travelmonkeys

The Year in Lit: Four Favorite Books of 2010

2010-12-11T12:33:00.010-05:00

No doubt about it, 2010 was a wonderful year for travel. We MONKEYS got to go to Australia, Hong Kong, China, Ireland, and India, as well as the less exotic locales of Atlanta, Vancouver B.C., Austin, Portland (Oregon), Tallahassee, D.C., Seattle, Dallas, Chicago . . . and let's not forget New Jersey.

As I was reflecting on the year, I thought about the extraordinary number of fantastic reading experiences I had, most of which were derived not just from the content but from the situation of reading about a foreign land while in a foreign land. I thought I'd share some of the highlights with you.

I should point out--you needn't actually go to any of these places to enjoy any of these gems. So should you find yourself longing for escape in the coming year, but not the means or the time to actually get away, consider picking up one of these volumes.

And count yourself lucky that being homebound means you can still experience it in the form of a physical book--with our touring schedule and the need to travel light, more and more of my books are coming to me via e-reader.

Though it's interesting to note: Every single one of these most memorable reads of 2010 were with physical books. Coincidence?

"The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor"

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This book was actually read at the tail end of 2009, but I'm going to include it because it was such a highlight.

The book had been sent to my brother by our bio-dad when we were kids, and I'd always wanted to read it. When I moved out of my parents' home, I brought it with me to all the shared housing of college, to the three apartments I shared with M, then into a box and shipped across the country with all our other necessities when we moved from Seattle to New York. Once nestled onto our Brooklyn book shelf, it remained there, unperturbed, for almost a decade, though I glanced at it often and wondered when I would finally read it.

We booked a trip to Mexico right after finishing our show at the Public last December and I thought, Aha! Perfect! (I'm always drawn to the slim volumes when packing.)

We were staying on a hut on stilts, right beside the ocean on the Yucatan Peninsula. The walls were all slatted, as though the hut had gills, and a storm began to rage almost as soon as we'd arrived, which filled the hut with wind no matter how we tried to manipulate the louvers. It wasn't entirely unpleasant; I had the sensation of being super-oxygenated.

This was an eco-hut: as soon as the sun went down, we had no light. So by the glow of the cheap candle I'd purchased at the store--one of those tall glass cylinders with a religious decal slapped on the glass's exterior--and sitting on the bed with mosquito netting whipping around me like an anxious bride's tulle, my husband snoring beside me, I at last read Gabriel Garcia Marquez's record of a young Colombian sailor's account of being shipwrecked and surviving on the open sea for ten days.

It's a simple tale, simply told, and absolutely gripping. Man versus nature at its most basic: circling sharks, relentless sun, dehydration, hunger . . . and one very memorable encounter with a sea gull.

If this were Hollywood, we'd flash back and forth between this man on the raft struggling to survive and the story of the girl at home, the one who'd betrayed him, the one he was surviving for . . . something daring would happen at the end, some feat of strength or cunning that would cause us in the audience to gasp with either envy (I wish I could do that) or disbelief (No one could do that). Not this story.

Towards the end he writes, "It never occurred to me that a man could become a hero for being on a raft for ten days and enduring hunger and thirst." That's all this story is, and because of that, it's great.

"Revenge of the Mooncake Vixen"

Marilyn Chin

I picked this up at a bookstore in Hong Kong. It's the tale of two Southern California Chinese-American girls who deliver Chinese food from their family's "Double Happiness" restaurant. Their axe-wielding grandmother is an awesome matriarch, and the whole story is told in a loose, vivid, fantastical way. It's crude and violent, poetic in the most super-sized, essential sense of that word. The whole thing is sharp angles and pokes and absurdity that captures the bigger truths. It feels almost like a cartoon. And the author, Marilyn Chin, isn't afraid to change the voices or storytelling techniques frequently, so you can never get too comfortable. The ground is always shifting beneath you.

Here's an excerpt from one of my favorite chapters, a monologue written in the voice of Grandmother Wong:

"They good girls, do homework, get straight As. But I have to teach respect. Only I do, because their mother and father too busy make money. They open restaurant at 4 a.m. Go to sleep at one. They get three-hour sleep. All my son do is swear . . . fuck this, fuck that . . . and Mei Ling mother, all she do is cry . . . She say, I go back to Hong Kong! I go back to Hong Kong! In Hong Kong she used to ride rickshaw to teahouse. Now, in America, she work like slave. her hand use to be white and soft. Now rough like sea cucumber. I say, don't you know? This what you suppose to do in America? Work day and night. You think Jesus or Buddha give you free money? All they do work for money then fight fight about money. Money never enough. They always keep big eyes on cash register. I say, your daughters grow breasts! You can't see? You don't care, grow breasts or snakes!

Little peapods, I say, you don't want to be like that. You get straight As, go work high in glass building, be king of office. Lawyer, doctor, president, I don't care, close restaurant if you want, just don't dance at Pink Pussycat. I don't want you cook if you don't want cook. My Moonie hates to cook. And I say that's okay. She won't get husband, but who need husband, end up like my son, useless, spit in wok, hate this, hate that."

"A Star Called Henry"

Roddy Doyle

I purchased this in Cork, Ireland, and then read most of it while in a bathtub in Dingle on a day in June when the rain was coming down so thick and cold that we decided to cancel our planned drive around the peninsula.

It's the story of a fellow named Henry Smart, born in 1901 in a Dublin slum, and he lives through some of the most pivotal events in Ireland's history, including the Easter Rising in 1916

and the War of Independence that followed.

If that sounds like a history lesson, fear not! It's such a beautiful read, pulling you right into the life of this boy, son of a one-legged whorehouse bouncer, a clever child who grows into a man as we follow along. Doyle's voice is so compelling, you'd follow it anywhere. Here's how he describes Henry's grandmother, right on page two:

"Wrapped in her sweating black shawl, she could have crept out of any century. She might have walked from Roscommon or Clare, pushed on by the stench of the blight, walked across the county till she saw the stone-eating smoke that lay over the piled, sagging fever-nests that made our beautiful city, walked in along the river, deeper and deeper, into the filth and shit, the noise and the money. A young country girl, never kissed, never touched, she was scared, she was thrilled. She turned around and back around and saw the four corners of hell. Her heart cried for Leitrem but her tits sang for Dublin. She got down on her back and yelled at the sailors to form a queue."

I loved this book so much, I secretly resented the sun for coming out and forcing me out of the tub and back onto the road.

"The White Tiger"

Aravind Adiga

We were on a five-city tour of India in August, and I picked up this book at an airport in Hyderabad on the advice of my friend Maureen.

I could not put it down.

It's written as a series of seven letters over seven nights from a young Indian entrepreneur to the Premier of China, Wen Jiabao, and in his first letter he says this:

"Only three nations have never let themselves be ruled by foreigners: China, Afghanistan, and Abyssinia. These are the only three nations I admire.

Out of respect for the love of liberty shown by the Chinese people, and also in the belief that the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, cell phone usage, and drug abuse, I offer to tell you, free of charge, the truth about Bangalore."

You may not always agree with him, but you always want to hear more about his take on the world, and the plot thickens most rivetingly. It would make for an excellent monologue, the voice is so great. Go to Amazon and read the first few pages to see more.

Having just traveled in China researching manufacturing there and conditions of workers, then being in India performing a show about technology and being very aware of the competition between the two countries--and what that competition has done to the lives of the workers in both places--I couldn't have asked for a more perfect book. It's hilarious and heartbreaking and smart and touching, and really, just so, so funny.

But listen! Even if you don't know Wen Jibao from Chairman Mao, even if you've never been to India, pick up this book! It's extraordinary! It sucks you in from page one and you'll be sorry to turn the final page.

What I Want Right Now

2010-10-24T10:04:00.002-04:00

Mmmm. Irish breakfast. Would you believe I ate this every single morning I was in Ireland?

Love me that white pudding.

Sheila and Soph, come back to Brooklyn soon so we can all go get some Irish breakfast, please.

My Mood, Captured in a Photograph

2010-10-16T01:04:00.002-04:00

Taj Ma-Kiss

2010-10-15T12:58:00.001-04:00

Boy, I sure do love this guy.

PDX

2010-09-14T17:07:00.002-04:00

Many more posts from India yet to come! But life! She keeps me busy!

We're in Portland, Oregon now, as part of the TBA Festival, an annual explosion of weird and wonderful that we're extremely fond of.

In addition to the monologue(s) we brought to the festival, we got asked to participate in this year's "Ten Tiny Dances," and participate we did! Above is a still from our dance, which involved an orange, an art appreciator, and a statue that comes to life in a very juicy way.

Performed for 700 people in the round, it was great fun.

Quote

2010-08-28T08:00:00.000-04:00

Delhi (No Belly)

2010-08-27T09:23:00.002-04:00

As soon as we learned we'd be going to India, we wrote to our dear friend Rishi, a former student of ours who hails from outside of Mumbai. He immediately wrote back with wonderfully detailed advice about each of the cities we'd be visiting, and told us some good news: He'd actually be in Delhi at the same time we were there, so we'd get to meet up!

That was the good news. But here was his unvarnished take on the city:

New Delhi - Hot and really really disgusting, in almost every way. I'm actually sad that I'll be seeing you in this truly terrible place. The Commonwealth Games - the Olympics for the "we used to be part of the empire" world, are beginning in October in Delhi. The city is scrambling to make all sorts of deadlines, including construction of a whole lot of crap. The Delhi Metro (which everyone will tell you about) is also under construction, and it means that the shortest driving distance will take hours.

Now, Rishi is a champion complainer. He has the comic's gift for complaining about everything, big and small, but being so entertaining about it that you would never ever say he has a bad attitude.

So we took his condemnation of the city with a grain of salt. And thus, with our expectations properly in check, we arrived in Delhi late one hot and rainy afternoon, and met up with Rishi, who whisked us around the city on a whirlwind tour.

Aside from the day we landed, our duties with the Consulate had us scheduled to within an inch of our life, so we really didn't get a chance to see many of the monuments the city is famous for.

But on that first evening, Rishi ushered us into the Jantar Mantar ten minutes before closing. It's a huge astronomical observatory built in the early 1700s that today feels like it was made for amazing photo ops.

And then we saw the Gate of India, both a memorial to Indians who died fighting for the British in both World War I and Afghanistan, and a Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Turns out it's also not a bad place to buy postcards.

We concluded the night with a leisurely meal at Veda, a very hip, newish restaurant from the fashion designer Rohit Bal. It feels like a hangout for sexy Indian vampires, as envisioned by Moghuls who dabble in time travel and have a penchant for perfectly cooked kebabs.

We would have liked to see the Red Fort, but alas, time did not permit. Rishi described it so vividly, I'm going to share his description with you anyhow:

I would really recommend seeing the Red Fort, it was built by the same emperor who built the Taj Mahal, and it is absolutely beautiful. The ceilings in some of the outdoor rooms were once studded with gold, diamonds and rubies - incomparable. Its also deeply depressing as, when the British invaded, they built their barracks in front of the fort, ousting the emperor. The gold and diamonds essentially became their personal piggy bank in the backyard, and they plundered like it was their job (which it was).

We got to see Rishi once more, following our performance. He and Prabh (another Colby alum, though not one of our students) took us out to a private club that Prabh is a fourth-generation member of.

These clubs are a big deal in India. In no small part because alcohol is heavily taxed all over India, except at these private clubs, which the government treats as non-profits. It's quite a loophole. Prabh's parents put him on the waiting list the day he was born. (Ok, maybe the day after.)

Afterwards, Prabh gave us a ride back to our hotel. He was driving his mother's car, and the amusing thing about this car was that it had both a Colby sticker on the back, and a stuffed lobster within, which Prabh say have been there ever since he was accepted into Colby.

So though we didn't get to see too much of India's capital city, we thoroughly enjoyed our time with Rishi and Prabh, who gave a very human and personal touch to our time in Delhi.

Hyderabad? Hyderagood!

2010-08-24T06:15:00.001-04:00

This lush, fascinating city was a wonderful surprise, a real high point in our time in India thus far. Of the five cities we are visiting on this tour, it was the only one neither of us had heard of prior to the invitation, but now that we've visited, we can't wait to go back.

Here are four highlights of our time in Hyderabad:

1. Attending the Night Markets around Charminar during Ramadan

...and then going to the famous Irani hotel, Medina, and ordering haleem, a dish they only make during Ramadan. It's made of mutton and wheat and ghee, and lots of spices, and it's all boiled together for at least 12 hours.

And how was it? Well, both Mike and I really liked the flavor, but the texture takes some getting used to. Basically, the meat is boiled until it disintegrates into long stringy pieces, so you can't tell the meat apart from anything else. A kind of meaty pudding, if you will.

It reminded me of the recent season of Top Chef Masters, in which Marcus Samuelsson showed off his African cooking skills, and the judges were like, "These flavors rock, but, um, is the texture supposed to be this way?"

And he was like, "Yeah. Totally."

And they were like, "Oh. Ok. You win."

2. Conducting a workshop with up-and-coming young theater artists

These are some of the participants, having coffee and cookies with us in the courtyard of one of the buildings of the famous Nizam who once ruled all of Hyderabad, and whom Time magazine put on their cover in 1937 as being the richest man in the world.

Also there was one of those incredibly sharp Indian mutts, whom Mike and I have taken to calling "The Great Indian Street Dog." Smart little guys, navigating busy streets at just a few weeks old when I can barely do the same at 33. This one was particularly charismatic, and managed to cajole at least a dozen cookies out of the participants (and none from us, the dog-worshiping Americans!).

3. Walking barefoot across the white marble of a Hindu temple

After Mike launched the workshop, I walked up the hill to this all-white, glowing marble temple, one of many throughout India built by the wealthy Birla family.

Sadly for this post, no cameras were allowed inside, but I can tell you that it made the whole experience like a peaceful dream.

We checked our shoes at the door, and it's true that there's a connection you feel with the ground when barefoot. You become so much more aware of your every step.

The path through the temple wound us round and round the marble edifice, until it led us to its heart, where holy men laid their hands on people.

I had no clue what the customs were; I just watched everyone else and they were tolerant of me, the only white face in the bunch. As people left they marked each other's foreheads and laid pieces of rock sugar on their tongues.

I noticed that some of the mothers holding young children also had markings on the side of their necks and cheeks--from where the foreheads of their little ones had rubbed against them, I realized.

The whole temple sits at the top of a hill, so a welcome cool breeze blows throughout. Overhead, falcons circled, and incense seemed to be wafting from the surrounding green treetops.

It was absolutely wonderful.

4. Performing our show about technology and lust and consequences for a packed house of IT workers and business students

The thing about theater is that you can't distribute it as easily as you can a movie or even a book. Mike has to be there each and every time the thing is shown, and he's only got 365 days in his year, just like the rest of us.

So it really was an awesome treat to get to perform this show for a crowd of young IT workers and future business leaders. It was probably worth the whole trip to India, just having this time with these people, for whom China is not a far-away place, and for whom the implications of the shifting market are very, very real. It was a gift.

Hyderabad is a huge IT hub, rivaling Bangalore, and the hall where we performed was just down the street from a huge Microsoft campus--the first one built outside of my home state.

And sure enough, we had lots of Microsoft employees there, iPhones in hand, eager to discuss the piece afterward.

News From Home

2010-08-23T14:42:00.004-04:00

Awesome email from my mom, who's taking care of this dude while we're in India:

Hello Gigi:

Baci is very disappointed because the squirrels took the ripe plums and peaches leaving nothing to pick or drop to his level. He is a perfect gentleman. Andy took his chew toy and went to work on it--he gently tried to get her attention, gently squeaked, circled her a few times, finally licked her, then lay down in front of her so she wouldn't forget that it really was his toy. She continued to chew and ignore him until she finally went to bed and he got his chance to enjoy the chewy. I have never seen such a gentle patient dog.
You should be proud of him.

Love, Mom

And here they are, Baci and Andy together. I call them "Salt & Pepper."

(What's that you say? This is much less interesting than India? You want pictures of the Taj Mahal and sadhus and IT workers and night markets and bangles? Ok, ok, jeez...back to work.)

Chennai

2010-08-15T02:08:00.007-04:00

Chennai was our very first stop in India, and I thought I'd take a moment to list some quick impressions and surprises. Also, there will be some photos, because Tarina has asked for them.

--ornamentation: On cars, on humans, on doorways, folks here are really good at adding color and character to the everyday. I particularly like the designs made of flour that are drawn out on the sidewalk in front of a home to protect it through the day. I think someone told me they are called kolom, but I have no idea if I've remembered that right.

--jasmine: Many women wear jasmine garlands in their hair, and drivers sometimes hang jasmine garlands from their windshield. Pushed up against someone on the bus yesterday, I found it a welcome scent.

--dress: Before I got here I thought that saris would be more for dress-up rather than everyday. Not so! Almost every woman I see is dressed in a sari, and a few in salwar kameez, and all in very bright, vivid colors. I am struck by how plain and colorless my garb is by contrast. Even the women cleaning the theater and sweeping the floors with long twig brooms were wearing beautiful saris.

