becoming friends with berlin

For the first while, as I trudged around icy and snow-laden Berlin, staring up at enormous, boxy edifices that are miles apart, and looking acorss squares a kilometre in area, I asked myself, "What is it about Berlin that I am missing?"
Because Berlin is one of the world's top tourist destinations, at least in my age group. There had to be something I wasn't seeing.
Each thing I do here, though, gives me a glimmer of what that is. It turns out Berlin is just playing hard to get -- a lot like Toronto, actually, in that a first impression of Toronto isn't always dazzling, but once you get to know the city you realize just how much it has to offer.
Last night was a Nuit Blanche of sorts - all of the museums and many other attractions were open and accessible on one (cheap) ticket. I saw the Dom, the Guggenheim, and the Musical Instruments museum, where they were showing silent films with a man playing a historically accurate organ as accompaniment. Berlin is full of incredible museums and galleries; I wish I could have seen more.
Tomorrow I leave for Freiburg, where I hope to frolic in the Black Forest and spend some time with a new friend, a fellow singer I met in Arezzo. She's Texan! I think my hosts live in the hippie commune near Freiburg so I will get a chance to see exactly how green I can handle my life...

Ich bin ein donut!

The dust has settled a little and I have a few minutes to write something.
I arrived here on a train from Den Haag -- it still amazes me that only 6 hours can pass and I am in a different country -- on Wednesday, and was greeted by a Canadian blizzard that had decided to holiday in Germany this year. The next day was already a million times better, however, and I got the chance to wander around the core for a first glance at Berlin and see the New Museum, which has just been reopened following post-war renovations. I did spend about an hour wandering around looking for the music school at which I had an audition today (for the Britten Pears program) - Berlin is just SO BIG that it takes you forever to walk around buildings and get from one block to the next. Moreover, you never run into anyone -- the city appears empty because it is so spread out. Also, the buildings in their Cold War splendour rise up around you like humungous building blocks. It's an intimidating city.
I can't say just yet that it's my absolute favourite. There hasn't been a spark for me with Berin just yet, though I approached one viewing the information at Checkpoint Charlie and the markings showing the former location of the Wall. It more just makes me heart hurt than anything, though, that this city is so full of pain and suffering in its history, and the tourist attractions are basically grim recollections and testaments as if the inhabitants of the city have resigned themselves to reliving the horror each day so that it will never be repeated. I'm not saying that all tourist attractions are sunshine and rainbows, and certainly Italy has its share of pain and suffering in its history too, and many, many other countries, but this city has a different flavour. Maybe because the Wall fell in recent history, the atmosphere of the time still lingers in the air.
One thing I can say about Berlin -- opera, opera, opera!!! Literally -- there are three houses. I took my couchsurfing host to his first opera tonight -- Lohengrin (everyone marvel at the courage of this first-timer to take on such a beast as that). Ben Heppner sang the lead but I was also blown away by Ortrud, played by Waltraud Meier. She got the biggest shout outs from the audience, too.
I'm spending the weekend here and I have an evening train to Freiburg on Monday. I'll be pleased to leave the snow but I know that I will be leaving Berlin with the intention of coming back.

I'm in Holland!

Forgive me. My internet access is dubious at best these days as I city-hop and roam for unsecured connections. Updates are therefore going to be a bit spotty, and in the case of this one, a little more uninspired, though there is much to be inspired about. It's more a question of time.

I stepped off the train in Amsterdam yesterday and nearly cried. What a shock after the terracotta and whitewash of Italy. The architecture of Holland, after so long on the peninsula, seems exotic to me, and the flavour of the city is significantly late 17th and early 18th century, and smacks of the affluence the Dutch bourgeoisie enjoyed at that time. Holland was incredibly successful on the international markets and culture thrived; there is no shortage, surely, in Amsterdam.

I find myself now in the Hague for a couple of days, which is a city of smaller proportions but great international importance. The Peace Palace against the sky at dusk takes your breath away. The city is home to over 100 other international organizations, as well as the Dutch Parliament, and the city centre is full of gorgeous 18th century buildings.

The snow has stopped so it has been truly enjoyable to walk and gawk. Tomorrow I tour the Conservatory and meet some teachers -- the fun begins!

