I’m quite happy to have the old camera back.  Sony’s a great little camera.  We understand each other.  Sure, Samsung has a touch screen and a front-side image so I can take self-portraits, but she’s a bit too new-fangled for my taste.  Besides, Sony and I have history.  We go way back.  Sony is my best pal at work, where I am the Head of the Oncology department.  And I helped him through rehab when he had that nasty Vicodin addiction.

Wait a minute… Sorry.  I’ve been watching a lot of House M.D. lately.

Thanks to the folks at MCI for finding and returning my Sony to me – case, battery, memory and all – after so many months!  It’s nice to know there are still honest folk in the world.

I begin this morning, Monday, January 25, with a blog post.  Hoorah!  Here we go:

I spent last weekend in Belgium.  That may sound exotic, but Brussels is only 2.5 hours from my door.  For all you Haligonians, that’s closer than Moncton, New Brunswick, but not nearly as foreign.  I was with my friend Kismet.  Yes, her name is Kismet.  Yes, that’s really her name.  We met at some party ages ago in The Hague via the expat social net, but we only really started hanging out just before she moved back to Brussels, which is her hometown.  Kismet’s a very cool lady: deeply artistic and expressive- with the intellect to back it up.  She’s half Afghan, half English (along with Summer, I’ve added Kismet to my highly prized collection of British-Arabic Middle Eastern friends*. I’m still taking resumes).  Kismet paints, writes, dances.  She’s a trained lawyer.  And her parents are Arctic explorers.  I’m not kidding.  Who ARE these people?!

Here is a pic of me and Kismet standing in…

…the Brussels town square:

Here are photos of us rubbing the Jesus in the town square and making a wish.  People are  encouraged to do this.  I think it’s a brilliant way to save valuable Belgian tax dollars by getting tourists to polish the city’s brass.

I wish Holland would spread a similar rumor that picking up your dog’s crap from the sidewalk was good luck.  Honestly.  This city is like a giant game of fetid hopscotch.  But I digress…

When we’re together, Kismet and I spend most of our time sipping hot drinks, munching chocolate, and talking about relationships.  The whos, whats, the whys… and after several bladder-busting hours, we normally conclude that people are bonkers, men are a pain in the butt (but we’re addicted), and neither of us knows how to deal with relationships – male or female – because of our daddy issues.  And we feel better.

I had a great time.  It was very relaxing and so much fun digging through Kismet’s house, which is full of history books, fossils, animal skins, and maps.  My dream house.  And after this trip, I’ve decided that I want to really get a grip on French.  I’m a Canadian who speaks more Dutch than French.  The 10 years of French I took in school were enough to teach me the theory, but I can’t seem to use it in practice.  I can sing in French, but I can’t have a conversation.  And that’s not good.  I had the strangest sensation when Kismet and I were schlepping around Brussels, because there was French being spoken all around me.  I was able to understand a good majority of it, but when I opened my mouth to speak all that would come out was a confused squeak (I didn’t say “croak”, but I thought it.  I blame society for my evil thoughts).

I plan to go back to Belgium in February to brush up on my French.  I’m looking for a French immersion course to take for a week.  The courses are easy to find, but by god they are expensive.  WHY are they so expensive?  WHY do I have to pay so much to have a Frenchman teach me how to swear?  Pour quoi?  Surely I could learn that in a bar over a few verres de vin rouge?  I’d do better to go to the Brussels red light district and hire a lovely lady to teach me for a few hours a day.  Teach me FRENCH, of course, you dirty thing.  It would be cheaper.  And sexier.

*Edited following Summer’s comment, below.  I’m probably still wrong.

For those of you who aren’t on Facebook (you know who you are and you should remedy this immediately, for the love of God), here’s a little smidgen from The Snow Queen for your listening/viewing pleasure/pain.  This is the last scene from the show in which Kai leaves the ice palace and returns to Gerda, but his connection with TSQ remains.  Aww…

Also a couple of pics from my gig with harpist Astrid Haring on December 28th as the warm-up act for The Nutcracker.  This was at the Grotekerk (the BIG CHURCH) in The Hague.

