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.

Anyway, everything looked good, and I didn’t catch the Dutch version of “dead body hidden behind that wall” so off we went to the lawyer’s office.  There, we drank some coffee, signed some papers, shook some hands, had the ceremonial handing-over of the keys, and that was it.  We were now home-owners.

We started the walk back towards to our old flat in stunned silence.

We took occasional glances at each other.

We cleared our throats.

Someone eventually muttered something about getting lighting fixtures.

And paint.

And how, “Did you see the bottle of champagne the estate agent brought for the seller?”

And like, “Why don’t we have a bottle of champagne? It’s our money that bought that champagne, dammit.”

And then, “Naw, it’s the bank’s money.”

And, “Heheh, true…”

Heheh… hehehhehehe… HEE HEE HAAAAW HAAAW HAAW!!!!

We stopped at McDonald’s on the way home and each had a celebratory Meal Deal.  We clinked our giant cups of coke and said, eff you champagne!  We were giddy enough without it.

Me: Macaroons?  Why would we get macaroons in Scotland?

Adam: They come from Scotland!

Me: A CHOCOLATE and COCONUT cookie is from SCOTLAND? I don’t think so.*

Adam: Well… they are called MAC-aroons…

*Actually, according to Wikipedia, there is a Scottish variety.  Who knew? …Adam knew.

Not that I necessarily find the dead bunny in the foreground funny, *giggle* *cough* but it reminded me of something that happened on my very first trip to Scotland, back in 2002.

Thinking that this would be my first and last trip to Scotland (i.e., not knowing that I would marry a local), I booked myself on a whistle-stop bus tour of the Highlands with Haggis Adventures.  A single woman looking for safe adventure, I took the three day Skye High tour which included a stop at the Wallace Monument, Glencoe, Eilean Donnan castle, Skye, Loch Ness, and Culloden.  The trip was amazing, however, the tour guide and bus driver, Fergus, was a typical red-headed, R-rolling, English-hating Scot who continually extolled the virtues of everything Scottish:  Scotland as a nation could do no wrong; as a people, they were smarter, stronger and kinder than any other; the food was better; the land itself- from dirt to mountain- was vastly superior to any found anywhere else in the universe; the air was cleaner; the views were vaster; the forests were woodier; the water?  This was Fergus’ favorite.  The water was only rivaled by angel’s tears in its purity and magical healing properties.

Time and again we piled out at a different “loch” and “burn” and were told to fill our water bottles with the phenomenal dew of the north.  “The inherrrent purrrifying prrroperrrties of peat make this the cleanest naturrral waterrr in the worrrrrrrld,” Fergus would gush.  Even though peat makes water brown.  “Brrrown waterrr means it’s good waterrr!” Fergus would thunder.  In my country, brown water means it needs boiling.  But never mind.  When in Caledonia, do as the Caledonians do: drink brown water.  We dutifully filled our flasks as we journeyed through the Highlands, stopping at every trickle and leak like some kind of prehistoric pub crawl.

On our last stop at one of Fergus’ favorite watering holes, the man had us virtually abseiling down the side of a cliff to the bottom a huge canyon.  This was the site of a great waterfall.  The sheep clinging to the rock face looked at us in desperation, hoping that their flares had been spotted and that we were the rescue team.  Sorry, sheep, you’re on your own.  At the bottom sat a beautiful clear cold pool of water and a small stream which flowed to the shore.  People oohed and aahed.  We obediently began the ritual of filling our bottles.  As we did so, Fergus again regaled us with stories of the now otherworldly healing properties of Scottish water.  It clears the complexion!  It clears the bowels!  It makes the stupid smart!  It makes the boring interesting!  It makes the ugly beautiful!

Suddenly I somebody said, “Um… is that a HEAD?”  There, bobbing in the water just upstream, was the rotting skull of a sheep.  The grey bulging eyes hung out of the sockets.  Small bits of flesh and wool drifted towards us downstream.  OH MY GOD, people screamed as they spat out their water.  “And there’s the rest of the body,” I someone else said.  At the edge of the pool, a few metres from where the severed head had come to rest, lay the sodden rotting carcass of a sheep that had met an untimely end at the bottom of the gorge.

And all I can think now is, oh, how I wish I had my blogger brain back then, because the sheep’s entrails and Fergus’ ruddy face set against the backdrop of a majestic waterfall would have made a great photo.  I’ll never miss that chance again.  And thankfully, Fergus never made us sip from another stream.

No we didn’t.

Rather, we did, but only when I was in one of my many hypothermic hallucinatory states.  In truth, we spent our holidays driving all over the back of beyond in the wilds of Scotland.  And the weather was ok.  For Scotland.  Not that I’m complaining.  Because the hurricane-force winds did keep the rainclouds at bay.  Mostly.  And besides, in the sage words of our bed and breakfast hostess: “The cold wind is good because it keeps the midges away.”  Yes.  Let us give thanks.

We actually had a great time.  Scotland is a really beautiful country.  We started out by spending the first few days in Adam’s hometown near Stirling.  We shopped and drank coffee on the left hand side:

Adam’s lovely dad pointed out the local geography:

We visited the Wallace Monument which has recently gotten rid of the modern statue that had sat at its base to commemorate William Wallace.  Because it looked too much like Mel Gibson.  They actually gave the statue back to the artist.  Och, ouch.  That’s gotta hurt.  Actually, I was disappointed because I’ve been to the monument four times now and I was really looking forward to proffering my usual rant about the crappy Bravehearty statue, how inaccurate it was and how stupid the community had been for commissioning a work that looked SO MUCH like Mel Gibson that it could have Junoed a Russian pop star (new verb alert!) all in a desperate tourism-generating ploy… And dammit, I wanted to take my picture with it.  But no.  I was rant free.  And photo free.  Bummer.

