Welcome to my temporary blog page! Eventually there will be a different format, but I just wanted to get up and running. The most recent posts come first, so if you want to read from the beginning, please scroll to the bottom of the page. If you'd like to comment, feel free to send me an email at cindy@cindy-sadler.com. Enjoy!
SWAMP FEST!
Posted by Cindy Sadler on Monday November 5, 2007 at 05:41:38 PM
Saturday was a very long day of Schicchi rehearsal. Any day you rehearse Schicchi is long, because this little gem of an opera is incredibly complicated to stage. You have nine principals, and most of them are on stage for the entire opera. Every movement has to be choreographed nine times. With that many people onstage, great care must be taken to delineate the various characters and family groups. Our director has a clever idea for dealing with this: he’s updated it to the late fifties and each of us is reminiscent of a very recognizable 50’s icon or stereotype. We have the Ward and June Cleaver couple, we have the fresh-faced Sandra Dee type, we have the Rebel Without a Cause, we even have Norma Desmond (that would be me). Plus, it’s all set in New Orleans. Very cute.
One of the great complications of staging a Trittico, and probably why it isn’t done more often regionally, is the scheduling nightmare. The cast is huge. Some singers can be reused from act to act but not all. You have to have a complete women’s chorus/principal contingent, only four or five of whom have possible roles in any other opera, for Suor Angelica. (there are a few lines for chorus men, but only offstage; same for Tabarro). Figuring out who to call when so that no one cast goes too long without rehearsing their show (and forgets everything they’ve done so far) or how to avoid scheduling people cast in more than one opera without exhausting them or asking them to be two places at once is nothing short of a miracle.
And we are doing this all, from beginning to end, in three weeks, including performances.
That’s one to two weeks short, depending on the company. Whew!
It’s a good thing we have great people involved.
Yesterday was one of the most beautiful fall Sunday afternoons with which God has ever graced the earth, and we spent it at Swamp Fest. There is always some party or other going on in New Orleans, and usually they aren’t too hard to find. Swamp Fest is a music festival held at the zoo in New Orleans’ beautiful Audoubon Park. There was zydeco, there was fais-do-do, there was Cajun music of every description on a variety of stages throughout the zoo. And there was dancing.
I’m not much of a dancer. I wish I were, but it’s just not my talent. But what I adored about this event was that EVERYONE was out there on the floor dancing to this happy music. Young couples, old marrieds, little kids, grandparents. The whole family gets in the act. You saw daddies dancing with their little girls, little brothers and sisters two-stepping together, older couples who’ve been doing this all their lives and are su-huh-huh-lick. People, like us, who did not get on the dance floor but couldn’t help but shimmy as they walked along. It was fantastic.
There were booths set up by local restaurants, selling Cajun food as fast as they could wrap it up. Frederick Burchinal and I opted for the alligator artichoke crab meat wrap. It was okay, nothing I’d order again. We all shared some bites of very thin fried eggplant (melt in your mouth!) with a crawfish tail sauce, and a spicy crabcake in remoulade. Mmmm! The lines were just too long to go back for bread pudding or sweet potato pie, but it was just as well for our waistlines!
There are many reasons to adore our rehearsal pianist, Dottie Randall, and one of them is that she is a nonstop font of one-liners. I was admiring her sparklies, and she said, “I call these my summer diamonds. Some are diamonds, and some are not!”
When we passed through the aquarium, she decided to educate Frederick Burchinal and me. “Do you know what the difference between a Southern and a Northern zoo is?” she drawled. “Southern zoos provide recipes.”
And they did. Right there on the wall next to the exhibit. Here’s proof:
Seems just a little tasteless to me.
Dottie is also a big cat whisperer. She claims to have learned this from director Linda Brovsky, who learned it from the tiger trainer on an Aida production. And I have to say, it kinda works. You basically chirrup at the cat, like a happy housecat does. It’s that cute, high-pitched little purr that they do. Dottie tried it first on the cougar, who sat up and hissed loudly at her. Clearly she had the wrong dialect. Next she tried it on the bobcats. One of them came right up to the front of the cage. Even the sleepy jaguar raised his head and looked at her.
We enjoyed an afternoon wandering through this beautiful zoo, which is very well done, and filled with animals that look healthy and happy. One of the smartest things I’ve ever seen is that they have stations in various places where kids can just play and let off some steam.