First up is the front of house.  Amazing!  The sheer size of this church is almost unfathomable.:

Next up is Astrid’s harp, which the kids (and some of the adults) all wanted to climb on.  Astrid was having none of it.  Tough cookie:

Finally, the souvenir booth.  Not a cracked nut to be seen, but a nice effect.  I’m the first nutcracker on the left.

I have already made plans to stay indoors for the rest of the winter.  My students come here for lessons anyway.  Any concerts or rehearsals can happen right here at my desk.  The harpist can squeeze in between the Mac and the filing cabinet.  The audience can sit around the dining table.  It’s possible, right?  Besides that, I don’t need much entertaining.  I have a cat.  I’m working on a jigsaw puzzle.  I can send Adam out for groceries.  And I just bought a bread machine.

Oh my god, did I write that out loud?  I have a bread machine.  What? WHYYY?!?  What the hell did I go and do that for?  I don’t even eat bread!  Ok, a little, but it makes me all bloaty and I regret it every time.  A bread machine… I must have died and gone to housewife hell.  I’ve always poo-pooed bread machines.  Why bother when a store-bought loaf is just as good?  Is just as cheap (if not cheaper)?  And a store provides far more variety?  Holland has GREAT bread.  At your average grocer you’ll find about 20 varieties from light to very dark.  So why bother adding another giant, energy-sucking, dust-collecting, destined-to-be-put-in-storage-or-palmed-off-on-a-naive-friend appliance? WHYYY?!?

Because I like baking bread, dammit.  It’s as simple as that.  I like the smell.  I like the process.  I like to know that I made it.  But honestly?  I just can’t be bothered to do it by hand.  I don’t have the patience.  I have tried baking bread a few times.  And all starts out well.  The measuring, the sifting, the kneading, the feeling all earthy, the singing of Kumbaya… but when it gets to the “let sit in a warm place to rise for, like, three generations” stage, I don’t cope well.  I lose patience.  I check the clock.  I get bored.  I check the clock.  I want it now.  I check the clock.  I peek.  I check the clock.  I poke.  I check the clock.  I peek AND poke.  I check the clock.  And after, I dunno, five minutes?, I prematurely tear the flabby dough from it’s womb.  I punch it.  I slap it.  I mark it with “EFF”.  I bake it.  And I end up with a warm hockey puck.  I’m a bread-baking failure due to a personality conflict between myself and yeast.  It can’t be helped.  Why should I be required to tend to the yeast’s needs?  At the yeast’s prescribed times?  Really?  What am I, yeast’s mother?  Nooo!  So, if you’ll follow my oddball logic, I bought a bread machine.

You know, this whole bread thing sounds suspiciously similar to how I make rice: What, I just put the lid on and let it cook?  That can’t be.  The recipe has clearly forgotten to include: “Stir constantly and vigorously until the spoon stands upright and you have achieved a glue-like paste”.  Obviously.  Yeah, so Adam makes the rice in our house.  And I have issues.

So far I like the bread machine.  I throw all the ingredients in, I push a button, I go work on my jigsaw, and it beeps when it’s done.  Nice.  It fulfils all of my bready desires without being to needy (I didn’t say “kneady”, but I thought it), it warms the house (and now has a special place in the bedroom which has been ARCTIC these days), it smells great, and so far there have not been any bread-related disasters.  Ok, the first loaf was a little anemic:

But things have improved.

I’ll let you know in a year or so when we’re ready to give the machine away.

Adam and I got the New Year package which included 3 days and nights and a daily fancy buffet breakfast.  They supplied a white fluffy robe, towels and slippers (which were vile but we were free to take home. We did not.) and we supplied the phone number of our bank manager so that he could arrange the mortgage payments.  Yikes.  Expensive?  Lordy!  But by god, it was good.

I got as much out of that place as possible.  Thermae 2000 is built right into the side of a hill (with a crazy elevator that goes at a 45 degree angle, not straight up and down) and the natural mineral water for the pools and drinking is pumped up from three wells.  They have created a huge complex with a hotel, gym, giant indoor/outdoor interconnected pool (32 degrees Celsius, thank you very much), an exercise pool, six indoor and outdoor hot tubs, at least ten saunas (I lost count), four different restaurants,  a tanning solarium, a movie theatre, a relaxation room, no children under 10, and a “please be quiet for the other guests or we shoot you” policy.  I loved it.

