was just sure I’d wake up feeling like poop.

Part 6: Düsseldorf and unterwegs

This morning, slightly restless and nervous about the dryness in my nose and wondering whether or not I could ever really wake up, Kristi played the perfect stage mom and herded me into readiness with breakfast and tea. She took me all the way to the train and made sure I got where I was going. The train to Düsseldorf is so fast, I hardly believed that we were able to get there so quickly. In the time it took me to put on my makeup, we were there and I was finding my way to the U-bahn. I think my sense of direction is only betting better, and I found the opera house in no time. Warmed up and really started to feel like myself again, met with the pianist, who was marvelous, and then just chilled until it was time to sing. I went first, to facilitate eating lunch before the train. I started with Fire, they asked for the first Queen, and then the second Queen. The house is beautiful, but the use of upright pianos on the stage, I am convinced, is some kind of hazing ritual. They put you up there with all the set pieces and this junky little instrument that’s nearly impossible to hear, they make you stand halfway back so they can see how you project in the house. The more I sing her, the more I feel like the 2^nd Queen and I are coming to an agreement. I promise not to beat her too badly, and she promises not to make me pay for it. And then, when it’s all said and done and I know I look like a million bucks and they’ve heard me sing pretty darn well, they thank me very very much for coming, and say that they have all my contact information and will be calling me very soon. Squee!!

This means I’m more than halfway done with auditions. Basel is tomorrow and then München on Friday. And you know what? I think I’m really getting a handle on this. I know how to be charming, I know how to be polite in this foreign language, I know how to sing, and this is just an opportunity for me to share that with some new people. I enjoy being here, and I feel like my kind of singing fits in over here a lot more than in the States. But before I get too far ahead of myself, I have to say a big thank-you to my sweet family members, who let me chill out at their place for the weekend, and to my friend Kristi, for housing me for two nights in Köln and being so incredibly level-headed and normal, despite all of my singer crazy. Most of all, I’m saying a thank-you to Dr. James McDonald and his wife, Dr. Annie McDonald, without whom I would still be a little early music singer who never wanted to cause a stir with her singing, and whose guidance made it possible for me to embark upon this insanity in the first place. I’m an opera singer, on an ICE train from Düsseldorf to Basel, I haven’t had to ask anyone a thing in English for the last eleven days, and there’s a very good possibility I’ve garnered some work, or at the very least, the interest of some prominent opera houses in Germany. To Dr. J, I send my deepest thanks and gratitude, for helping me become the singer I never knew I could be, and for setting the example for the kind of teacher and mentor I wish to become.

Rule Number One: Never Panic

I know I’m American because I never expect trains to be on time. I know I’m German because the punctuality of German trains lightens my heart in a way that most people find unnatural. So when my ICE train came to a stop outside of Mannheim, I was a little surprised to hear the very cordial voice come over the Lautsprecher to tell us that there were people on the platform and therefore the train could not pass. I was even more surprised when another ten minutes went by before the cordial voice came back to tell us that the police had been called to deal with this problem. Another ten minutes later, my connecting train to Basel long gone, I found myself very glad that I had availed myself of Uncle Licky’s Layer Rule because the Mannheim Bahnhof was downright cold. Nary a Starbucks in sight, so no free internet to make the time pass, but I did do a few laps around the shopping area, just to stretch my legs. So now I’m back on the train, settled happily in my table seat in the quiet car, listening to Midsummer Night’s Dream, taking in the industrial landscape, only a few short hours away from dinner with Cristi and an overdue visit with Eugene. Naptime?

Part 5: Köln

Köln!

The added benefit of having visited a city before is that when your friend texts you and says she’s running late, please camp out at the Starbucks, you know where she’s talking about and don’t have to freak out about finding it. So I sat myself at the Sbux – always a welcome sight, that big green lettering that signals consistency – and checked my email. Kristi picked me up, we were both sufficiently aghast at two NOT SO YOUNG people trying to reach each other’s larynx with their tongues. Gross.

We had an easy evening with a little supper – can I just take a moment and rejoice in the arrival of salad back in my daily diet? Much to the dismay of my relatives, I don’t consider potato salad to be real salad, nor potatoes with sauce to be a vegetable, nor corn, nor cooked cabbage. I need something green, leafy, that recently came from a living plant – and then settled in to watch Gilmore Girls in our pyjamas.

The medicine started to work and I was no longer totally paranoid that I wouldn’t be able to make it through my audition in one piece.