--hair: I also feel like the only woman in all of India with short hair. Will this change when I get to Mumbai and Delhi?

--markings: I expected bindhis and red dots on the foreheads of married women, but I didn't expect the metallic markings some men wear, including a man I saw on the street with three lines radiating out from his third eye, or the gold smudge that glowed from the forehead of the man in charge of lighting at our theater.

--bobble heads: It took me a while to get used to this very Indian head movement, a kind of side-to-side wobble of the head that indicates the listener is hearing you, but that I first took as a kind of annoyance or signifier that what I was asking for was impossible.

--language: My ignorance of the diversity of India was pretty astounding. (I still know very little, but I'm learning.) There are so many languages here! In Chennai the theater technicians all spoke Tamil, with someone there to help translate for me, and here in Hyderabad it's Telugu and Urdu. But even that makes it sound more streamlined than it actually is. Most Indians speak two or three tongues in addition to Hindi or English.

And now, some pictures, accompanied by guest commentary from Mike!:

View from our hotel room. I feel like this illustrates the nature of luxury in India--when it exists, it exists in islands, and the state of one's surroundings makes it clear the vast differences that exist right next to each other. Perhaps this is why the hotels try to be more like fortresses, locking the luxury in and the squalor out.

A roadside shrine. These are everywhere, and the colors are intense--the ones with huge Ganeshes are my favorites.

A comparatively calm street scene in Chennai. I love the retro seventies filter on this, achieved accidentally by the polarization on the US Consulate vehicles we were riding in.

The 1200 seat venue is fascinating. Filled with mosquitoes during the performance, it was a great space nonetheless. The outside is dominated by corporate sponsors and food stalls that makes the event of the show have some of the feel of a street fair and a car show combined.

Me posing next to an image of myself. This started a furious round of picture-taking.

Talking with folks after the show. The performance was extremely well received--Indians, it turns out, love to hear someone who knows very little about their culture provide insights into their fundamental natures. The fact that Foxconn has factories in Chennai doesn't hurt, either--it really makes globalism feel like a real presence, instead of just a dry business concept.

Passed-Out Pug

2010-08-15T01:56:00.003-04:00

The day before we left for India, we had a huge party to celebrate my father's 80th birthday. At this party, our dog helped himself to not one but two gin and tonics that a guest graciously left on the floor for him. This was in addition to all the human food he managed to cadge.

By the time the guests had left and it was time for Mike and me to pack, Baci had passed out on the middle of the bed, drunk and stuffed. He was snoring, with the tip of his pink tongue hanging out. He remained passed out like this, completely immobile, until it was morning and we shook him awake to say our goodbyes.

While in India, my mom and dad are taking care of him. Lucky pug.

Woah. We're in India.

2010-08-12T21:26:00.006-04:00

I have always wanted to go to India.

As a child, I was immersed in Indian folk tales and mesmerized by Indian fashions. I read the Ramayana three times over the course of my public school education in Seattle; in the fourth grade, I played Ravanna’s evil sister, Surpanakha, who tries to seduce Rama and steal him away from Sita.

(Other favorite stage roles from that era include the Native American wicked witch Swayook, the vain and imperious goddess Hera, and the baby-stealing, hard-bitten Imogene from The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. By twelve years old I’d discovered that playing the villain is always more fun than playing the ingénue, even if they do get to wear a prettier costume. At thirteen I got cast as a girl who kept accidentally beating up boys; we did eleven shows a week, which meant I only had to go to school on Mondays, and the money I made eventually went to paying for the first show I directed and produced my senior year of high school.)

(But I digress.)

In the neighborhood I grew up in there was an older couple who lived a few doors down from us who went to India to do Peace Corps. When they came back they told us stories of their time there, including time spent working with Mother Teresa. I was in awe. And when I said, rather wistfully, “I want to go to India,” the woman punctured my wist with a very matter-of-fact, “Well then you will. If you really want to, then you will.”

And now, here I am.

But it’s a funny thing. I have many friends who have come here. They saved up and planned for this trip for months, sometimes years. One followed her guru here. All of them came as backpackers, staying in humble accommodations, traveling like locals, making their money streeeeetch over the months they had to spend here.

Me? I’m in a funny place. Because I didn’t spend months/years planning and scheming. It fell into my lap. I looked at it and said, Really? But I'm tired. Despite this, it was still in my lap. So I said, Ok. Let's go.

Now, we’ve been running hard this year. In 2010 we’ve been in our Brooklyn home a total of maybe 21 days. That’s it. The rest of the year we’ve been in DC, Tallahassee, Seattle, Dallas, Atlanta, Chicago, Sydney, Hong Kong, China, Ireland, New Jersey, Cape Cod…everywhere but home. So we were looking forward to a very quiet August. Lots of rest. Lots of not going anywhere.

But then in May we got an email from the US Consulate’s office asking us if we wanted to go to India in August. Five cities, with one workshop and one performance in each, and the monologue of our choice. How could we say no?

We couldn’t, so we said yes, and then we kept running, busy with all our other engagements up until the moment we left, pausing only to pick up a guide book which we didn’t even have time to open until we were on the 24-hour plane over.

And now, here we are.

A well-traveled friend of mine wrote me today with these words:

“And India, man.... It took me two solid weeks before I could even begin to relax just a little bit. But when you do, it's all the sweeter for realizing that in so doing you have accomplished something. You realize that you're still alive. And what's more, that you were ALWAYS okay. And that you're stronger than you'd given yourself credit for being. You're going to be a-okay!”

That’s how everyone I know who’s come here talks about India. As the most intense experience of their lives ever. Like love, like war.

I keep telling myself that our experience isn’t going to be that way. Thanks to coming through the State Department, we’ll be staying at fancy hotels. We’ll have drivers to whisk us from the airport to the classroom to the theater. We’ve given ourselves advance permission to relax, to take it easy, to not cram every moment we’re not working with essential India moments. We are willing to exchange stories like

sitting on the edge of an open train whisking through the countryside while drinking chai out of a clay cup

for

sitting on the edge of a rooftop pool while happily surrounded by wifi.

But I have to report that even as I write this from our HOTEL FORTRESS, I am already overwhelmed. This place has armed guards out front, mirrors to check the undercarriage of cars for bombs, $25 lunch buffets...

Feeling like a caged bird, on the first day I tried to go for a walk.

Took me about twenty minutes just to cross the street. Traffic is intense! Everyone beeping! No crosswalks! I made it across to the meridian, hung out there with a leper before I worked up the nerve to cross the rest of the way. Very Frogger-like.

Then yesterday we went to the theater for a site visit and found out that everything that could be misunderstood about our tech has been. I mean, we decided to make this thing as easy as possible: it's basically lights up, lights down. And yet! Everything becomes complicated! Meetings that were scheduled to take 30 minutes take two hours! During which time...nothing was actually accomplished!

But today is the real test, because tonight’s our first show. And I'm just so curious as to how the audience will receive Mike. They don't have any tradition of this kind of performance; not even stand-up. The interview I heard Mike give over the phone this morning was hilarious in how clearly the interviewer had no idea who Mike was or what he did.

MIKE: No, there's no music. (pause) No, I don't sing. (pause) No, no, no poetry. I just sit there and tell a story. (pause) 58? No, no, I'm 37. (pause) Self-taught. (pause) No, I will not recite a line for you. That's not how it works. (pause) Well, just because it's not written doesn't mean it's not composed. (pause) (pause) (pause) Well if you don't understand why Indians would care about what's happening in China--when you're both competing for the same markets, when corporations are moving their operations from China to India because they want to use your people in the same way they've used the Chinese--if you can't see why that would pertain to you, then you're just blind or have no imagination. (pause) Yes, thank you for your time. Goodbye.

I’ll keep you posted.

July 29, 2000

2010-07-29T16:56:00.012-04:00

Ten years ago today, Mike and I got married.

Mike was 27; I had turned 23 one month before. By day, I worked at Swedish Hospital in Human Resources. Mike was mostly unemployed, though he sometimes balanced the accounts at the Century Ballroom. At night we performed and produced our own work. We were in a sketch comedy group together, we both wrote and performed for a local televised comedy show, and we’d worked together to produce Mike’s first two monologues, both of them at little theaters on Capitol Hill.

Money was always tight back then, and we spent the last of our savings on our homemade wedding invitations. Our friend James was the DJ. Rhonda and Carrie made the programs. Sophie and Heidi and Libby and Maureen wrangled our flowers into shape. Many others helped in ways large and small.

We got married at St. Joseph’s on Capitol Hill. Our priest was a bad-ass Jesuit who took it as his mission to be inclusive and welcoming. My bio-dad read from the Old Testament and Mike’s dad from the New. During communion, Mike and I stood on either side of the aisle, administering the wine. My step-father, who raised me, walked me down the aisle and danced the first dance with me.

I’ll never forget the feeling of walking down that aisle and seeing so many people I loved, from so many different aspects of my life, all in one room together. I hadn’t realized how overwhelming that would be, and promptly burst into tears.

My mom and dad footed the bill for our enormous wedding, at which 250 of our closest friends and family members danced and ate and drank liberally. Our careful budget allowed for an enormous white dress and an open bar, but not a photographer. My Aunt Ann took photos, and we stocked the reception hall tables with disposable cameras so we could see what the guests saw.

There were many, many toasts. We had cream puffs from Than Brothers instead of a cake. We rocked the Polish Home until Mike and I were the last two people standing in that big, moonlit room. It was an excellent party.

The cover of our wedding invitation had this quote by Mark Helprin:

“The world is a perfect place, so perfect that even if there is nothing afterward, all of this will have been enough.”

Back then we didn’t have any clue what was to come. If you’d asked me, I would have guessed we’d live in Seattle forever. New York was as foreign as the moon. And if you’d told me we’d eventually be able to make a living from our theater, I would have said you were crazy.

Not too many of those original photos turned out well, so a few months ago, I got back into that dress (still hanging at my parents’ house) and Mike into a tux, and my little sister Ruth—who was still a teenager at our wedding, but who is now an old married woman—took a new batch of wedding photos. Everywhere we went, people honked their horns and wished us well. We were only too happy to take their blessings, and hope we get to use them on the next ten years.

Dream Song 14

2010-07-15T16:00:00.001-04:00

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

~John Berryman

Ring of Kerry

2010-06-24T16:39:00.000-04:00

We're in Ireland for quite some time--a whole month! with a car!--but for the first two weeks we've got shows most nights, so there's a limit to how far we can travel before the chain of performance yanks us back.

Last Sunday, however, we had a full day off, and we used that time for an epic drive from Cork to the famous Ring of Kerry.

We were warned in advance that it would be crazy touristy. That if we wanted "authentic" Ireland we should head to the Dingle or Beara peninsulas. But seeing as how visitors have been swearing by the Ring of Kerry for hundreds of years now (really! it was a hot spot even in Victorian times, though I suspect there were less plastic-shamrocks-made-in-China available for purchase), and armed with Rick Steves' invaluable guidebook and a detailed road atlas, we set our alarms for 7 AM.

(This is the cue for those of you who know us to gasp.)

And off we went!

Although we got a later start than we'd intended. Probably because we'd stayed up until 3 AM. So we weren't actually on the road until 10:45 AM.

(This is the cue for those of you who know us to laugh.)

But goodness! It was beautiful even before we'd gotten anywhere near the Ring.

And driving on the wrong side of the road really isn't so hard. Especially with a patient navigator by your side.

City folks that we are, we were delighted by the many sheep and cows and horses along the way. These ones were loose by the side of the road, so we pulled over to get closer...

They were interested until we pulled out our camera. Then they huffily walked away. Tourists, they bleated.

But listen! Our late start proved to be a blessing. All those huge tour buses roust their elderly inhabitants out of bed at the crack of dawn in order to beat the traffic, so by the time we were sailing around, we had many of the roads to ourselves. And with the midsummer sun (it doesn't get dark until around 11 pm), there was no shortage of sunshine to light our path.

This is a ring fortress built around 500 BC that we had pretty much to ourselves. Well, us and the sheep and the horses and cows.

It's hard to capture in photographs how beautiful the peninsula is.

It's in the way the water meets the rocky shore, and in the variety of textures and colors that make up the rolling patchwork of the countryside.

As my husband said at one scenic overlook, "I need an 180-degree lens."

Everywhere you look you can see the obvious footprints of the glaciers that moved through here and grooved the land.

And the beaches are exquisite. Soft sand beneath your toes, but big hard rocks with cockles and mussels and shallow pools with interesting marine life to explore.

By dinner time, we'd worked up a hearty appetite and ordered dinner at this pub in Portmagee.

Seated at a picnic table alongside the small harbor, we ate big bowls of chowder and a hot seafood sampler and washed it down with a few pints of Harp.

It was delicious.

And I have to say, it didn't feel very "touristy." Everyone else appeared to be locals. And if there are a few more places along the Ring to buy postcards then there are in other parts of Ireland, well, I certainly didn't mind it. Especially since those same places have WCs and tend to sell ice cream.

The only thing that would have made our trip better is if we could have spent the night there and driven back the next day. But a morning technical rehearsal beckoned, so we popped our Chieftans CD back in and continued on our way.

Tourists, said the sheep. Why not Springsteen?

Cause and Effect

2010-06-24T06:37:00.004-04:00

My father's wife, Kathy, sent me this enviable picture of her first-class voyage to England.

To quote Kathy, it was "the most amazing trip ever. The seats reclined totally flat and every position in between."

Now, here's a picture of them enjoying the lovely midsummer weather a day or so later.

Look how rested and happy they look!

Clearly, this is scientific proof that my next long voyage needs to be first class...

The Big Buddha on Lantau Island

2010-06-13T13:30:00.013-04:00

Go to Big Buddha, they said.

Ok, we said.

We took the metro for a 25-minute ride, then got onto this cable car for another 25 minutes.

The view was stunning. In every direction.

Down below we could see the conical hats of fishermen and fisherwomen working on the shore. Were they clamming? Were they crabbing? It was a hot and humid day, and we fanned ourselves as we glided over their toil.

Eventually the Buddha came into view. Can you see it?

There he was, residing over one of the many verdant hills of Lantau Island. The low clouds looked like incense.

To get to the Buddha, you must first pass through a commercial "village" that is packed with gelato shops and restaurants and gift shops and Starbucks.

There is even an interactive ride/show where you can pay to get closer to the Buddha.

It gets worse. There is a fake tree called the Bodhi Wishing Tree, and you can write down a wish and place it there. Which sounds ok, until you read that to get the tag you must spend HK$150 at the gift shop.

I would love to know what the monks at the Po Lin Monastery think of all this.

But once you get past the commercial strip, you arrive at the base of the Buddha, and as yet there are no air-conditioned escalators to whisk you to the top.

It's not such a long walk after all, and at the top there's a cool breeze to reward you for your efforts.

Everyone wants to get their picture taken with the Buddha.

Wouldn't you?

Afterwards we went to the Po Lin Monastery, where the monks are very used to the presence of outsiders.

They served a basic vegetarian meal that happened to include one of my all-time favorite dishes: baby bok choi and mushrooms.

They also served up some wisdom.

After the meal we sat in the courtyard, listening to their chanting and watching the many birds and enormous black butterflies flit around.

Filled up on peace, it was time to head back.

Can You Name the Third Largest City in China?

2010-06-10T05:40:00.021-04:00

Shenzhen, China, population 14 million, is one of the largest cities you've probably never heard of. But the electronic goods you are no doubt surrounded by--and perhaps are using to read this very post--most likely were created and assembled here. Motorola, Sony, Apple, Dell, Hewlett-Packard, Nokia . . . the list goes on and on.

It's amazing that so few of us westerners have been here or even heard of it, especially considering it's next door to the much-visited Hong Kong. In fact, you can literally take the subway right up to the border, hop off and walk through border control, then hop on the other city's subway on the other side.

But aside from business folk, you don't see too many people doing that. And the portal between the two cities can feel like a passage to another world.

It's a city of the young. As soon as kids are old enough to leave their village, the brightest and most ambitious, most entrepreneurial, flock here to try and make a new life for themselves.

As one person told me, "Shenzhen is where you go to become whoever it is you want to be."

It's part of a Special Economic Zone established by Deng Xiaoping in 1979, as part of the larger "Reform and Opening" initiative. Really, it's capitalism meets communism, and that makes for a wicked, fascinating, hopeful, and often heartbreaking combination.

It's a tale of two cities.

The interior, where we stayed, is bright and modern, with an ultra-sleek subway system, networks of high-end malls, and Starbucks, KFCs, 7-11s and McDonalds spreading everywhere ("like germs," said one local resident).