There’s a wonderful grotto with little waterfalls and pools of water that the kids can splash in. There’s a “tree house” they can climb on. For the older kids, there’s a climbing wall. And these are scattered throughout the zoo, so you walk a little bit and look at the animals, and then the little ones can run and play. And then there’s something fabulous and intriguing right around the corner.
This charming fountain is at the zoo entrance.
This bird took a real liking to Frederick!
My favorite thing at the zoo was an area where you could see and touch baby animals!
This tiny snapping turtle’s shell was still a little soft.
I didn’t take a pic of the very friendly rat snake who wanted to crawl down my blouse. (She probably just wanted to get away from all the attention). Her handler said she loved to get in people’s pockets! I did snap and pet these cute baby nutria.
See the webbed toes? These are aquatic rodents from South America. We have them loose in the river in Austin, too; here they have invaded the swamps, and are destroying them by eating the vegetation. Here are the adults:
My other favorite thing was the white alligator.
They are not albino; they have a condition related to albinism (lucism, I think?) but they are not completely lacking in pigment; they have blue eyes instead of pink and have some patches of color here and there. They are found only in Louisiana and are quite rare; the babies don’t typically survive long in the wild, since it’s hard for them to hide. The white alligator is the zoo’s biggest attraction. I felt sorry for it being in this relatively small tank instead of in the big swamp exhibit with the rest of the gators; but maybe it wouldn’t get along with them.
After our lovely day at Swamp Fest, we headed back to the hotel and enjoyed a potluck dinner and many glasses of fine wine in the courtyard. It’s always great when you have a convivial group of colleagues!
DIVA VS. GLADYS KRAVITZ
Posted by Cindy Sadler on Monday November 5, 2007 at 08:42:26 AM
The hotel I am staying in, despite promising free wireless and broadband access (in big neon letter on the side of the building, no less), has thus far proven unequal to the task of living up to its promise. That is, these amenities are available if you happen to be staying in a room close enough to the office to pick up the wireless signal; or if you happen to be staying in a room where the broadband actually works. I happen to be staying in a room where neither is true. My repeated patient and honeyed complaints have met with some confused efforts by the staff, to whom the Internetz in all its glory remains one of life’s great mysteries.
Thus it is that I frequently find myself sitting, of an evening, on a wobbly iron table in the courtyard close to the office, which after much trial and error proves to be the ONLY spot where access is sometimes ---not all the time, but sometimes --- possible.
A few days ago, having attempted on more than one occasion throughout the day to get a connection, I went out a little after 11 p.m. and at last struck gold. I huddled in my sweatshirt and tapped tapped tapped away, downloading 84 emails, several of which pertained solely to work. Then the office door opened, and a desk clerk I had not previously seen emerged. She is a little old lady whose wrinkled face is heavily spackled with makeup in bright shades, sporting an improbably red bouffant ‘do. She said, quite politely, “Ma’am, I don’t know if anyone told you, but no one is allowed in the courtyard after 11 p.m.”
You can imagine the displeasure that coursed through my veins upon hearing this utterance.
I gently explained to her that, while I would like nothing better than to be snug in my room which is supposed to be equipped with not one, but two –two!--- sources of Internet access, alas! This was not possible. This was the only place in the entire hotel I had had any luck at all accessing the Net, and now that I had it, I was not about to move lest this tenuous thread be forever rendered asunder.
She said, “If I let you do it, everyone will want to do it.”
What is this, kindergarten? This rule is posted nowhere, not on the walls, not in any hotel literature I had seen. I had been here over a week and no one had said a word. There was no one else around. I wasn’t making noise. I needed to download my emails, for heaven’s sake, and since her hotel was not in fact providing this advertised service to me in my room, I was going to take it where I could get it.
She repeated her theory that my presence there would lead every other hotel resident into temptation and sin, with unspeakable results. She offered to let me into the exercise room, which as previously noted features very little space and certainly no table or chair. Not to mention that moving might jeopardize my access.
I reiterated that I required access for work, and that it had not been available all day, and now that it was, I did not intend to move until this work was completed, and that would be about half an hour. “Half an hour?” she repeated dubiously. “Well, all right. If you’re only going to be half an hour. Half an hour, right?”