The next morning, we had breakfast and prepared to send me off to my audition. Kristi is a singer, so she knows there are certain weirdnesses we have about our routine. What we eat, when we shower and the like. I made my way on the U-bahn to my audition, getting there about the time I was supposed to, finding my way into the Bühneneingang, the pianist (who immediately shipped me into the Garderobe so I could warm up and change). This took forever. And were I not careful, I would have been completely freaked out by the sounds of a very youthful coloratura warming up in the next room. Singing every piece of repertoire I own. Every. Single. One. But when I saw her in the hallway and realized that she was auditioning for the studio program, I couldn’t help but feel a little warmth in my heart for her. It’s so hard to start out in this business, and even harder to stand among other singers. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The pianist rehearses with us for a little. She doesn’t know Ann Trulove, but I doubt this will matter. We get to the stage, the dramatic soprano sings through one excerpt from Onegin, and then the stage crew ships us into a rehearsal room way up on the higher floor. All of us. And the Intendant, who is terribly friendly, wants to know if it’s okay if we all just sit together. All of us. In the same room. For the duration of the audition. I think most singers would rather pull out their own eyelashes one by one than do this. There’s no time to calm yourself. There’s no opportunity to have your own private freak-out. There’s only sitting and waiting while someone else sings. But of course, no one wants to be difficult, so we all just nod and say sure it’s no problem. The Russian bass goes first – what a voice on that one! He gets the lecture about how he’s too young to be singing such old men, and he’s very respectful, he simply says this is what he’s getting hired to do. Then the little girl, who sings Cunegonde and then Blonde, saying that she does sing the Queen but will sing Blonde instead, so that we are not compared to one another. The Hungarian dramatic soprano behind me says, under her breath, “there’s no comparison, trust me.” She’s a piece of work, very sassy. So then the young one gets offered a spot in the studio program and leaves, all a-twitter. The dramatic soprano gets up and sings Butterfly. The Intendant asks her to sing Elisabetta (Don Carlo?) as well, and she asks if we can trade out so she can rest for a moment. I say sure, and he asks to hear my Queen. At this point, I’ve been sitting for nearly 40 minutes, haven’t sung a note in more than an hour, and I’m just trusting that I feel good.

I’ll tell you now – I totally killed. The Queen was fierce. He asked for Musetta, who was at her best and most seductive, and then he asked for Cunegonde, just because he likes the piece. And I pulled out every Blanche DuBois I had in me for that piece. When it was all said and done, he said he was so happy to hear me and was I working on Konstanze and which Donizetti do I sing and oh by the way, I do really enjoy singing Zerbinetta, at which his face totally lit up and he said he would have to look and see what he could put together because he would really like to have me there. Omigosh. It’s nearly 3 now, two hours after the audition started, three hours after I got to the opera house, Kristi picks me up and insists I tell her every single detail over lunch. I absolutely inhale lunch at this little Bio-café (bulgar and mushroom vegetable sauce, yum!) and then we spend the afternoon celebrating with tea and Kuchen. Yum.

Part 4: illness in a foreign country

A brief interjection on the train – spotted on a building near the Helmstadt Hauptbahnhof, a sign advertising: “Tattoo Friseur Café” – “Tattoo Hairstylist Café”

How does that combination work?

Feeling more zen, less than an hour to Hanover, but still only 1/3 of the way there.

Do I have enough British comedies to get me there without losing my Gehirn?

I must not nap. I have to get off this train in 40 minutes and connect to another train from Hanover to Dortmund and then another from Dortmund to Luedenscheid, where my dear cousin will be there to pick me up. I’m spending the weekend with Uwe and his wife Dagmar, and my great Onkel Willi and his wife Tante Ingrid. I’ve only spent one visit with Willi and Ingrid, at New Year’s back in 2008. They are delightful people and it will be so nice to hang about in pyjamas and easy clothing and not worry about singing for two whole days. Then, things really go into high gear with auditions in Koeln, Duesseldorf, Basel and then Munich. If I didn’t see my own reflection in the train window, I wouldn’t believe this is my life.

A weekend in the country – so inactive, that one has to lie down

Got off the train in Luedenscheid and was promptly greeted by my dearest cousin Uwe. We sat up and drank hot tea and I slept the best night’s sleep in their 3^rd floor room, all tucked up under a duvet, read to relax. Which means, of course, that I promptly caught a cold. Woke up all stuffy and sneezing, almost completely unable to breathe, it was ridiculous. We were meant to spend the afternoon with Willi and Ingrid, so Uwe and I set off on foot to their house just before lunchtime. Being with family means you don’t have to dress up, you don’t have to look professional, and you can eat as much or as little as you like. Or as little as your Tante Ingrid will let you eat, which is much more than any human could ever consume. Being Hindrichs also means that they will rejoice in your love of Rotkohl (red cabbage) and all things carbohydrate, and then try to persuade you to take just another two (or five) pieces of marzipan, because they know you love marzipan. Family is wonderful in this way. Then we went into the city so Uwe and I could look for an Apotheke that would be able to sell me the appropriate drugs to get rid of this head cold. Many stressful stops later – because everything seems to close at mid-day on Saturday – I had a little bottle of nasal spray, a packet of EmserSalz tablets, and a promise from Uwe that Dagmar would be able to advise me on what to take to get better. We had a lovely visit with her at the hospital – it’s so wonderful that she’s feeling better and able to raise her arm over her head for the first time in nearly two years. And then, fending off many attempts from Tante Ingrid to come back for dinner, we settled in for a quiet evening of bread and liverwurst spread and cheeses and various concerts on DVD (including Sting with the Royal Philharmonic and Thomas Quasthoff with a jazz band in Berlin) with my cousin Jurgen and many mugs of tea. The added benefit of being with family is that they completely understand when you have to do laundry and are not in the least bit offended or inconvenienced. Of course they understand that you’re on the road for 2 weeks and would rather not carry around two weeks’ worth of ick on your jeans. Slept in wonderfully, had a lazy morning with Uwe of watching Simon Rattle conduct the Berlin Phil and slowly making our way to the Luedenscheid Bahnhof. A very easy train ride into Koeln, where I met up with Kristi.