On the big night, Adam and I stayed in the hot tub until 23:00 when the nice spa people politely dragged me kicking and screaming from my favorite perch in my favorite hot tub.  Damn those closing hours.  At 23:15, back in our room while I recovered from the tranquilizer, we opened our bottle of bubbly, clinked our glasses and drank it until midnight when I promptly fell into a sauna-induced coma and didn’t rise again until the next morning at 10:30.  Awesome.  Really, it’s the only way to spend New Year’s Eve.  Oh, the hotel had offered us a ticket to their New Year party.  For the piffling additional cost of a first-born child, we could enjoy a meal, a glass of champagne, then dance the year away.  We passed on that.  And it was a good thing because as I was carried we walked past the party from the hot tub, the sight of three pairs of crinkly Western European pensioners waltzing to “Brown-eyed girl” was enough to put me off… um, I dunno… oxygen?  Yeah.

Of course, the weekend wasn’t all heavenly bubbles and scented oils.  Well it was, but these had to be navigated through the obstacle course of humanity.  A mostly unfit, often – dare I say it? yes- HIDEOUS selection of humanity.  Not that I’m a beauty queen, but WOW.  Most of these people were fugly (effing ugly).  My years of experience (i.e., watching television and movies) had certainly not prepared me for 10 minutes of sitting in a nude, uni-sex sauna.  They were all nude and uni-sex, but the way.  Now don’t get me wrong: after an initial “Ok, here we go!” I had no problem being naked with these people.  And generally, after a while everyone starts to look the same.  But what actually bothered me were the rashes, weeping skin conditions, warts and hairy butts moles I encountered. Yikes.

The good thing was that the water was known for its healing properties.  The bad thing was that the water was known for its healing properties.  Thus, a large proportion of the clientele was afflicted with some Biblical scourge.  Tell me, how do you extricate yourself from a hot tub you JUST slipped into when a woman follows you in who is smothered in red boils? Seriously.  Smothered like Heinz on street meat.  Do you leap out and bathe in the nearest open flame?  No.  You don’t.  You go to that safe place in your mind (which, for me had been a hot tub, dammit).  If mental escape doesn’t work then you may pray a little… I prayed that the chlorine pump was on so high that I would shed a layer of skin like a snake when I stepped out of the tub.  And that my brown hair would turn green.. because that would be cool.  I’m not proud.  And so far no boils, so maybe my prayers were heard.

Yet, in my three days at Thermae 2000, I got over sauna-ing in the nude, bathing with lepers (I’m going straight to hell) and had an amazing time.  Despite a small moment of trouble when a mustachioed middle-aged man followed me from sauna to sauna when Adam was taking a nap, I left feeling very relaxed and refreshed.  And I would definitely consider making it a New Year tradition.

Today I met a good friend in town while doing last-minute Christmas shopping.

Tonight I blew the roof off the German church singing O Holy Night.

Afterward Adam and I enjoyed a four-course dinner provided for almost free at my new favorite cafe.

We have a mini solstice tree…

with a pot that lights up.  Cool.

I just poured myself a glass of freshly made sorrel.

And the cat is purring in my lap.

I’ll stop bah-humbugging now.

Happy holidays everyone.

Lots of love,

Nicole xo

It’s strange to go full tilt for 8 weeks and then suddenly have no specific deadlines.  No one calling.  No one emailing.  No one harassing.  Yes, there are a few businessy things to do, but it’s not pressing.  I should be relaxing.  But I feel oddly… empty.  8 solid weeks of planning, ordering, shopping, selling, practising, rehearsing, meeting, putting out fires, soothing, thanking, praying, performing… then silence.  It’s weird.  Especially now that it’s the holidays and people aren’t just not calling.  They’re actually gone.  Take this analogy:

