“A table to eat, or to drink?” the waiter asked. “Both,” I answered. It was my first night in Venice; as usual, I only slept briefly on the flight over and was determined to stay awake and adjust to local time as quickly as possible. I made my way to the tourist clogged Rialto Bridge to absorb the frenetic energy, and found a canal-side restaurant, Caffe Saraceno.
“For one, only?” Little did I know at the time that all waiters I encountered during this solo trip to Venice and Florence would react to my table-for-one request with emotion ranging from mild surprise to total horror and as a result, I never really dined alone. During my second week, Carlo in Florence asked, “Where is your husband? Did you have a fight?” When I told him I was traveling alone, he invited me to meet him the next morning and we would ride his scooter to Piazelle Michelangelo for cappuccino. “Maybe another time,” I told him. Another Florentine threw up his hands and exclaimed, “Impossibile!” when he discovered I was on my own. Both hotel concierges in both cities went out of their way to help me when I needed it; Fabio in Venice even walked me to a restaurant he claimed was difficult to find.
This first-night Venetian waiter was a bit younger than me, about the same height, with droopy hangdog brown eyes and grey streaked short hair. As he asked the question, he touched my elbow so I pushed my agenda. “Si, un tavolo per una. And I'd like to sit next to the canal.” There was only one table available, set for 4, and Giovanni (“call me Gianni”) walked me right over to it. “Prego, Signora.” Already seated next to me were three women, perhaps in their late 60's, speaking rapid fire Italian. After he handed me my menu, Gianni delivered a bottle of wine to my neighbors, then returned to take my order.
He made some menu recommendations, one of which I took, poured my wine, and became very chatty. Where are you from? How long are you in Venice? Are you traveling alone? Really? He would leave my side briefly then reappear in a flash to refill my wine glass. After placing my salad on the table, Gianni whisked away the table oil and vinegar and replaced both with extra virgin and balsamic. “For you, Signora.” Again, with the elbow touching. I was totally charmed.
My table was perfect; I had a great seat: front row on the Grand Canal. Gondolas drifted by. Vaparetti stuffed with tourists wielding video cameras chugged along, the waves from their wake lapping by my boots. I finished my salad and sipped my Chianti. I'm sure I must have sighed. Here comes dinner. As Gianni served the veal, the table next to me erupted. The trio of Italian Mamas was pissed.
I couldn't understand much, but I heard “L'Americana” this, and “L'Americana” that. Hands flying. Fingers wagging. They had no food yet. “No rispetto! No rispetto!” Everyone in the restaurant was watching. I was terrified and terribly entertained at the same time. Gianni stood there, arms crossed. Then one of the women shouted, “Il conto. Allora!” Yikes. They wanted the check before they even had dinner. He started to reason with them, I think, but seemed to get nowhere. I concentrated on my dinner and the water taxis zipping by, avoiding eye contact with both the table of Mamas and my beleaguered waiter.
He finally raised both hands and shouted, “Basta!” He brought them their check and as they stormed out, one of the Mamas lectured another waiter as well, for good measure. Wow. I wasn't expecting dinner AND a show.
Gianni sauntered over with a slight smile and a big shrug. “Mi dispiace,” he said. “Boy, you really got in trouble,” I told him. His smile widened and he poured me a big glass of wine: not my house Chianti, but a Brunello. “My compliments, Signora.” As I left the restaurant, he thanked me with a kiss on each cheek and a “Ciao, Bella!”
And that, my friends, is one of the many many many reasons I return every year.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Next Week
In one week and a few hours from now I will be sitting on KLM flight 6030, Boston to Venice with a connection in Amsterdam. One week in Venice; one week in Florence. All alone. Can't wait.
I can't remember if I've ever traveled two weeks straight by myself. I don't think I have. I've spent weekends alone: Three days of yoga in the Berkshires. Three days in Manhattan, when nobody I knew wanted to pay the exorbitant cost of a Sting ticket at St. John's Cathedral in Harlem and so I went on my own and enjoyed every second.
Other than 3 firm commitments to meet friends and acquaintances, and the ever-present Sting concert (he performs in Florence) I have no set itinerary for these two weeks. I have been to both cities twice and have seen the tourist-musts. The Doge's Palace, Bridge of Sighs, Santa Maria Salute, Rialto Market. Ponte Vecchio, the David, the Duomo, the Uffizzi. This time, I will wander.
