Currie keeps getting bad report cards from her cat sitter, Helen. I can't imagine why.
Demon Cat.
Today I Saw My First Snail.
With a shell and everything. It was making its way across our courtyard today. Much more attractive than its cousin, the banana slug. I question what it was doing hanging out in an all-concrete courtyard in Central London, but hey, whatever floats your boat, snail.
My friend Adam is visiting at the moment from New York. Adam is probably more of a theatre nerd than I am, and also happens to be in the industry and was well-placed to get us great house seats to alot of shows. So Theatre-palooza 2008 began on Thursday night with Dirty Dancing at the Aldwych, followed by Billy Elliott on Friday night at the Victoria Palace, and matinee of Ivanov at Wyndham's this afternoon. While I worked this week, Adam also saw Zorro and Rain Man. Not bad for four days in London I guess...because who needs Big Ben, Tower Bridge, the National Gallery and the like when you can have Kenneth Branagh, dancing Margaret Thatchers, and Johnny Castle?!
I was in Manchester all last week...the usual uneventful business trip, although there was a visit to a pub that has been built in a converted public convenience...meaning, in an underground street toilet. But that's another story for another time. Anyways, I had just enough time on Thursday night to swing home, say hi to Curriecat, and head to the West End to meet Adam. I have to say, I didn't know what to expect...we hadn't seen each other in five years and who knew if we'd still find each other fun? Luckily we both remain, in our own and each other's opinions, fabulous, so we were just fine. Plus, we had Dirty Dancing to break the ice.
Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is not a musical, per se. None of the characters sing. It's basically a stage re-creation of the movie, with featured vocalists re-creating the soundtrack live. The audience laughed in recognition at some of the more famous lines: "I carried a watermelon?!" "Ga-goong," and of course, "Nobody puts baby in a corner" (actually, Adam and I led the cheers on that one). There were some weak points-Penny looked more like Paris Hilton, and I thought Johnny Castle was too Mediterranean-looking and would have made a better Bernardo in West Side Story. However, it was obvious much of the audience had never been to the theatre before, so if a guilty pleasure like Dirty Dancing can get them there, well, that's a job well done isn't it?
Next up: Billy Elliott. There are no words. My seat was front row, on the centre aisle. The music director was right in front of me and I could actually follow along on his score, that's how close I was. The advantage of really close seats are that you can see every expression, every nuance, on an actor's face. The disadvantage when you're me (read: short), and the show is all about dancing, is that you can't see their feet. I had to strain to watch Billy tap. That being said, I was in tears at several points and the 12 year old playing Billy, Tom Holland, was outstanding. Great, great, show. I'll be taking anyone who comes to visit me in London to see Billy. And yes, there are plenty of dancing Margaret Thatchers, and some great Geordie accents. I'm determined to perfect one by the time I leave the UK.
Today (Saturday) started with a leisurely stroll down the canal to Broadway Market for good coffee and yummy breakfast (roast pig sandwich for Adam, Vietnamese coffee for me), before we raced to the West End again for Ivanov. Some people will be aware that I have harboured a somewhat sick and inexplicable crush on Kenneth Branagh since I was in Grade 9, so I was very excited to see the man perform...so I excited I forgot that I, like, totally hate Chekhov. Oh well. Again, a terrific ensemble cast made up of many of my favorite bit performers from various BBC costume dramas (I kept hissing to Adam things like, "Gina McKee was amazing in Croupier", "That's Mary Bennett from Pride & Prejudice!" or "That's Sylvestra de la Touzel, she was Fanny Price in the 1979 BBC TV adaptation of Mansfield Park and later went on to play a bit part in the 1982 TV adaptation of Persuasion " and the like until he shushed me. Anyways, Chekhov being Chekhov, there a mid-life crisis and nervous breakdown, a few suicides, and three hours later we were on our way back home to change for the opera.
We just made it to the Royal Opera House in time, fighting our way into the lifts at Covent Garden Tube Station, waving our tickets to persuade people to let us jump the queue. Adam checked our coats, I raced for programs, and we sank onto our bench seat in the orchestra stalls just in time to applaud the conductor before the curtain went up. Our seats were fabulous, in my opinion...stage left, just above the orchestra, close enough again to see the performers' faces and also to peer down into the orchestra pit. The house was packed, La Boheme being such an accessible opera, and we had to fight our way into the grand atrium for champagne during the first interval. You know you've crammed too much theatre into a day when your dinner consists of champagne in the first interval and Covent Garden ices (stem ginger for me, vanilla for Adam) during the second.
My friend Adam is visiting at the moment from New York. Adam is probably more of a theatre nerd than I am, and also happens to be in the industry and was well-placed to get us great house seats to alot of shows. So Theatre-palooza 2008 began on Thursday night with Dirty Dancing at the Aldwych, followed by Billy Elliott on Friday night at the Victoria Palace, and matinee of Ivanov at Wyndham's this afternoon. While I worked this week, Adam also saw Zorro and Rain Man. Not bad for four days in London I guess...because who needs Big Ben, Tower Bridge, the National Gallery and the like when you can have Kenneth Branagh, dancing Margaret Thatchers, and Johnny Castle?!
I was in Manchester all last week...the usual uneventful business trip, although there was a visit to a pub that has been built in a converted public convenience...meaning, in an underground street toilet. But that's another story for another time. Anyways, I had just enough time on Thursday night to swing home, say hi to Curriecat, and head to the West End to meet Adam. I have to say, I didn't know what to expect...we hadn't seen each other in five years and who knew if we'd still find each other fun? Luckily we both remain, in our own and each other's opinions, fabulous, so we were just fine. Plus, we had Dirty Dancing to break the ice.
Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is not a musical, per se. None of the characters sing. It's basically a stage re-creation of the movie, with featured vocalists re-creating the soundtrack live. The audience laughed in recognition at some of the more famous lines: "I carried a watermelon?!" "Ga-goong," and of course, "Nobody puts baby in a corner" (actually, Adam and I led the cheers on that one). There were some weak points-Penny looked more like Paris Hilton, and I thought Johnny Castle was too Mediterranean-looking and would have made a better Bernardo in West Side Story. However, it was obvious much of the audience had never been to the theatre before, so if a guilty pleasure like Dirty Dancing can get them there, well, that's a job well done isn't it?
Next up: Billy Elliott. There are no words. My seat was front row, on the centre aisle. The music director was right in front of me and I could actually follow along on his score, that's how close I was. The advantage of really close seats are that you can see every expression, every nuance, on an actor's face. The disadvantage when you're me (read: short), and the show is all about dancing, is that you can't see their feet. I had to strain to watch Billy tap. That being said, I was in tears at several points and the 12 year old playing Billy, Tom Holland, was outstanding. Great, great, show. I'll be taking anyone who comes to visit me in London to see Billy. And yes, there are plenty of dancing Margaret Thatchers, and some great Geordie accents. I'm determined to perfect one by the time I leave the UK.