At last she retreated to the office, where she spent the half hour peering through the blinds every five minutes, prompting me to nickname her Gladys Kravitz (after Samantha and Darren’s nosy neighbor in Bewitched. You know the one. “AAAAbbb-ner!”)
The next morning, I went into the office and spoke to the manager, who sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “I’ll leave her a note to let her know it’s ok for you to be out there.”
The next day was a day off for me. Could I have gone down early in the evening? Why, certainly. But that would have deprived me of my petty revenge. I went down at 11:05. Gladys was distressed. She flitted anxiously around the blinds, but clearly she’d gotten the note. At last she ventured --- not right up to me in the courtyard, but to the covered passageway surrounding, several feet away. “Ma’am,” she called, “What is your room number?”
I told her with utmost cordiality. The only reason I can think that she wanted my room number was that she was hoping against hope that I MIGHT NOT BE THE AUTHORIZED PERSON and she could kick me out with impunity. No such luck, Gladys. I took my sweet time, then left as quietly as I had come.
Last night, in broad and exuberant defiance of Gladys Kravitz, I made her worst nightmare come true: I sat out in the courtyard with THREE OTHER PEOPLE and drank a glass of wine. And we talked quietly until 12:30 a.m. She kept peeking through the blinds but dared not say anything, because for at least half an hour Dee, the desk clerk with the shift before hers, hung around and chatted with us, too. After 11 p.m. !!! The horror!!! Sorry, Gladys, you are outclassed. See you at 11:05 p.m!
HELLUVA HALLOWEEN
Posted by Cindy Sadler on Friday November 2, 2007 at 03:00:18 PM
Well, Halloween was quite a good time here in Nawlins!
We had rehearsal from 11-2, which was annoying because it really makes it impossible to eat lunch at a decent hour, and sure enough, I got a bit of a headache from waiting too long and it stayed with me the rest of the day, threatening to become a migraine, despite popping two of my precious Imitrex. Those are the only things that work for my headaches, and they cost a small fortune. Happily, it did not go into migraine. Next time I’ll take my lunch and eat it on a break if I have to!
The rehearsal itself was great. Talk about luxury casting! The smaller roles are being taken by REAL voices, and they are not character voices. Tinca/Gherardo is being sung by David Sadlier (a cousin, no doubt!) who is on faculty at Baylor, and is a very fine tenor who probably could be singing the leads. He’s tall and handsome as well. The bass who is singing Talpa/Simone introduced himself to me by saying, “In all the years I’ve been singing, I’ve never once had a stage wife!” We both laughed over that; I think I’ve only had a stage husband once or twice. Contraltos and basses never get to hook up! His name is Luis-Ottavio Faria, a Brazilian who sings all over Europe. And what a voice! Rich, resonant, rumbly, everything you want a bass voice to be. We should be doing Simon Boccanegra for him.
Our other principals are quite impressive as well. I haven’t yet heard Frederick Burchinal (Michele/Schicchi) sing much, but he has a long list of credits which include many performances at the Met. Brian Hymel (Luigi/Rinuccio) has a big, impressive voice in a handsome package; he’s also very friendly and sweet. He sings Luigi’s sad aria so gorgeously.
Then of course, there’s our leading lady, Mardi Byers, with whom I’ve hit it off (more about that later). I have rarely seen such a passionate and natural actress and singer combined. Her Suor Angelica is just heart-wrenching. Her Georgetta sparkles. It’s a true spinto soprano; dark, rich, but brilliant in the top. And she’s a load of fun.
So, yesterday we got all my Tabarro scenes staged, including the aria, which is going to be a blast. Since we’ve only done Suor Angelica so far, nobody had really heard me sing yet, and I think they were a little surprised. The assistant conductor/chorus master, who has been running the rehearsals, certainly was caught off guard by how long I held my one and only high note! I told her, “This is the only high note I get all night, you have to let me have it!” She laughed and next time she waited for me.
Frugola is a ragpicker, and in this version, she scours the French Quarter for goodies. Among the items I pull out of my bag to show Georgetta are a Mardi Gras mask, beads, and a voodoo doll (which our ASM, Bryn, whipped up very creatively out of newspaper and tape; he even had a little bow tie). So last night, when Mardi and I braved the Quarter, I had no scruples about snatching up handfuls of fallen beads! Authentic Mardi Gras beads, authentically ragpicked from the authentic French Quarter! There, I’ve done my character research. We didn’t really have costumes, but we decided we were going as tourists. We each had our mask and our scavenged beads.