I will practice my paltry Italian in cafes and street markets. I will eat pasta and panini and drink red wine. I will chat up the staff at both hotels to get the scoop on where to really go and what to really do and see. I will try on boots and ignore the snickers of the salesgirl when I tell her my size. I will make new Italian friends and invite myself back to visit them next year.
As my friend Susan says, It's a tough job but somebody's gotta do it.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Road Trip Down Memory Lane
I just spent a weekend in upstate New York with my writers group. Unseasonably warm fall weather, great eats at great restaurants, and the fact that one of us grew up in Woodstock and could serve as tour director, contributed to yet another wildly successful road trip. Another reason for our visit: as a young mother some 23 years ago, I lived about 8 miles from Woodstock. I haven't thought about that phase of my life in a long, long time. Now, I'm thinking.
We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.
Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.
Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.
Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?
I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.
So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.
We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.
Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.
Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.
Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?
I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.
So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Mall Walking
On my daily run this morning (OK, more of a walk than a run but I do run a bit) I spent a lot of time with my eyes riveted on the ground, dodging road hazards. Loose gravel, tiny potholes, kamikaze chipmunks, a pre-autumn slippery leaf or two. This cautionary approach to my morning routine prevented me from true appreciation of the brilliant sky and the puffy clouds. I didn't realize this until I was back in my own driveway and it totally bummed me out. I like being outside rather than inside on the treadmill because of the fresh air and the diversity of the scenery; now, I felt like I was missing out.
A month ago, while walking on a city sidewalk with eyes focused straight ahead, I tripped on uneven pavement and went flying through the air. I hit the ground squarely on my knees and the palms of my hands, all 4 areas badly skinned as if I were 5 years old again. It hurt; I bled and cried. That's why I run with my eyes on the ground now. I am actually afraid of falling. What am I, 80 years old?
Then something unbidden flashed through my mind. You must have seen them in the mall: Usually white-haired, always in pairs or trios, they walk. Bright white orthopedic sneakers and track suits. They circle the interior of the mall relentless until they reach their desired distance. I used to chuckle to myself at the silliness of it. Now they have me thinking. You don't need to worry about tripping on anything but your own two feet. The weather is always perfect. The people watching would be fun. Running would probably be frowned upon but you could get a good walking speed going. At the end of your 5 miles or whatever you can go to Starbucks or Nordstrom's or both.
I'm worried about myself. But god forbid should I break a hip.
A month ago, while walking on a city sidewalk with eyes focused straight ahead, I tripped on uneven pavement and went flying through the air. I hit the ground squarely on my knees and the palms of my hands, all 4 areas badly skinned as if I were 5 years old again. It hurt; I bled and cried. That's why I run with my eyes on the ground now. I am actually afraid of falling. What am I, 80 years old?
Then something unbidden flashed through my mind. You must have seen them in the mall: Usually white-haired, always in pairs or trios, they walk. Bright white orthopedic sneakers and track suits. They circle the interior of the mall relentless until they reach their desired distance. I used to chuckle to myself at the silliness of it. Now they have me thinking. You don't need to worry about tripping on anything but your own two feet. The weather is always perfect. The people watching would be fun. Running would probably be frowned upon but you could get a good walking speed going. At the end of your 5 miles or whatever you can go to Starbucks or Nordstrom's or both.
I'm worried about myself. But god forbid should I break a hip.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Things I Have Noticed Now That Jenny Has Moved Out
1. She really is the only person in this household who understands me.
2. The liquor cabinet is mine, all mine, again.
3, It's not as much fun watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians without her.
4. No one gets my Gilmore Girls' references. “Oy, with the poodles already.”
5. No one gets my Sex and the City references. “You get a day, not a week.”
6. The coffee supply lasts a lot longer.
7. There's no one to give me an honest opinion about my shoe choice.
8. The smoke haze in her car (now Connor's) is slowly dissipating.
9. There's no one to make fun of the songs on my ipod. Oh, wait. . .
10. Who's gonna side with me on the AC/No AC and heat/no heat arguments with Pops, as she calls him?
2. The liquor cabinet is mine, all mine, again.
3, It's not as much fun watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians without her.