Today (Saturday) started with a leisurely stroll down the canal to Broadway Market for good coffee and yummy breakfast (roast pig sandwich for Adam, Vietnamese coffee for me), before we raced to the West End again for Ivanov. Some people will be aware that I have harboured a somewhat sick and inexplicable crush on Kenneth Branagh since I was in Grade 9, so I was very excited to see the man perform...so I excited I forgot that I, like, totally hate Chekhov. Oh well. Again, a terrific ensemble cast made up of many of my favorite bit performers from various BBC costume dramas (I kept hissing to Adam things like, "Gina McKee was amazing in Croupier", "That's Mary Bennett from Pride & Prejudice!" or "That's Sylvestra de la Touzel, she was Fanny Price in the 1979 BBC TV adaptation of Mansfield Park and later went on to play a bit part in the 1982 TV adaptation of Persuasion " and the like until he shushed me. Anyways, Chekhov being Chekhov, there a mid-life crisis and nervous breakdown, a few suicides, and three hours later we were on our way back home to change for the opera.
We just made it to the Royal Opera House in time, fighting our way into the lifts at Covent Garden Tube Station, waving our tickets to persuade people to let us jump the queue. Adam checked our coats, I raced for programs, and we sank onto our bench seat in the orchestra stalls just in time to applaud the conductor before the curtain went up. Our seats were fabulous, in my opinion...stage left, just above the orchestra, close enough again to see the performers' faces and also to peer down into the orchestra pit. The house was packed, La Boheme being such an accessible opera, and we had to fight our way into the grand atrium for champagne during the first interval. You know you've crammed too much theatre into a day when your dinner consists of champagne in the first interval and Covent Garden ices (stem ginger for me, vanilla for Adam) during the second.
Anyways, Adam is now off to a cocktail party in Islington. I've begged off to come home and sleep. I have my own rehearsal tomorrow for Brenda Bly: Teen Detective, and I'll need some serious sleep before tapping my heart out. Adam and I are already planning Theatrepalooza 2009. We will probably aim to do it when Jude Law is playing in Hamlet at Wyndham's. Other possible candidates will include the new Priscilla, Queen of the Desert musical, Oliver, which opens next month, and possibly also The Sound of Music. I might need to take some time off work. This theatre-going is serious business.
And Exhale.
I guess all the "excitement" of the past few days was enough for me. Despite checking into the Midland Hotel in Manchester to find out that In the City, a huge new music showcase, was happening in my hotel (mostly by realizing there were alot of cute rock n' roll boys milling around), I decided to call it a night, fell asleep at 8 pm last night, and woke up this morning at 8 am. I feel so much better today, I might actually be up to skulking around the hotel bar to see what kind of rockers I can meet. Sleep. It does a body good.
Brightside Revisited.
I started out with the best of intentions. I really meant to stick to this "look at the bright side" thing; to maintain Zen-like serenity and calm as chaos swirls around me. But you know what? $*@! it.
It all started yesterday morning. Sundays are usually a happy day, as it's rehearsal day for the show I'm doing in December, "Brenda Bly: Teen Detective." A little singing, a little tap dancing, some jazz hands…it does wonders for my ham of a soul. OK, so rehearsal is in Edgware, a good hour and a half's travel from my place in Shoreditch. OK, so lately getting to Edgware has been a nightmare as planned engineering works on the Northern Line have meant I've had to take a bus, then the Tube, then a rail replacement bus, then walk some in order to get to rehearsal (and allot more than two hours for travel to make sure I arrived at rehearsal on time). When I checked Transport for London's travel planner on Saturday evening, however, no engineering works were reported for Sunday. I breathed a sigh of relief. An easy (although long) trip from Old Street Station to Edgware Station, a mere stroll to the theatre, appeared to be in order. Smooth sailing.
Sunday morning arrived, cold and wet. In England it can rain in every direction all at once, and as I set out for Old Street Station, I realized that despite my wool coat, hat, umbrella, and boots, I was still going to get soaked. I gritted my teeth, muttered "Bright Side," and turned up the volume on my IPod. The latest Russell Brand podcast would keep me in good spirits, I figured. I even managed to grab a coffee before settling myself on the Tube. Why, this trip will be a snap now that all the engineering works are complete, I thought in wonderment. "Bright side," I said to myself with satisfaction, sipping my vanilla latte. My fellow passengers looked at me warily (although crazy folk talking to themselves on the Tube is hardly out of the ordinary). Unfazed, I looked at my watch and smugly realized I'd be almost half an hour early for rehearsal, at the rate I was going. Just enough time to catch up on what I'd missed from last week's rehearsal.
It all started to go wrong when we reached Burnt Oak station (read: not Edgware Station). "All change please," shouted the driver. "This train terminates here. Please use the replacement bus services for Edgware." I sighed. So the engineering works weren't complete. Transport for London lied to me. I walked out of the station into pouring rain, and looked up and down the unfamiliar street for the bus. Not a double-decker in site. I asked a TFL employee in a raincoat when the rail replacement bus would be arriving. He guessed about twenty minutes.
At this point I looked at my watch in panic. I had forty minutes or so until rehearsal started. Having experienced the joy of rail replacement buses in previous weeks, I knew that the bus took a meandering route through North London to Edgware, and would take about half an hour, once it arrived (the last time I took the bus, a charming old woman who obviously wasn't that fond of rail replacement services threw a temper tantrum and screamed at the TFL employees and the bus driver the entire way; it was a terrific journey. She actually threw things). I pulled out my trusty A to Z and asked the TFL employee, Joe, to show me on the map how I could walk to rehearsal. "It's far," he pronounced, shouting to be heard over the downpour. "You can't walk."
To me, the theatre looked to be smack dab in the middle between Burnt Oak and Edgware stations (Note: at this point the ink on the page had run due to aforementioned downpour, so it could be that Joe was right). "I'll walk," I shouted back. "Just tell me what direction to go." Joe shook his head, pointed up a large hill, and I set off, anxiously checking my watch every few minutes.
I walked forever. In driving rain. Uphill. Despite hat, umbrella and hood, my face was soaked. The rain was actually pelting directly into my face. Water dripped down my chin as I picked up the pace and almost ran (well, shuffling quickly; gumboots prevent all-out running).
Finally, I reached the theatre, drenched in rain and sweat. After my thirty five minute speed walk, I happily tap danced for the next three hours, and then headed home again. The return journey didn't seem as gruelling, being a) all downhill and b) post-rehearsal, when I tend to be giddy anyway. I made it home, hung up my things to dry, and made dinner watching my guilty pleasure on TV (Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. Will Gordon get the restaurant up and running again? Will he tell the chef to "show some fucking passion"? Stay tuned!).