Part 3: Dresden, or "Why Le Crobag is the funniest name for a bakery"

Rosenkavalier at the Semperoper

The train ride from Erfurt was easy, and the Germans take their train times seriously, so I got into Dresden on time. Which meant I had exactly 90 minutes to get to the hotel, dump my crap, and get to the opera house for the 6pm curtain. This plan, in theory, would have been perfectly executed, had the internet functioned on the first try, had I been smart enough to pack something to snack on, all of those other things that begin with the Konjunktiv “haette.” Ich haette besser geplant. Ich haette etwas zu essen mitbringen sollen. I made it to the Semperoper, all bundled up like a backpacker and a really nice barman took pity on me and explained how to order food before the opera so it’s all ready for you at the first intermission. So my first course of dinner was an Apfelschorle and a giant pretzel.

Let me say this now – I do love going to the opera, but sometimes it can feel like work. It can feel like I have to be there to broaden my musical education or become more familiar with my craft or something. Thus far, my experience at the opera in Germany has been unparalleled. I was neither bored nor tired, and it didn’t matter how little I had eaten or how few hours I had slept. From the moment the curtain speech started – describing how we were seeing the 100^th anniversary performance of Der Rosenkavalier, premiered right there in the Semperoper, with the grandchildren of the original director there in the house with us – I was riveted. It was totally worth the 51 euro for my second balcony ticket. I put my elbows on the rail and didn’t stop staring until the lights came up. Anna Schwanewilms is possibly the most electrifying Strauss singer I’ve ever heard. Ever. In the history of evers. Anke Vondung was a pretty hot Octavian and sang really well. I was trying to figure out exactly what time period it was set in, as there was a conspicuous absence of the usual big puffy wigs and panniered dresses. I was struck by how conversational Strauss can be, within a lyrical line. This is my 2^nd Strauss opera in a week and I feel totally spoiled. Second act, I was totally not prepared for the presentation of the rose. I mean, I know it’s coming, I can see we’re headed that way, but when it arrives, it’s like your heart jumps into your throat and there’s nothing, nothing in the world other than Octavian and that silver rose and Sophie and the most gorgeous singing you’ve ever imagined in your heart of all imaginations. And you spend the rest of the act just waiting for Octavian to throw down and get Sophie away from the nasty lecherous Baron Ochs and his Lederhosen-clad entourage, acting every bit like the drunken morons they are. Second intermission was spent trying to read the program notes (good freakin luck!) and understand what the commentary is all about. It’s not bad, truly – two summers at Middlebury did me right. I learned two new words in Dresden: Kohl (cabbage) and Adelige (Nobility). Only one of them I learned at the opera house, selbstverstaendlich. By the time we got to the trio at the end of the third act, I was totally wrapped up in the singing, and more than anything I was renewing my original wish to someday sing the Marschallin. I don’t know if that will ever ever happen (seriously doubt it, vocally) but she is just every inch the serious lady. Classy. Elegant. Sexy. Totally possessed of her own importance, but vulnerable and afraid of growing older, being supplanted. She took my breath away.

And as we left, they gave us CD copies of the very first recording from 1911 as a souvenir. In Gottes Namen, indeed.

I spent most of the next day in the hotel. Scratch that. I spent all of the next day in the hotel, except for when I left for supper. I caught up on trash American television, rested, and generally acted like a slug. My friend Robin tells me that this is about getting the job, not about seeing the city, and she’s totally right. I had a deeelicious dinner at a restaurant recommended by my friend Erik, and made my way into bed at a decent hour. Easy slow breakfast this morning, took a shower and got myself all pretty and fancy. Met up with an old colleague/friend from Indiana who was also auditioning in Germany and we had a lovely little visit. Practiced with the pianist, felt good. Turns out, I was going to sing first so I could make my train. I listened to some Black Eyed Peas (Boom Boom Pow gets me in the mood) and I was totally in a good zone. Sang Fire, they asked for Queen 1, and then I fucked up. I totally fucked up. They asked if I could stay a few hours later to sing on the stage. And I hesitated. I thought about my train trip that’s going to take nearly eight hours to get from Dresden to my cousin’s house. I thought about how there is only one more train to Luedenscheid after the one I’m taking. And in that hesitation, they said, “we understand if it’s going to be difficult, let’s just hear the 2^nd aria.” So I asked if I could have a moment to look at the Bahn.de website and see if there’s a later train and, if so, I would happily stay. But by that point in time, they said, “Nein, wir haben Sie gehoert, es ist wirklich kein problem.”

I could have taken a rock and killed myself, I felt so stupid. I should have said YES YES YES I would happily stay and sing on the stage of Semperoper Dresden. But instead, I thought. STUPID STUPID STUPID.

But it’s happened now. I sang both Queen arias pretty darned well, I think. The pianist was very sweet and followed me beautifully. I tried not to shriek, generally speaking. I still need to find a better place to sing that 2^nd aria. She’s just not quite comfortable, after all these years, it’s still like I’m wrestling her to the ground and telling her “YOU MUST CHILL” like Lloyd Dobbler in Say Anything.

And I must chill. I must. So I’m going to doctor this cup of coffee and eat the croissant I purchased at Le Crobag (still the funniest name for a bakery EVER) and practice not freaking out. Because it’s very possible I rocked that audition and I might not even know it.

I MUST CHILL.

Part 2: Auf die Bahn

The downside of being so incredibly tired is that you never feel like you’ve slept enough. And then, when you’ve slept so much you’re no longer tired, you do silly things like stay up until 1 or 2 reading a new book, just because you can. And when breakfast is served until nearly 11am, why both getting up early? Which is why I’m yawning in large fashion on the train to Erfurt, on day 6 of this trip.