4. No one gets my Gilmore Girls' references. “Oy, with the poodles already.”
5. No one gets my Sex and the City references. “You get a day, not a week.”
6. The coffee supply lasts a lot longer.
7. There's no one to give me an honest opinion about my shoe choice.
8. The smoke haze in her car (now Connor's) is slowly dissipating.
9. There's no one to make fun of the songs on my ipod. Oh, wait. . .
10. Who's gonna side with me on the AC/No AC and heat/no heat arguments with Pops, as she calls him?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Mary Kate
I met Mary Kate when she was part of the welcoming committee at Voyagers' orientation for our first Fall semester. While not completely new to homeschooling, I was new at this homeschooling coop and a bit tentative. Mary Kate didn't waste any time. She plunked herself down in the chair next to me, the omnipresent reporter's notebook in hand: you know, those long, thin, lined ones. After the usual introductions, the recruitment began. “How old is your child? You have a boy? Excellent. Is he interested in Shakespeare?” she asked. I had no idea if he was interested in Shakespeare but her enthusiasm almost made me hope he was before I really knew what she was talking about.
It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!
We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.
We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.
I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.
Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.
It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!
We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.
We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.
I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.
Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
All You Need is Love. Really.
Cirque du Soleil has never interested me. Never. It's never been on my radar screen. Never. And the few glimpses I had on TV coupled with reviews from friends convinced me that this was a show I could skip. While a fan of the soleil, I am not a fan of the cirque. I know, I know. It's not really a “circus.” My skepticism, and a full list of the performing arts that I found compelling and was willing to shell out the bucks to see, prevailed. And then. . .
A couple of years ago while in Las Vegas, my husband tried to convince me to attend Cirque's “LOVE,” based on the music of The Beatles. In response, I attempted to stand my ground. “Are there French Canadian clowns? Are there mimes?” I asked. “Are they going to infuse the Beatles stuff with creepy Cirque music?” He told me he had no idea and then, in an act of uncharacteristic decisiveness brought about by his love of the Beatles, bought the tickets.
I LOVED it. The plot loosely tracks the Beatles' biography from the London Blitz in the 1940's through the group's formation, rocket ship ascension to stardom, and breakup. Fictional characters from the Beatles' lyrics bring the show to life: Lady Madonna and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds were two of my favorites. “Drive My Car” features a vintage VW Beetle stuffed with floppy-haired young men. “Blackbird” is danced by a bevy of beautiful and graceful ballerinas. There is a bit more dance than acrobatics and an even mixture of comedy and tragedy, all of which seem perfectly matched to each tune. I was high-fived by a performer on his way off-stage. I chatted it up with an usher while leaving. “Wasn't it great to take a stroll down Penny Lane?” he asked. “All you need is love,” I answered.
On the way out of the theater, I was surprised to overhear a few comments regarding the authenticity of the piece. No live music. (The Beatles' music had been remixed by George Martin for this performance.) Not enough acrobatics; what was with all that ballet? Not in the usual tradition of Cirque, some said. I didn't pay much attention at that time; I had nothing to compare it to. As soon as we arrived home, I ordered the LOVE soundtrack.
So, I thought, maybe I was wrong about the Cirque. Fast forward to present day. A few weeks ago, my younger son and I were in Quebec City, home of Cirque du Soleil. We were traveling with 2 other families, all of whom are Cirque fans and when one of the other parents suggested we purchase tickets to the Cirque du Soleil performance in town during our stay, I said sure.
The distinctive yellow and white tents were set up down near the industrial docks of the St. Lawrence River; we could see them from several vantage points throughout the city. Halfway through our stay in this beautiful city on the evening of the performance, the ten of us trekked down Quebec City's hills and stone steps to attend Totem.
The semi-circular seating in the audience surrounded a turtle shell shaped stage. I was seated in the second to last seat near the stage on the right, behind a huge pole holding wires and clamps and acrobatic paraphernalia. As the evening crawled on, I thanked the fake stars in the fake sky above for my obstructed view.
The lights dimmed, and voila! There is a succession of performers dressed as: frogs, Native Americans, alien beings, fishermen, mad scientists, archeologists, monkeys, and surfer dudes. The characters who creep around, like the frogs and aliens, are accompanied by that creepy Cirque du Soleil music. Two of the Native American characters, in roller skates, spin around on a small trampoline. For kicks, there is a slimy Italian gigolo as the clown character, I guess. He isn't funny. And what's this? Four Asian girls balance stacks of plates while on unicycles.