I filled the sink with soapy water to do the dishes, but decided to sit down with a cup of tea to watch the TV before I actually got around to washing them. Sunday nights are always early nights, as I have to be up at 4:30 a.m. to leave my house at 5:30 for the first train to Manchester on Mondays, but I figured all my rain-walking and tapping meant I deserved a few minutes of lazing on the couch.
After Gordon had revamped the entire menu for the kitchen nightmare in question, sent the head chef to rehab, and visited 6 months later to see how everyone was getting on (just fabulous, thank you), I went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. I turned on the tap to rinse the first dish.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Nothing happened.
Fiddling with the tap, I realized I had neither hot NOR cold water. I ran into the bathroom and turned the knobs on the sink. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen and peered under the sink to see if there was a water main that I'd inadvertently turned off (how, I don't know). Nothing. I pulled out the washing machine (yes, as seen on Location, Location, Location, my washing machine is in the kitchen). I went to look at the boiler. I looked outside my flat to see if there was something I could reset. Nothing. I had no water, and no idea what to do.
Naturally, I did the most useless thing I could do. I called my mother in Canada who has a) never been to my flat and b) is in Canada. She suggested I see if the neighbours had any water, which I did. Both my next door neighbours reported no problems. I then called Thames Water, who said that as far as they could tell, the problem was in my flat, and not with their water system. I hung up in a snit, and called my property management company, Foxtons. Of course, since it was a Sunday night, no one was there, however, I was instructed to "dial 3" for plumbing emergencies, and provided with a number to phone. I breathed a sigh of relief. An emergency plumber, thank god! I called the number.
No answer.
I dialled again.
No answer.
No voicemail.
I left a snotty message for Foxtons, and then Googled "Emergency plumbers 24 hours London." I called the first three that came up, who all informed me that 24 hour emergency plumbers don't work Sunday nights. Finally, I found one who for £200 an hour, would be right over. I sighed. I had no choice: at this point it was 10:30 p.m. I should have been in bed. However, I had a sink full of dirty dishes, and more importantly, I'd been DANCING for three hours and hadn't showered yet. I couldn't leave the house with no shower, leave Currie with no water, and my houseguest arriving on Wednesday morning with no toilet.
The plumber arrived around 11 p.m. After forty minutes of searching, he was at a loss to understand why I had no water, or indeed, where the intake pipe for my water supply was even located. He suspected it might be under my bathtub. Tiled in. I begged him to please make sure this was so before he took a crowbar to my bathroom. He shuffled downstairs and out into the street to see if there was a problem with any of the water mains outside.
In minutes, he came puffing back upstairs, and said he'd found the problem. The off-licence convenience store located on the street, directly below my apartment, had had a burst pipe. They had turned off the water main and had thought they would deal with the problem later. In doing so, they cut off the water supply of the two flats above them. In fact, he said, he'd gotten a call from the flat on the second floor, below me, saying they had no water and could he come and fix their problem? Clearly my downstairs neighbour, like, me, uses the Google method of home repair.
The plumber said he would go into the back of the convenience store and fix the pipe, and proceeded to do so, without a word to the proprietors. The old man who runs the store, and speaks only Turkish (I think it's Turkish) looked on, unconcerned. His son or grandson (one of two young guys who constantly seem to be standing outside guarding watermelons-I have a theory that they are full of heroin, because those watermelons are the most zealously protected watermelons ever) was also there, and so I explained to him what was going on, and what they had done. I also informed him that he would be paying the invoice for the plumber. He translated for Pops, who got very agitated. Although there was much more yelling in Turkish than English translation provided, I was asked/told the following:
• This happens all the time and should only cost £15 to fix.
• I should wait until tomorrow when they could get Cousin Vinnie to fix it.
• They have never heard of a plumber costing £200 an hour (really?).
• I am a stupid girl who doesn't know anything about anything.
There was a lot of shuffling of feet and silence from the grandson while Pops yelled. He only translated when prompted by me (note: I am still totally disheveled from dance rehearsal at this point, with curly frizzy hair and wild eyes, and probably scared the bejesus out of him). When the plumber finished, I cut the tirade short by telling him he'd be repaying me for the plumber, and that was that. At this point, it was almost midnight and I had had enough. I stalked out of the shop, handed the plumber my credit card, shut my eyes and signed the bill, hurriedly packed my bag for my early morning departure. I fell into bed with about 3 hours and 45 minutes before I had to get up again.
Needless to say, it was tough getting up this morning. It was freezing as I stumbled for the shower. However, I made it out the door on time and into my pre-booked taxi. The driver didn't bother to get out of the car to help me load my suitcase into the car. When I climbed in, I was overpowered with the stench of cigarette smoke (Note: non-smoking cab). I sighed. A great start to the day.
"I'm going to Euston station," I said. The driver nodded and rolled his eyes…I guess he figured I didn't need to tell him as I had booked the cab online and specified my destination. We set off, me and my suitcase rattling around the back of the Hackey carriage as the driver sped off in the dark towards Euston. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth.
About fifteen minutes later, he pulled to a stop on the street, opened the door, and lugged my suitcase out of the cab before I had time to blink. I looked around me. Normally, when cabs drop me at Euston, they drop me underground, at the taxi rank. We were on a dark street and I couldn't even see the entrance to the station.
"Um, can you tell me where the station is," I said to the driver politely. "They usually drop me right inside the station so I'm not sure where the outside entrance is." The driver looked at me like I was stupid and pointed at the door right in front of me. I looked at the door.
"Um, that's King's Cross Station," I said.
"You want the Eurostar, right?" he said quickly (I had never mentioned the Eurostar). "Then it's that station." He turned around and pointed at St. Pancras Station, down the block.
"No," I said. "I'm going to Manchester. The trains leave from Euston. I booked this cab to Euston."
"Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry" (he clearly wasn't). He threw my suitcase in the back of the cab again, and we headed for Euston. I had about 10 minutes until my train departed. He pulled up in the underground taxi rank (I TOLD YOU SO!), I pulled my suitcase and briefcase out of the car, and ran for the train. In my high heels. I made it with moments to spare. Usually I try to stop at the station before I board the train to grab a healthier breakfast than the Full English that Richard Branson services in First Class on Virgin Trains, but since I didn't have time, I thought, today I'd splurge and have the Great British Breakfast For once I'd make use of that £360 first class ticket my office always buys for me.
They've just made an announcement. Due to a problem with the kitchen car, they won't be serving breakfast on this train. And the store car (where I could have bought a healthy breakfast of crisps and chocolate) is closed for stock taking.
It's three hours to Manchester.
So yeah, the bright side can go to hell, today anyway.
Update: a lorry hit a bridge the train was supposed to crawl. I arrived an hour and a half late.