Our first stop of the evening was Arnoud’s, a lovely old New Orleans restaurant. We had a reservation for the main dining room but their AC was out, so they offered us seating in the adjoining jazz bistro. This turned out to be the best thing we could have done.
No sooner had we been seated and begun to peruse the mouthwatering menu, than the trio arrived: banjo, trumpet, and string bass. They were fabulous, and went table to table. They also sang. Best of all, it wasn’t too loud. They didn’t come to our table, though; so when they passed by us on their first break Mardi (not a shy girl) demanded charmingly that they come play for us. Sure enough, on their return from their break, they came to us first. Mardi told them that we wanted to sing with them!
Now, they get this kind of request all the time, with results you can just imagine. They asked us what we wanted to sing, and we settled on “Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man”. Well, as soon as we started in, you could see that they were pleasantly surprised, as were the patrons at surrounding tables. After that we sang “Summertime”. People wanted to buy us drinks. We told everyone we were from the opera and invited them to come.
At the next break, the string bass player came and sat with us, and told us in his soft New Orleans drawl that we were “nightingales” and we “blew him away”. And then he told us all about his grandkids, and how the four-year-old was enamoured of the musical Cats, which he had seen many times on video; so they took him to New York to see the Broadway show and this very active kid was so entranced that he didn’t move for hours, and couldn’t speak after the show. He wants to bring them to the opera, so I wrote down all the information for him. He told us that there’s no music in the Louisiana schools now, and how after Katrina when his family fled to Houston, he was overwhelmed by the music program they had there. Finally his colleagues had to drag him back to the set! We sat through two more sets, and when we finally paid the bill, we found our drinks and desserts had been paid for. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun in my life.
It’d be hard to top that experience, but we decided to wander down Bourbon Street. The party down there was rowdy but friendly; crowded but not sardine-crowded. People were happy and having a good time. Music poured out of every doorway, mostly live, warring with sound system from the bars across the street or next door. Costumed people milled around, having their pictures taken. Mardi and I took a lot! Of course, the best costumes are the homemade ones, and probably the best we saw all night were a trio from Queen of the Damned, the Anne Rice vampire novel and movie.
We wandered around for about an hour and a half, and then it was really time to get home … rehearsal on the morrow, you know! I hope you all had a happy and fun Halloween. But I bet I had more fun than you did, nyah nyah nyah.;)
The young lady dressed as the Vampire Queen was remarkably soft spoken and modest for someone with such a hot body wearing such a hot outfit! She was getting a lot of attention … small wonder!
The Chauvenist Pig was another one of my favorites. Simple, but spot on. Notice the cell phone glued to his ear. Every time we passed this guy, he was in the same position. Come to think of it, he may have been with one of the bars --- they had people outside trying to lure customers in.
Satan and his minions were in full attendance. This guy was REALLY into character, and like many of the bead throwers, insisted on seeing nekkid flesh before he’d toss out the bounty. We did see a few women (and several men) comply.
Mardi had to have her picture taken with Death (or whoever he was).
The Bishop was drunk as a skunk, but he wanted to offer me communion with his giant bottle of beer. In his other hand is a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Mardi gave him. Mardi was handing out treats.
There was lots more to see. I’ll leave you with view, and the sad knowledge that wherever you were, whatever you did on Halloween, I probably had a better time than you. Nyah, nyah, nyah!
Laissez le bons temps roulez!
Posted by Cindy Sadler on Tuesday October 30, 2007 at 03:24:42 PM
Fun day Saturday. I got a call about 12 p.m. saying our afternoon rehearsal was cancelled. Why? Because there was a birthday party at the rehearsal hall.
New Orleans Opera, like the rest of the city, took some pretty heavy hits in Katrina. Their usual theater and rehearsal space was destroyed and is in the process of being rebuilt. In the meantime, they had to find an affordable, reasonably located spot, and that was a meeting hall owned by one of those fraternal orders that does a lot of charity work. This chapter rents out their hall for wedding receptions, quinceñeras, and so forth. It seems that the scheduling can sometimes get a little wanky, and in this case, there was a miscommunication, and the quinceñera people had the hall on Saturday afternoon. So I got this call from the stage manager, Carol: “Rehearsal is cancelled tomorrow afternoon. Wanna go to the French Quarter with Marti and me?” (Marti would be our leading lady).