The concerts are over, I went to the Bayerische Staatsoper to see Ariadne auf Naxos with Corey and had the exquisite joy of sitting in the follow spot alcove for the whole thing, sipping a coke and stretching whenever I felt like it, and now the real work begins. Starting tomorrow, I’m in audition mode. No adventurous foods, lots of good sleep, lots of water, and a double dollop of moisturizer, because makeup does not sit well on dry skin. It’s been snowing quite a bit here so all of the land I can see from the train looks like a Currier and Ives tin – beautiful trees and rolling hills, dusted with white, just waiting to be visited by an angel or a horse-drawn sleigh.

I have my seat here in the quiet car, a table seat all to myself, and another two hours before I have to switch trains at Fulda.

I don’t know what is to come with this trip. When I stepped out of the Munich airport and into the lightly falling snow, I felt strangely at home. Walking through the bowels of the opera house with Corey, it’s as if something calls to me and says, “you belong here.” It’s possible that I could have the kind of career I want to have, if I’m willing to give up the comforts we’ve built living in the States, but once again I’m ahead of myself. For now, it’s me and the Deutsche Bahn and the peaceful countryside, whooshing past me at high speed. One Schritt at a time.

Sightseeing on the fly

Erfurt has a Strassenbahn, so I got to see a little of the city from the Bahnhof to my little hotel. Well, a hotel might be a gross overstatement of what it actually was. The word “hotel” was in the name, but it’s really more of a “pension,” a cross between a hotel and hostel – not so grungy as a hostel, but not nearly as nice as a hotel. I did have my own room and bathroom, but the Mitarbeiter were smoking in the kitchen and every time I turned on the fan in the bathroom, I would get a little cloud of yuck. Disgusting.

Rather than just hang out in the room, I decided to do a little sight-seeing, starting with the Dom. It’s a lovely old building, with lots of paintings and gilded things and not a single person inside. Isn’t it heartbreaking that people spent so much love and labor on a religious place of pilgrimage, and there are no pilgrims about? I spent a little quiet time with the Blessed Virgin, and then decided to visit the café. It’s my experience that there’s nothing quite like cathedral cafes, and this was no exception. Homemade Pflaumkuchen – my absolute favorite – and coffee out of the machine, which is actually better than most cups of brewed coffee I’ve had in Europe. It was a nice little stop before my very cold walk down to the old bridge. I made my way back to the hotel restaurant (there’s that word “hotel” again). Luckily, the food was everything I wanted it to be – hot, traditional and Preiswert. Sauerbraten, Thuringen’s own special kind of potato dumpling, and purple cabbage. YUM.

Slept reasonably well, ate breakfast, and even hitched a ride over to the Theater from the landlord. He offered to drive me to Dresden this afternoon, but I don’t know that I could manage so many hours in a car with a total stranger in a foreign language. Plus, Frank would string me up if I got in a car and drove three hours with a total stranger. I’ll give on this one. The audition was an interesting experience. I didn’t realize that most of these audition times I’ve been given are “start times,” and not actual times at which I will sing. So I was told 12 noon, and so were about 15 other people. We get a few minutes with the pianist, and then we are summoned over the loudspeaker to the Buehne. I sang passably well, certainly not my most spectacular, but the acoustic from where I was standing was just awful. Couldn’t hear a thing. But that’s over now. I’m back in the quiet car of the Deutsche Bahn, laptop with movies, a cup of coffee and a piece of Pflaumkuchen, on my way to Dresden. I have all day tomorrow to chill out and see the city, and then audition again on Friday. Between now and then, I will, I must find my zen place. The place where I can sing without fear or judgment, only enjoying this marvelous thing I’m so privileged to do. But for now, Colin Firth and Pflaumkuchen.

Audition tour 2011: Deutschland

I didn't have consistent internet access during my trip to Germany this year, so I kept a Word journal. Lots of train time means I wrote more than I thought I did, so we'll go in installments.

Part 1: Adventures in Deutschland

Zen packing strategy

Aided by the encouragement (read: harassment) of my husband, I managed to pack for 14 days in one very small pink carry-on suitcase - Cupcake rides again – and one computer backpack. Were I only coming to Germany for a regular old visit, I could have done without the suitcase altogether. After all those years of choir tours where you have to carry your own suitcase, I’ve gotten pretty good at paring it down to the absolute basics: two pair of jeans (1 on my body, 1 in the suitcase), three sweaters (1 on my body, 2 in the suitcase), five or six baselayers of varying warmth (smartwool for stupid arctic cold, long-sleeved t-shirts for average cold), a few pair of wool socks, one pair of dress shoes for concert and auditions, one mashable gown, one mashable audition dress, one set of dual-voltage hot rollers, two plug adaptors, the basics when it comes to toiletries (BUT this time I brought my own shampoo and two kinds of moisturizer – something about the water strips my skin and hair), and the necessary music.

About traveling in the winter

You will never wear all of the clothes you pack. Deal with this idea now. You will wear the exact same sweater for four days in a row because it’s the warmest one you have. You will not wear the pretty scoop-neck cashmere because the temperature will drop below freezing and you will want to be wearing the warmest stuff you have. You will not wear dress clothes, not even to the opera. You will wear your dress over all of those layers and take off the layers when you get to the audition, but not before. I just borrowed this fantastic fleece from my friend Theresa – it has one giant zip up into a stand-up funnel neck, and another zip that makes just the top of the collar lay down. It also has thumbholes down the sleeve, which sends me into raptures. It fits close, so I can wear it under my winter coat, and the high neck removes the necessity of wearing four scarves to keep warm. These are the kinds of pieces you will wear. Those crazy bitches in the jCrew catalogue, frolicking in tights and skirts and loosely-draped scarves? That photo shoot was done in May, with fake snow.