Imagine you are on top of a ski slope, the tips of your skis pointing out over the hill.  You can’t see over your skis because the vertical drop is too sheer. All you can see is the bright blue sky. All you can hear is your own breathing and your blood pulsing through your ears.  And then, you tilt forward slightly and your skis tip down over the crest.  And you begin the mad descent.  At first it’s fine.  Lots of energy.  Good technique.  Familiar feeling.  All in control.  But then you hit an icy patch and your right ski skids out from beneath you slightly.  No problem.  Back in control.  Then an surprise mogul flings your knees out of alignment and jars your spine.  That was ok.  But there’s another one.  And another.  Then there are other people on the hill.  Some people trying to ride the same path as you.  Some are showing you the best line.  Some are getting in the way.  Some are just standing on the side yelling.  Some are yelling encouragement.  Others are telling you you’re gonna die.  Oddly, some are wearing ballet shoes… You keep flying faster and faster.  Arms and legs flailing wildly, you manage to stay upright, only just.  Your body and mind are acting instinctively to keep you alive.  Your reasoning brain checked out ages ago- probably on the ride up in the chairlift.  You continue to careen down the slope.  Your knees bobbing, your elbows akimbo, your teeth juddering, the world vibrating.  Suddenly, you hurl over an unexpected ski jump, into the air and… nothingness.  You expect to smuck your face onto the snow and give the old frontal lobes a scrub.  Instead?  Just.  Nothingness.  A white floating void.  Where nothing makes sense.  Where senses make nothing.  Is this death?  Maybe.  But the hangover I had from drinking a half a bottle of whisky at the after-party reminds me that I am indeed still alive.

So how was the show, Nicole?  Awesome.  Wonderful.  Amazing.  Two shows and each was incredible in it’s own way.  Thursday night, because the mood was dark and magical:  the audience was welcomed into a dream world covered in sparkling lights.  They could only see the suggestion of the shapes of flowers, snow, fall leaves and spring grass.  Truly a fairytale land.

Saturday afternoon, was more visual- it was late in the day and there was therefore much more light than that of the Thursday show.  However, it was late enough that the sun hung low on the horizon and cast the most amazing orange and pink streaks around the Palace Church.  So although the show was clearer and less “mysterious”, the colours were brighter, and the images were sharper.  The story felt more human, more real, as we told it.

Yes, both shows were fantastic for different reasons, but of course there are two sides to the coin.  As a performer I was thrilled.  The music was spectacular.  The set was magical.  The dance was phenomenal.  The cast literally made me weep with their talent.  The crew humbled me with their dedication.  I sang better than I have ever sung before.  And the audience was happy.

But I was also directing.  And as a director, there were definitely some timing, some movement, some expressive details that I would want to fix for the next time.  And I am determined that there will be a next time.  This whole OperaDans thing is brand new.  This is only our second show.  But I’m planning the third one for July 2010.  And I’m going to bust my butt to get The Snow Queen touring.  Where?  Anywhere that will have us.

But for now, 9 days later, as I take time reflect in my white void of nothingness (and slowly recover from a soul-sucking virus), I have come to realise a few things.  Let’s see if I can list one for each day since the show:

1) I can take a lot more stress than I thought I could.
2) I like managing people more than I thought I would.
3) People will respond to hard words and they will also respond to patience and love.  I can use the former but I much prefer the latter.
4) The business side is also part of the creative process.  Different but equal.  And I need to be comfortable with both.
5) The audience really doesn’t mind if a few things go wrong.
6) Dancers are the worst critics (musicians are cuddly Care Bears in comparison) and they (the dancer critics) can bite me.
7) Fake grass is noisier than it looks.
8 ) Our first show, Sweet Solitude, was a walk in the park compared with The Snow Queen.*
9)  Singing is my refuge.  I used to really get anxious about singing: I had to be perfect all the time, I had to be “right” all the time.  All this ridiculous self-inflicted pressure.  But when I had a million and one other things to think about in putting this show together, suddenly singing became the easiest, safest part.**

Whew.  I think that’s it.  There will be videos soon.  Give me a few more days of therapy.  For now, there are a million photos on Facebook.  “Friend” me if you haven’t already.  And hey, become a fan of OperaDans.  It will maketh me happyeth.

*I expect the next show to be even bigger.  Arabic music and dance.  And certainly more than TWO dates.  Bring it.
**This is a huge one for me.  God, I’m so thankful for this lesson.  I think I might almost be over myself.  Almost.