Ummmm, yes please! So after another frustrating bout of wireless access hide ‘n’ seek, I gathered up my husband and off we went. The highway seems to be in a perpetual jam, so we went the back way down St. Charles’ Avenue. This is the route taken by many of the Mardi Gras parades, smack through the beautiful Garden District, and the trees which line the street are festooned with long strands of beads from Mardi Gras past, some of them decades old.
Once in the Quarter, we quickly found ourselves being drawn into the various shops. This ugly fellow, who reminded me of the Mad TV agent character, drew us into a souvenir shop.
Marti, Carol, and I had to buy Mardi Gras masks. We plan to wear them to rehearsal on Halloween.
Marti could not resist trying on this pimpin’ hat.
Thus supplied, we continued past Jackson Square and the St. Louis Cathedral, where there was a wedding complete with jazz band parade. All the guests were following the band, which was dressed in white tuxedos. I hope I don’t die while I’m here, but if I do, I want a jazz funeral. What a way to go. I’d a hell of a lot rather have my friends and loved ones pay their respects and then have a wild party in my honor than sit around crying.
Soon we were compelled to stop at Café du Monde for café au lait and beignets. The place was packed, but we managed to find a small table. The tile floor is liberally coated in powdered sugar, and I am convinced that periodically a waitress must step into a patch which has been coated with sugar and spilled coffee, become stuck like a woolly mammoth in a tar pit, and have to be chiseled out by her colleagues wielding paint scrapers. The loudest table in the joint was occupied by a group of well-dressed middle-aged ladies who did not appear to be chemically enhanced, but nonetheless thought it the height of hilarity to throw powdered sugar on one another. They were shrieking good-naturedly. No one batted an eye. This is New Orleans, and if you don’t come here to party, you are sadly, sadly lost. During our sojourn through the Quarter, we saw partiers of all ages, including some decked in Mardi Gras finery hobbling along on their canes and walkers. Alcohol is a wonderful preservative!
We weren’t merely wandering; we were in search of the Ursuline Convent, at which our version of Suor Angelica has been set. (Shouldn’t that be Soeur Angelica)? We soon found it --- a very plain white building surrounded by tall walls. You couldn’t see much; it was truly a cloister. We went around to the front and peered as we could through the gates, where you could see neatly trimmed boxwood hedges in a stone courtyard. Very French. Musn’t let the garden appear too natural.
These cool tile signs appear on walls all over the French Quarter, letting you know where you would have been, had you been here between 1762 and 1803. Sniff.
While we had our noses pressed up to the convent wall, an interesting little event took place. We heard some chanting and shouting down the street. About a block away, a small war protest parade was headed our way, manned largely by Ron Paul supporters. Just across the street from the convent, there was a chi-chi party taking place. Well-heeled young Republicans, complete with a couple of Ann Coulter look-alikes (well, it IS almost Halloween; the ghouls do come out) were having cocktails on a veranda. When the protesters passed us, the partiers began to heckle them, calling them cowards and shouting at them to “Get a job”! Some of the protesters yelled back, and soon obscenities were being exchanged. It seemed very symbolic of the lack of dialogue between the opposing sides in this country, complete with stereotypes and the inability to hear (or care) what the other side is saying.
The protesters invited us to “join the revolution”, but since I plan on voting for either Hilary or Obama, and since we were coming up on Bourbon Street, we politely declined.
The Quarter is an odd mix of beauty and shabbiness. I suspect much of the truly spectacular is hidden in the courtyards within. Sometimes you get a little peek.
Other times, it’s just out there for you to see.
We found ourselves on Bourbon Street, where around 4 p.m. the action was definitely picking up. Halloween was clearly in full swing on Bourbon Street. We saw, among other things, a pregnant transvestite bride, Hugh Hefner with a Bunny on each arm, and my personal favorite, Tippi Hedron from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, complete with messy blonde wig and a vintage suit covered in blood and angry crows.
The bars were already hopping, and the walk-up daiquiri mills were doing steady business. I saw more than one sign advertising Huge Ass Beers, which caused me to speculate on whether 1) this was merely descriptive of the size; 2) this was the brand name; 3) this was a promise of what is to come should you partake of one.