Two and a half in-flight movies:

1. Easy A – totally worth watching on the plane. Growing up in the Bible Belt, it’s easy to sympathize with a girl who is otherwise transparent but still manages to incur the wrath of the Jesus squad.

2. Life as we know it – also worth watching on the plane. But really not worth much else. Katherine Heigl, I have come to realize, plays the same woman in every movie. Driven, smart, witty but otherwise a little too ballsy for most men. Until she is undone by the otherwise goofy and/or clueless but incredibly handsome (notable exception: that guy from Knocked Up) antagonist.

3. Wall Street: Money never sleeps – only saw about half of it, but it makes me really not so crazy about Shia LeBoeuf. I find it difficult to take men in skinny jeans seriously. Michael Douglas is timeless, but what else is new there.

Multiple snacks on the plane, some better than others. I was especially pleased when the flight attendant asked if I would like Baileys or Cognac after supper. Lufthansa is the bomb.

If Wall Street never sleeps, then I can’t either

Staying awake on that first day after an overnight flight is the WORST. I tried to nap on the plane to the best of my ability, but the many interruptions for snacks kept disturbing my nap quest. When I got out of the Munich airport, it was snowing, just enough to make me feel like I was in some kind of Christmas movie. More than anything, I wanted a shower and food. Real German breakfast food. One S-bahn and two U-bahns later, I found myself happily situated in a hotel. With my boyfriend.

Say what?

When my friend Zach and I agreed to this gig, we said we would prefer to stay in a hotel, rather than a hostel, and that we would happily stay on our own in the States, or possibly even room together, if necessary. Well, the director took us up on our offer. Both of them. So there we were – two friends who fortunately really like each other, sharing this little German hotel room. And poor Zach, not knowing that there’s quite a difference between ‘Meine Freundin’ and ‘Eine Freundin von mir,’ said his ‘Freundin’ was joining him. So there I was – jet-lagged, starving, wishing for a shower and the girlfriend of an attractive gay man. Totally normal.

After eating my weight in breakfast, I took the most blissful shower ever and my friend Theresa came to pick us up for a little rehearsal. What’s that you say? Rehearsing after an overnight flight and virtually no sleep? Of course it’s a good idea! My voice was only partly awake – luckily, the soprano part for the Bach Bminor mass is low – but we made it through. My friend Corey came to pick us up after that and we did a little sight-seeing. Went to the top of the Neues Rathaus and shivered as we took in the view, an early supper at the Hofbrauhaus, and then Corey and I went to the theatre for an evening of German operetta. I was still awake at this point, which was a minor miracle. I did start to doze off in the middle of the 2^nd act and Corey was afraid I would keel over in my seat, but we made it and then I slept the sleep of a thousand sleeps. For nearly 10 hours.

Out of the abyss: what did you ship in 2010?

I'm in a hotel in Dresden, sipping my second cup of tea and catching up on my blogroll reading. Whenever something catches my eye, I mark it as "unread" so I can go back and read it again with 1. calmer eyes 2. more time 3. less urgency. Seth Godin, whose writing I love, calls most people to own, brand, market and ship the best versions of their own work, and he's not shy about it. So, in response to his call, here's my list of what I "shipped" in 2010

1. ran my first marathon

2. landed an opera contract at an international A-level house

3. sang what might be my signature role in my hometown

4. had a student tell me that she was able to relax and enjoy her singing, thanks to my help

5. got over my own fears and found a new voice teacher

6. ran a 1/2 marathon with my husband

7. had a successful turn as matron of honor in my friend Ami's wedding

8. got a new day job

9. stared fear of failure in the face and kept going

Now I'm not saying that all of these things will change the course of my life, but I feel they are all steps toward owning who I am. Really owning her, warts and all.

There's lots more to say, but I want to see some of Dresden before the snow comes again.

What did YOU ship in 2010?

Retrospectives on races

Two weeks ago I was in a very small hotel room in Chicago, fighting a cold and cursing not-so-softly under my breath about the curious temperature spike that had the city-dwellers shucking their coats and frolicking in short-sleeved shirts. I was nervous as all hell and trying really hard to summon up the excitement that I usually feel before a road race. I didn't sleep well the night before, I could hardly breathe through my nose, and nothing seemed to put down the awful fear that I had trained for six months and would not be able to finish this race. I set out all of my stuff - shoes, socks, shorts, shirt, sunscreen, hat, sunglasses, gu, race bib, bodyglide, slept like absolute crap, and awoke at the crack of dawn with my friend Robin, who promised not to leave my side for the whole race. I ate some cereal and a clif bar and we made our way to the starting line at 6:30am, along with 38,000+ other runners. Richard went off to the seeded start corrals (read: speedy people) and Rob and I went to the open start where we could chill, stretch, and I could contemplate my almost-certain demise over the next 26.2 miles.