High-rises are going up--and old ones coming down--everywhere you turn. And in Shenzhen, "old" means more than five years. Consider that in 1979, this place was little more than a fishing village. 30 years and 14 million people later, it feels like everything and everyone was made just yesterday. That's probably because they were. At 32, I'm not just older than this city, I'm also older than most of the people who live here and run this place.

In between all those high-rises it's still China. Fortune tellers dot the sidewalk beside the metro. Old grandmas pull wooden carts loaded with rice and drinking water. Babies wear split britches rather than diapers and are held over bushes when they need to pee. Police officers are everywhere, usually on bikes with flashing red and blue lights.

When Mike and I walk along the side streets, we are the only white faces, even here in the city center. Folks are not shy about staring. One group of school boys called out "hello," and when we said "hello" back they collapsed into giggles.

To live or work in inner Shenzhen, you need special papers. There is a wall that separates inner Shenzhen from outer Shenzhen, which is where all the factories are, and there are a series of checkpoints that locals tell us are becoming less and less strictly enforced. Whenever we drove through them we saw police officers with big machine guns, but were never stopped or saw others being stopped.

Once you pass through to the other side, the construction of roads and building escalates to an unimaginable frenzy. It feels like it's going so fast, there might even be workers five feet ahead of you laying the very cement you'll be driving on.

It also gets considerably less clean.

But everyone is working very, very, very hard to build a better life for themselves.

This obviously bootlegged book was being sold in a stall outside one of the many Wal-Marts in Shenzhen.

And if they can't achieve it in their lifetime, then there is always the hope that maybe it will be different for their children.

Once you go here and meet the people, who are warm and friendly and full of hope, you not only begin to share in that dream--you start to realize the true depth of interconnectivity and responsibility we in the west have to help make those dreams come true.

Dispatch From Foreign Devil in Fragrant Harbor

2010-06-09T03:05:00.014-04:00

Woot! In case the picture didn't give it away, we're in Hong Kong now. Last night we even saw a Kung Fu film in a theater just off the bustling street you see above.

We spent most of last week in mainland China (post to follow), and though we found it surprisingly easy to get around despite our complete lack of Mandarin, it's great to be back in Hong Kong, where folks are used to English even if they don't speak it, and nobody stops to stare at me when I'm out on the street.

Here are just a few of the things I like in Hong Kong...

The Chi Lin Buddhist Nunnery

A lot of the pictures you'll see of it online crop out the high-rises that surround it, but to me the fact that this sacred place is in the middle of Hong Kong's hustle and bustle is exactly what makes it so great. And you can tell that the gardeners are working with the skyline rather than trying to ignore it.

Apparently it's the world's largest structure created entirely without nails. The above, of course, is a picture of the garden, because taking photos in the interior is forbidden. But I can tell you it's a very welcoming and serene place, with its ornate woodwork and its many golden Buddhas and bodhisattvas, and the sound of a young nun singing reminded me of when we were visiting a museum in Istanbul that was said to contain some of Islam's sacred relics. As we walked through the exhibit, the whole thing was underscored by an imam we couldn't see who stood on the other side of a wall and continually sang the Koran. It was lovely.

The Subway System

Both here and in mainland China, the subway systems are extraordinarily fast and efficient, even for English speakers like us. It makes me feel simultaneously embarrassed and sorry for everyone who comes to New York and expects we'll offer something similar. Instead we give them enormous rats and constant service interruptions and announcements that even the natives can't understand. Sigh.

Bamboo

It's used instead of metal poles for scaffolding everywhere, even on the fanciest building projects. Which makes sense, since it's lightweight yet incredibly strong, and readily available. Hell, bamboo is so versatile it can be made into paper, into clothing...it can even be eaten. What a useful plant!

Night Markets

China really does nighttime well. Everything and everyone comes alive, and there's a market to match whatever mood you're in. Electronics, lingerie, luggage, teacups, jewelry, Mao-morabilia...

Of course, we're on the road for months, so we are both strongly disinclined to buy even the smallest of souvenirs. But we can take pictures!

(This is Mike's new nickname.)

And we can eat!

Here we are at the Temple Night Market, and that's one of the many "Beer Girls" in the background wearing the red and white stripes. She tried to get us to buy her company's brand (San Miguel) and was very disappointed when we went with Tsing Tao instead.

The Star Ferry

It connects Hong Kong island with Kowloon (which is where we're staying) and is a romantic, swift, and cheap way to make the crossing.

Our Hotel

This place is ridiculously comfortable, the rooms stunningly designed, and there's a pool with glowing and twinkling lights that cycle through overhead while you're floating on your back and thinking about how to resist the siren call of room service. Also, a sauna. Also, a steam room. Also, a shower with one setting marked "fresh" and one marked "fun" that uses six different shower heads and many lights and varying textures and temperatures of water to give you experiences that are, indeed, both fresh and fun.

Pizza Hut in Hong Kong

2010-05-31T06:54:00.003-04:00

Can I interest you in some Chinese pizza?

No? You say you'd prefer to eat dim sum and barbecued duck while you're in Hong Kong, because you can always eat pizza when you're back home?

Oh no, my friend, check out this photo and think again:

If you're not convinced by the Flamenco-meets-Chinese dancer, perhaps this close-up will lure you in:

Mmm. That's a lot of tentacles on one little pizza.

Aminalz! Aminalz! (Also: Fruitz!)

2010-05-29T10:59:00.010-04:00

I'm itching to tell you about Hong Kong, but first I want to share some photos from our final day in Sydney. Because that was the day we went to the Taronga Zoo, and oh my goodness, Australian animals are the best! Isolation is truly the mother of weird and fascinating creatures.

Like this Spiny Echidna, whose tongue is as long as its body, whose males have four-headed penises, whose females are mammals but lay eggs and then carry their young around in a pouch for the first fifty days or so of life...

...and the Platypus, which Wikipedia describes pithily as an "egg-laying, venomous, duck-billed, beaver-tailed, otter-footed mammal." That description left out the part where the platypus uses electroreception to stalk their prey. Like their brothers the echidnae, the platypus's egg-born young are called "puggles," which can only be a good thing in my book.

These wonderfully weird creatures so flummoxed European naturalists when they were "discovered" in the late 1700's that folks thought they were a hoax and tried to pry off their bills. Ow.

When I was a kid and everyone forced me to answer the question "What's your favorite animal?," my stock answer was the platypus. It was a delight to finally get to see one.

Of course, the star of the zoo, and needing no introduction, is the remarkable koala.

This guy's name is Irwin, and he seemed to take a particular interest in my husband.

We paid extra for a "koala encounter," which is why we're so close in these shots. Getting up close and personal with a koala was terrific, as was having the zoo-keeper nearby to answer all our questions.

Despite what that sign says, that's a kangaroo. Her name is Charlotte and her fur is very soft.

We also saw plenty of wallabys, one of whom was lying on her side when the white fur on her belly started gyrating like crazy. A zoo-keeper confirmed that she'd recently given birth and was carrying her young in her pouch. They were waiting for the little one to poke its head out, as none of the humans had seen it yet.

And to round out the Australian collection, an emu! It's not just a Scrabble word!

My goodness, that's a big bird...we saw it bullying the young kangaroos into giving up their food.

On the ride home at dusk, we finally saw the famous Sydney bats, thus completing our zoological tour of the continent down under.

And then these lovely people had us over to their home for a wonderful meal. Janet (woman farthest to the right) was our production manager at the Opera House, and she and her partner Adrian loaned us their very own table to use in our production!

I forget what this dish is called, but we'd had it the night before in a Chinese restaurant and loved it. Then we had Adrian's version, with finely diced apples and I-can't-remember-what-else, and his version was even better.

Dessert was an assortment of exotic fruits. Exotic to *me* at any rate. Of all the fruits pictured above, I'd only ever had one of them. TRAVELMONKEYS readers, I issue you this challenge: How many of these fruits can you name? And how many have you had the pleasure of trying yourself?

Sailors Thai

2010-05-25T17:09:00.001-04:00

...unless you post it to your TRAVELMONKEYS blog. Then it's immortal.

If you are ever in Sydney, do not miss the opportunity to eat at Sailors Thai. There's a posh downstairs, a more relaxed "canteen" upstairs...the food at either is exquisite. Really one of the best meals I've ever had.

One More Story Before I Go

2010-05-24T17:17:00.010-04:00

We fly to Hong Kong today, which I'm finding both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

I have visions of myself paralyzed on the side of the road while pedestrians stream by, not being able to find an entry point, like a new driver who's frozen and unable to merge.

Then I think, Really? You've lived in New York how long? Surely you will learn.

But before I go, a quick story from Sydney.

So, we go to this restaurant for breakfast one morning, and shortly after sitting down I notice there's what looks to me like a parrot hanging out next to the table of a dour German couple.

The waiter comes by to hand us our menus and I ask him if the parrot belongs to the restaurant. He looks up and says, "Oh, those? They just come here."

Shortly after that two more of these magnificent birds (which I will later learn are Rainbow Lorikeets, a sub-species of the parrot) appear, and I take this picture:

The busser in the background notices and comes over to our table shaking a sugar packet. He pours it into my open hand and the birds flock to us.

The non-tourists around us couldn't be less interested. In fact, they're probably a little disgusted. I'm trying to imagine how I would feel if I saw a tourist back in the States encourage a pigeon onto their tabletop before eating.

But as you can see from this photo, I'm way too delighted to be cool.

I will pay for this later, when one of the lorikeets returns mid-meal to swipe a sugar packet from me.

More and more of his brothers (sisters?) return, and I keep trying to shoo them away--but in a quiet-ish way, so as not to disturb the Aussies around us conducting business meetings. I am unsuccessful.

Until finally Michael puts both hands over his head and says

cawww! CAWWWW!!!

It is so loud that absolutely everyone in the restaurant stops what they're doing, startled.

But it works, and the lorikeets leave us in peace for the rest of our meal.

2010-05-23T21:14:00.008-04:00

Sydney Psalm

It’s a constant embarrassment, this living.
The gloves come off and so do the panties,
the eyes widen but the feet march forward
--meanwhile the waves continue their assault
on the shore, boats carrying screaming
children and waggling businessmen rock
from side to side but no one is lullabied.

It’s a joke, this life. And also, a song.
A rude intimation, a whisper before
passing out. Everyone knows the ending,
yet we struggle to leave with our hats on
and our dignity intact. Fat luck, that.

--meanwhile the best bedtime story is yet
to be found. Climb that hill, scratch that old man’s
back. Ask the weatherman to speak, if he would,
on politics. Or maybe try spitting watermelon
seeds from a great height, then scuttle below
to see the pattern you’ve made, ooh and ahh
at their form, say, Yes, I was here.

You can summon lorikeets with sugar,
watch their rainbow heads bob in your palm
while you survey the harbor, belly full
of noodles, wallet full of cash.
What is there to do now, but sing?

The Path to the Opera House

2010-05-22T07:34:00.003-04:00

Notes from Down Under

2010-05-20T07:26:00.009-04:00

Well here I am, at the start of a two-month tour that will take me around the world, from Australia to Hong Kong to mainland China to Ireland, from performances at the mighty Sydney Opera House to a humble parish hall in rural Ireland. If ever there was a time for TRAVELMONKEYS, this is undoubtedly it.

And yet.

I'm having trouble because I can't quite see the point of it. Which wouldn't be trouble at all, except that three different dear friends of mine have recently been tugging/prodding/encouraging me to update TRAVELMONKEYS, and it's got me thinking about what it's all for.

I started this blog because I wanted a way to connect with my family and friends while I was on the road. Then along came Facebook, and goodness, it's been a blessing for me, allowing me to feel much more connected and far less isolated. It's also ridiculously easy to upload photos and post updates.

Of course, it lacks depth and persistence. Looking back at these TRAVELMONKEYS entries, I enjoy their scrapbook quality. I enjoy that I can flip back to my trip to Istanbul and see the photos I've arranged, the little narrative I created, and remember that time.

Facebook is like writing on the wind. Here it is and there it goes, and if it's been more than a week, it's already gone.

But creating good TRAVELMONKEYS posts is time consuming, and the process of uploading the photos is kind of cumbersome, and in the end it reaches far fewer of my friends than my posts to Facebook do, and honestly, I don't think the time it takes is worth it to me now that I have this other path to achieving that feeling of connection I seek.

So it's not looking good for ol' TRAVELMONKEYS, which might make about five people out there sad, myself included.

Because when I read the entries, I really enjoy them.

This is what I've been thinking about.

But maybe I'm going about it all wrong. Maybe the problem is that I'm trying to be too completist. Maybe I need to change my lens so that I'm not telling the story at the end of it all but right from the middle. Maybe I need to make a sketch of the place en media res, and whatever I capture, I capture, and at the end of that day, that is better than nothing. Maybe.

Like, if I were to write about Sydney right now, I might say something about how fun the differences in the English we speak are. Instead of a cinnamon bun it's a "sultana scroll" for "breaky." Coffee with steamed milk is a "flat white," without milk a "long black." Two things that don't belong together aren't apples and oranges or oil and water, but "chalk and cheese." In the theater, strip lights are known as "zip strips," bulbs as "bubbles," the cherry picker is a Cougar, and nobody says "break a leg," they say "Chookas," which has something to do with chicken, like if you do a really good job, you'll get fed chicken after the show instead of the usual scraps.

I might also talk about how every day I walk along the famous Circular Quay (which is pronounced like something that opens a locked door), dodging around tourists taking photos of themselves with all those iconic sights behind them: the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which tourists in chain-gang suits pay to climb to the top of; the glowing eyes and rides of Luna Park beckoning from across the water; the ferries and sailboats and catamarans zipping back and forth from the Taronga Zoo, Manly Beach, and points beyond; and of course, the Sydney Opera House itself, probably the most iconic piece of architecture the world has yet known, and the very reason we are here at all.

From the moment we leave our hotel to walk the half mile to the theater, the Opera House beckons us from across the harbor. All eyes are on its majestic sails, which I'd expected to be a sun-bleached white, smooth like actual sails, but which in fact, in person, possess a reptilian texture, causing the whole thing to look rather like a great lizard. Make that a majestic great lizard, but a lizard nonetheless.

That's what I'd write about.

I might be tempted to mention the wild parrots who ate sugar out of my hand this morning, or the girls who fill the streets on the weekend with impossibly short skirts and ridiculously high heels, or how the other day the northern foyer of the Opera House was occupied by a man named Hari Das who was busy summoning a Hindu deity and allowing himself to become possessed by Him. The remarkable thing is that this man is an ordinary well-digger in southern India nine months of the year, and then is worshipped as a god for the other three months. Not a bad balance, I'd say.

And then, dear TRAVELMONKEYS reader, I might stop right there. Without even mentioning the Sydney Writers' Festival, or how I've been reading "Moby Dick" for the first time and am startled with its loveliness and relevance to my life. I might save that for later or maybe even just save it for myself.

I reserve the right to be incomplete and absent. I reserve the right to be overly detailed and loquacious. I reserve the right to bore you. I especially reserve the right to be imperfect and quickly post. This is not my life's work, these are simply a series of sketches, a loose affiliation of notes, and I thank you for sharing in the journey with me.

Onwards!
JM

Movie: The Mists of Juneau

2009-10-27T17:07:00.004-04:00

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain.
The pine sings, but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds.

--Han-shan, "Cold Mountain Poems," translated by Gary Snyder

The Great Northern Tour, Part I: The Last Frontier

2009-10-22T22:21:00.013-04:00

M and I are back in New York now, still sorting through the many great photos and memories from our Great Northern Tour. We gave it that name out of an eagerness to inject a little dramatic narrative into our trip, and it turned out our journey more than lived up to the implied drama of its title.

The trip began in Juneau, moved on to Whitehorse, and ended in Banff, with pit stops in Seattle on either end. Each step of the way it was like God was hitting us over the head with the beauty of nature until we city people cried out in awe-struck submission.

I'm going to divide the tour into three parts, one for each of the three cities we visited, starting with...

J U N E A U

From the moment we landed, Juneau blew us away with its wild beauty.

Actually, the magic began even before we'd touched down. See that big, shiny, blue-white, waterfall-like thing behind us? That's Mendenhall Glacier, and you can see it from way up in the air, like a gorgeous mirror inviting you to land and have a look.

Here's a closer shot of the glacier. That bright blue spot that looks like it was crayoned by a child wasn't photo-enhanced by me--that's really how blue the fresh ice is. You're looking at an area where ice has recently calved off.

All of Juneau is located within a national state park, and you can feel that wildness without straying far from the paved roads. For example, all the street lights have a T-shaped bar on top that turned out to be eagle rests.

As soon as we landed, Jeff, gracious host and managing director from the theater who was presenting us, took us to the glacier. He said we wouldn't actually stop, but that since it was so close to the airport he always likes to bring folks by there before heading into town.

Now, some of you may already know this about M and me, but it's important I make this clear before we proceed. The husband and I are wild about bears. And never having seen one in the wild before, only in zoos, and never having set foot in Alaska before, it was my deepest wish that I might be granted even the slightest glimpse of a bear during our time in the Great North.