It all started yesterday morning. Sundays are usually a happy day, as it's rehearsal day for the show I'm doing in December, "Brenda Bly: Teen Detective." A little singing, a little tap dancing, some jazz hands…it does wonders for my ham of a soul. OK, so rehearsal is in Edgware, a good hour and a half's travel from my place in Shoreditch. OK, so lately getting to Edgware has been a nightmare as planned engineering works on the Northern Line have meant I've had to take a bus, then the Tube, then a rail replacement bus, then walk some in order to get to rehearsal (and allot more than two hours for travel to make sure I arrived at rehearsal on time). When I checked Transport for London's travel planner on Saturday evening, however, no engineering works were reported for Sunday. I breathed a sigh of relief. An easy (although long) trip from Old Street Station to Edgware Station, a mere stroll to the theatre, appeared to be in order. Smooth sailing.
Sunday morning arrived, cold and wet. In England it can rain in every direction all at once, and as I set out for Old Street Station, I realized that despite my wool coat, hat, umbrella, and boots, I was still going to get soaked. I gritted my teeth, muttered "Bright Side," and turned up the volume on my IPod. The latest Russell Brand podcast would keep me in good spirits, I figured. I even managed to grab a coffee before settling myself on the Tube. Why, this trip will be a snap now that all the engineering works are complete, I thought in wonderment. "Bright side," I said to myself with satisfaction, sipping my vanilla latte. My fellow passengers looked at me warily (although crazy folk talking to themselves on the Tube is hardly out of the ordinary). Unfazed, I looked at my watch and smugly realized I'd be almost half an hour early for rehearsal, at the rate I was going. Just enough time to catch up on what I'd missed from last week's rehearsal.
It all started to go wrong when we reached Burnt Oak station (read: not Edgware Station). "All change please," shouted the driver. "This train terminates here. Please use the replacement bus services for Edgware." I sighed. So the engineering works weren't complete. Transport for London lied to me. I walked out of the station into pouring rain, and looked up and down the unfamiliar street for the bus. Not a double-decker in site. I asked a TFL employee in a raincoat when the rail replacement bus would be arriving. He guessed about twenty minutes.
At this point I looked at my watch in panic. I had forty minutes or so until rehearsal started. Having experienced the joy of rail replacement buses in previous weeks, I knew that the bus took a meandering route through North London to Edgware, and would take about half an hour, once it arrived (the last time I took the bus, a charming old woman who obviously wasn't that fond of rail replacement services threw a temper tantrum and screamed at the TFL employees and the bus driver the entire way; it was a terrific journey. She actually threw things). I pulled out my trusty A to Z and asked the TFL employee, Joe, to show me on the map how I could walk to rehearsal. "It's far," he pronounced, shouting to be heard over the downpour. "You can't walk."
To me, the theatre looked to be smack dab in the middle between Burnt Oak and Edgware stations (Note: at this point the ink on the page had run due to aforementioned downpour, so it could be that Joe was right). "I'll walk," I shouted back. "Just tell me what direction to go." Joe shook his head, pointed up a large hill, and I set off, anxiously checking my watch every few minutes.
I walked forever. In driving rain. Uphill. Despite hat, umbrella and hood, my face was soaked. The rain was actually pelting directly into my face. Water dripped down my chin as I picked up the pace and almost ran (well, shuffling quickly; gumboots prevent all-out running).
Finally, I reached the theatre, drenched in rain and sweat. After my thirty five minute speed walk, I happily tap danced for the next three hours, and then headed home again. The return journey didn't seem as gruelling, being a) all downhill and b) post-rehearsal, when I tend to be giddy anyway. I made it home, hung up my things to dry, and made dinner watching my guilty pleasure on TV (Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. Will Gordon get the restaurant up and running again? Will he tell the chef to "show some fucking passion"? Stay tuned!).
I filled the sink with soapy water to do the dishes, but decided to sit down with a cup of tea to watch the TV before I actually got around to washing them. Sunday nights are always early nights, as I have to be up at 4:30 a.m. to leave my house at 5:30 for the first train to Manchester on Mondays, but I figured all my rain-walking and tapping meant I deserved a few minutes of lazing on the couch.
After Gordon had revamped the entire menu for the kitchen nightmare in question, sent the head chef to rehab, and visited 6 months later to see how everyone was getting on (just fabulous, thank you), I went to the sink and began to wash the dishes. I turned on the tap to rinse the first dish.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
Nothing happened.
Fiddling with the tap, I realized I had neither hot NOR cold water. I ran into the bathroom and turned the knobs on the sink. Nothing. I returned to the kitchen and peered under the sink to see if there was a water main that I'd inadvertently turned off (how, I don't know). Nothing. I pulled out the washing machine (yes, as seen on Location, Location, Location, my washing machine is in the kitchen). I went to look at the boiler. I looked outside my flat to see if there was something I could reset. Nothing. I had no water, and no idea what to do.
Naturally, I did the most useless thing I could do. I called my mother in Canada who has a) never been to my flat and b) is in Canada. She suggested I see if the neighbours had any water, which I did. Both my next door neighbours reported no problems. I then called Thames Water, who said that as far as they could tell, the problem was in my flat, and not with their water system. I hung up in a snit, and called my property management company, Foxtons. Of course, since it was a Sunday night, no one was there, however, I was instructed to "dial 3" for plumbing emergencies, and provided with a number to phone. I breathed a sigh of relief. An emergency plumber, thank god! I called the number.
No answer.
I dialled again.
No answer.
No voicemail.
I left a snotty message for Foxtons, and then Googled "Emergency plumbers 24 hours London." I called the first three that came up, who all informed me that 24 hour emergency plumbers don't work Sunday nights. Finally, I found one who for £200 an hour, would be right over. I sighed. I had no choice: at this point it was 10:30 p.m. I should have been in bed. However, I had a sink full of dirty dishes, and more importantly, I'd been DANCING for three hours and hadn't showered yet. I couldn't leave the house with no shower, leave Currie with no water, and my houseguest arriving on Wednesday morning with no toilet.
The plumber arrived around 11 p.m. After forty minutes of searching, he was at a loss to understand why I had no water, or indeed, where the intake pipe for my water supply was even located. He suspected it might be under my bathtub. Tiled in. I begged him to please make sure this was so before he took a crowbar to my bathroom. He shuffled downstairs and out into the street to see if there was a problem with any of the water mains outside.
In minutes, he came puffing back upstairs, and said he'd found the problem. The off-licence convenience store located on the street, directly below my apartment, had had a burst pipe. They had turned off the water main and had thought they would deal with the problem later. In doing so, they cut off the water supply of the two flats above them. In fact, he said, he'd gotten a call from the flat on the second floor, below me, saying they had no water and could he come and fix their problem? Clearly my downstairs neighbour, like, me, uses the Google method of home repair.