I'm not used to preparing for something this long and being so incredibly fearful about the outcome. My other road races were daunting, to be sure, but somehow that word "marathon" inspires a whole new level of fear, reverence, awe and straight-up madness. There are people who put "running a marathon" on their bucket list, and here am I, at the age of 30, crossing that off the list and putting another marathon ON the list. Did I finish? Of course I did. Robin kept her promise and, despite a minor emotional meltdown at mile 23 that had me in tears, we had a pretty good time. The route was fun and flat and shady for the first 17 miles, and then the last 9 were in full sun and I wished for death almost continuously. Yet we had fun. I have two weeks' distance from that race and I feel no regret. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. Did I have blisters? Oddly, no. Why am I training for another one? Why not? I've heard marathoners say, "the pain is temporary, the pride (or glory) is forever." I'm inclined to agree with them.

So to all of the nay-sayers who continue to tell me that I'm a crackhead or that I'm nuts or crazy or suicidal for keeping on with this running thing, I say this to them:

When I exorcise my crazy, I do it in public with thousands of other people and, when it's over, someone puts a medal around my neck. What does your crazy get you?

anniversaries

Five years ago today, I posted this little entry about a big-ass hurricane that was headed toward my homeland. I still get angry when I think about how long it took for FEMA to show up. I still get tight in my chest when I think about my mom holed up in the attic of their house. I still get intensely sad when I think about our family photos drenched in a 15-foot storm surge that was never supposed to make it past their 9-foot driveway of perceived safety. And I still want to write massively hateful letters to anyone who tries to defend the actions or words of the president at that time. But none of that will change what happened, or bring back those days when I didn't know where my mother was.

Tomorrow is five years since landfall. If you don't already know the details, the Times Picayune did up this really great interactive map that shows exactly how the city flooded. I've already watched it twice, until my husband made me close it. There's also this great photo gallery of "before and after." The photo that still turns my stomach is the one of the guys in boats out on Old Spanish Trail in Slidell, because that sign is about 3/4 of a mile from my parents' home.

If you grew up where I grew up, you would never think twice about staying during a hurricane. Chances are, if you chose to evacuate, you would end up stuck on the interstate halfway between Lake Charles and Houston, running out of gas and food like everyone else. You would go to the grocery a few days before, stock up on canned goods and jugs of water, tape your windows if you felt that was necessary, and wait it out. I can't count the number of hurricanes that just blew apart or only brought a little rain before they fizzed out or turned and hit Mexico or Florida. I'm not saying it's logical, I'm saying it's institutional memory. If you never evacuated for your whole damned life, why would you start? This is the way it was.

But that's not the way it is now. It took my parents four years to purchase a dining room set. Mom would say she didn't want to buy anything just to have it destroyed again, so they ate dinner off their patio furniture for four years. When they came to visit my house in Boston for the first time, she was shocked to see photos in my home that she thought had been destroyed. My childhood furniture that had moved out with me, eons ago, safe from that awful storm surge. The bookcase they had made for me when I was five years old. There are houses in their neighborhood people just didn't come home to. Across the main road from their neighborhood and the high school, some are still boarded up and vacant. The grocery store is a lot more crowded - Slidell took a lot of New Orleans refugees when they came home, and the sleepy suburb is no longer sleepy.

When strangers ask where I'm from, I usually tell them I'm from Boston. It's easier than going through the uncomfortable progression of:

"I'm from New Orleans."

*look of recognition dawns*

"Oh, do you still have family there?"

"Yes, almost all of my family lives there."

"Ohhh, did they make it through okay?"

-- at this point, I have to choose how much I want to reveal to these people who have no idea what I'm talking about. I can either say,

"Yeah, they did fine." - this puts an end to it

or

"No, their neighborhood took 14 feet of water and they lost everything."

....and that REALLY puts an end to it.

So I usually say I'm from Boston. Because I don't want to share all that hurt, anger, confusion, frustration, disappointment, fury with someone who doesn't know me, who doesn't know my story, and doesn't know my kin.

My friend Ebi is a psychologist. He says it's important for me to continue to talk through this because it's obviously unresolved. He has no idea how right he is. You need only look through the Katrina archive to see that we are not resolved. We are not all right. We are scarred and hurting and still wondering when we will get our homes back. But we are not down or deterred. We continue to rebuild when people say we are bonkers for ever putting houses on that god-forsaken land. They can stick it.

Happy anniversary, Big Easy. Love to you from a hometown girl in the great white north.

Back to life, back to reality

My suitcases are empty. My dog is under the dining room table, nosing my knee to let me know he's there and would like me to stop typing and pet him. My husband is snoozing softly in the office. His desktop is whirring and sounds like it might take flight at any moment. Otherwise, the house is blissfully quiet. I'm home.

We left on July 30 for a choir tour, came home for a family emergency and flew to DC, came back to Boston, three days later I packed to go down to the Cape for a wedding, and we drove back from the Cape this afternoon and I have NO PLANS of leaving my house, my town, my dog, my bed, my clothes, my shower, my fridge, my sanity until sometime next month when we go to a family wedding in Virginia.

I used to love change and travel, the unexpected and the new. I loved picking up my tent and schlepping my life to a new place. Living in another place for a year, learning new currency, learning new colloquialisms. I don't know if it's turning 30 or just where I'm at right now but I want nothing more than to stay. Stay stay stay. I want to be in this place long enough to develop some kind of a routine again, long enough to put the suitcases away - really away, behind the dresser in the closet, far enough away to know that I don't need them. I want to ditch my travel sizes and my little ziploc bags of foreign currency and international SIM cards. I want to forget a little.