Never mind, there was more rant-potential to come.  And I made do with Rob Roy:

From Stirling, off we went through the Highlands up the Northwest coast to a tiny place called Laide (insert sexual innuendo jokes here if you can be bothered).  I bought a woolly hat along the way:

We dodged deer, sheep, and… well, that’s about it.  Hoooo-wheeee!  The place is about as empty as a plinth at the Wallace Monument!  I did spot the elusive wild haggis in his natural habitat: the pub.  I caught him.  I ate him.  He didn’t stand a chance, hiding behind a pile of mashed potatoes and turnips.  The tasty fool.  Mwah-ha!:

I also warmed myself by the pub’s fireplace.  It was not very satisfying.  Or, you know, real:

We stayed at an awesome 4-star bed and breakfast, The Old Smiddy, where the hostess made fresh scones, provided a thrilling selection of herbal teas (as I am now obsessed with mint tea), and a gas fireplace beside which I cremated myself each night as Adam and I played dominoes:

During the day, after a three-course breakfast, we rolled strode out through the heather to see the sights in weather that I kindly describe as “bracing”.  Unkindly as “cold-ass”:

We went to Gruinard beach where I gently asked Adam if this was a place where people ever actually swam.  He proudly told me (I swear to god in his own words) that, “The weather can get pretty warm here: UP TO 20 DEGREES!”  After I punched him in the mouth, I told him that if the air was 20 degrees then the water would be, oooh, just warm enough to bounce off.  Holding him by the hair as the blood dripped down his chin, I suggested that he take a good look at the beautiful Gruinard beach.  Take a reeeeaaaall gooood look.  Because after we visit Tobago next year, his definition of, how-you-say?, BEACH will never be the same.  And his idyllic childhood memories of his doting parents watching on as he SPLASHED ABOUT IN THE NORTH ATLANTIC would come crashing to Earth.  When he realises that they were TRYING TO KILL HIM.  Beach… honestly:

Anyway, this part of Scotland lies directly in the path of the Gulf Stream and does get warmer temps than you would expect.  Or so they claim.  We spent our second day driving to the Isle of Skye where the sun shone and it got PRETTY WARM: UP TO 20 10 DEGREES!  I regretted not packing my bikini.  The Isle of Skye is really gorgeous, and again, mostly empty.  Which suits me fine:

It is connected to the mainland by a bridge that at one point, the locals and visitors had to pay to cross.  But the Royal Navy got sick of rescuing people trying to sail their cars between the island and mainland (cheap Scot joke alert!), so now it’s free:

On Skye, we went to the Talisker whisky distillery which provided a haven of modernity in an otherwise ancient land:

We took the tour, which at 5 GBP (including a 45 minute tour, free drink, and a discount on any bottle of whisky in the gift shop) was a pretty good deal.  Adam distracted our tour guide with sock puppets while I donned SCUBA gear and dove into a still.  Mmm… malty.  After I dried off and sobered up, we bought two bottles:  Talisker Distiller’s Choice, and Talisker 57.  These will be added to our whisky collection which now consists of one bottle of  Talisker Distiller’s Choice, and one bottle of  Talisker 57.  And half a bottle of 12 year old Jameson Irish whisky.  Which we use to clean the toilet.  Snobs?  Us?  Aye.

We wrapped up our vacation by driving back down to Stirling. We stopped along the way to visit with Summer in Perth!  She was home for the mid-term break from her fab London design course.  Our time in Scotland was great.  I hope to repeat in soon.  In the summertime.  The Scots are really lovely people.  Bruisingly honest (which I like), but would do anything for  friend or foe.  Get there if you can.  Aim for the remote parts.  It’s well worth it.  Take rain gear.

On Wednesday night I had my first meeting with all three dancers for the Snow Queen show: Jozy Debaillie, Konrad Szymanski and Zaddik Francis.  We met at my place to discuss the show blocking, rehearsal schedule, fees, and most importantly, THE COSTUMES!  So exciting.  Leslie Eisinger was there to do the fittings, and we all debated the merits of shoes versus bare feet for a good hour.  We still haven’t come to a conclusion.  I love it.

Here are some photos of the evening.  You can’t tell from these images, but I’m so excited I’m jumping up and down at a speed beyond human perception.  So fast I was producing a high pitched hum.

This is me and Zaddik.  My costume is half pants half dress.  The top part is ruffled black cotton and the white bottom is very sheer.  I’ll need to wear black knickers.  Zaddik’s top is a very stretchy fabric painted with black latex. They are both from Leslie’s line “Zijn in de stad” or “Be in the city”.  Our costumes are inspired by the outline of a tree:

Here we are turning on cue to show the backs:

Here is handsome Konrad who will play Kai.  This outfit was made for a 90 pound female model.  Konrad is not a 90 pound female model. His costume needs tailoring. A lot of it.

Enter 90 pound Jozy who will play Konrad’s girlfriend, Gerda.  She’s a ballerina.  Can you tell?

Here’s the back of Jozy’s costume which is inspired by the shadow of a bicycle.

Here is Konrad’s second costume which he will wear when he’s captured by the Snow Queen.  It’s made of straight jacket material.  The back, I think, is inspired by the veins in a butterfly wing.  I’ll have to check… but how awesome is that? A straight-jacketed butterfly. The Snow Queen will dress Kai in this coat on his arrival at the palace.  It will symbolize his capture and growing obsession with the Snow Queen.  So cool.

Here’s the whole kooky bunch.  Leslie, on the left, is holding the harpist’s costume.

Ok. I’ve purged. For now.  More to come.  8 weeks until the show!