Pictures will come.

Postscript:
Remember the shoe drama of Italy? Well, I think I have learned my lesson... NEver buy Italian shoes if you're made for comfort, not fashion. The only shoes I ever bought in Italy gave me grief. I have either extreme strain, a stress fracture, or arthritis in my right big toe on account of the boots I wore all fall and winter... and they were good boots. They are living with my Milanese family now... good riddance.

I think a post every other day is a much more reasonable resolution..

I head off on my epic adventure tomorrow, so I thought I would post my itinerary in case anyone was curious or had TIPS or THINGS TO DO so that they can live vicariously through me.

16-18 Jan -- Arezzo
19-22 Jan -- Avellino
23 Jan -- Amsterdam
24-27 Jan -- The Hague
27-30???31???? Jan -- Berlin
end of Jan -- 5 Feb -- Koln, Mannheim, Heidelberg, Freiburg
5 Feb - 10 Feb -- Basel, Genève, Lausanne (with detour to French countryside)
10 Feb - 12 Feb -- Berlin

I come home with great pomp and ceremony (that's a lie) on 12 Feb and arrive in the late afternoon. I leave shortly thereafter for Baltimore to do an audition at Peabody Conservatory, and then I spend a week in Toronto before a few days at Bard College, where I am auditioning for their Masters in Vocal Arts.

On my epic adventure I have several teachers to meet for lessons, schools to see, and operas to attend, but part of it is soaking in the atmosphere of a place. With the exception of Berlin, where I have auditions and will thus be staying in a hotel, I want to couchsurf with people who are actually living in that city and can help me get a sense of what it's like.
So if you have any friends, let a girl know.

I can't wait to unleash my three sentences of German on their unsuspecting populace... they will never know what hit them.

cultural difference tidbit of the day.

We were discussing how to say the numbers 1-5 in English over dinner today (I live with toddlers) and thus, counting on our fingers. It became apparent that we counted in different manners. The toddler's Nonno told me that once, he saw a movie in which a certain actor was playing a European character, and at first it was difficult to tell if his accent was real, if he was just a realyl great actor, until he raised his middle three fingers to indicate the number to someone -- then, related Nonno, you knew right away this was an American. Europeans use their thumb and first two fingers.

It made me reflect on the level of detail a director has to pay attention to in order to achieve authenticity. I thought of Emma Dante and her Sicilian Carmen. Noone but a Sicilian could pull it off, obviously, and having a director who is as intimately familiar with a culture as only a native can be lends a performance that much more nuance and credibility. It can be used to comic effect as well -- there were some glaring stereotypes in My big fat Green Wedding, but Nia Vardalos' subtler one-woman show was developed out of her own experience, and yes, that is what makes it authentic -- it's hers -- but what makes it culturally authentic is that she IS Greek. So what business do a lot of us have meddling in music written in Russia, or Italy even, when our level of removal from those cultures can be so vast?

Well, there is no answer to that question, actually. It's rhetorical. But I ask it of myself at nearly every performance I attend.
I saw a recital that defied the odds the other night -- a Russian baritone whose performance of Ravel's Chansons de Don Quichotte were far better than his Rach and Tchaik sets. Weird, eh? Well, there's a first for everything I guess.

Afghan girl and beyond...

Tonight's highlight wasn't the concert I went to at La Scala, for once, but the photography exhibit I saw beforehand.
It was the first-ever curated exhibit of Steve McCurry's work.
McCurry is best known for his portrait of the Afghan girl with the piercing green eyes, depicted on a NG 1980's cover. The exhibit incliuded some NG-type work, but mainly consisted of portraits, and I was considerably moved by those, especially of children, as he seems to communicate something of the essence of his subjects in his shots. The exhibit opened with a quote from one of his colleagues that basically outlined why and how it is difficult to label McCurry, because he's not just a photographer, but turns out painterly work, often quite spiritual; he concludes by saying, "At the risk of embarrassing him, let's just call him an artist and leave it at that."

OK. We will.



His new Sharbat Gula...

a wee tribute

I came back from London in December sick and was relieved of my final responsibilities to my classes. I didn't renew my contract, and am therefore finished working for the school, and it deserves a little send-off.

