A List...

I've spent 3 days holed up in my tiny hotel room, trying to kick the last vestiges of some form of food poisoning/french food overload.  I'm actually ok with this, because there's nothing to do in Saint-Quentin.  Its a 13 euro round trip train to Paris, which is a great deal if I had anything left to do in Paris (or any money left to spend, for that matter) and Versailles is close, but I honestly needed the sleep.

While I've been lying here, I've started to form a list.

Here is a list of things I look forward to when I return to Boston:

1) My own bed, and all that comes with it

2) Cooking in my own kitchen

3) Milk

4) Vegetables...probably in a HUGE salad.  with tuna.

5) A good old american cheeseburger, with bacon and cheddar.  And fries. Aaaaaand ketchup.

6) Dogs

7) Walking on Carson Beach

8) Walking on Carson Beach with Dogs

9) Grilling Season

10) Beer (NOT Heineken or 1664)

11) Baseball

12) Network TV

13) Network TV in English

14) The boat, the beach, the sunshine, friends, family...

15) And...just being home.

Short but Sweet

I just did a Q&A with Jared at a private high school (L'Ecole Privée, I think) and was blown away.

After a stressful opening and a relieving opening reception, I was less than enthusiastic about getting out of bed at 9 to talk to some kids and then go straight to rehearsal and straight into our second show in Bordeaux...but this was worth it.

The class was small, probably 20 students at best, and they were old enough that Caesar was not a struggle for them-- especially a production in English.

Their questions were direct and challenging and their attentive nature to every english word we spoke was warming.  I had seen one or two of them in the audience the night before, standing, cheering and whistling.  Even is they couldn't appreciate the poetry of Shakespeare's English, they understood how hard we had worked and how tired and vulnerable we all were.  We gave two encore bows and they were still clapping when I left for the dressing room.

This was all impressive, but the most impressive thing was the educational system in general.  Their teacher, a professorial gentleman my father's age, spoke perfect English with a slightly British inflection, and pushed his students even further to engage with us in English.  He probed our answers for a lesson plan and was satisfied at the idea that Shakespeare's 'Jules César' was a "recipe for democracy, before its time".  Furthermore, he thanked me and Jared for coming in, shook our hands exuberantly, and explained that there was a new request from the government to begin teaching Philosophy at an earlier age, and that was why he was so pleased to have us speak about Shakespeare and Caesar and JFK and injustice and assassination and the voice of the people and the equality of all humans-- to his class of 17 year olds as they prepared for their exiting exams.

On the tram back to the hotel, we learned that, not only is Theater funded by the gov't, but that they also offer an "intermittent" salary to all professional artists so they can "think about what they would like to create next"...

Christ.

Please let us find such wisdom in the US...

Bordeaux Supérieur

I was born in the sea, forged in the belly of an oyster-- It took centuries.  My blood is brine and my bones are made of coral.  I have sandpaper for skin and kelp in my hair.  When I laugh you hear seagulls; when I cry it is a whale song, and always have an albatross around my neck...

Dijon was beautiful, yes, but it was landlocked.  I could feel myself begin to weaken after only a few days.  Even from the highest point that I could reach (above), all that could be seen were hills and valleys.  The rain smelled like mountains-- earthy and warm.  The air was almost stale, as if the entire city were kept behind glass.

The minute I stepped off the bus in Bordeaux, I could feel life surging back into my lungs.  Le Garonne, a river two or three times the width of le Seine, runs through the city carrying with it the sea air from France's Atlantic coast.  To further accentuate the divide between these two cities, there is a huge Muslim population here, along with a strong Spanish influence...

To wit, Dijon was a museum.  Bordeaux is a city.

The Tram crawls around the streets like a caterpillar.  People are always moving, shouting and swearing.  Car horns are honking, police sirens cut through the evening and there is always the sound of a drill or a saw or some machinery grinding in the background.

It feels like home...as well it should.  This will be my home until Sunday...

The Road to Bordeaux

A daunting ten hour bus ride after three hours of sleep, three armangacs, a bottle of wine, and a belgian blonde (read: hangover) quickly became a joy ride once we left Dijon’s city limits.  The countryside is so beautiful and lush that I resigned myself to the silent tour of farmlands, vineyards and flat, open space.  March in France is, evidently, spring in a way that Boston rarely sees: the trees are just beginning to bud, while the shrubbery is in full bloom and the grass is deeply green.  We’ve had rain for two days but it comes and goes, and has been a welcomed relief to last week’s sun-- or, so says my Irish heart.

On a side note, the drinks last night were mostly free, thanks to our hotel’s very gracious overnight concierge.  I never caught his name, but we all owe him a huge debt of hospitality.