But given that we'd arrived in late September, I wasn't sure if the bears would already be off getting their winter dens ready. I was shyly asking Jeff about our chances of an ursine encounter as we were pulling into the parking lot for the glacier's visitor center, and lo and behold--what do we see but a beautiful black bear with two little cubs right on her heel, one black, one cinnamon?

These particular bears were very used to the presence of humans. A harried park ranger stood by the side, warning us and the rest of the gawking, paparazzi-like tourists to STAND BACK! SHE'S BEEN IN A BAD MOOD ALL WEEK AND YOU DO NOT WANT TO STEP CLOSER, SIR!

But what a stirring sight! And what a spectacular omen of good things to come, that we saw three bears within fifteen minutes of landing.

A few days later we'd see a convocation of bald eagles--which, it turns out, is the name for a grouping of eagles, much more dignified than a murder or a gaggle, and befitting of a national emblem. There were at least twenty-five of them, young and old, feasting on salmon that were trying to make their way through a channel to the river. (The ones with darker heads in the photo above are still young; as they mature their heads and tails turn to that distinctive white.)

Growing up in Seattle, I'd seen bald eagles before--but never so many of them all together, and never so close. They are big. Like, imagine my pug dog, but with wings.

Did you know that eagles mate for life? Did you also know that the leading cause of death for young eagles is having a jealous sibling push you out of the nest to your death so that he or she can keep all of your parents' attention for themselves?

Juneau is full of landscapes ideal for contemplating the harsh mysteries of nature.

And for feasting on it. One of the theater's board members had us to her home and served us two types of smoked salmon that she and her husband had caught and smoked themselves. I'd had smoked salmon before, but never smoked salmon belly. Wow. It's good stuff.

Locals sometimes apologized for the weather, which was unrelentingly rainy while we were there. "You should see this place in May," they said, when the views of the encircling mountains are clear.

But I loved the clouds. They weave among the trees in rapid, graceful swirls. They are unlike clouds or fog I've seen anywhere else, and for me are the most breathtaking and dynamic aspect of Juneau's beauty.

Our final night in Juneau, after our performance, we were heading back to our hotel around midnight. The hotel was downtown, in the most populated part of the city.

And what do we see, about a block away from our hotel, in front of the Subway sandwich shop? A huge grizzly bear. We stopped the car and watched him through our rear view mirror. We could hear the laughter of a large group of humans who had just exited a nearby bar.

The bear appeared unfazed. And then another car approached and strafed him with their headlights. At this, the bear began to ran. He dashed across the street and into a nearby construction site.

It is really something, to see so huge and lumbering a creature suddenly break into a run. He must have been going 35 mph, and he went from zero to gone, just like that. Having seen it with our own eyes, Mike and I finally understand why everyone tells you you can't outrun a bear.

Next up: Our ferry from Juneau to Skagway, and our drive to Whitehorse through the scenic Canadian Rockies. Highlights will include . . . another bear! We'll get even closer. And survive to tell the tale.

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

2009-09-18T12:04:00.004-04:00

How Did It Get To Be September?

2009-09-13T22:03:00.011-04:00

When I read other blogs my least favorite posts are the ones that begin with an apology for why the blogger has failed to update.

So when I started TRAVELMONKEYS, I vowed never to make such a post myself, and I swear to you now, this is not an apology. Even though I have not posted since late July, I mean it, this is not an apology. The very idea of an apology is ridiculous anyhow! As if I've somehow left you all bereft, with a dark TRAVELMONKEYS-shaped hole in your heart as you wonder where I and Mike and the dog might be now, what exciting things we might be up to. Why, it's the heart of narcissism to believe that anyone else might actually notice my long silence. So I promise you: not an apology.

And yet.

There were a few of you who quietly left some notes on my Facebook page suggesting that you might like to read some new posts from me. And I will admit that I enjoyed hearing I was missed. (It's always wonderful to be missed, isn't it? Wonderful to sneak away, to escape, to hide, but right after that, even better to hear someone calling your name...)

So though I am behind, let me tell you a little bit about what we've been up to.

First of all, we spent the first week of August in Portland, Oregon, that hipper-than-thou city of the west filled with well-read hipsters and eccentric (also well-read) homeless people. We were there to workshop our newest monologue which I shall not list by name, as I like to keep this blog semi-private, but I will tell you that the principal theme of the new piece revolves around money and our relationship to it, and I'm finding it quite a provocative and intriguing piece of work.

Then we headed up to Seattle for three weeks, during which time we continued to develop the same monologue. And we relaxed. Oh, how we relaxed.

I ate oysters with my siblings, played tennis with my father, shopped for wedding dresses with Mary, went for long leash-less walks in the park with Baci, watched rows of fishermen pluck one salmon after another from Puget Sound like it was the easiest thing in the world, went dancing with all our people late into the night, ate amazing meals with my parents and played cards nightly...

I tell you, folks, I had such a wonderful time back in Seattle that I started to feel like the character of Emily from Our Town when she gets to go back after death and visit a day when she was still alive. You know that scene? I cry like a baby every time.

But it's one thing to feel that when you're in a theater, quite another to feel it when you're actually just trying to live your life. As the trip neared to a close I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Surely this meant that someone was about to die. That some terrible news was imminent. That I was paying in advance for something that would counterbalance all this happiness.

Michael begged me to stop being so Polish.

Back in New York, we had a little less than a week to pack for the trip that lay ahead, a five-city tour that would take us to Philadelphia, Chapel Hill, Juneau, Whitehorse, and Banff. I am, in fact, writing this entry to you now from the first city, having just completed stage one of the tour.

Originally, I'd imagined that I would use TRAVELMONKEYS as a kind of tour diary. Less long entries like this one, and more short daily updates. Something like this:

Day 1 in Philly. Met our crew. That's Jacob, and he's awesome. Not pictured: Sam, burping.

But you know what happened? Ohhh, a bundle of troubles. Lots of tiny other shoes, dropping.

I want to tell you all about it. I really do. But my alarm just went off reminding me that we leave for Chapel Hill early tomorrow morning, and of course, we've yet to pack.

So let me sign off now with the promise that I'll return sooner than I did last time. (Again, the narcissism!) Maybe I'll even be able to update with the kinds of posts I'd hoped to make from Philly. Let me also say that no one has died, that the dog is ok, and that Michael and I are still married.

Also, Philadelphia is pretty wonderful, from what I can tell. We're going to come back in a few months to see our friend Kyra in a show here, and we're hoping to check out some of the stuff we couldn't see this week during our non-stop freak-out, including this.

Mazel Tov!

2009-07-26T16:16:00.003-04:00

Big congratulations to Mary and John, who got engaged last week!

I had a feeling this was in the works, so I've been sitting on some very special footage of the two of them for just this occasion.

Mary and John, you've done your time, you've taken your chances, and clearly you've got the skill to survive...

Meet Me At The Luau

2009-07-21T01:41:00.007-04:00

This family I married into? I'll tell you one thing. They know how to throw a party.

Last month we made the pilgrimage to New Jersey to visit the good folks of The Compound for their annual celebration that is so much more than any family get-together you TRAVELMONKEYS readers can imagine.

The theme was LUAU, and there was everything that word conjures, and so much more.

Picture tiki huts and margarita machines, massive piles of pulled pork and about twenty other kinds of meat. Picture dogs wearing leis and women wearing flowers and men wearing pirate hats--because this year, the idea was that the luau was overtaken by pirates.

There's Uncle Dick, looking none-too-menacing. Arrrrr.

Now picture being greeted upon entry by a massive boat, decked out with an actual anchor and a wheel that really turns, and a massive black pirate sail--all built so that guests could have their pictures taken as a memento.

...and so that as the contents of the margarita machines dipped lower, they could re-enact their Titanic fantasies.

Now imagine that there is also a pool, for overheated guests and hyperactive kids.

And now imagine that there's an enormous treasure chest outside, and when opened, it reveals every kind of novelty ice cream bar you can imagine--even the ChocoTaco.

A live band? Of course.

Daring feats of strength? You bet.

An incredibly meticulous cake featuring three completely different layers, bedecked with a treasure chest made of chocolate and studded with gold? Oh, sure.

There were over 200 people there, many of whom I never even met, but all of whom knew Baci's name because he went from table to table, introducing himself and begging for scraps. The poor boy wasn't right for the next 48 hours, but now when he's yipping in his sleep, I know exactly what he's dreaming about.

I wish I had a group picture of all the folks who worked so hard to pull this epic event together--Martin, who built the ship and ice cream chest, Aunt Angela, who must have cooked and cleaned for a week straight, David, who was the sound engineer for the karaoke and live band and the go-to-guy for just about everything else, Connor and Amanda and Uncle Dick (all pictured in various shots above), who all gave enormously of their time and talents.

But being a director myself, I have to give special mention to Kris, who really was the mastermind behind the operation, overseeing this epic event from start to finish, and somehow managing to never lose her cool or forget to have fun.

We had a blast, and can only begin to image what the gang is going to come up with for next year's party. Whatever it is, and whenever it is, we'll do our best to aim our ship straight toward it so we don't miss out on the fun.

Things To Do In Bangor

2009-07-04T19:29:00.011-04:00

First things first, stay at the Charles Inn, in the heart of downtown. Connie will set you up nicely, and if you've got a stowaway pug...

...he can play with Lacey, the resident Boston Terrier. (Can you spot her in the painting below?)

Staying downtown means you'll encounter statues and old cannons and neat walkways like this one.

It also means you can walk to important destinations like the Friar's Bakehouse.

This is not only one of the finest bakeries I've ever encountered (and home of the very best blueberry muffin I've ever had), but it's also run by two joyful friars who wear their full friar regalia (long brown robes) and who, being Franciscans, adore animals and so came out to administer cheese to Baci when he and I were waiting for Michael on the sidewalk.

Also, their whoopie pies are out of this world. (And if you haven't had a whoopie pie yet, you probably haven't been to Maine.)

Next, develop a new show, and workshop it with Penobscot Theatre as part of their Northern Writes Festival.

They did a beautiful job restoring the marquee of the old Bangor Opera House, and their staff is as wonderful and supportive as their audiences are.

Third, eat a lobster. Or two. The price of lobster is at an all-time low now, forcing lobstermen to sell their catch directly from the back of their trucks in some cases. I figure this is one tasty way to help spread the wealth.

(Note that the lack of proper utensils didn't scare us off. Turns out a hammer and pliers will do just fine.)

Fourth, see a Grange Hall musical.

We had to travel a good hour into the woods to see the Marsh River Theater's production of "Into the Woods," and we ate at Ralph's Cafe, where we were served by the mother of the musical director (and grandmother of three of the cast members).

It's amazing to experience the level of connection between the people in the audience and the people on stage--and then to watch all barriers dissolve during intermission, when the actors walked right out into the house and Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf waited in the concessions line right next to us. Meanwhile, Rapunzel was sipping Diet Coke through a straw.

And finally, see some family. (Note that this is easier to do if you married someone from Maine who happens to have a bunch of family in the Bangor area.) (Note also that by making this fifth I am not saying this is the lowest priority--I'm simply saving the best for last.)

A Poem for Father's Day

2009-06-21T14:50:00.004-04:00

***

O my pa-pa

Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
and wives. We thought they didn't read our stuff,
whole anthologies of poems that begin, My father never,
or those that end, and he was silent as a carp,
or those with middles which, if you think
of the right side as a sketch, look like a paunch
of beer and worry, but secretly, with flashlights
in the woods, they've read every word and noticed
that our nine happy poems have balloons and sex
and giraffes inside, but not one dad waving hello
from the top of a hill at dusk. Theirs
is the revenge school of poetry, with titles like
"My Yellow Sheet Lad" and "Given Your Mother's Taste
for Vodka, I'm Pretty Sure You're Not Mine."
They're not trying to make the poems better
so much as sharper or louder, more like a fishhook
or electrocution, as a group
they overcome their individual senilities,
their complete distaste for language, how cloying
it is, how like tears it can be, and remember
every mention of their long hours at the office
or how tired they were when they came home,
when they were dragged through the door
by their shadows. I don't know why it's so hard
to write a simple and kind poem to my father, who worked,
not like a dog, dogs sleep most of the day in a ball
of wanting to chase something, but like a man, a man
with seven kids and a house to feed, whose absence
was his presence, his present, the Cheerios,
the PF Flyers, who taught me things about trees,
that they're the most intricate version of standing up,
who built a grandfather clock with me so I would know
that time is a constructed thing, a passing, ticking fancy.
A bomb. A bomb that'll go off soon for him, for me,
and I notice in our fathers' poems a reciprocal dwelling
on absence, that they wonder why we disappeared
as soon as we got our licenses, why we wanted
the rocket cars, as if running away from them
to kiss girls who looked like mirrors of our mothers
wasn't fast enough, and it turns out they did
start to say something, to form the words hey
or stay, but we'd turned into a door full of sun,
into the burning leave, and were gone
before it came to them that it was all right
to shout, that they should have knocked us down
with a hand on our shoulders, that they too are mystified
by the distance men need in their love.

--Bob Hicok

Home Sweet Home

2009-06-13T21:08:00.012-04:00

You may have noticed that TRAVELMONKEYS has been less active of late. That's because it's supposed to chronicle life on the road, and the husband and the dog and I have been home all spring long, soaking in the bohemian Brooklyn brownstone life.

All of that's about to end. Actually it's already over: I'm writing this from Washington D.C., leg one of our many-legged summer development tour as we whip our newest monologue into shape. But before I get into all that, I thought I'd take a moment to quickly chronicle what it is we spent our spring doing.

1. We saw lots of plays.

And while most of the performances took place in very fine theaters, pictured above was an afternoon of short plays staged in a beautiful Brooklyn backyard--made all the more beautiful by the fact that the plays were accompanied by a keg and barbecue.

2. We visited.

...with all the friends and colleagues we don't see when we're out of town. Facebook is great, but long meals over a shared bottle of wine are better. In the case of the photo above, we were visited by my aunt and uncle from Irving, Texas, who made time for a leisurely lunch at Frankie's.

3. We were Surprised.

Following the success of The Surprise at the Frigid Fest in February (Audience Choice Award), the folks at terraNOVA invited Martin and me to be a part of their annual solo performance festival, soloNOVA.

The New York Times came and had some nice things to say (including "deftly constructed" and "truly vivid"), and then the folks at DR2 and terraNOVA decided to recognize Martin as the "Breakthrough Performer of the Year"--kudos that came with the opportunity to perform The Surprise back-to-back with the first monologue he and I worked on, Wanderlust.

Now Martin is off taking both shows around the country and through Canada. You can follow his exploits through his website, and if you're in San Francisco, Toronto, Winnipeg, or Ontario, you should check him out when he comes to town.

4. We took Pilates.

(Ok, I'm using the royal "we" here.) I'd been curious about Pilates for a while, especially since my good friend Kyra opened up her own Pilates studio in Boerum Hill, but was never home for a long enough stretch to give it a go. Turns out Kyra is an amazing teacher, and under her watchful eye I learned a lot about my body and was able to develop a mat routine I can take on the road with me.

5. We wore sequins before noon.

Spring is the season of theater awards parties and benefits, which gave us plenty of excuses to get gussied up. The highlight was probably the Drama League luncheon, to which we were invited because If You See Something Say Something was nominated in two categories: "Distinguished Production" and "Distinguished Performance." Mike was seated on the dais with the likes of Angela Lansbury, Cynthia Nixon, Jeremy Irons, John Lithgow, Jane Alexander, Jane Fonda, Geoffrey Rush, David Hyde Pierce . . . and he got caught in a bear hug by Sir Elton John!

6. We ate a lot of bacon.

We decided to launch a new series called Mysteries of the Unexplained. The idea being that Mike takes some seemingly trivial element of our modern life and devotes a whole hour to it in a one-night-only, never-to-be-repeated affair. The idea also being that the material should be lighter and brighter than the stuff we've been doing in the full-length monologues. Hence, the topics of our first two shows:

In May, Facebook! (You can listen to the entire show here.)

And in June, Bacon! This show was particularly fun because the entire time that Mike was speaking from his desk, Obie-award winning actress Heidi Schreck was grilling bacon live onstage, building up an enormous pile that was then served to the audience at the show's conclusion.

You know what I discovered? People really like bacon.

7. We cleaned out the closet.

This was an exasperating affair, and again, I'm using the royal "we" because really, I did it all by myself--and to myself. You see, Mike was gone for the day and I thought I'd surprise him by giving the house a really thorough cleaning. But for some reason this involved opening the doors to the closet and thinking that I could just quickly bring a little order to the chaos. It was like a microcosm of Iraq: eight hours later, Mike walked through the door and the front room looked like what you see above.

But oh, if you could see inside the closet now! I threw away so many things . . . including the custom-made Starbucks cups the prop shop at Portland Center Stage built for us in 2005 for our run of 21 Dog Years and a do-it-yourself specimen kit sent to me in 2001 by folks at the University of Washington who hoped I'd continue to supply data for a study I'd signed up for while in college. Nope.