I was afraid it would take her a few days to settle in.  I was afraid she would hide under the couch and only come out for food.  Or to scratch one of us to shreds.  But when we got her home from the shelter and opened her carrier, she ran out and made herself right at home.  She chewed the plants, scratched the furniture, begged for food, used her cat box, and provided me with very happy purrs. All within the first 18 hours.  I think she’s pretty happy to be here.

She had been at the shelter for more than a year.  We went there a few months ago with the intention of getting a ferret.  I wanted a ferret.  I thought.  Until I touched one.  And instantly felt the need to vom. Then to wash.  So we looked at the cats instead. We saw a cat we liked: Qwibus (this apparently means something like, “oddball” in Dutch).  But when we went back and saw Qwibus this time, I was afraid she had gone a bit too oddball in the shelter.  I don’t mind a crazy cat… as long as it’s not bad crazy.  And I think Qwibus had gone a bit too far to the bad side. Poor thing.

So we saw Cleo- they had called her Clip.  And she was very calm.  But curious.  She looked intelligent. But not quite smart enough to plot our demise.  My brother-in-law says that cats always seem like they’re conspiring. Planning to push the hairdryer into the bathtub or something.  But Cleo is very placid.  She likes to look out the window.  Her meow is soft.  She doesn’t shed a lot of fur.  And she likes attention, but isn’t a slut.  She’s Adam’s first pet.  And she’s lovely.

The past few weeks have been… astonishing. I’ve done a lot of things I’ve never done before.  Which has been terrifying.  For example, I’ll be doing a lot more dancing in this show than I did in our first show, Sweet Solitude.  Despite the fact that I am a flamenco dance teacher, I have never really seen myself as a dancer. I’m a good MOVER, but when I’m faced with three young, nubile, highly trained dancers, I can’t help but feel like a giant turd trying to Electric Slide.

In The Snow Queen, the boy, Kai gets lured away from his hot, young, fresh, flexible girlfriend, Gerda.  By me.  A greying pre-cougar who does a mean Snake when Push-it comes on, but never quite mastered the Running Man.  Or the Electric Slide, come to think about it.  And I have four choreographies in the show: one solo, two with the boy, and one with the girl.  Three in which I’m also singing.  I’ve always said I like to challenge myself.  But at times I think I overdo it.  Like now.  I keep begging Zaddik, my choreographer, to tell me if I look crap.  She insists I look good.  And she must be telling the truth because I’m sure not paying her well enough to lie.

Moving on, before I have a panic-attack, In the past 4 weeks I’ve memorized my music, made and put up posters, had three vocal and language coaching sessions, learned to tango (badly), learned to point my toes and not walk like an ape (still working on it), purchased a 22 sq metre chunk of fake grass for the “spring” section of the set, collected 10 bags of fall leaves to decorate the “autumn” section, helped to construct nearly 500 paper flowers for the rest of the set, used four different rehearsal spaces, gotten used to working with a whole cast of dancers (ok, only three), coached the dancers and a professional actor on their acting skills (good grief, ME?!), applied for funding (and got SOME!), sold 250 tickets, managed a full roster of about 13 people, recorded a demo for the show (this was supposed to be a full recording but tragedy struck when the mic stand fell down breaking both mics. Crap.),  learned how to position lighting on a stage, learned how to give lighting cues, and last but certainly not least, I managed not to kill anyone in the process.  This is clearly my greatest achievement.

Today, besides the last minute prop preparations and things, the main objective is to groom myself: scrub the last three months’ of scaly skin off my heels, cut and paint my curling toenails, bikini wax away the dreadlocks, do my hair.  I also have to warm up the old vocal cords, look over my music to make sure the words are really in my head, think over my dance steps, and try to relax into the evening.  Check www.operadans.com for photos etc. of the show.  Adam will be tweeting live throughout from 8 pm GMT+1. Or find operadans on Facebook. Lots of photos and videos there.

Gotta go.  I forgot to schedule eating into the day.

Thank you SOOO much for the great package of candy, love notes, and the awesome school photo! I got it on Saturday and it was such a nice surprise!  You’re great.  It’s so nice to have you as a pen pal.

However, you may have noticed that some of the candy is missing in the photo… I have no idea how that happened.  It shall forever remain a MYSTERY!*

* Dammit, I almost broke my jaw and two fillings trying to get the perfect bubble. I ain’t a kid anymore.