Shortly after circumnavigating the Huge Ass Beer, we came upon the old French opera house. New Orleans was the first city in the US to boast an opera house. It’s now some type of jazz bar, but we felt we had to make our mark.
We also popped into Marie Laveau’s VooDoo Shop, which everyone agreed was creepy. It’s tiny, but it was packed, mostly with curious tourists like ourselves. There did not appear to be much commerce going on. No one in our party felt the need to put a curse on anyone, and we’d been walking for a couple of hours by now. It was time to sit down and eat something. It was also time to get off Bourbon Street, with its crowds and deafening music. We ended up at the ACME Oyster Bar, which had a line down the street. This is a place where you want to order fried stuff, as that is practically all they have on the menu, but I’d already had a beignet and hadn’t planned for that kind of culinary extravagance. So Eric and I split some charbroiled oysters, served heavy on the garlic (mmm)!, an order of the best hush puppies you will ever taste, and some tasty seafood gumbo, followed by a small but perfect bread pudding liberally doused in a plate-lickin’ good bourbon sauce. Our companions plowed into a sausage po’boy and jambalaya, respectively. No one left hungry!
By this time there was a beautiful full moon and it was getting chilly, so it was time to head home. We amused ourselves on the drive back by introducing Carol and Marti to the GPS. They also think she sounds pissed off when we don’t do what she says.
Eric goes home today, but Marti, Carol, and I are hitting the Quarter on Halloween night. Santa Maria, prega per noi!
Welcome to my blog!
Posted by Cindy Sadler on Tuesday October 30, 2007 at 03:21:57 PM
Welcome to the musings and mutterings of a traveling singer. For many years now I’ve filed reports from various exotic locations to which my career has sent me --- Des Moines, Fort Lauderdale, San Jose, Tucson and Phoenix, Chicago, Santa Barbara, and beyond. These quirky little rants/newsletters/travelogues have hitherto been reserved for an exclusive group of friends and relatives, but they’ve urged me to inflict them on the world at large, and so here we are. This blog is currently not set up for commenting, but feel free to do so --- drop me a line at cindy@cindy-sadler.com with BLOG in the subject title.
My current adventure finds me in New Orleans. Eric and I drove down on Thursday. It’s an uneventful drive, except when one is attempting to navigate the snarl of Houston highways, with their exciting instant lane changes. Even with the reassuring guiding voice of the GPS, attention must be paid, lest you be shunted off to some distant and undesireable suburb unawares. We haven’t had the GPS long, but it’s a fun and useful toy. However, I am convinced that it gets pissed off when we don’t obey it. At first the Star Trek-y mechanical female voice sounds cool and professional: “Recalculating. Please drive to highlighted route.” The third or fourth time you disobey (because you’re busy making an illegal U-turn to reach the first Starbucks’ you’ve seen in 250 miles; or because there’s the rest stop THERE THERE THERE oh crap it’s just picnic tables, no restroom), the thing begins to sound distinctly annoyed. I kind of like pissing it off. I admit it.
To those of you just meeting us, Eric and I are just ever so slightly Food Fascists. We like to cook, and when we do, we like to cook fancy. Not only are we kinda snobby about food, but we’re really careful about what we eat. This is because both of us are engaged in a lifelong battle of the bulge, and also because the reading and research we’ve done has convinced us that organic and natural is the way to go. Being refugees from the Fast Food Nation, there is no pulling off at the sign of the big yellow M, unless it’s time to recycle. So we took a picnic (smoked trout and salmon, a tiny piece of REALLY good bleu cheese, an olive oil and salt ciabatta roll, some crudite, and pomegranate seeds, if you must know) and then suffered the indignity of NO RESTSTOPS between Houston and Beaumont. We finally found a windy little patch of ground just off the highway where there were picnic tables but no toilets (what is the POINT, I ask you?) and then, just a few miles down the road in Beaumont, was the biggest, purtiest, most high-falutin’ visitor’s center you ever did see and it was named after somebody named Ben J. Rogers, or something like that. It had a little theater and everything. The ladies’ room was well-lit, all tiled in natural stone and there were little pots of succulents artfully placed on the marble counter. You could hold a wedding reception in there, it was so purty. I don’t know who Ben J. Rogers was, but he was either mighty hospitable or he really liked a well-appointed necessary.