8. We administrated.

My landlady asked me if I liked being on the road so much. The truth is that while I really enjoyed our spring at home in Brooklyn, when we're not out working we're home doing all the administrative stuff that gets us the gigs the rest of the year. And when we're home, there's always more work to do, always more initiatives to be launched, always more closets to be cleaned. Generally speaking, home lacks the clarity and focus that I find when we're in another city, putting on a show.

So I'm glad that spring is over and summer is here. I'm glad to be living out of my suitcase again with 2 dresses, 4 shirts, 3 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of shoes. I've got my husband, my dog, my computer, my iPhone, and a brand-new show to launch on Monday. Hallelujah.

And when I have a moment, I'll update the side-bar with all the places we'll be going in 2009 and 2010. So many new cities! And a tour of the Yukon! Just think of all the TRAVELMONKEYS posts to come!

Preface

2009-05-24T00:29:00.005-04:00

First, plain speech in the mother tongue.
Hearing it, you should be able to see
Apple trees, a river, the bend of a road,
As if in a flash of summer lightning.

And it should contain more than images.
It has been lured by singsong,
A daydream, melody. Defenseless,
It was bypassed by the sharp, dry world.

You often ask yourself why you feel shame
Whenever you look through a book of poetry.
As if the author, for reasons unclear to you,
Addressed the worse side of your nature,
Pushing aside thought, cheating thought.

Seasoned with jokes, clowning, satire,
Poetry still knows how to please.
Then its excellence is much admired.
But the grave combats where life is at stake
Are fought in prose. It was not always so.

And our regret has remained unconfessed.
Novels and essays serve but will not last.
One clear stanza can take more weight
Than a whole wagon of elaborate prose.

--Czeslaw Milosz

Elaborate Bacon

2009-05-01T10:17:00.003-04:00

Elaborate Bacon! "Piece in heart, Fragrance in mouth." Yum!

This was taken on our recent trip to China.

Oh, no, wait.

Actually, I've never been to China. What I meant to write was that this was taken from Elyse Sewell's LiveJournal. If that name rings a bell, it's because she was one of the final two left standing on the first cycle of "America's Next Top Model," and the brightest woman ever to have been on that show.

Now she's in China modeling--or LadyPosing, as they call it there--and keeping us entertained with her many posts and pictures.

West Palm Beach

2009-04-26T17:33:00.008-04:00

So M and I did a pair of shows in West Palm Beach, Florida, and some of you sent your grandparents and in-laws to come see us. Thank you!

I'm a fan of older people. I grew up in a home with three grandparents, and my grandmother and I were about as close as could be and I miss her terribly. In fact, if any of you readers have leads on good places to volunteer in NYC in providing company to the elderly, please send them my way.

This pleasant preamble has an obvious "but" coming, doesn't it? And here it is: But having an audience that consists solely of people over the age of 70 is . . . challenging. They don't hear as well, they're not as comfortable with Mike's sailor tongue, and it feels like they don't have the lung capacity to laugh as loudly.

In any event, we had some clue as to what the houses would be like, and we did our best to keep up a good attitude. And after both shows we had great conversations with folks in the lobby who really connected with the material. And the sun was shining and we stayed at a hotel with a pool, so really, what is there to complain about?

Also, our dear friend Nancy decided to fly out and visit with us since her mom and sister live nearby, so we got to spend time with an old friend, too.

It's all about gratitude, people. At least today it is. That's why I'm not going to talk about the old man who crawled to the door in the middle of the show saying loudly, "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT BILL GATES."

Instead I'm going to mention the butterflies, dragonflies, and curly-tailed lizards who hung out at the pool with us (anybody know what these guys are called?).

And I'm not going to dwell on the audio technician whose neck I wanted to wring, because in the end, I got to leave. And I got paid. And I still have my youth. (While not actually being a youth who has to live in West Palm Beach.)

And I even have a bit of a tan. Which is a remarkable accomplishment for me.

In fact, I'm in such a good mood I'm not even going to make a self-deprecating comment about how this photo makes me simultaneously crave a drumstick and a pedicure. Uh-uh. My mama taught me that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

So goodnight, WPB, land of neon and sun. And thanks for the head start on summer.

Terrific News!

2009-04-20T14:48:00.004-04:00

The Surprise--the show I worked on in March with Martin Dockery and winner of the coveted Audience Choice award at the 2009 Frigid Fest--is being transferred to the DR2 Theatre at Union Square as part of this year's soloNOVA Festival.

From the press release:

After winning the Audience Choice award at this year’s FRIGID Fest, New York storyteller Martin Dockery will once again team with director Jean-Michele Gregory (How Theater Failed America, If You See Something Say Something) to present his latest autobiographical monologue, The Surprise, at the DR2 space from May 7-13 as part of this year’s soloNOVA festival.

A veteran of the New York storytelling scene and frequent performer on the stages of The Moth, The Liar Show, and Speakeasy, this is Dockery’s third full-length monologue. Set amidst the ruins, cities, and beaches of South-East Asia, The Surprise is the true and comic story of an uncertain girlfriend, an enigmatic father, and a most epic game of emotional chicken. Told with equal parts humor and heart, it is the tale of a family rife with secrets, and clueless as to how to reveal them.

“The Surprise is funny, warm, and entertaining…. A superlative storytelling show, one that offers plenty to laugh about, relate to, and ponder long after the storyteller has left the stage.” —NYTheatre.com

“Dockery is a master at weaving his own personal life into his family saga. Travels, girlfriends, ecstasies and disappointments are masterfully layered with his own brand of neurotic, self-effacing humor.”—NYTheatre-wire.com

Tickets are already on sale here and at the DR2 box office (it's that big theater in Union Square that's doing Fuerzabruta). Just five shows, so don't delay!

Colorado Springs

2009-04-19T10:19:00.011-04:00

Sometimes, dear readers, our bookings take us to parts of the world we never thought we'd willingly go. This March, we found ourselves in Colorado Springs, a place I'd only ever thought of as the base of the more creepy aspects of the evangelical movement--Focus on the Family, the Ted Haggard debacle, and everything depicted in The Civilians' brilliant docu-drama "This Beautiful City."

Political, moral, and ethical leanings aside, I'm not a mountain person. We did a show in Denver last spring and I had a headache from the altitude the entire time. I grew up in Seattle, a city that is ringed by glorious mountains but whose altitude is decidedly sea-level. Every day I'd see the enormous cranes that line the Port of Seattle as I rode over the West Seattle Bridge. And today I live in Brooklyn, about half a mile from the Redhook waterfront, so when I look west I still see cranes. Though they are less spectacular than Seattle's, it's funny how comforting to me they were in my first few years here.

It took about 48 hours for M and me to adjust to the altitude in Colorado Springs, 24 hours for the pug. (Is it just me, or does he look grumpy?)

Just in time for our first performance. And that was the million dollar question, of course: How would the audiences be? The show we were doing has secular content, but how would they deal with M's sailor tongue? I took it as a bad sign that I had to chase away a pair of missionaries who came to our door our very first morning there.

But when I got to the theater and saw some posters still hanging for Urinetown, I felt better. An audience who can appreciate that wonderfully bizarre show could probably also deal with multiple narratives about corporate creep in our lives, even if those threads were peppered with expletives.

(My new favorite phrase to warn audiences: Not "obscene" or "profane" or "mature," because I don't actually feel that the language is obscene or profane or particularly mature. No, my new favorite way to describe it is "unrestricted," as in, "This production contains unrestricted language.")

It turned out that the theater who booked us knew what they were doing. The audiences were slightly older and quieter than we typically work with, but the houses were full and judging from the conversations we had with audience members afterward, they really seemed to enjoy the show, unrestricted language and all.

After our first night, an unexpected development: Blizzard! In the last week of March!

I'll come clean and say that the picture above wasn't taken by me and isn't even of Colorado--it's from a spring blizzard in Norway two years earlier. I found it online when I searched for images using the word "blizzard." (It's a great photo, isn't it? Click on it to go to the photographer's website.)

And why don't I have any photos of my own of the blizzard that was bad enough that we had to cancel one show and almost cancel another?

Because I was busy being my own stereotype. Yes, if Colorado Springs did their part by sending me Christian missionaries, then I played the part of the liberal coastal girl by insisting that we drive to the Whole Foods on the other side of town "before the weather gets bad" because I wanted the gluten-free crackers and hummus I knew Whole Foods would carry. Seriously.

Long story short: five minute drive there, hour and forty-five minute drive home. As my husband said to me later, "I really hope you enjoy that hummus."

And I did.

Almost as much as I enjoyed using our suddenly-free night to watch all the episodes in the final season of Battlestar Galactica back-to-back-to-back, for one of the most intense eight-hour viewing marathons I've ever had.

And things just got better from there. The weather improved and a show that had been canceled became uncanceled, so we only lost one of our five scheduled performances to the blizzard.

My friend Krista--who moved from Brooklyn to Denver several years ago and for whom I've been pining ever since--drove down from Denver with her boyfriend Micah. He's such a good guy even I had to concede that he might be worth leaving New York for.

And my father and his wife Kathy drove up from their home in Albuquerque and spent some time with us. We discovered some amazing Korean BBQ in an unlikely place--the best I've ever had--and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at Adam's Mountain Cafe in scenic Manitou Springs.

Their visit really made this trip special. For Michael especially, who'd been away from home for three months solid, it was a lovely ending to a very long tour.

Not a Coca-Cola Family

2009-04-02T22:47:00.006-04:00

This photo was missing from my L.A. roundup. It's a picture of my great uncle and great aunt, Jan and Victoria, whom I got to visit with while I was in the area. Uncle Jan is my grandmother's youngest brother, a mischievous guy with a twinkle in his eye and a whip-smart wife and daughter--also named Victoria, though the family gets away with calling her by her childhood nickname, Pepsi, and somehow she doesn't hate us all for it.

When I was in Washington D.C. in January, Pepsi and her husband James came out for Obama's inauguration and we all spent some time together. Pepsi told us stories about her father's wild days, when he drove across the country with a gun in his glove box "just in case."

And James, who is Korean, told a very funny story about picking Pepsi up for their first date. He said he knocked on her door but instead of Pepsi answering this old Polish guy appeared. James was sure he had the wrong address but the man invited him inside and urged him to sit down, so James sat on the couch and watched television with Pepsi's (Polish) father and (Filipino) mother until she was ready to go.

I didn't get to see James and Pepsi this time around because they were vacationing in Acapulco, but I had a nice lunch with her parents at a Chinese buffet with signs that read "ALL YOU CAN EAT! Only take what you will eat or we will charge you extra."

At the end of my visit, Uncle Jan loaded up a bag for me with four bottles of water, a six pack of miniature Baby Ruth candy bars, and one orange and one lemon from their own fruit trees. I protested that I would only be traveling half an hour by car, but they insisted I leave with provisions "just in case."

I'll tell you something: That lemon was delicious. I drizzled it over the green beans Mike and I had for dinner that night and sliced up the rest to flavor our water. I hope to make it out to Los Angeles again soon, and maybe next time we can all go fishing together.

Los Angeles

2009-03-28T10:47:00.005-04:00

A round-up of pictures taken while in Los Angeles. We were there for a week this March, doing a show at Center Theatre Group in Culver City. I was rather inconsistent with when I took pictures and didn't, so I'll start with what's not pictured:

--close-up of a lamb shish kebob backgrounded by the verdant green of Alissa and Chris's new hideaway home in the hills

--Davey, reaching for my iPhone and every other piece of technology in sight shortly before being whisked to bed by Hilary

--the sign at the Chinese buffet my great-uncle and aunt took me to that read "ALL YOU CAN EAT! Only take what you will eat or we will charge you extra"

--Baci, peeing on a palm tree

And now for the photos:

Matthew, Monika, and Zofia, hanging out in the lobby after the show.

Matthew & Monika's adorable progeny, Madison, who is being raised to eschew princesses in favor of pirates.

Paul and Lia, probably the world's most attractive couple.

Aaron, a former student of Mike's and mine, who is now running a new venue in downtown L.A. and has a business card that lists his title as "Empresario."

A strange wonder from the wonderfully strange Museum of Jurassic Technology. This place is a real gem, a curious oasis of weird that is hard to describe, but I will say that it has nothing to do with dinosaurs.

Director Steve, showing us a rough cut of the film we shot in the fall at the Public. It was neat to see how he's been shaping it.

Sandra and Andre, the rest of our tiny film crew.

And finally, the wall at the theater we signed before we left to mark that we had been there.

31 Days Later

2009-03-12T11:14:00.003-04:00

Well, it’s almost up. My time alone in NYC, the time I thought of as a kind of retreat has nearly run out. Though when I look back on it, it seems to me more like an “immersion” than a “retreat.”

Over the past month I directed a brand-new solo show with Martin and saw twelve other productions (go see Our Town at the Barrow Street) (I know, I know, who needs that hokey old-school stuff, right? But seriously, I saw some damn fine theater this month, theater that renewed my faith and love and sense of play, excellent work by some of the finest minds at work in theater today, and it was this production of Our Town--a play I've never really liked--that stole my heart). I hosted a party, told a story at Speakeasy, met with new people and connected with old friends, and generally was a lot more sociable than I'm used to being.

When you’re coupled up, you can go for long stretches of time without seeing other people. When Mike is with me in NYC we’ll work at separate ends of the apartment all day, and when it’s time to stop working, it’s easy not to go out. Just give me my husband, my dog, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and some Hulu, and why would I ever leave the apartment?

But with Mike gone, the allure of online television lessens considerably. Watching television alone has always made me sad. Besides, we have our core programs (Battlestar Galactica, Top Chef, 30 Rock, and The Office) and as sign of my fidelity I swore to Mike that I wouldn’t watch any of them until we were reunited. That way we can spend our first weekend of reunion in our king-sized L.A. hotel room bed . . . watching TV.

But it’s more than that. I’ve always been a person who loves the idea—if not the implementation—of transformation through structure. So after I said goodbye to Mike in Seattle, waving him off on his big South Pacific adventure, and then got onto my own plane to go home, I thought about the adventure that was waiting for me back in New York, my adopted city. I thought about the gift of time that stretched towards me with as much promise as a blank page. What would I do with it? What could I do with it?

I made an exuberant list: I would write every day. Practice my Spanish. Start each morning with a long walk. Stop drinking coffee. Eat lots of quinoa. Clean out the hall closet. Frame that photograph. Throw a party. Scrub the floor. Wash the dog. Etcetera.

But the more things I wrote down, the farther I got from what I really wanted to do with my time. Which was to figure out what I did with my time. Because it just goes, doesn’t it? And there’s a part of me that really believes that I can do it all. I can write the memoir and I can eat the quinoa and I can mount the show and I can speak the Spanish if only I had more discipline.

So like they tell people to do who want to make a big shift in their diet, I decided I would do something very unlike me. Rather than leaping into action and giving myself a series of mandates, I would first simply observe what it is I do with my time. And so I went out and bought a notebook and began the irritating but ultimately enlightening task of writing down everything I did all day.

Have you ever tried this? It’s maddening. It’s not so bad when you’re in the middle of a task, but once you’ve completed something and noted it--

10 – 10:15, walked dog

--you really want to know exactly what you’re doing next, because time is ticking. And it turns out there’s always transition time between one activity and the next. Time to pee, time to check the inbox, time to walk into the kitchen and think about what that smell is... and then it’s 10:21 and you’re left realizing you don’t know how to account for that lost six minutes. Alien abduction? What?

On the second day of this I spilled some salt and just left it there because I didn’t want it to screw up my metrics and I didn’t know how to account for it. Ditto for the stuck zipper I had to unstick before I could go for my walk. I felt so stupid scratching out “exercise” and writing down “unsticking zipper.”

But if you go ahead and try this experiment, you will find it gets easier over time. Because you figure out certain systems and shorthands. For example, taking a shower, putting on makeup, changing my clothes, brushing my teeth, all fall under “grooming.” And I learned to accept that the transition time was part of the activity, so rounding off into increments of 5 minutes made me much less crazy.

The fact of that transition time came with a lesson, though: The more I can focus on one task (or one kind of task) at a time, the better I do. I’m less scattered and I get more done and there’s a lot less of that transition time. Working offline is good for maintaining focus, because otherwise my monkey mind leaps to address whatever just popped into my inbox. (In the future I might try setting my email to come in at the top of the hour rather than willy-nilly. Because things are rarely so urgent that they can’t wait an hour, right? And if they are, that’s when people get on the phone, right?)

But speaking of monkey mind, I’m going to stop myself before this turns into a productivity seminar. Instead, let me tell you what I discovered over the three-plus weeks I tracked my activities.