Yeah, I kind of get it. Kind of: Totem. Evolution and Legend. Science and Custom. The meshing of various views of the universe. And I even appreciate the athleticism and the grace required of these performers. I really do. But, c'mon..
The music is annoying in that whiny way that I had always associated with Cirque. The different scenes have no connection to each other. First there are frogs, then there are surfer dudes? Really? What's with all the Eastern European guys balancing on the sticks? Aliens in unitards? I kept pulling out my cell phone to check the time.
As we were trooping out at the end, I caught the eye of my son who had a seat at the other end of our row. He rolled his eyes back and shook his head. We were in the minority so we kept quiet (for us); as we stood waiting for others in our group to fetch souvenirs, he grinned. “At least I only fell asleep once.”
Lesson learned. No more Cirque du Soleil for us, unless it involves The Beatles.
A couple of years ago while in Las Vegas, my husband tried to convince me to attend Cirque's “LOVE,” based on the music of The Beatles. In response, I attempted to stand my ground. “Are there French Canadian clowns? Are there mimes?” I asked. “Are they going to infuse the Beatles stuff with creepy Cirque music?” He told me he had no idea and then, in an act of uncharacteristic decisiveness brought about by his love of the Beatles, bought the tickets.
I LOVED it. The plot loosely tracks the Beatles' biography from the London Blitz in the 1940's through the group's formation, rocket ship ascension to stardom, and breakup. Fictional characters from the Beatles' lyrics bring the show to life: Lady Madonna and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds were two of my favorites. “Drive My Car” features a vintage VW Beetle stuffed with floppy-haired young men. “Blackbird” is danced by a bevy of beautiful and graceful ballerinas. There is a bit more dance than acrobatics and an even mixture of comedy and tragedy, all of which seem perfectly matched to each tune. I was high-fived by a performer on his way off-stage. I chatted it up with an usher while leaving. “Wasn't it great to take a stroll down Penny Lane?” he asked. “All you need is love,” I answered.
On the way out of the theater, I was surprised to overhear a few comments regarding the authenticity of the piece. No live music. (The Beatles' music had been remixed by George Martin for this performance.) Not enough acrobatics; what was with all that ballet? Not in the usual tradition of Cirque, some said. I didn't pay much attention at that time; I had nothing to compare it to. As soon as we arrived home, I ordered the LOVE soundtrack.
So, I thought, maybe I was wrong about the Cirque. Fast forward to present day. A few weeks ago, my younger son and I were in Quebec City, home of Cirque du Soleil. We were traveling with 2 other families, all of whom are Cirque fans and when one of the other parents suggested we purchase tickets to the Cirque du Soleil performance in town during our stay, I said sure.
The semi-circular seating in the audience surrounded a turtle shell shaped stage. I was seated in the second to last seat near the stage on the right, behind a huge pole holding wires and clamps and acrobatic paraphernalia. As the evening crawled on, I thanked the fake stars in the fake sky above for my obstructed view.
The lights dimmed, and voila! There is a succession of performers dressed as: frogs, Native Americans, alien beings, fishermen, mad scientists, archeologists, monkeys, and surfer dudes. The characters who creep around, like the frogs and aliens, are accompanied by that creepy Cirque du Soleil music. Two of the Native American characters, in roller skates, spin around on a small trampoline. For kicks, there is a slimy Italian gigolo as the clown character, I guess. He isn't funny. And what's this? Four Asian girls balance stacks of plates while on unicycles.
Yeah, I kind of get it. Kind of: Totem. Evolution and Legend. Science and Custom. The meshing of various views of the universe. And I even appreciate the athleticism and the grace required of these performers. I really do. But, c'mon..
The music is annoying in that whiny way that I had always associated with Cirque. The different scenes have no connection to each other. First there are frogs, then there are surfer dudes? Really? What's with all the Eastern European guys balancing on the sticks? Aliens in unitards? I kept pulling out my cell phone to check the time.
As we were trooping out at the end, I caught the eye of my son who had a seat at the other end of our row. He rolled his eyes back and shook his head. We were in the minority so we kept quiet (for us); as we stood waiting for others in our group to fetch souvenirs, he grinned. “At least I only fell asleep once.”
Lesson learned. No more Cirque du Soleil for us, unless it involves The Beatles.
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