I have a great season coming up. A world premiere in Carnegie Hall, a gala and an opera in the two states I called home for 24 years of my life. A concert tour in my favorite European country and even the joy of taking said concert tour back to my home turf. A return to the opera company that started my career, that took a chance on me as a very young singer, and a return to the city that houses my favorite cupcake bakery of all time. But if you'll permit me, I'm going to put off thinking about that season for just a few more days, until my head stops spinning. I know I have to get cooking on the Rosenkavalier Trio and the dialogue (in English AND German) for Flute and I know I really need to learn the Laudamus Te in a serious fast way but, just for now, I'm going to pet my dog. I'm going to breathe in and out. I'm going to go to jury duty (ick) and bring a book and think about my 15-mile run coming up next weekend. I'm going to go to the gym and lift for the joy of lifting. I'm going to wear my favorite aqua sweatshirt because it makes my eyes pop and it's very soft against my skin. I'm going to enjoy my leftover wedding manicure as long as it lasts. I'm going to go through my closets and make a bag to donate. I'm going to eat dinner with my husband. I'm not going to think about singing or practicing or learning music or even teaching music. Not this week.

So if you want to talk about knitting, give me a call. If you want to talk about running, I'm all over it. If you want to talk about new ways to cook eggplant or a recipe for pie crust that's got you on fire, come find me. But the career counselor's office is shut, the music teacher is out, and the opera singer is on vacation. Whew.

a weekend in the country

(so inactive, that one has to lie down)

I spent the weekend in Atlanta with the other bridesmaids in our friend Ami's wedding. I haven't been to the ATL in years, and never for more than about 18 hours or the occasional layover at the airport. Each time I return to the south, I'm filled with incredible longing for the comfort food of my childhood - fried chicken and biscuits, pie, okra, cornbread. But each time I enter a public place and am confronted with the, "smoking or non?" question, I'm pulled screaming back into 1985, seriously shocked that people are still allowed to smoke in public places and that they actually DO. I haven't gone home with my hair smelling like smoke since I stopped clubbing in grad school, and I was really okay with that.

But enough about smoking.

I had a really fantastic long run while in the ATL. Seven quiet miles in and around Buckhead, up and down some really nice hills and two really ferocious ones that had me begging for mercy. But I think I've really turned a corner. When I got home yesterday, I went straight to work (suitcase in tow) and worked till 5, caught the train, and went to the gym for my cross-training time on the bike. I'm not saying I'm a master at this, but I think I've convinced my body that it's okay to run when on vacation and it's okay to go to the gym even when you were on an airplane for the morning and then put in some hours at work because you will feel better when it's done. That said, I plan to spend this morning in my jammies, go for a late morning run when the humidity is down (sidebar: late morning no longer means 12 noon when your body wakes you up at 6:15 - late morning now means 8 or 9) and stretch plenty before I head in to work. I'm in week 19 of my marathon training (!) and have to do 12 miles this weekend, sandwiched between work, a wedding, and a bridal shower. Get it done. Do your job. The end.

a really good day, in numbers

10 - miles from my neighborhood to the Boston Common

2 - big, fat, happy black labs whose ears perked up when I ran down their street

1 - really generous Wheelock student who, when asked if there was a water fountain nearby, went inside and got me an ice-cold bottle of water

0 - times I was nearly hit by a car

1:56 - my finishing time

8 - people ahead of me in line at the Starbucks, post-run, desperately seeking food

2 - other sweaty runners who were at the same Starbucks

11 - am when my husband's softball game started

1 - new player on my husband's softball team who, when I was introduced as, "this is Emily, she just ran here from Hyde Park," responded "Hi. You're crazy."

6 - of my friends are now referring to me as "Crazy Emily."

12:45 - when my husband knocked in the winning run for his team and the celebration began

1 - shower at the Chinatown YMCA that was so beautiful and sweet I couldn't stop smiling as I washed off 10 miles of funk

5 - tickets for Futures at Fenway, the Sox minor league games

2 - hours we waited at Fenway Park for the rain delay to pass, enjoying the view of the kids running around in the rain

3 - Skehans who kept us company in the rain

0 - pieces of glass that ended up in my foot, although I walked from Kenmore to Fenway Park barefoot in the rain

3 - red sox souvenir cups ganked from Fenway by people who left them behind

2 - historical fiction novels finished this weekend (I heart the Tudors)

1 - loaf of banana bread coming out of the oven (I heart my husband)

8 or 9 - beautiful hours I am sure I will sleep because nothing makes me sleep well like a hard run and a long happy day

ouch

Nine miles today. Thought I was ready. Thought I was just going to trot along with my really good endurance and it was going to be no thang at all. Been following the plan (with the notable exception of cross-training, which I know I just need to get on the horse with that) and doing everything I'm supposed to do, but the legs were just not in it to win it today. Miles 1-5 were pretty normal, miles 6-8 were difficult but manageable, and the last mile, especially leading into the home stretch, were just about intolerable. I have at least two hot spots on my right foot (not the same spot as before, brand new hot spots) and a little bit of chafing under my right arm (but not my left - weird?!) but the biggest ouch came - and this is where it gets a little icky - as soon as I crossed the 9 mile mark, hit the button on my watch, and immediately started to dry heave. Thankfully, there were no cars on the street as I plunged toward the ground not once or twice, but probably five times. Nothing came up, and I managed to get across the street and grab onto a fence to get my balance, but wow y'all.