1. The little stuff takes a lot of time. Sorting mail, cleaning up salt, it’s all unavoidable. It’s just part of life.

2. Left unchecked, Facebook takes even more than a lot of time.

3. I work a lot more hours than I realized. Maybe because I make a living doing what I love, I’m often unable to count it as work, so I’m constantly feeling like a lazy person because despite not having an office job to go to, I'm still not getting everything I want done. This experiment really showed me how wrong-headed that is. But it also showed me that when I treat it more like a job--working in 2-hour chunks, then taking a short break, then diving back in--I get a lot more done and I feel better about what I do.

4. I spend a lot of time reading. Though these hours will probably decline with the addition of Mike’s company.

5. I am really bad at making time for my writing. I guess I already knew that, but it’s amazing to see, in print, how I put everything else ahead of my writing even though I believe it to be my most important task and even though the days when I do get to my writing are always my best days.

6. Structure is my friend and 9-5 is a song for a reason. Days when I had rehearsal from 2-6 were the best, because the day automatically came divided into two chunks. And if I got through all my work-work in the morning before rehearsal, then the evening was mine to do with as I pleased. Which was great motivation for getting up early and working quickly and methodically. And it turns out that the age-old cycle of working during the day and doing all the other stuff at night is very pleasing to the psyche. Much better than cleaning out your inbox at 3 in the morning, which is something Mike and I end up doing all too often.

This experiment is over. Today is my last full day in New York, and it will indeed be full: I need to pack for myself, the dog, and Mike (because he’s only got summer clothes and no costumes), and I need to do laundry and clean my apartment because friends will be staying here in our absence. (I also discovered that I spend very little time cleaning. Very.) And there’s a bunch of work stuff that I have to take care of, too, of course.

On Friday our pack will be reunited in Los Angeles, and I’m looking forward to many “unproductive” hours of snuggling. But we’ll also be putting up two different shows and one new workshop in two different cities, which means we’ll be launched into show mode. Which is to say, the show demands whatever time and structure it demands, and Mike and I are its willing and servile handmaidens.

How will this experiment affect how I work when in show mode? How will it affect how I work when we return home in April? Will I ever learn to put my writing in its proper place? And what the frak’s been going on in Battlestar Gallactica? Only time—that beckoning blank page—will tell.

Stating the Obvious

2009-03-05T17:54:00.003-05:00

The world wide web is cool. I love being able to video- and audio- and text-chat with Michael in real time, even though he's all the way in Melbourne, Australia, and all for the price of my regular monthly internet bill.

(He took the above screenshot yesterday and I thought it was neat.)

Ten Things Mike Learned on Tanna

2009-02-26T23:42:00.005-05:00

The following is lovely, and copied directly from Mike's site. But what you won't find there is this TRAVELMONKEYS exclusive picture, taken by Mike, of the man who came to New York City and now tells stories in his homeland of this strange otherworld--not unlike what Mike will be doing for us once he returns to the States.

TEN THINGS I LEARNED ON TANNA:

—If someone tells you the reef is "flowering", it means it has neurotoxins that roll your heartrate down to 30 beats a minute and then kills you. Also, when people call a place "Shark Bay" it is not figurative—it means there are many sharks, which you can see from the shore.

—Kava is prepared by the plant being chewed by prepubescent boys, and then the pulpy mess is spat in a bowl, which is mixed with questionable water and then drunk. It tastes much like this description would imply.

—When the volcano explodes, you can see the shockwaves in the air rushing toward you in the moment before it strikes you, and then the sound that follows. It is like God has punched you, or His hand is bursting up through the earth.

—The John Frum celebrations are long: this year's lasted nine hours, with a dinner break in the middle...from morning until nearly dusk. They act out scenes, a kind of living theater, with history of the island, America and other sources intermingled into a tremendous soap opera.

—The many pieces of molten lava bursting from the volcano are the size of refrigerators and Volkswagon bugs. If one hits you the size won't be the issue, or even fire...the heat is so intense that you would disintegrate. This has happened to visitors recently.

—The Friday night celebrations, when the John Frum dance and sing all night til dawn under the deep night sky reflecting off Sulphur Bay, lit by the red glow of the volcano standing above the village like an angry God, is unforgettable. This I will carry to my grave.

—When hunting a wild pig for dinner, you have to strike the pig solidly on the side of the head to knock them down, and then beat them with the pole until dead or dazed...then someone will slit the throat and finish the job.

—A villager showed me his sacred Snoop Dogg amulet, I met people who worship Prince Philip of England as a risen god, and I talked with a man who had been taken by a documentary crew to New York City. He told me what he dreamed about, and the whole village sat together in silence, everyone naked except for penis sheaths and stone-age implements, listening to his stories of an alien land.

—I spent a day with students at a school without water or power, where every book is a rare blessing...but confounding expectation, one out of every four had a cell phone. They charge them with solar chargers, like to play snake, and IM their friends to get together.

—I learned a tremendous amount, made some lasting friendships, and reached across worlds just a bit. When I think about how alien this place seemed just weeks ago to me, I am surprised at my ignorance. It is an excellent lesson, and I am already missing this mysterious, primal island that has helped me a little to see our ordinary world in a new light.

Tonight.

2009-02-25T15:44:00.000-05:00

The Surprise

2009-02-20T09:24:00.004-05:00

This is Martin. This was taken during a rehearsal break. Lucy is his dog, but we also like to pretend she's the stage manager. She's a terrible stage manager, by the way, always letting us get off-topic and extend our break times with the business of getting more tea.

Despite her shortcomings, the rehearsals are going well, and I am looking forward to our opening next week. I am always describing Martin as "smart and funny," which he is, but it occurred to me yesterday that another word that should be in there is kinetic. He really knows how to move, and he uses his entire body to tell his stories, every ounce of him vibrating with it.

We worked on a show about his travels in West Africa last spring. This time he's telling us about some surprising family news that came his way not too long ago. I don't want to say much more, but I will say that the news takes him to the temple of Angkor Wat and the jungles of Vietnam. It's a hell of a story. I hope you can come see it.

The Surprise is being presented as part of The NY Frigid Fest, and as such the performance schedule looks as random as if you were to play Battleship with a calendar:

Weds, 2/25 @ 9
Sat, 2/28 @ 5:30
Weds, 3/4 @ 7:30
Sat, 3/7 @ 4
Sun, 3/8 @ 8:30
at
The Kraine Theater
85 East 4th Street (between Bowery & 2nd Ave)
$15 tickets @ SmartTix; click here
or call 212-868-4444

Breaking News!

2009-02-12T10:19:00.004-05:00

In a surprising turn of events, Mike discovered there was free wifi at the airport on Vila, the main island of Vanuatu from which he would take his final leg to Tanna after a 16-hour layover. Especially surprising, he said, since the airport looks like "a glorified hut."

He used the opportunity to send me some quick notes on the journey so far, which I will share in whole with you. He also sent two pictures of signs written in Bislama, the creole language that is spoken to varying degrees across Vanuatu and uses English as its base. As a fun exercise, try reading the signs--you'll understand more than you think.

Now, the notes from Mike:

--The people ululating once we came in sight of Port Vila far below, a few lights against the dark sea.

--The white couple and their black indentured servant, and how she hissed at him when he didn't pick up all their many bags fast enough.

--A really fine cup of coffee and a french pastry while overlooking the bay.

--Reading bislama EVERYWHERE.

--My talk with the Vanuatu Red Cross office...they revealed that Frumians of all kinds come and pay homage at the office, due to the red cross. They happened to be down the street--glad I stopped by.

--Incredible weather--I have had unbelievable heat followed by a torrential monsoon in just a few hours. I'm soaked. I bought a huge umbrella at the supermarket, which does indeed have an ATM.

--The signs on the main street of Port Vila, filled with crap of all kinds, that shout CARGO! CARGO HERE!

I can't wait for the rest of the story.

I will say that I got one more quick message, I think sent from the plane just before he took off:

My pilot has a big scar down his face, a milky eye AND a big knife. Not joking. Will try to get picture without getting stabbed.

Hopefully that's not the last missive I ever receive from him.

Beautiful British Columbia

2009-02-07T01:17:00.001-05:00

Back when M and I were Seattle-dwellers, we'd cross the border to Canada anytime we needed a breath of Europea on a day-jobber's budget. Vancouver B.C. felt so . . . international. That was the word we always used, and that one word seemed to contain everything we couldn't find back in Seattle: rapid mass transit, enormous Hong Kong-styled dim sum eateries, a legal drinking age of 18, French, strip clubs that were more sexy than sleazy, foreign currency, and daily newspapers that would print the word "fuck."

We never performed there, but we always wanted to, and on the last trip we took there, back at the tail end of 2000, we spent the whole train ride home hatching a vivid and fanciful plan for our triumphant return.

Cut to nine years later, and we're performing in Portland, Oregon at the T:BA Festival, when a man who runs a performing arts festival in Vancouver comes to see our show. He really responds to the work, but of course it's too late to book us for this year's festival, and next year the city will be hosting the Olympics, which means that maybe we can talk about a booking for 2011?

And here's what I love about my M. He knows that 2011 is a lifetime away. Who knows where we'll be by then, or if we'll even be at all. He also knows we're already going to be in the Northwest for a different gig at the same time as the festival is happening. So really, there must be a way to make this work, right? And indeed, there was.

But it involved a number of compromises. The presenter told us that the space wasn't ideal. All the theaters were booked, so we'd be in their after-hours club. Also, we'd have no idea what our audience numbers would be like as there'd be no advance sales. We were told several times that this new club space was a big "experiment."

I read between the lines and told M we should expect about 30 in a house that could comfortably fit over 200. We put out 50 chairs and held our breath.

But they came! All these beautiful, smart, good-looking Canadians showed up and filled up all the seats we'd put out and more. We used up all the chairs, and filled up the cabaret tables and bar with standing room. The audience got Mike's humor immediately, and when the story demanded quiet, they quickly supplied it. It was a great night for live performance.

Afterwards, we caught up with an old friend, Dennis, who left the States after Bush was elected in 2000, married a nice Canadian girl, and is now a proud and happy father and game designer.

And the next morning, Mike did a live interview with a local television show. The host had actually watched a tape of Mike's performance in advance and then talked to him about his work for almost twenty minutes. This is notable because where we come from, artists are rarely treated as people who might have something to say that might be of interest to the general public. It was strange and wonderful and sad and nice all at the same time.

Then Mike delivered a fiery and funny and passionate and moving manifesto to the festival attendees. (Again, unusual to hear a keynote from an artist. O Canada, is all of you so wonderful?) And then we ate a bunch more food from the outstanding Granville Island Market: smoked Polish sausage and savory crepes and apples and Indian food and doughnuts and strawberries that we dipped into maple yogurt as we sat admiring the spectacular view.

On Monday, M leaves for his amazing island adventure, so it was nice to spend this time together in this place we'd always wanted to return to.

We will be back.

Seattle Snaps

2009-02-01T18:27:00.002-05:00

Some snapshots taken with my mobile phone over the last week:

(in the lobby of the theater pre-show)

(doesn't my brother look like a rock star with his new 'do?)

(Lincoln Park)

(peeing dog)

(the beach below my parents' home, where kids are building a fort-like structure)

(Bakery Nouveau, and the remains of a twice-baked almond croissant)

(EZ Street records; cheap and plentiful breakfasts, and they know how to do hash browns right)

Kirkland: It's not just a Costco brand

2009-01-28T17:11:00.003-05:00

I'm writing this from my parents' home in Seattle, looking out over beautiful Puget Sound while the sun, having momentarily freed itself from the morning's clouds, attempts to render my laptop screen unreadable. The dog is asleep on the couch behind me, saving up his strength for the long, leash-less walk in the park he knows we'll take later. Ah, Seattle.

We're not just here for a visit, though. This weekend we'll be performing two different shows at the Kirkland Performance Center. On Friday night will be our old favorite, "Monopoly!"--a tale of the sparring geniuses Tesla and Edison, rabbits with lasers, Bill Gates' ninjas, the history of the eponymous board game, and the growing creep of the Wal-Mart in Mike's hometown in Maine. We've performed this one at Bumbershoot and CHAC and Portland's TBA Festival, and will do it again in Vancouver B.C. on February 4. It's one of my favorites.

But I'm especially excited about Saturday night, when we'll do "Invincible Summer" for the first (and probably only) time on the west coast. I have always wanted to do this show in Seattle as it's about our move from here to New York, which happened to be the same summer those towers fell. It's also about the subway system, families falling apart and coming back together, Polish weddings and potato salad, and the vodka and cream puffs it takes to make both marriage and democracies work.

This is the same monologue that was so infamously interrupted by the student group in Boston whose adult chaperone couldn't handle Paris Hilton being insulted. (Watch that video here.)

If you're in the area, come join us. We'll have a good time together.

Oh! A bald eagle just flew by!

* * *

Coming Home is bronze sculpture by Stanley Bleifeld, located at Marina Park in Kirkland, Washington.

Pollos & Banditos

2009-01-23T16:31:00.003-05:00

Hey! I got the slideshow from our trip to Mexico working. Click on the picture below for six minutes and twenty-two seconds of unadulterated nostalgia.

And remember to choose the "watch in high quality" option (you'll find that option to the bottom right of the image window).

January 2009 in Washington DC

2009-01-21T18:36:00.007-05:00

The first time I came to DC was last July, when we had a run of "If You See Something..." at Woolly Mammoth. Though I fell in love with the theater (the audiences, the staff, the building) and was impressed by the city's scope and vitality, I had a hard time that trip.

For one thing, it was hot. Which severely limited my ability to walk around and see the sights, let alone do basic things like pick up groceries and do laundry without a considerable amount of whining.

For the second thing, the monologue was at a critical point in its development, and it was taking a lot of work to whip it into shape, which meant Mike would build it every night and then I would tear it apart every morning, and then we'd do it all again. At least, that's how the process started to feel to us, until we could hardly stand it anymore.

Finally, my grandmother was dying in the other Washington, which meant that whenever we weren't fighting over the monologue, I was a weepy mess. She ended up passing away while I was there, which meant I had to leave DC early to attend her funeral while Mike stayed behind to finish the run.

This trip went considerably better.

Nobody close to us died, the weather was tolerable, the performances and roundtables went swimmingly, and a fantastic new president was sworn in--one we actually believe in and whose campaign I've given money to, one who makes me proud to call myself an American. Talk about a happy start to a new year.

In the weeks leading up to the inauguration you could feel the collective good mood of the city rising and rising. Restaurants and bars extended their hours in recognition that the entire city would be playing host to this celebration.

My cousin Victoria (family nickname "Pepsi"--it's a long story) and her husband James came to town for the big event and got to see our show, too.

Unlike them, we didn't have inauguration tickets, but we did get invited to an arts leadership cocktail party on the eve of the inauguration, where we met up with fellow artists and neighbors from Brooklyn, Isaac and Ann. I'm not much of a schmoozer, but I do appreciate open bars and appetizers of enormous scallops with a light butternut squash and brown beurre sauce.

After the party we walked down to the mall and got much closer to the stage than we knew we'd be able to the next day.

The grounds were full of folks like us, everyone eager to help take pictures for one another, everyone jubilant and oh so hopeful.

Indeed, the following day we fought our way to (and through) the train station, checked our bags, then walked along the perimeter of the Capitol, hoping we might be able to hear our new president's speech even if we couldn't get close enough to see him on a jumbotron.

There were thousands of other people just like us, happy just to be close to the big event (and knowing we'd be able to watch it all on Hulu later).

After surveying our options, we sat down at the sunny base of a tree, had a little picnic, and people-watched until it was time to catch our train. One cop made a beeline toward us and I was afraid he was going to tell me that dogs weren't allowed in the area, but it turned out he just missed his dog back at home and wanted to scratch his head and say hello.

I still didn't see as much of the city as I would have liked this trip, but the great news is that we're going to be back in a year's time with a brand new piece. A piece that I'm very excited about and will be able to spill the beans on soon.

Until then, Happy New President Day to all of you.

New Year's Eve

2008-12-31T20:35:00.005-05:00

Well, I was going to write a meditative post about New Year's resolutions and the desire for transformation and the formation of habit--but then we discovered that Baci ate a whole stocking's worth of chocolate and have been actively monitoring him for signs of toxic shock. (So if that entry sounded like a snooze, you can thank him for being spared it.)

Instead, I offer you a glimpse into our New Year's Eve, past and present. For the third time, we will be joining our friends Andy Secunda and Kate Hess (recently engaged, btw) for their annual Steakapalooza at Peter Luger's. If you're a carnivore, this is about as close to heaven as it gets.

I made a film of our hijinks there last year--click on the photo below, and remember to hit the "watch in high quality" tab unless you prefer fuzzy video to clear.

Happy New Year!

This Is Why I Left My Computer Behind

2008-12-23T10:25:00.003-05:00

I could scream. I could swear and I could shout, but I have too much to do, so if you will just let me vent to you, I would greatly appreciate it.