The plumber said he would go into the back of the convenience store and fix the pipe, and proceeded to do so, without a word to the proprietors. The old man who runs the store, and speaks only Turkish (I think it's Turkish) looked on, unconcerned. His son or grandson (one of two young guys who constantly seem to be standing outside guarding watermelons-I have a theory that they are full of heroin, because those watermelons are the most zealously protected watermelons ever) was also there, and so I explained to him what was going on, and what they had done. I also informed him that he would be paying the invoice for the plumber. He translated for Pops, who got very agitated. Although there was much more yelling in Turkish than English translation provided, I was asked/told the following:
• This happens all the time and should only cost £15 to fix.
• I should wait until tomorrow when they could get Cousin Vinnie to fix it.
• They have never heard of a plumber costing £200 an hour (really?).
• I am a stupid girl who doesn't know anything about anything.
There was a lot of shuffling of feet and silence from the grandson while Pops yelled. He only translated when prompted by me (note: I am still totally disheveled from dance rehearsal at this point, with curly frizzy hair and wild eyes, and probably scared the bejesus out of him). When the plumber finished, I cut the tirade short by telling him he'd be repaying me for the plumber, and that was that. At this point, it was almost midnight and I had had enough. I stalked out of the shop, handed the plumber my credit card, shut my eyes and signed the bill, hurriedly packed my bag for my early morning departure. I fell into bed with about 3 hours and 45 minutes before I had to get up again.
Needless to say, it was tough getting up this morning. It was freezing as I stumbled for the shower. However, I made it out the door on time and into my pre-booked taxi. The driver didn't bother to get out of the car to help me load my suitcase into the car. When I climbed in, I was overpowered with the stench of cigarette smoke (Note: non-smoking cab). I sighed. A great start to the day.
"I'm going to Euston station," I said. The driver nodded and rolled his eyes…I guess he figured I didn't need to tell him as I had booked the cab online and specified my destination. We set off, me and my suitcase rattling around the back of the Hackey carriage as the driver sped off in the dark towards Euston. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth.
About fifteen minutes later, he pulled to a stop on the street, opened the door, and lugged my suitcase out of the cab before I had time to blink. I looked around me. Normally, when cabs drop me at Euston, they drop me underground, at the taxi rank. We were on a dark street and I couldn't even see the entrance to the station.
"Um, can you tell me where the station is," I said to the driver politely. "They usually drop me right inside the station so I'm not sure where the outside entrance is." The driver looked at me like I was stupid and pointed at the door right in front of me. I looked at the door.
"Um, that's King's Cross Station," I said.
"You want the Eurostar, right?" he said quickly (I had never mentioned the Eurostar). "Then it's that station." He turned around and pointed at St. Pancras Station, down the block.
"No," I said. "I'm going to Manchester. The trains leave from Euston. I booked this cab to Euston."
"Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry" (he clearly wasn't). He threw my suitcase in the back of the cab again, and we headed for Euston. I had about 10 minutes until my train departed. He pulled up in the underground taxi rank (I TOLD YOU SO!), I pulled my suitcase and briefcase out of the car, and ran for the train. In my high heels. I made it with moments to spare. Usually I try to stop at the station before I board the train to grab a healthier breakfast than the Full English that Richard Branson services in First Class on Virgin Trains, but since I didn't have time, I thought, today I'd splurge and have the Great British Breakfast For once I'd make use of that £360 first class ticket my office always buys for me.
They've just made an announcement. Due to a problem with the kitchen car, they won't be serving breakfast on this train. And the store car (where I could have bought a healthy breakfast of crisps and chocolate) is closed for stock taking.
It's three hours to Manchester.
So yeah, the bright side can go to hell, today anyway.
Update: a lorry hit a bridge the train was supposed to crawl. I arrived an hour and a half late.
A View From the Bright Side
I returned to London this week after a bittersweet and desperately needed trip home. The much-loved Auntie Bev passed away and I needed to be home with my family, to support them, and to make the loss real for myself. It's hard to believe in a life-altering change unless you're witness to it. So home I went, with my most leopard-and-fabulous dress to wear to celebrate the classiest woman to rock an animal print in this century.
You know when over 400 people show up to a funeral that someone lived a life well. My aunt's legacy to me has been a combination of lessons, laughs and luxury, including the following:
1. P.A.C.E.: Positive Attitude Changes Everything
2. A pair of leopard gloves or a gold studded belt can make you feel sexy even on the worst day.
3. Wishing to be something or someone else is a waste of the person you are.
4. Eat dessert first.
5. Be kind to others, be kind to yourself.
I also had the great pleasure of celebrating the marriage of my friends James and Betta while I was home, and seeing many of my dear buddies at the wedding. I met James and Betta on the day they met each other, became both of their friends, and have been there as they have moved forward together. Okay, so it took me a little while in the beginning not to say "ewwww" when they kissed, but it felt right to present when they took this giant leap. Singing at their wedding was a great privilege. It was the best medicine to spend quality time with both of them and my other friends.
Because you see, the past three months have been extremely difficult. I think it's not an exaggeration to say that in the midst of moving continents, changing jobs, leaving loved ones, and tentatively committing to a new life, I lost myself. My job has been overwhelming, to say the least. It has consumed my life. If you ask me who I am, I would tell you I'm a writer, singer, dreamer, scholar, thinker, kitty mama, compulsive baker, drunken shopper, aspiring 1930s movie star (did I mention fantastist?). To only be "lawyer," to the exclusion of all else, when this is not, to me, an integral facet of my identity, has been difficult. I've buckled under the weight of it, in fact, and done myself a disservice. But it makes me so tired. And it's so hard. To be away from the family and friends who know you without explanation, who can remind you of who you really are when you forget, working long hours and dealing with constant stress.
Coming home has brought me back. Not from the edge-nothing was ever that dire-but certainly from the grey, back to the land of colour. It took me almost the entire 12 days I was home to thaw out. And now that I'm back to London, the grey is closing in again, as work again piles up, time for myself runs out, and my support network once again becomes, with a few exceptions, long-distance. But I'm determined to live by the lessons my aunt has taught me, and to remember to always be the person who my family and friends have reminded me that I am. Winston Churchill said "never give up" and this is my new mantra. No matter how tired I am, no matter how insidious the stress becomes, I will remember to sing, to write, to love, to dream. And oh yeah, to shop.
To my family: Mom, Dad, Alex, Laura, Annie, aunties, uncles, cousins-you are loved, all.
To my friends-you are my miracle elixir. It was wonderful to see those of you that I managed to cram into my schedule. To those of you I didn't manage to see...I'm sorry. I really wanted to see you, to touch base, and hear about how life goes. I think of you all, everyday.
So, to the bright side. And to staying there, no matter the cost.