As we rolled over the many causeways on the way into New Orleans, I was reminded of the trips we used to take when we were kids, to visit Uncle Tom and Aunt Dorothy and our cousins Bill, Ann Marie, and Catherine. We had this gigantic blue Pontiac station wagon with three back seats, and the dog and I always got the very back seat. I loved that. When we hit those causeways, my nose would be pressed to the window, looking for alligators. Never did see a blessed one, this time included. I couldn’t exactly press my nose to the window because I was driving, but I was looking, friends, I was looking. Eric said, “Throw a fat kid in there and you’ll see ‘em soon enough.” Yeah, my husband has a sick sense of humor.
My new temporary home is located in an ugly patch of urban sprawl just off the highway. The hotel itself is nice enough, but the fact that it is built like a little fortress, complete with decorative-and-highly-functional iron gates all around and lots of security cameras does tend to make one a little … shall we say, alert? The locale is full of low-rent apartments and shabby storefronts, although a few streets over there’s a big drag with everything a lily white suburban yuppie such as myself could dream of, up to and including a big, beautiful Whole Foods.
The very best thing about the hotel is the people at the front desk. They could not be more gracious and friendly, which actually goes for everyone I’ve met so far. I’m from Texas, and we are friendly people, but in a bluff, hearty sort of way. These folks are real Southerners, and one of the best things about the South is the genuine hospitality. If you are a stranger people just go out of their way to make you feel at home. If you are a New Yorker, or if you are Yurpeen (as my formerly French husband is) you might regard this behavior with a little bit of suspicion. You might find it a little creepy. Relax. Nobody’s going after your wallet. It’s just the way things are done here.
The very worst thing about the hotel is the fact that, although it advertises itself as a business extended stay hotel with free wireless internet, as it turns out that wireless is available only on a mysterious and arcane basis, and only if you are in the rooms right above the office (which I am not). In order to partake of the free wireless, I must balance my laptop on a wobby iron table in the chilly courtyard, cross myself, spit, turn three times counterclockwise, sacrifice a live chicken to the spirit of Marie Laveau, and wait until someone else gets offline so I can get on. Because apparently the hotel has limited the number of people who can be on the network at one time, and that number appears to be about five.
The hotel room itself has its quirks. It's mainly comfortable, with a tiny but functional kitchen and bathroom, an oddly shaped living room which features two large armchairs, a desk, and a TV stand but nothing resembling a table where one might eat; a walkin closet which also serves as storage for the full-sized water heater; and a large bedroom with a lot of wasted space. There are very few surfaces or drawers upon and in which to store things. The AC sounds forth in such volume and intensity that Eric is given to remarking, "Landing gear engaged!" whenever it comes on. The picturesque plantation shutters do not quite shut out the light. But it's reasonably attractive and comfy.
There's a beautiful little French Quarter-style courtyard with a pool and a tiny exercise room, into which is jammed a weight bench, a treadmill, and some sort of off-brand Stairmaster-type torture device. If the person on the treadmill should fart, he'd asphyxiate the weightlifter, whose nose would be practically up his ass. That's how small that room is.
I had my first rehearsal on Friday. Getting there was an adventure. New Orleans streets are like a big bowl of spaghetti. They make absolutely no sense. As Eric said, "I think the French came here, founded it, and then screwed it up so badly that they said, 'What the hell, let's sell it.'" Were it not for the GPS, you would never hear from me again. I'd be driving around the labyrinth, trying to find a way to get on the highway without making an illegal left turn. (They are not fans of left turns in New Orleans. They would rather you make a right and then do a U-turn. I am not clear on the logic, but Eric says it's just like back home in France).
Rehearsals are taking place at the Lion’s Club, which lies a few hundred yards from one of the infamous levees but apparently survived the flooding no worse for the wear. It’s a dreary sort of hall with a long, red leatherette bar on one side and a tiny chandelier hanging from the center of the acoustical tile ceiling. They rent it out a lot for various functions. More on that later.
Our first rehearsal went swimmingly. It was for Suor Angelica, which is all women (on account of it takes place in a convent). We mostly listened to the director explain his concept and the costumes and the different types of nuns; sang through part of it, and did a tiny bit of staging. Then we had to clear out, because the Lion’s Club had a quinceñera coming in. More on that later.
And that was the first day.