I have so many wonderful pictures to share with you from our trip to the Yucatan that I decided to create a slide show. That was the fun part that I let myself overindulge in, time-wise--getting the music just right, the title sequences, etc. But then I had a problem when I exported it into a .mov file, so my dear husband graciously updated all my software in case it was a bug, and this took more time (time when we should have been cleaning and prepping for the 18 people who are going to be dining here on Christmas Eve), though it did fix the problem.

And then I had to upload it to YouTube, which took another hour, because it is a large file, and then yet more waiting, as they had to process it, only to find out that there were further problems: the audio was messed up, and the picture quality was crap.

But in for a penny, in for a pound, right? So I got an account with Vimeo, which is supposed to have superior image quality as compared to YouTube, and I set my computer to upload the file before I went to bed last night. I woke up this morning, so excited to see what it looks like, and guess what? "There was a problem converting this video! Please contact Vimeo help."

So now I realize that not only did I spend an entire evening (all told, probably six hours) on this, but I have also created a slide show that will only work if I show it to you in person, on my computer. Grrrr.

It's not a new story, I know. We've all gotten caught in technology time sinks. But it smarts all the same. If you have actually made it to the end of this long whine, I thank you for your time (time that could have been spent prepping for your big dinner/performance/party/exam) and offer you this: my favorite photo from our trip to the Yucatan.

More to follow in the old-school, reliable, TRAVELMONKEYS format.

Peace on Earth,
JM

We're Back from the Yucatan

2008-12-18T12:09:00.005-05:00

And oh, there's so much I want to tell you.

I want to speak of the perfectly-sized waves and the soft white sand, of the spider monkeys who snuggled against us and searched our pockets for peanuts, of half-excavated Mayan ruins made only more beautiful by the jungle's encroachment, of crazy underground caverns filled with fresh water where one can backfloat while looking up at bats and stalactites, of singing geckos and basking iguanas, of living without electricity thirty feet from the water's edge (no lights, no internet, lots of candles, lots of books), of taquerias and Mexican sweet buns and papaya and pina and avocado avocado avocado.

And one day, soon, I will.

But first I must get my house and work in order. I must stock up my larder and purchase some firewood so we're ready for the six inches of snow that is rumored will hit New York tomorrow morning. And then, as a reward, I will allow myself to download the contents of my camera and begin some more in-depth posts about the trip.

In the meantime, Feliz Navidad, and thanks for not getting annoyed with me when I lapse into Spanish.

Vamos

2008-12-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

Folks, I don't know how to tell you this, but the rumors are true.

We're going to Mexico.

Not permanently. Just for a few days. A little over a week. Closer to two weeks.

Twelve nights on the beach. Well, eleven on the beach and one in the interior, somewhere closer to Chichen Itza. Maybe Valladolid.

Even crazier? We're leaving behind our computers. And our iPhones. We're staying on the beach in a cabana with lots of candles and no electricity. We're bringing books. Paper. Pens. Playing cards. Sunblock.

Will we get bored? Oh, I hope so. It's been years.

Feliz Navidad, and we'll see you on the other side.

Thanksgiving 2008

2008-12-02T09:33:00.000-05:00

Some pictures from our overland sojourn to Brick, New Jersey, to celebrate Thanksgiving with Mike's extended family at their amazingly huge house known as The Compound.

Well, not from the journey, actually, more like pictures once at the destination, but I'm trying to keep to the theme of TRAVELmonkeys and I didn't think to bore you with pictures of us while on New Jersey Transit. But I will say that at 45 minutes from Penn Station, it's a super-easy trip.

And New Jersey Transit is perfectly happy to transport well-behaved dogs (unlike those idiots at Amtrak), so Baci was able to join in the fun.

As promised, we played a LOT of Rock Band. Pictured above are Mike and Mary's cousins--Dave on the drums, Kris on the bass, and Kris's son, Conner, on the guitar.

And this is Kris's husband, Martin, and his dad (also Martin) DEEP-FRYING the turkey! I have been hearing about Americans burning down their decks/garages/homes using this dangerous method for the past five years, but after having tasted the results, I have to say: the risk is worth it. And it only took an hour to cook!

There were almost as many dogs as there were people. This is Pat, a friend of the family, with her dog Snickers, brother to the other dog, Sammy, who lives at The Compound year-round.

And this is Thelma. She and Baci hit it off immediately.

All the dogs stayed close to Aunt Angela, who was prone to THROWING MEAT at random.

The humans stayed close to her as well, because she was prone to THROWING 5 KINDS OF PIE and 3 KINDS OF STUFFING at us.

The next morning, even more family came to visit, including their Aunt Marianne and Uncle Cook. Uncle Cook's signature contribution is the sign, which he makes new for each family occasion and which they've been holding up in family photos since 1973.

All in all, a wonderful time with wonderful hosts and much, much to be thankful for.

New Obsession

2008-12-01T14:29:00.006-05:00

Mike and I don't have a video camera. But our digital camera allows us to take little movies. We've been buying from the Canon family for a while, and the older versions made movies without sound and at 16 frames per second, lending the footage a choppy, Super 8 kind of feeling--instantly nostalgic. But our newest camera (a Canon SD1100 IS) and the models we've been using for the last couple years actually take pretty good footage.

I tell you all this because I just launched iMovie for the first time and have discovered how easy it is to turn that footage into highly watchable and sharable YouTube clips. Travelmonkeys Readers, take note: this could change everything.

For my first offering, I invite you to watch how I spent the bulk of my Thanksgiving holiday: playing Rock Band with my extended New Jersey family in Brick. Mike's sister joined us for the week and is featured here on vocals. Click on the picture below, and choose the "watch in high quality" option for best results.

Enjoy!

Lights, Camera, Steak

2008-11-21T12:40:00.007-05:00

As you may have heard, we've decided to make a movie out of "If You See Something Say Something."

It's being directed by Peabody Award-winning cameraman Steve Anderson, who has shot seven PBS documentaries, written and directed the feature film "The Big Empty," and was recently a hit of the film festival circuit with his documentary about the most fascinating word in the English language, "Fuck." He's also been charged by lions on the Serengeti Plain, caught fire in the Malibu fires, trained as a Hollywood stunt driver, and shot hoops with Magic Johnson.

And here he is, digging through the Public Theater's dumpster, hoping to find a bit of magic in the refuse.

This was from a scene we filmed in the adjacent alley, though most of the film will be of the performance itself, shot over a total of six nights.

Mike and I wield such tight creative control over our projects that it's been a bit scary to let someone else in, but I have to say that these guys made it easy. It was a lean crew--Steve, Andre and Sandra--and each person was as positive as they were professional, which made each performance a joy to perform.

Once we'd wrapped (see how easily I use the lingo? I also learned that the final shot set-up of the day is called the "martini shot." I'm going to use that in other areas of my life! I'm envisioning martini paragraphs in writing, martini rooms in cleaning . . . this could be a very good thing) we decided to celebrate by heading over to the finest steak house New York has to offer: Peter Luger's.

When we got home, our dog could taste the steak still coming through our pores.

Partnership, in Print

2008-11-08T12:49:00.005-05:00

There was a piece written about our collaboration a while ago (six months? a year? I'm terrible with time) that I ran across again this morning because the writer of that piece has written a new article about two other creative couples.

The writer is also a director who lives in our neighborhood with his wife, who is also a theater artist. I like running into them at shows, but it's even better when we bump into each other on the street. (Not literally.)

My Husband, the Cookie Monster

2008-11-06T06:36:00.000-05:00

Yes, We Did

2008-11-05T09:02:00.005-05:00

Some scenes from last night's gathering.

Tensions were high and people were afraid to let their guard down at first.

Everyone was checking their trusted websites for news, supplementing old media with new.

But after we won Ohio, people started to relax a bit.

(The celebratory round of vodka didn't hurt either.)

Baci wore his "time for change" sweater, complete with a button that looks like a little clock, made for him by the Yarn Lady.

And baby Callaghan was passed around the room, spreading a sense of hopefulness to everyone who held him.

When the election officially broke for Obama, the room went crazy with delight, and the sweetest part was seeing everyone on the phones with their family, checking in to say hello and omigoodness, can you believe it happened?

We all thought McCain's concession speech was very gracious.

And we loved Obama's speech.

Especially the part about the puppy.

Big love to our friends and neighbors who made a wonderful night even better by sharing it with us.

God bless America.

A Guest Economist

2008-11-03T13:42:00.000-05:00

About a week and half ago, my mother sent me her thoughts on the current economic crisis, and I asked her if I could post it here. She agreed. The first line of it read, "How my parents will save the world's economic problems," and it seemed to me a perfect title. Enjoy.

(Pictured above are my grandmother and grandfather, or Babcia and Dziadek, as we called them. On Dziadek's lap is me on the left, and my cousin Amanda on the right. The picture was taken at their home in San Antonio.)

***

How My Parents Will Save the World's Economic Problems

Just read the New Yorker article about the 30-year-old who brought down the French trading house, Société Générale. Then I heard the author of The Black Swan talking about the impending world economic collapse. While I was reading the New Yorker article, I was struck by the understanding that the people in charge had no idea what was going on.

So let me tell you about my parents. Simple peasants from the Polish Ukraine who survived Hitler’s “work study” program during the Second World War, which was a better option than being killed by the Ukrainians or going to Siberia with the Russians. They arrived in Texas with three children and a bag of dried bread crusts and a feather bed, which my mother had gotten for her dowry. We were supposed to go to Kansas, but when we arrived in New Orleans in December 1949, we were reassigned to Texas. Others took our place in Kansas. On the train trip to San Antonio, by mother kept remembering all the stories she had read about Indians and the uncivilized conditions in the West—which included Texas in European mythology.

The uncivilized conditions proved to be true, but not because of Indians.

So they arrived, they raised their children, and we thrived. We are all solvent, self-sufficient American taxpayers. Quite a feat when you start out making $.25 per hour, work 16-hour days and are paid for 8. My father left that job to work at a non-union foundry at $1 per hour. To support us he also moonlighted cleaning the parochial school my siblings and I attended for 3 years.

So what did I learn from these people about economics? If you don’t understand it, don’t do it. It’s a simple concept, but it would have kept us out of a world of trouble. They understood interest—we saved and would go downtown to put money in the bank weekly. To celebrate the deposit we would go to Joske’s and buy cheese, salami and hard rolls, which we would eat on the way home. At first we ate on the bus, then we continued the tradition in our first car—a ‘49 Ford.

After I got out of college and married, my parents were there to advance a loan for my first car—and they extended this policy to my sister and later to my children. Their rates were great, and our rates were better than the banks were offering. Everyone was happy. They died rich and happy and surrounded by family.

So now the world is in a world of trouble. Who would have thought that making bets on derivatives wouldn’t turn out well for all of us? My mom and dad would have said, What do you mean you don’t know whom you’re lending money to? Why can’t you explain it to me so I understand? Are these good people who have these loans on those houses and when can you show me?

It seems like a simple life, but we sure would be a lot more secure if we would have listened to them.

--Virginia Bowen, who runs a small business, Seattle Yarn, and who can be found on the web offering yarn and advice in her Ask The Yarn Lady column. She also has a blog. And she is a mighty fine mama and babcia in her own right.

All Souls Day

2008-11-02T06:47:00.006-05:00

The poet Czeslaw Milosz has always been special to me.

When M and I were still just friends--but friends who sought each other out each day to unload the contents of our heads before the next day came to erase them--he gave me a gorgeous copy of the collected poems of Czeslaw Milosz. That was my first introduction.

Later, I would return to that thick volume the way others might turn to their bibles, always somehow finding the string of words I needed to hear at that particular moment.

Some years ago, I was up late, troubled by my lack of progress with the book I was working on, a book about my grandmother, and feeling very anguished about my calling. I turned to Milosz's book again and opened up to his poem, "On Angels." It ends with these three lines:

day draws near
another one
do what you can

Those words helped cut through my anguish and remind me of the simplicity (not to be confused with easiness) of my task. I wrote them down on a sticky, fixed it to the wall above my desk, and went to sleep.

In the morning I opened my laptop to read the news and was immediately presented with an article telling me that Milosz had died the night before. I had not known he'd been ill and I had not gone looking for news of him. I copy-and-pasted the following lines from the article in an email to Michael:

Milosz died at his home in Krakow surrounded by his family, the assistant, Agnieszka Kosinska, told The Associated Press by telephone. The exact cause of death was not immediately known.

"It's death, simply death. It was his time -- he was 93," Kosinska said.

The uncanny timing leant those words even more power for me, reminding me that each day is, indeed, a gift.

Today is All Souls' Day, a big deal in Poland where both Milosz and my grandmother were from. It's a beautiful holiday meant to help remember the dead as families visit the graves of their relatives and leave behind lit candles to help the souls navigate their way home.

I was lucky enough to experience it myself when I was in Warsaw in 1997, and lucky to have Michael visiting me at the time. We rode a city bus out to a large graveyard and wandered through the hushed and holy place, holding hands, and now and then bending down to place the few candles we'd purchased on graves that seemed emptier than the others--though on All Souls Day, no grave went without at least a dozen candles.

I remember I said something to Michael about how quiet it was, and he pointed out to me the sound of breaking glass. I don't know how I'd missed it. The candles were made to burn a long time, many having been placed the day before, on All Saints Day, and as the built up heat became too much for the thin glass enclosure to take, the glass would sometimes burst. But such a delicate bursting. Like it belonged to a piano key far, far to the right, too far to reach with human hands.

This morning I woke up early, woken by another dream about my grandmother, who passed this July. In the dream I was with my mother, and I was marveling with her about the moment of letting go, what that must be like, to really and truly be done. My mother wrapped her arm around my shoulder and asked a nurse-like figure if we could see the body, because she thought it would be helpful for me to see. The nurse was apprehensive, but she eventually led us through to a darkened room, and there on the table was a body, but it wasn't my grandmother, it was me.

I understood then that the body was just a shell, and that my grandmother's soul had moved on, and there was nothing here for me to see.

Now I'm wide awake, unable to return to sleep, missing my grandmother, appreciating the loyalty of my small black dog who faithfully followed at my grandmother's heels when she was alive and now has followed me from the warm bed where Michael still snores, and is curled on my lap, sleeping, not minding the few drops of wet I'm contributing to his soft black fur.

Mr. Milosz has been good enough to provide me with a new poem this morning, and on this All Souls Day, I share it with you as well.

***

OLD WOMEN

Arthritically bent, in black, spindle-legged,
They move, leaning on canes, to the altar where the Pantocrator
In a dawn of gilded rays lifts his two fingers.
The mighty, radiant face of the All-Potent
In whom everything was created, whatever is on the earth and in
Heaven,
To whom are submitted the atom and the scale of galaxies,
Rises over the heads of His servants, covered with their shawls
While into their shriveled mouths they receive His flesh.

A mirror, mascara, powder, and cones of carmine
Lured every one of them and they used to dress up
As themselves, adding a brighter glow to their eyes,
A rounder arch to their brows, a denser red to their lips.
They opened themselves, amorous, in the riverside woods,
Carried inside the magnificence of the beloved,
Our mothers whom we have never repaid,
Busy, as we were, with sailing, crossing continents.
And guilty, seeking their forgiveness.

He who has been suffering for ages rescues
Ephemeral moths, tired-winged butterflies in the cold,
Genetrixes with the closed scars of their wombs,
And carries them up to His human Theotokos,
So that the ridicule and pain change into majesty
And thus it is fulfilled, late, without charms and colors,
Our imperfect, earthly love.

--Czeslaw Milosz

Pho = Warmth

2008-10-30T21:51:00.008-04:00

Back in Chicago, Mike and I were hungry and in a bit of a hurry. I'd read in my guidebook about a no-frills deli not far from our hotel, and that seemed like a good way to fill our stomachs.

But on our way there we walked by a restaurant with outdoor seating and the smell of the food being served was incredible. The restaurant looked fancier than we were in the mood for--white tablecloths, rich women with high-end shopping bags, waiters in suits--but we couldn't get over how good the food smelled, so we got a table and ordered up some lunch.

Thank goodness we stopped.

What you are looking at is the finest bowl of pho M or I have ever consumed. The balance of flavors in the oxtail broth was incredible and the cuts of beef tenderloin were absolutely sublime--they just melted on the tongue. The restaurant's name is Le Colonial and their focus is French-Vietnamese fine dining. We got the pho as a starter, but sadly, neither of our follow-up dishes scored anywhere near the ballpark of the pho. We both wished we'd simply ordered two bowls of the pho instead.

Back in Seattle, M and I were introduced to the joys of pho by the Than brothers, who serve up a more everyday kind of pho with a more everyday price tag. They started a pho house in north Seattle in 1996 and quickly expanded all over the city. You can't get anything but pho there: many varieties of beef, or chicken, or vegetarian. And each meal begins with a complimentary (and complementary) cream puff. The puffs are so good that when M and I got married in 2000, we ordered five hundred of them and stacked them into towers instead of serving cake--a tradition my sister and her husband continued when they got married this summer.