Dani Likes Garage Band
Missing Home
I am missing home and family today; all that is dear to me feels too far away at the moment. A very much loved aunt is losing her battle with cancer and is not long for this world. I hold my breath when I check my Blackberry in the morning, waiting to see what the latest developments have been overnight. When I left to move here in July we spent quality time together and I told her how much I loved her, but I didn't say goodbye. On my last day in Canada, my birthday, I chose to spend it with her but couldn't, because I had contracted pneumonia and couldn't risk passing it on to her. My mother phoned to tell her as we drove away from the doctor's office, but I refused to speak to my aunt myself; I didn't want to say goodbye over the phone. And I wanted to believe that I would see her again.
Now, as we wonder whether it will be hours or days until she passes, I feel like I needed to tell her again how much I loved her and what a beautiful presence she was in my life, even over the phone, by email, by carrier pigeon, over and over, many many more times. I want her to be surrounded by echoes of I love you's from all of us, for them to be ringing in her ears as she leaves her pain behind. I hope she can hear me shouting it across the Atlantic.
My aunt has been determined to be extraordinary and beat the odds that have been stacked against her so unfairly. And she is an extraordinary person: she has lived her life encouraging others to be the best selves they can be, celebrating everyone for exactly who they are; I have witnessed her determination, and I wanted desperately to buy in. When she wasn't healthy enough to make our annual family exodus to Maui this year, we all smiled valiantly and said, "You'll be here next year." Over the months as I prepared to leave for London, and as my aunt became tinier and tinier, her will stronger and stronger, she said, "You know Dani, I've lived my life and done a lot of fabulous things. But I've never been to London. Some people with more time might want to see the sights, but I just want to come to see you, for us to go shopping at Harrods' and go to High Tea." She was so firm in her belief that she would see me here in London, that we would have this adventure. I haven't gone near Harrod's since I returned; I wanted to wait, to show it to her.
My aunt is surrounded by our family this afternoon and they will be by her side until the end. I am alone, too far away to give comfort to anyone, and grieving for this adventure we won't have together. I look out on these London streets and think, "this city doesn't know what it's missed out on."
I love you, Auntie Bev.
Three Little...Maids?
Yesterday I ventured out in very soggy, windy London weather to see the all-male production of the Mikado playing at the Union Theatre in South London. The Union is a little hole-in-the-wall venue, family run, near Southwark Tube Station. The theatre itself sits maybe 40 people, in a studio setting. The seats are a comfortable mish-mash of old movie seats, settees, and armchairs. A colleague of mine invited me to join him and his partner for a matinee after hearing that I had played one of the three little maids in a Victoria production of the Mikado.
The theatre space was festooned with Japanese lanterns and paper butterflies. A bright red velvet curtain was pulled back to reveal a small sky blue backdrop. This curtained area was mostly used as a "backstage" area for quick changes and the like, although at the end of several numbers the curtain was pulled back to reveal the cast in tableau.
The production was strong from start to finish. The opening number ("If you want to know who we are"), sung by Nanki-Poo and the men of Titipu featured hilarious choreography that was definitely an homage to the water ballets of Esther Williams with lots of flailing arms, circling dancers, Japanese fans flicking in unison, and high kicks (quite funny given the main theme of this song is "We are gentleman of Japan." God help Japan if this is what their gentlemen are like, with pointed toes and wiggling hips). This style of choreography perfectly suited the tiny performance space. Due to the intimacy of the venue, the sound of the chorus, accompanied only by grand piano, really rang to the rafters. The camp elements continued, with Pish Tush doing a nod to the MC in "Cabaret" during "Our Great Mikado, Virtuous Man" with a black bowler hat and gold-tipped cane.
I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the little maids. How would the men look in Japanese drag, I wondered? Probably not that different from how Stephanie, Jane and I had looked in full Japanese kabuki makeup, kimono and wigs. However, little effort was made to disguise the men-playing-the-maids, which only added to the hilarity. All three had short men's hair cuts and very manly physique. All the men in the production wore white t-shirts and black trousers, and all the maids did to distinguish themselves was paint on red bow mouths, hike on white rehearsal skirts over their men's costumes, and strap enormous red butterflies to their heads. Patrick Kelliher and Nathan Kiley, as Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo, drew on enormous black beauty spots. However, from the second they arrived to sing "Three Little Maids", elaborately choreographed with Japanese parasols in blue, pink and yellow, the fact that these were men playing women became insignificant. All three men (particularly "soprano" Martin Milnes, who sang Yum-Yum as written with no transpositions) were pitch-perfect. There was no over-acting.
Martin Milnes in particular, was amazing. He hit every one of Yum-Yum's top notes seemingly effortlessly and was the only cast member, from what I could tell, who sang soprano during the ensemble numbers. A tall gangly guy with a shaved head, he made no effort to look female (I noticed that he was wearing a diamond bracelet in addition to his giant butterfly headpiece-the only nod to "femininity" he made). His speaking voice was definitely masculine. But particularly in his scenes with Damion Scarcella as Nanki-Poo, Milne's Yum Yum was every inch the ingenue in love. Camp, yes, but Gilbert & Sullivan's characters are always camp, whether being played by a woman or man.
Samuel Holmes as Katisha was the only "female" to wear kabuki makeup and the contrast to the maids was suitably grotesque. He was wrinkled, slightly stooped, and wore the tackiest diamante chandelier earrings (again, with a short men's haircut, the effect was hilarious). Unlike the maids, he did sing Katisha's part transposed down an octave, but this suited the character, who is meant to be repulsive, overbearing and slightly "bloodthirsty," as Koko points out. Koko the Tailor was played by Christopher Howell as a working class Englishman. Howell, in particular, used the intimacy of the setting to "play" with the audience, particularly during "I've Got a Little List."
I did my best not to sing along, although it couldn't be helped, particularly in the Act I and Act II ensemble finales. However, I had warned my companions that it might happen and they didn't object.
Next up at the Union is Sweeney Todd in November. Dammit. I want to audition for it SO. BAD. But given that I don't even have time to oh, do my laundry or sleep, or feed my cat, or see my friends, I don't know that I'll have time to rehearse a show and work the hours I'm working. I've gotta pay back these student loans so I can be a starving actress in London. I can't wait! In the meantime I'm going to go dig up my recording of the Mikado and have a good ol' sing along while I clean my flat.
The Mikado is playing at the Union until 16 August 2008. For more info see www.uniontheatre.org.
The theatre space was festooned with Japanese lanterns and paper butterflies. A bright red velvet curtain was pulled back to reveal a small sky blue backdrop. This curtained area was mostly used as a "backstage" area for quick changes and the like, although at the end of several numbers the curtain was pulled back to reveal the cast in tableau.