My first lesson of the day on Thursdays was in Bicocca, a little "suburb" that has sprouted around one of the numerous university campuses here. The tram drops me on campus, and I walk through a series of buildings that are all the same, coloured a specific shade of burnt orange and really really square -- hey must have been built in the 70's; they have that look about them -- to a piazza that is literally an outdoor mall and food court, complete with escalators and picnic tables, "paved" with something that looks like tile, where my students live in a really nice 10-or-so-floor condo. The buildings are tall for Milano and rise up all around you. They are still constructing in this area -- it's soon to become even more of a hub, with its own metro line. It's a vibrant area, or at least has some life about it -- the students pour out of the buildings at lunchtime and line up for kebab or a slice of pizza, and sit all over the piazza. Part of the reason I love going here there and everywhere to teach is getting to discover these new areas of the city, not necessarily beautiful in the same sense as the Duomo is beautiful, or the Foro in Rome; but each face of the city lends it its own flavour and deepens my understanding of its people.
I taught the majority of my lessons in Piazza Aspromonte, a 15-minute walk from my apartment. My walk to work will be a nice memory, if banal. By now, the row of kebab shops, restaurants, knick-knack stores, and cafés is as familiar to me as the row of houses on the way to the corner store where I grew up. OK -- maybe not quite as familiar. But it only takes something as small as a daily walk or other mundane routine to instill a sense of home.
My students were all Italian. Some were children, and some of those children were insupportable, but I am going to miss the little girls who drew me pictures. I'll miss the determined university students working towards proficiency exams and the Spanish-speaking Italian businessman who went crazy for Dire Straits. I won't miss the many cancelled appointments and the students who didn't try; these taught me patience, though, and which things to get stressed about and which to let go.
As for working for an Italian school, I think the well-oiled machine that was my Toronto job spoiled me.

I'm done with the school now, my contract having expired as I said; I've chosen to not renew it and spend my last six or seven weeks travelling and focusing on my personal and artistic development, and enjoying myself. My itinerary is up in the air, and more on that will come later, but I am looking forward to an extremely productive couple of months.

Happy Epifania!

Once upon a time, three wise men on their journey were stopped by an old woman with a broom who asked them where they were going. They told her that they were following a star that would lead them to a newborn baby, and invited her to come along. But she replied that she was busy sweeping and cleaning and did not go. When she realized that the baby was the Redeemer that all the world had been waiting for, her regret was so great that she continues to wander about Italy and at the Epiphany, rewards good children and disappointing those who were bad.


st nick and the dowries


la befana

Once upon a time, Santa Claus was unknown in the poor regions of southern Italy. He was imported from America, wearing the colours of Coca-Cola, in much more recent times, and passed off as the relative to St Nicholas, who was the man that anonymously threw three bags of gold into a window of a poor family so that the three daughters could be married honourably, and who was therefore equated with the generosity of spirit and of material goods that Christmas is known for. Until Santa Claus, children would wait in anticipation on the night of January 5 for La Befana to come on her broom, sneak down their chimneys, eat the cakes and sweets they left for her, and fill their socks with delicious gifts.

La Befana, a poor old woman herself, gives even the poorest of children presents as a reminder of the lavish gifts presented to the baby Jesus (who wasn't the richest of babies). She reminds me of the drummer boy, who was so poor that all he had to offer was a song, which in the end (I'd like to think) was probably more meaningful than some frankincense or myrrh.


La Befana vien di notte
con le scarpe tutte rotte
col vestito alla "romana"
viva viva la Befana !!
Porta cenere e carboni
ai bambini cattivoni
ai bambini belli e buoni
porta chicchi e tanti doni !

La Befana comes at night
In tattered shoes
Dressed in the Roman style
Long live la Befana!!

She brings cinders and coals
To the naughty children
To the good children
She brings sweets and lots of gifts.



diasporic relic?

ketchup catch up

In the interest of playing catch-up, my second post today will take us back to December 20, when I fought my way, tooth and claw, into the second-last available seat at La Scala and settled in to see Emma Dante's new production of Carmen.

I LOVED IT!