When we're in Seattle, we often get into cream puff eating competitions with Mike's sister and brother. I believe that Mary is the reigning champion, having swallowed 15 cream puffs in one sitting, but if I've got that wrong, forgive me. (They take the competition very seriously.)

So tonight, in chilly Brooklyn, far from either Chicago or Seattle, I started dreaming of pho, and I remembered a place on Atlantic that had served us pho once before: Nicky's. I called and ordered two bowls of pho and two bahn mi sandwiches. An intolerable 45 minutes later, the food finally arrived.

When you order pho to go, they separate out the broth from the meat and the noodles and the vegetable matter so that you can assemble it fresh just before you eat it. Also, some of the meat is raw, so that it will be cooked by the hot broth.

I took the two containers of broth and, though they were still hot, I heated them on my stove until they were boiling. The pod of star anise gave off the most heavenly aroma. And then I poured the broth into two big glass bowls and we each set about assembling our pho, me with more plum sauce, M with more sriracha.

I tell you, it was so, so good, that I'd wait an hour for it again. I really would. And it was so filling that I had to put my bahn mi in the fridge for tomorrow's lunch. (But I scored a bite off of M's so I know it's going to be delicious.)

Then we hunkered down with our two mighty bowls and watched last night's episodes of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report on Hulu.com while the dog anxiously fluttered between our feet, hoping we might drop some part of our meal.

We did not.

The Ancho Chile Lesson

2008-10-28T18:14:00.004-04:00

I would have included this photo in the round-up below, but I had to scan it in first.

We ate a lot of chiles on that trip to New Mexico--green, red, roasted, stewed, and even the green chile cheeseburger they serve at the McDonald's in Los Alamos. I wouldn't call myself a chile expert now by any means, but I do know my answer to the official New Mexican state question, "Red or Green?"

Green.

A Dramatic Exit

2008-10-27T17:12:00.004-04:00

Oh, what a night we had at yesterday's opening. The house was packed with Public and Pub staff, lots of donors, a few friends, and a few stray members of the press. Mike was in fine form and the performance was electric. After having heard this monologue 37 times since it was born 4 months ago, it's been hard for me to come to recent performances with a fresh "beginner's mind."

But last night it was not a problem. I was there, and I was rapt, and Mike made me laugh and think and feel in new ways again. Lovely.

Also, I eschewed my usual no-nonsense Dansko clogs for ridiculously high black heels my much-sexier little sister had advised me to purchase months earlier, and I wore peacock feather earrings and painted my nails bright red between the matinee and evening performances. I felt good.

The after-party was terrific, and we closed the Pub down drinking with our crew and a few members of the Pub's waitstaff, with whom we otherwise never have a chance to connect. In fact, we were having such a good time, we all decided to head over to a nearby bar to finish the night off, and it was then, as we were leaving the lobby of the theater, glowy and triumphal, that I stepped incorrectly on the stairs and managed to twist the heck out of my ankle.

I come from a long line of fainters. Something about our low blood pressure, perhaps? I don't know. All I knew last night was that I was in serious pain and I was fighting for consciousness--the bleary vision, the sudden sheet of sweat, the mouth filling with saliva--and I managed to stumble out into the cool night air and lay my overdressed self down on the dirty New York sidewalk.

Someone brought me a napkin full of ice, someone else brought me some water, and eventually, we made it into a cab and home, where I admired my swollen ankle between teary applications of ice. I may also have made a few extremely dramatic statements about how when we are ill we are truly alone, and while it's easy to share in other people's joy, no one is ever willing to share in someone else's pain . . . (All while longsuffering M was fluffing my pillows and fetching me ibuprofen and water and placing the ice-pack exactly as I directed it.)

Today I called my doctor, whom I really adore. He's a rheumatologist, and he comes to see our shows, and he takes great care of me. He got me in for an x-ray right away and happily, there was no break, just a badly sprained ankle. So it's rest, ice, compression, and elevation for me for the next two to six weeks.

That, and finding new ways to be nice to Michael, who in addition to enduring last night's drama now has to take Baci on all his walks, at least for the next 48 hours. Sigh.

Bright Alchemy

2008-10-25T15:07:00.006-04:00

Before we leave October, I want to post pictures from our trip to New Mexico last October, when we were doing research for the new monologue. I'm thinking about it a lot because that's the monologue we're now doing in New York seven times a week, and I figured folks who have seen the show might enjoy seeing some of these pictures.

I have to start with Ed Grothus, who runs the Black Hole, and who came to see our show on his 85th birthday when we performed it in Santa Fe this summer.

You can see Ed in action here, and I know that Morning Edition is going to be doing a big piece on him shortly, to which I'll provide a link once it's up. He's a real character, and his devotion to his cause is inspiring. His shop is a must-see if you ever get the chance to visit New Mexico.

Yes, that's a daisy made out of 1,000 pound bomb casings split in half, with a grouping of detonators forming the flower's core. And below you'll see a picture of atomic bomb detonator cables for two dollars a piece.

We stayed with my father and his wife who live in Albuquerque and are extremely gracious and enthusiastic hosts.

On a side note, he has a blog of his own, and like the best blogs, his editorial focus is quite specific. It's a weekly dispatch from his adventures riding the bus, and his sharp but nonjudgmental observations make for a nice window into another corner of the world.

They took us to the Balloon Fiesta, for which Albuquerque is world-famous. Turns out you have to leave your house at 4 AM if you want to be there for the mass ascension, which apparently we did. It was cold and dark, but there were vendors lined up and selling breakfast burritos with green chiles and watery (but warm) hot chocolate, for which we were grateful.

Mike was groggy and irradiated, having made the pilgrimage to the Trinity blast site the day before (I chose to stay behind and learn how to roast ancho chiles with my father instead). He saw most of his balloons by peaking out from the blanket he was shivering beneath.

It also turns out that conditions have to be just right for a balloon to be able to take off. And special shapes, like this Darth Vader balloon, have a more difficult time than standard shapes, but they also draw bigger cheering sections.

JM's Dream

2008-10-17T08:49:00.006-04:00

Maybe it was yesterday's talk of outsourcing killing, but last night I dreamt that M and I were subsidizing our income by taking on contract killing while on the road. It was perfect--we breezed into a town to do a show, took out the target sometime between tech and opening, and then skipped town long before anyone would ever suspect us.

I write "us," but even in the dream it was Mike doing all the dirty work while I merely helped coordinate logistics via iPhone texts. (Yeah, brilliant move, that. Leave a big old trail, why don't you.)

We were in a city that had a huge sports arena next to a huge concert hall (in my dream logic I decided it was Philadelphia) and I was listening to a piece of music being performed by fifty violins when I suddenly realized, Hey, we're killing people. That's not cool, that's not sexy, that's horrible.

M had a simultaneous come-t0-Jesus and sought me out, saying, "Isn't the most important rule of monloguing this: 'First, do no harm'?"

We agreed to mend our evil ways and immediately cease all killing, but it was too late. They were on to us for a previous offense, a botched job from the start. Our lives as we knew them were over, but even worse was the realization that we'd have to live knowing what we'd done.

I woke from the dream at 5 AM and turned to M and made him promise never to become a hitman as a side job, no matter how lucrative. Of all the weird wake-from-a-dream-and-elicit-a-promise moments we've shared in our twelve years together, that was probably the easiest one for him to agree to.

Home

2008-10-15T09:40:00.006-04:00

"To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul."
--Simone Weil

We're back in New York now, back in our apartment, and we'll be here through at least November. I hadn't realized how much I missed it until now.

As I write this, I'm sitting on the couch in the front room, the pug is a soft black line between me and my laptop, and M sleeps in the bed, emitting an occasional sigh or snore. We live in a garden apartment, and one of the best things about that is being able to leave our back door open at night, as we do for most of spring and fall. Right now there's a fresh breeze blowing in from the garden helping to displace some of our accumulated dust.

It's October, which means that the wasps who live somewhere in our walls are also back. It's the strangest thing: we moved here in October seven years ago, and as we were carrying in the boxes I looked down at my pants leg and saw a wasp gripping my corduroy. I screamed and dropped the box. I've always had an outsized reaction to bees, wasps, and hornets and give them far more credit for possessing a kind of evil intellect than the simple creatures deserve.

(Ongoing debate between M and me: Can bees/wasps/hornets smell fear? And if you kill one of them, do they emit a pheromone that calls out to their brothers, "Avenge me, avenge me, aveeeeeeeeenge meeeeeeeeee..."?)

We figured out they were coming from behind the radiator in the front room and went down into the basement to seek out their nest, but couldn't find it. Then November came and they were gone, so we stopped worrying about it. Next October, they appeared again. This cycle has been repeated many times, with searching by our landlady and an actual exterminator, but no one can find their home. And since we've never been stung (they are very sluggish, climbing slowly up the glass of the front window as if drugged) and since they always leave come November, we've learned to accept them as another marker of time.

It also helps that M kills them for me. I'll be working at my desk when suddenly I'll hear it, the quietest of alarms--two pieces of paper slowly sliding against each other, that's what it sounds like when they move. Usually the poor thing is crawling his way up the window, which makes him easy to spot, and I call out to M who saunters in and applies the blunt end of his chopstick to the insect's center, killing it instantly. Then he has to clean up the carcass and dispose of it outside because I've seen too many horror movies to let something like that remain in my home. Plus, there's that pheromone thing.

Sometimes the creature will get further, though. One made it all the way from the window to my foot. I was at my desk, working on my computer, when suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and I looked down just in time to see the little beast attempting to bridge the gap between carpet and my shoe.

Did I step on it myself? No. I've always managed to find a way to outsource my killing. Before M there was my sister Ruth, who got a kind of thrill from rescuing her older sister from spiders and stinging things. Hey, I'm happy to play the part of the rescued damsel so long as someone else is doing the dirty work.

All of which is to say, it's good to be home.

Guess Where?

2008-10-09T12:21:00.003-04:00

"A consideration of the imagination is the shared province of philosophy, religion, art, psychology, politics, culture and science. Our participation in all of these realms depends on a moment of the "What if?" The theater, as a community-engendered and -received imagining, is a particularly potent arena in which to investigate this profound human resource. The imagination is the zone of our contact, the place where we meet and begin our conversation."

--Martha Lavey, Artistic Director of Steppenwolf Theatre Company

New England Mini-Tour

2008-10-06T17:42:00.010-04:00

Last week the TRAVELMONKEYS team headed up to New England to teach some workshops at Colby College in Waterville, Maine; see some family and friends; perform the new monologue; and then drive to Burlington, Vermont, to perform a different piece at the University of Vermont.

A lot of people wonder how we fly with the dog. Here's Baci, demonstrating his in-flight kennel. It slides right under the seat in front of us and for long, cross-country trips, we'll give him a sedative. We've been flying with him since he was a puppy, so he's used to the routine. When we're getting our suitcases out we put out his bag too and he hops inside then stares at me until I give him a treat.

After we flew into Portland, we picked up our rental car and then drove up to Waterville. Baci likes to ride with his front paws on the raised thingamathing between us so he can look out the window.

Mike's mom came over to the campus to have lunch with us. She looks fantastic and we had a great visit as Mike showed her photos from his trip to Tajikistan.

Often we'll leave Baci behind at the hotel while we tech the show. He's not a barker, thank goodness, and seems more than happy to curl up on the bed and sleep until we get back. But our day was back-t0-back with events, so in this case, we brought him with us.

This is also where Michael went to undergrad, so this stage holds a lot of meaning for him as it's really where he cut his performance teeth. And ever since we co-taught a course here a few years ago, it holds a special place in my heart, too.

Part of our itinerant lifestyle means that we have pockets of friends whom we get to check in with every couple of years. It's neat, being able to keep up with folks who might otherwise have slipped through the cracks. Here we are backstage at the theater with Lisa, who also went to Colby with Mike, and Luke, whom Mike actually taught theater to when he was in high school. (And now Luke's teaching high school math! And he has an excellent blog.)

Mike's dad and his wife Nancy came to see the show as well, and we met up the next morning for breakfast. (Note the cookies Nancy's clutching. Bob is always baking up something special, and in this case, he made us cookies for the drive ahead. So sweet!)

But not as sweet as this little guy, our nephew, Nicholas. M and I are more dog-oriented than baby-oriented, but there is something about this kid...

Mike suspects superior genes. I suspect superior parenting by his mother, Mike's sister, Beth.

Whatever it is, he's a super-social delight. (And a budding technophile, too. He's always reaching out for electronics and delights in seeing his picture in the viewfinder.)

After we said goodbye to them, it was a five-and-a-half hour drive to Burlington via route 2. It was the perfect time of year to make the trip--the trees were exploding into fiery red and orange and brilliant yellow--but I was happy when it was over.

Burlington struck me as a beautiful city, with that big lake shimmering in the distance and its surrounding rolling hills...but all we had time for was a half-hour walk across campus with Baci before it was time to do the show, then get back to the hotel so we could catch four hours of sleep before packing up and heading to the airport.

We seemed to make a great connection with the folks who came out to see the show, so hopefully we'll be able to come back at some point. I'd love to have more time to explore.

Tomorrow we head off to Chicago, which will be both M's and my first time in that city. Suggestions on where to go, what to see, where to eat, gratefully accepted!

Enigmatic Post

2008-09-30T13:26:00.004-04:00

This old picture holds a clue as to what I may be doing this February. Situation still developing, but if all works out, it will be a boon for TRAVELMONKEYS readers. That's all I can say now. Back to work. Shhhh.

Late Night Eats in Seattle

2008-09-28T15:49:00.004-04:00

I was going through my photos from Seattle and was impressed by how many times we ended up eating at Dick's--same as when we lived there. The food stands up even when you're sober, but it tastes best when you've done a show, then headed immediately to a bar, then been ushered out because it's closing time, which means you're starving and have about fifteen minutes before Dick's closes too.

I like the saucy Deluxe, a side of soft brown fries, and a shake. But sometimes a scoop of chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce will do the trick too.

We don't really have a comparable late-night haunt in New York. (Instead we end up making pasta, or my favorite: ramen with mushrooms and avocado and sesame seeds.)

But in Seattle, all roads lead to Dick's, so you're likely to run into old friends there. After my brother's wedding, we even ran into him and his lovely bride Ray there. (See proof below.)

The Taxi and the Tortoise

2008-09-25T16:38:00.001-04:00

I love this week's New Yorker cover. Especially because it speaks directly to one of the most central arguments in my household, an argument that rears its head almost daily when we're home: taxi or subway?

Though neither of us are so rigid that we can't see the value in both forms of transportation, we each tend to cling to our positions in a way that extends beyond rational decision-making. To wit: I will always prefer the subway and he will always prefer the taxi.

He says the taxi is faster, and sometimes that is true. But then there are those times when you get caught in traffic and there is nothing you can do but sit there like a chump while the meter rises and rises. I'd rather allow an extra 15 minutes and bring a book. Or the latest New Yorker. I can't read while in the back of a car, but I can read while on the subway.

He says he likes being above ground, so that if you're running late (maybe because you got caught in traffic), you can use your cell phone to let the person you're meeting know that you'll be late. But I love the subway precisely because I can't use my cell phone. It's one little window of calm in my otherwise always-connected day. I can't update my blog, I can't talk on the phone, but I can read or people watch or think. And since there's absolutely nothing I can do to affect my course (I can't tell the conductor to go left here or take the FDR or watch out for that other car) I am able to actually relax.

Now sometimes the subway will screw you. Trains get re-routed or just plain fail to show up, construction work appears out of nowhere, mentally ill people lose control of their bowels. It happens.

But most of the time, it gets me exactly where I need to go, and in a reliable amount of time. And it only costs $2. Now that the Air Train is running, it costs just $5 more to go all the way to JFK. With transfers, that trip takes one hour from my apartment in Brooklyn. If I were taking a cab, it would cost $45 + tip and I'd also have to allow an hour, because while you can get there in just half an hour, you can never be sure how the traffic will be.

It's not just about speed or cost, though. There's also the very real sense of community I feel each and every time I take the subway. On any given day you'll see Hasids sitting next to strippers next to investment bankers next to single mothers next to vegetable vendors. And when that train gets re-routed or doesn't appear, or when that inconsiderate asshole plays his stupid music over his cell phone, we all experience it together. I also see people give up their seats to the elderly and pregnant, or move around to help a family sit together, or help a mother carry her stroller up or down the stairs.

It feels so cliched to write about, so sentimental, but I can't help it: New York City is one of the most diverse places on earth, and it's the subway that helps unite us into one people. I love having my wheels when I'm on the west coast, but by the end of my stay there I often feel a sense of isolation from the city itself. Not from all the individuals I've connected with, but from the city as a city, as a mass, as a community.

In the end, I have to admit that my fondness for this cover might also have something to do with knowing the outcome of the mythological race. I like to believe that if Aesop were a New Yorker today, he would be writing his fables while sitting beside me on the F train.