The production was strong from start to finish. The opening number ("If you want to know who we are"), sung by Nanki-Poo and the men of Titipu featured hilarious choreography that was definitely an homage to the water ballets of Esther Williams with lots of flailing arms, circling dancers, Japanese fans flicking in unison, and high kicks (quite funny given the main theme of this song is "We are gentleman of Japan." God help Japan if this is what their gentlemen are like, with pointed toes and wiggling hips). This style of choreography perfectly suited the tiny performance space. Due to the intimacy of the venue, the sound of the chorus, accompanied only by grand piano, really rang to the rafters. The camp elements continued, with Pish Tush doing a nod to the MC in "Cabaret" during "Our Great Mikado, Virtuous Man" with a black bowler hat and gold-tipped cane.
I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the little maids. How would the men look in Japanese drag, I wondered? Probably not that different from how Stephanie, Jane and I had looked in full Japanese kabuki makeup, kimono and wigs. However, little effort was made to disguise the men-playing-the-maids, which only added to the hilarity. All three had short men's hair cuts and very manly physique. All the men in the production wore white t-shirts and black trousers, and all the maids did to distinguish themselves was paint on red bow mouths, hike on white rehearsal skirts over their men's costumes, and strap enormous red butterflies to their heads. Patrick Kelliher and Nathan Kiley, as Pitti-Sing and Peep-Bo, drew on enormous black beauty spots. However, from the second they arrived to sing "Three Little Maids", elaborately choreographed with Japanese parasols in blue, pink and yellow, the fact that these were men playing women became insignificant. All three men (particularly "soprano" Martin Milnes, who sang Yum-Yum as written with no transpositions) were pitch-perfect. There was no over-acting.
Martin Milnes in particular, was amazing. He hit every one of Yum-Yum's top notes seemingly effortlessly and was the only cast member, from what I could tell, who sang soprano during the ensemble numbers. A tall gangly guy with a shaved head, he made no effort to look female (I noticed that he was wearing a diamond bracelet in addition to his giant butterfly headpiece-the only nod to "femininity" he made). His speaking voice was definitely masculine. But particularly in his scenes with Damion Scarcella as Nanki-Poo, Milne's Yum Yum was every inch the ingenue in love. Camp, yes, but Gilbert & Sullivan's characters are always camp, whether being played by a woman or man.
Samuel Holmes as Katisha was the only "female" to wear kabuki makeup and the contrast to the maids was suitably grotesque. He was wrinkled, slightly stooped, and wore the tackiest diamante chandelier earrings (again, with a short men's haircut, the effect was hilarious). Unlike the maids, he did sing Katisha's part transposed down an octave, but this suited the character, who is meant to be repulsive, overbearing and slightly "bloodthirsty," as Koko points out. Koko the Tailor was played by Christopher Howell as a working class Englishman. Howell, in particular, used the intimacy of the setting to "play" with the audience, particularly during "I've Got a Little List."
I did my best not to sing along, although it couldn't be helped, particularly in the Act I and Act II ensemble finales. However, I had warned my companions that it might happen and they didn't object.
Next up at the Union is Sweeney Todd in November. Dammit. I want to audition for it SO. BAD. But given that I don't even have time to oh, do my laundry or sleep, or feed my cat, or see my friends, I don't know that I'll have time to rehearse a show and work the hours I'm working. I've gotta pay back these student loans so I can be a starving actress in London. I can't wait! In the meantime I'm going to go dig up my recording of the Mikado and have a good ol' sing along while I clean my flat.
The Mikado is playing at the Union until 16 August 2008. For more info see www.uniontheatre.org.
Britain Hearts Nerdy Lit Girls
It must be true, because the Daily Mail has a new promotion where every day for the next 18 days, the paper (cost: 70p) will include a free DVD of some British costume drama. Today was the first instalment, and so the free DVD was Part 1 of the oh-so-Colin Firthalicious Pride & Prejudice. Colin Firth. In breeches. For free. OK, so I already own two copies. WHO CARES?! They're not here yet, so of course I'm gonna buy the Daily Mail and get ANOTHER copy.
And it only gets better: on deck are Emma, Vanity Fair, Bleak House, A Room With a View, Sense & Sensibility, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Jane Eyre...aieee! Dani in heaven. This may be detrimental to establishing a social life here in the UK...
And it only gets better: on deck are Emma, Vanity Fair, Bleak House, A Room With a View, Sense & Sensibility, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Jane Eyre...aieee! Dani in heaven. This may be detrimental to establishing a social life here in the UK...
A Londres
I'm back in London, safely (well, relatively-this is Hackney after all) ensconced in a flat near Hoxton Square, running around doing all those little moving-in type jobs that are no fun but must be done. I hope to one day reach a level of Zen (read: cash) in my life where I no longer need to build furniture with Allan keys. Today was a momentous occasion as my aerial for my TV was installed. Oh, happy happy day. I can now watch Location, Location, Location and East Enders to my heart's content. Oh, right. Except for that pesky job thing, which happens on...Monday.
Went out for drinks last night with some of my new co-workers, which was great fun. I met them at the office, and as I took the escalator up to the reception floor, I was greeted by a sign, for a "Life Balance" type course being offered that day, that said: "This way to Mental Health and Well-Being." You can't fool me, I thought. I've WORKED in a law firm. Where's the Mental Health and Well-Being? It was an encouraging omen all the same...
Off to meet Kate now, who is in town with her family this week. We spent yesterday trekking up and down Oxford Street, doing what we do best...spending money. As we sat on a curb near a park with our shopping bags, and ate our M & S sandwiches, I turned to her and said, "You know what's weird? How NOT WEIRD it feels to be here, and for you to be here, too." She agreed.
So that's the key to keeping homesickness at bay: I need a regular rotation of Vancouver friends to come visit. I'll start a schedule. People, start emailing me your availability. Operation Dani-Comfy-London is going into effect.
Went out for drinks last night with some of my new co-workers, which was great fun. I met them at the office, and as I took the escalator up to the reception floor, I was greeted by a sign, for a "Life Balance" type course being offered that day, that said: "This way to Mental Health and Well-Being." You can't fool me, I thought. I've WORKED in a law firm. Where's the Mental Health and Well-Being? It was an encouraging omen all the same...
Off to meet Kate now, who is in town with her family this week. We spent yesterday trekking up and down Oxford Street, doing what we do best...spending money. As we sat on a curb near a park with our shopping bags, and ate our M & S sandwiches, I turned to her and said, "You know what's weird? How NOT WEIRD it feels to be here, and for you to be here, too." She agreed.
So that's the key to keeping homesickness at bay: I need a regular rotation of Vancouver friends to come visit. I'll start a schedule. People, start emailing me your availability. Operation Dani-Comfy-London is going into effect.