Half the symbolism went right over my head - I went home and did a lot of googling - but the overwhelming feeling that I was witnessing some sort of pagan cult ritual was what was really important about the production. The costuming and props recalled, I am told, a lot of Sicilian religious imagery, and in my opinion, there was something more deep-seated than that. The images and symbols meant something to me though I didn't know what they meant; Emma Dante has succeeded, I think, in touching some part of the collective unconscious of her audience that, depending on education and experience, will be articulated more or less easily by each member, but nonetheless felt.
Let me give you a few examples.
Micaela, ever the angelic voice on Don José's shoulder, had a black robe pinned up around her that opened to reveal a white dress beneath, which denoted "Don José's mother"; something as simple as white and black imagery made the shift between the two characters impossible to mistake. She was accompanied by a robed priest, lanky and topped with a broad-brimmed hat that my googling told me was a "padre hat", typically worn by itinerant priests of rural congregations, as well as 4 altar boys, who set up a cross at a 40 degree angle to the ground wherever she went and prayed fervently while she sang.
I wish I could find a picture of the quadrilla of the toreador Escamillo for you. Nowhere in my googling could I find a quadrilla that dresses like this traditionally, so I have to assume there is some religious significance. There were 6 or so, and they were dressed in long white robes with sticks in the arms, so they could swish their sleeves when they danced. Their headdresses were comprised of white masks with white veils, recalling the KKK, but topped with an elaborate arrangement of white flowers. It was the strangest thing I have ever seen and if you know anything about this type of costuming, leave a comment!
The cigarette girls were nuns with flowers in their mouths who undressed, jumped in a bath, and frolicked in the water like sirens while the men gaped and Carmen sang the Habanera; the gypsy girls frequently had choreography that recalled rabid beasts. In fact, the only people that seemed untouched by symbolism were Carmen and Don José themselves, and maybe that is because the opera does a fine job of setting Carmen up as the archetypal femme fatale that is the demise of the Everyman, José, and that's enough symbolism as it is (by the way, Jonas Kaufmann is no Everyman. Apparently that wasn't even his best show, and I wanted to cry every time he opened his mouth. He also spent a good deal of the scene in Carmen's den with his shirt off, which was fine with me).
As you might have guessed the singing and direction (Daniel Barenboim) was exceptional across the board and the 25-year-old Anita Rachvelishvili was a sensational Carmen. Apparently she's booked all over the place for the role now. What a heady feeling it must be, at 25, to look up into the theatre and see a full house on their feet for you, and that house be one of the toughest crowds in the world to please. I feel like I witnessed a bit of history in the making.

Happy 2010!

A few friends of mine are doing "daily" challenges for 2010 - one (Pratik) is writing 100 words a day, and one (Katy) is taking one photo a day. I think it's a valuable exercise; at the end, you have a record of your year in real-time, as the thoughts and images put down embody the moment in which they were put down. A good reminder, perhaps, of how far you can come in a year.
I think I can manage an entry a day, don't you? My entries to this point have been epic in nature, because I have so much to say and I say it so infrequently. Doing an entry a day may mean that some of them are less earth-shattering than others, which I can guess is probably OK with you. Some may border on inane, and for this I apologize.
It's probably for the best; over the vacation I read a book called "On Writing Well" by one William Zissner, and it changed some things I used to think about writing, specifically mine.

It's January 5, but everyone knows the year only starts on the first Monday of January, so I have only missed one day. Today will therefore be a two-entry day (and maybe other days will be too, if I feel the need to make up Jan 1-3).




My latest existential struggle was brought on by the arrival of another rejection letter, this from the Royal Academy of Music. After a long day of breast-beating and forswearing of the art of song, I've decided to take charge. I've made a list of the major European conservatories that interest me, and I'm busy researching them for submission deadlines and teachers that catch my attention for whatever reason, and from this, plotting some kind of itinerary by which I will endeavour to meet said teachers and have a lesson. That way, I will have an "in" when I go to audition. I think this would have helped me immensely in London. Being unknown in a sea of similarly-skilled light lyrics and soubrettes with no leverage of any kind is a lost battle before it's fought.

One. The Hague, Netherlands...

..it's going to be a long day.