According to my timer, I averaged just over an 11-minute mile. This is not bad at all, especially for long distance. It's only about a minute over my short run time, which is how it should be. But I finished nearly three hours ago and I'm still just plumb wore out. I did a good stretch (thanks to the fantastic videos on RunnersWorld.com) and cool down. Washing my hair took far too much energy. Eating breakfast took even more, ridiculous. And now, I'm going to curl up in my special living room chair and try to let my muscles rest. Oy gevalt. Do I seriously have to do 10 miles next weekend?? Hal Higdon, why do you torment me so??

slow love

I read a fantastic book today - Slow Love, by Dominique Browning. She came to speak at Trinity a short while ago in the lecture series we've been running. I was trying to explain to my friend Ami what this book is about and I just know I did it a disservice when I said, "it's this really well-written book about how she lost her job, lost her shit, and then found her way back again," but that's basically what it is.

I was in a really bad place after I finished my doctorate. I was confused, flailing, circling the drain and talking to Elvis, ready to fling myself at just about any job that moved in the vain hope that it would give me some kind of security and inner peace. Well first of all, I discovered that security and inner peace don't necessarily go together. I have a few good gigs over the next two years, a part-time day job that lets me arrange books and make window displays, a small studio of students whom I enjoy teaching, and to the average observer, I'm "not pursuing my dream on a full-time basis."

But here's the crazy thing: I am.

I'm getting up every morning, checking my running schedule, and logging my mileage. If I'm too tired to do it one day, I do it the next day. But every week, I meet my schedule so I'm on-track for the Chicago Marathon.

I moved my computer out of the dining room, which moves my work out of the dining room and into the office, where it belongs. As a result, my dining room looks like a dining room and not like a holding ground for procrastination. This means I have to deal with my paperwork as it comes in, deal with my emails in a timely manner, and not put off what really needs to be done. Business is in the office. Life is everywhere else.

I'm taking voice lessons with a new teacher. I'm putting myself out there and seeing where this leads and trying very hard to listen to what my body says in return. Sometimes the signs are clear and my body gets it, sometimes I find myself practically choking on my own tongue (no, that's not a figure of speech) but I'm trying new things instead of clinging to the old ways for comfort's sake.

More than all of these things, I'm living in the present. I'm feeling the whole-body ouch of a six-mile afternoon run the day after a twelve-mile bike ride (keeping in mind that I haven't been on a bicycle since I went over my handlebars at 15). I'm making dates with friends and sending silly phone pictures to my mother and helping my friend finish the plans on her wedding, and I'm LIVING.

Go read Dominque Browning's book. It's really lovely and, in many ways, articulates that journey from the torpor of fear and uncertainty and resistance to change all the way to honest, present-tense living. And with that, I'm going to bed. I have miles to run in the morning.

the alarm clock....

....goes off at 7 and I really wish it didn't have to. The weather channel, which I think might be run by trained monkeys, said that it's supposed to get up to 90 today, 70 before 8am, and that meant I had to get my rear out of bed and on the road before it's too hot. ugh.

I'm a total chicken when it comes to the heat. I like it to be about 55 when I have to do any kind of distance longer than 4 miles, which I'll have to start doing next week when my long run jumps to the 6-mile mark. This is week 11 of 30 in my marathon training and, as they say, slow and steady wins the race. I'm not looking to win the chicago marathon, I just want to finish without injury. At the same time, I do have a few small goals I'd like to accomplish along the way. I'd love to break a 10 minute mile on my shorter training runs. I'd love to be able to train a little later in the morning without wishing for death in the last mile. I'd love to figure out the combination of stretches that will loosen up my very tight calf muscles. But the big goal? Finishing without injury. Period.

I might start doing my cross-training with Team Trinity, the cycling team that does the Rodman Ride every year. Two of their organizers are friends of mine and they've been trying to get me on a bike for a few years now. Maybe this is my opportunity. I enjoy swimming but getting to a pool is problematic for me, and riding the bike or even doing the arc trainer at the gym is not as much fun as being outdoors. Just today, in that last half mile in which I was wishing for death and a cold shower, I saw the cutest little chipmunk dash across my path and I had to smile. Since I started running, I have a much greater appreciation for time spent outdoors and the direct effect it has on my mental health. Just being out there under the trees and smelling the smells of the early morning, before all the cars and buses have been out to foul up the air quality, before the garbage trucks and the street sweepers have swirled all the trash smells and the dust smells together, it's really idyllic. Kind of cool and green and lovely.

Stretching, part 2, coming up.

The heat is on

It's spring training and has been for the last few months already. I'm in week 7 of my 'novice supreme' marathon plan (was it Robin who said 'novice supreme' sounded like a dessert?) and that means I'm following this very carefully laid out plan that takes me all the way from early springtime to my October marathon in Chicago, for which I am very VERY excited. So far, I've done pretty well. Doing my short runs and my long runs on Saturdays, with the occasional exception where my very short (2mile) run turned into a walk because I was dumb enough to bring the dog with me. Sammy is great, for about the first mile. He's bopping along with mom, nose high, ears back, and then he does his business and loses all sense of purpose. After that, he just wants to take it easy and smell everything along the way. Totally ruins my pace, but at least I know better now.

The weather has been really wonky. I had to pull out a sweater the other day because it was ridiculously cold, and I even ran my little 3 miles in TWO long-sleeved shirts to stave off the awful damp yuck. But that's not the case today, nosir. Today, it's lovely and clear and probably going to get HOT. Where am I? Sitting at the computer, being a huge chicken about getting out there in the heat....grrrrr......but it's for sure time to get going. Momma's got three miles to run, Hal Higdon says so, and it's not going to get any cooler before dark. Best be on my way.

Happy springtime to you and yours!