Dani's Favorite New Summer Snack: Garam Masala Peaches
Sometimes my own culinary genius truly astounds me. Here is my new favorite snack, Garam Masala Peaches:
1. Peel and slice two peaches (I use one white peach and one yellow peach, just for some colour)
2. Heat 1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil in a small frying pan. Pop the peaches in.
3. Add a pinch of each of the following: cumin, coriander (I like to use whole seeds for a lil' flavour pop), cinnamon, ginger, allspice and black pepper
4. Add 1 tsp. maple syrup (the good stuff, not Aunt Jemima)
5. Pan fry until peaches are golden.
Serve with a nice cup o' chai tea.
Yee haw! I'm a regular Martha Stewart in gladiator sandals!
:P
1. Peel and slice two peaches (I use one white peach and one yellow peach, just for some colour)
2. Heat 1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil in a small frying pan. Pop the peaches in.
3. Add a pinch of each of the following: cumin, coriander (I like to use whole seeds for a lil' flavour pop), cinnamon, ginger, allspice and black pepper
4. Add 1 tsp. maple syrup (the good stuff, not Aunt Jemima)
5. Pan fry until peaches are golden.
Serve with a nice cup o' chai tea.
Yee haw! I'm a regular Martha Stewart in gladiator sandals!
:P
Pecha Kucha Night Vancouver, Volume 2
Tonight, after I walked out of my office for the last time, my friends Karen and James and I found a prime piece of patio real estate (Las Margaritas on West 4th), had a few margaritas, and headed to the Vancouver Museum for Vancouver's second-ever Pecha Kucha Night.
Pecha Kucha Night was started by an architecture firm in Tokyo in 2003 as a sort of open-mic/pitch/showcase for young artists and designers, a place where people in the arts community could network. It's kind of like an indie show and tell, and all sorts of people present, not just designers: actors, artists, musicians, politicians, activists, urban planners, writers, dreamers. While there's an incredible range of speakers, they tend to be thinking about the same central themes: how do we imagine community? How do we define culture?
Pecha Kucha Night happens in hundreds of cities across the world, but only started in Vancouver on May 7, 2008. James was one of the speakers at Volume 1. Karen and I went as Team Nevision (the Pecha Kucha Night promotional materials helpfully misspelled James' last name, Nevison), and had a great time. There's beer, pretzels, lots of scene-y artsy hipsters in trilby hats and skinny jeans to make fun of, and a DJ spinning during intermissions. When we found out at the end of Volume 1 that my Shoe God, John Fluevog, would be presenting tonight at Volume 2, I knew we were going to have to make a return to Pecha Kucha Night.
The Pecha Kucha format is called "20x20": each presenter gets 20 slides, which are featured on the screen for 20 seconds each. This adds up to a 6 minute and 40 second presentation-6 minutes and 40 seconds to close the deal, sell your idea, bare your soul. Presentations can be hit and miss. At Volume 1, a lawyer from Pivot Legal Society gave an incredible presentation: his slides featured black and white photographic portraits of homeless people in the downtown East Side. His commentary while the slides were playing? He read statistics. The names of new (unaffordable) condominium complexes being built in downtown East Side. The number of units. The number of hotel closures in the area. Another photographer found himself halfway through his presentation and at a loss for words, so he simply sat down and let his work speak for itself, and the auditorium sat in silence as his images flickered across the screen.
So, what did John Fluevog talk about tonight at Volume 2? Did he expound on the inspiration for his shoe designs or provide a sneak preview of his Fall 2008 collection? Nope. He talked about (and showed slides of) cars. "Cute, small cars." No sermon, just an enthusiastic commentary on personal photos of cars, anecdotes about certain cars from his "many" lives, excited descriptions of "hot damn!" cars. That's Pecha Kucha Night. A children's book illustrator gave a presentation on the History of Cute (for the record, she believes cuteness has to do with the eyes. The more eye, the better. The more unseeing the pupil, the better. See: Hello Kitty). A glass artist from the Sunshine Coast showed pictures of his new studio and his family. An architect showed pictures and sketches of his current work in progress.
Pecha Kucha Night Vancouver resumes in the fall. I highly recommend. Click here for more information.
There is a hint of summer in the air. Tonight was sunny but cool. The patio at Las Margaritas is heated; combined with the sunshine it lulled me into a false sense of July. I'm desperate to have a taste of West Coast summer before heading to London...
Pecha Kucha Night was started by an architecture firm in Tokyo in 2003 as a sort of open-mic/pitch/showcase for young artists and designers, a place where people in the arts community could network. It's kind of like an indie show and tell, and all sorts of people present, not just designers: actors, artists, musicians, politicians, activists, urban planners, writers, dreamers. While there's an incredible range of speakers, they tend to be thinking about the same central themes: how do we imagine community? How do we define culture?
Pecha Kucha Night happens in hundreds of cities across the world, but only started in Vancouver on May 7, 2008. James was one of the speakers at Volume 1. Karen and I went as Team Nevision (the Pecha Kucha Night promotional materials helpfully misspelled James' last name, Nevison), and had a great time. There's beer, pretzels, lots of scene-y artsy hipsters in trilby hats and skinny jeans to make fun of, and a DJ spinning during intermissions. When we found out at the end of Volume 1 that my Shoe God, John Fluevog, would be presenting tonight at Volume 2, I knew we were going to have to make a return to Pecha Kucha Night.
The Pecha Kucha format is called "20x20": each presenter gets 20 slides, which are featured on the screen for 20 seconds each. This adds up to a 6 minute and 40 second presentation-6 minutes and 40 seconds to close the deal, sell your idea, bare your soul. Presentations can be hit and miss. At Volume 1, a lawyer from Pivot Legal Society gave an incredible presentation: his slides featured black and white photographic portraits of homeless people in the downtown East Side. His commentary while the slides were playing? He read statistics. The names of new (unaffordable) condominium complexes being built in downtown East Side. The number of units. The number of hotel closures in the area. Another photographer found himself halfway through his presentation and at a loss for words, so he simply sat down and let his work speak for itself, and the auditorium sat in silence as his images flickered across the screen.
So, what did John Fluevog talk about tonight at Volume 2? Did he expound on the inspiration for his shoe designs or provide a sneak preview of his Fall 2008 collection? Nope. He talked about (and showed slides of) cars. "Cute, small cars." No sermon, just an enthusiastic commentary on personal photos of cars, anecdotes about certain cars from his "many" lives, excited descriptions of "hot damn!" cars. That's Pecha Kucha Night. A children's book illustrator gave a presentation on the History of Cute (for the record, she believes cuteness has to do with the eyes. The more eye, the better. The more unseeing the pupil, the better. See: Hello Kitty). A glass artist from the Sunshine Coast showed pictures of his new studio and his family. An architect showed pictures and sketches of his current work in progress.
Pecha Kucha Night Vancouver resumes in the fall. I highly recommend. Click here for more information.
There is a hint of summer in the air. Tonight was sunny but cool. The patio at Las Margaritas is heated; combined with the sunshine it lulled me into a false sense of July. I'm desperate to have a taste of West Coast summer before heading to London...