In any case, I slept off the remnants of a headache and awoke when the bus began to sway back and forth as if at sea.  We were in the mountains, on a narrow road.  Above us were the many peaks of an unknown range, and below us was a river overbrimming with yesterday’s rain.  I had been asleep for only 45 minutes, but had no concept of our location.  An hour later we emerged into another valley, still on back roads, and eventually came to a stop in some nondescript village.  There was a Casino Market, a handful of Boulangeries and some apartments, but not much else.  Janick, our tour manager, told us we had one hour and ran into the only open restaurant to see if we could be seated.  Half of the group broke off to scavenge for a meal while half of us stayed in hopes of a warm, simple meal.

The result was, without a doubt, the best meal I’ve had since I’ve been in france: A large portion of salmon, warm and creamy risotto, stewed mushrooms and, to compliment the trio, an incredible sauce which I can only guess involved butter, cream, herbs, jus d’orange and some sort of wine or vinegar-- it was divine.  Jared and I enjoyed a Provence Rose to compliment the meal.

It turns out the river was the Loire, and that little town thrives on travelers and tourists.

The landscape here, wherever we are, is much more mountainous.  A grey fog looms over the valleys and its begun to rain again.

Practically every hill top has been trimmed to accommodate vineyards, and with the early warmth and generally wet season, I have a feeling this will be a very good year.

It’s...beautiful.  Just beautiful.

Pourquois Dijon...? Pourquois pas?

Dijon itself is beautiful: flat and sprawling with tight medieval roads.  Built by the bourgeoisie, it’s architecture is classically French, reminiscent of Paris but without the rigid influence of the Seine-- genuinely provincial and ancient.  Walking through Centre-Ville, where we’re being housed and where the Theatre de Dijon Bourgogne is located, it would be easy to forget what year it is were it not for the glowing neon pharmacy signs and a barrage of advertisements for “Tropik Thunder: Hot Chic Club” or “Club The Clap” (No joke.  That’s what its called).  The result, after a couple of Picon Biers, is a strange sensation that you’ve entered an adult themed 15th century theme park.

The quiet that overcomes you when you enter an alleyway is refreshing, however.  You forget almost instantly that you’re only meters away from the bustling noise of a city.  This is true of every hub I’ve visited, but here it feels much more like actual time-travel.  An alley between two major streets has the look, smell and feel of 1890.  Graffiti is the only thing that betrays the experience, though I’m sure it existed in its own form back then.

As I continue to explore neighborhoods outside of the city’s center I find more modern apartment buildings, probably from the 70’s and 80’s, though they maintain the rustic, terra-cotta feel of Centre-Ville: wine-stained pink and mustard yellow or plain and simple brown.

Language has been an obvious road-block.  The shy, bumbling american “Excooz-eh-moi” that seems to charm Paris’ tourist-driven economy is met with less patience here in the heartland, which brings me to an interesting point: Its hard to gauge the real industrial focus of Dijon.  The city is old and, being the capital of Bourgogne, probably thrives on tourism.  It’s known famously for only a few items in particular: mustard, wine and escargot.  Wine is clearly a huge source of income for the city and region, but all of the vineyards are located outside of the city limits.  Mustard operates in a similar fashion, as does escargot-- you can buy them in shops and restaurants, but you don’t exactly see a snail factory downtown.

 The demographic is impressively young, ranging from the early twenties to the mid-thirties, with shop owners comprising the older generation.  I’ve been told there are no universities in Dijon proper, which would emphasize again the aspect of tourism as industry: Dijon is a destination.  There is no obvious business district, nor any clear office buildings.  The people I see at work are either in their shops or involved in expansive construction projects... 

 I would venture, then, that the industry of Dijon is in fact maintenance and execution of “Dijon” as an image...

And that, in the end, is why I’m here: to work for that industry.  To demonstrate the cultural side of one of France’s oldest and most prominently “French” cities.

Opening Night: Dijon

Tonight is the night...

These two and a half weeks have been insane.  I got a call from a friend with whom I'd worked last summer saying, in brief: meet with this director and impress him.  I met the director that evening and received a call a week later asking me to join his production of Julius Caesar...in France.  At that point this was literally all I knew about the show: Caesar, France, James.

The following weekend I was in some guys house in Somerville learning sign language for a dance set to Nelly Furtado and a few days after that I was in New York having thai food with some other guy who's got this crazy beard.  I rehearsed the next day in a studio in midtown, signed a contract in French and boarded a plane a couple of days after that...talk about doing something "on a whim"...

Tonight, I am opening to a full house in Dijon, a beautiful old city (more on that later) in the heart of France.  I'm told all five of our performances here are sold out.  We'll move on to Bordeaux after that, and end the tour in St. Quentin, just south of Paris.

James, an actor whom I trust to the ends of the earth, gave me this advice: "You've just got the drink the kool aide on this one" which I've done, and I couldn't be happier.  I was in a production of Caesar last November and left with a bad taste in my mouth-- its a tough play.  Beautifully constructed, with some of Shakespeare's most incredible language, but its difficult to pull off.  The scenes range from Brutus' house to the Roman senate to an entire act in the field of battle, and the only violence written in is Caesar's assassination and a few suicides.

Arthur Nauzyciel, the director, has chosen to abstract the production (again, I'll have to expound on that in a later post) and remove some of the most unnecessary moments.  What we have in the end is a very high-concept version of the play, with enormously successful results.  For Arthur, its all about the language.  Our stylized movement and obscure backstory are really just tactics to allow us to focus entirely on the words, and to allow the audience the same privilege.  Though I speak very little, playing Trebonius, Young Cato and Dardanius, I'm onstage for a large portion of the show.  A loose 1960 Kennedy era design scheme is the icing on the cake, and a the dance that had me so confused and concerned is a brilliant way to end an otherwise heavy show.

This is the third tour, I think, and there has been talk of expanding the scope to other countries.  After tonight, my "sink or swim" moment, so to speak, I can only hope to be asked back for any future iterations.

For the time being, I'm off to grab a sandwich and head to the theater for our final rehearsal.

Bon chance, as they say.  Here goes nothing...

Bienvenue

Pretentious though it may sound, the three items that comprise the title of this blog are three of my favorite things.  Moreover, all three share a single, unexpected attribute: they are completely and utterly unsubstantial-- that is to say my favorite things can’t be tied up in a brown paper package.

I can imagine what you’re saying to yourself: He’s nuts, right?  Everything about those things is physical: words come from a book, wine comes from a bottle and wisdom from a fortune cookie.

That is where I disagree.

What you see on the page of a book is ink.  It may look like letters and words, but its really just a stain on a piece of paper.  The ‘Word’ itself exists somewhere between the page and your eyes and your brain; between my lips and my tongue and your ears.  A word isn’t physical or finite-- its eternal and etherial.  It is really just a concept: a certain shape to a certain demographic caries with it certain meaning; the shape of my tongue and the force of my breath creates a sound that is interpreted by tiny little hairs in your ear canal which, in turn, stimulate nerves that send a signal to your brain which tickle neurons associated with a previous experience...and so on.

But wine is a liquid, isn’t it?  Not quite.  Juice is a liquid.  Fermented juice is alcoholic liquid.  Furthermore, it’s hardly enough to define ‘Wine’ as fermented grape juice: the increasing popularity of rice wine, apple wine, plum wine, barelywine and nearly every other kind of fermented (but not distilled!) sugary liquid has thrown a wrench in that definition.  So where does that leave us?  For my part, wine is as experiential as words are cultural.  Wine exists from the moment you pull out the cork or unscrew the cap until the last drop hits your tongue.  It exists among the olfactory sensors in your nose, the deceptively powerful taste-buds, your retina and your hippocampus; it is in the look, smell, taste and memory of the experience.  It can be shared with loved ones, business partners, or strangers.  It can be enjoyed alone, marking a special occasion or creating one by opening that special bottle-- and even if you have the same vintage of Barolo from the same vineyard and producer today and in ten years, the experience will be completely different, which is to say the wine will be completely different and vice versa.

And wisdom...well you could argue that wisdom is contained by phrases, aphorisms and adages; by “quips and other paper-bullets of the brain”, but I will challenge even that.  ‘Wisdom’ is less than that and it’s greater than that.  It is an occurrence...an event.   It is the moment of realization when something is experienced for the very first time-- when a stimulus strikes the brain and creates a new synapse between two previously unrelated dendrites.  And it spreads like a virus: the first synapse electrifying a series of realizations and growths, each new dendrite connecting with another and encouraging connections that had never been possible, never even conceived of.  Wisdom might be inspired by a bible phrase or a song lyric, but it could not possibly be contained within it-- those ink-stained pages and lilting sound waves are only the spark that lights the fuse of your brain’s potential to receive and create wisdom.

I’ve recently been granted an opportunity to pursue all three of these items while working in the one field that I truly love: Theater.  I’ll get to the full story eventually, but for the moment satisfy your curiosity with the fact that I am involved in a production of Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar’ to be performed in Dijon and Bordeaux.  Words rich with history in two of France’s best wine regions.  I can’t help but feel that a certain store of wisdom awaits me.