The “Americanness” of the place combined some of the music dedicated to Abraham Lincoln provided one of the moments in which for the first time, I fully felt like I was in Boston.In the scope of milestone years, turning 23 is not THAT exciting (as I like to think of it, in between potential alcoholism and renting cars).
However, for one of the first times in my life, I milked the fact that it was my birthday for financial benefit. Upon discovering that I was paahhhked in the wrong lot, charged for $32 for the night instead of 50 cents, I said to the woman:
“But…but… [lip quiver] its my birthday today, and I just played a concert for homeless people.”
“Its your birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Her face: ☹
Apparently, my birth is more important than the act of helping the homeless population. I drove away only a dollar poorer and feeling proud of my skillz.
However, even though my skillz worked there, they weren’t so helpful when dealing with my landlord.
“Its your birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Her face: ☹
Apparently, my birth is more important than the act of helping the homeless population. I drove away only a dollar poorer and feeling proud of my skillz.
However, even though my skillz worked there, they weren’t so helpful when dealing with my landlord.
You see, it all comes down to philosophy. It is MY philosophy that when a tenant pays rent, they have the right to windows that are INSULATED during one of the worst winters in thirty years. What does this entail, you might ask? Well it's not that complicated. For a warm-blooded west coaster, I think I've done a pretty good job so far.
But here's more of my philosophy. When the tenant is sleeping, they should not have to be awakened by the sound of blinds moving as the wind blows or the feeling of that wind on their face.
So, with my philosophy expressed, two insulation kits, a space heater, and several arguments, the relationship between my landlord and I has resulted in my slamming the phone down and avoiding his presence (since he lives upstairs) after he confirmed HIS philosophy on the matter: “If you don’t like it you can move out.”
But onto happier matters. At this point, I am happy to report being more than halfway finished with my graduate school music auditions!
First was the Hartt School of Music, at the University of Hartford, located in Hartford Connecticut. (how many times can YOU say “hart” in one sentence?)
The city of Hartford was a combination of charming, quaint and New-Englandy, along with creepy, dark and sketchy that has nothing really attractive about it except for the school.
The experience of driving up there from New York during rush hour, my navigation GPS thingy (who I’ve fondly named “Magda” for her senile old woman attitude and flaky tendencies) deciding to fail on me as I was lost in the middle of nowhere while traveling alone up the icy east coast in order to play this damn instrument for ten minutes and possibly have my fingers and brain not work...was well, you know. Super. Doubt seemed to clog my pores and block my arteries.
However, as I brought the instrument to my face the nerves went away and nothing else in the world seemed to matter other than the fact that I was a flutist. I even made the second round to audition for what I later found out is a full-ride scholarship.
Then, wasting no time and escaping the next oncoming blizzard, I flew home, defrosted, and sailed through the audition at UCLA's Herb Alpert School of Music.
(view of the Hollywood sign on a beautiful day from my dad's office)The Boston Conservatory, for the third of the schools, seemed to jump right in between the first two in terms of first impressions. While it was polished and organized as an institution, performing there felt as though my soul was being slowly eaten. Once I got back into the world though, it came back.
In the meantime, in my continued practicing (which I hope bothers my landlord), my flute began to feel strange. I already spent $250 to get it fixed when the negative temperatures - lack of insulation not helping - made the pads leak and the screws come loose.
So, I went back to see Pasqualle, the nice Italian man who fixed it the first time.
Naturally, when I brought it to him, the instrument played just fine.
"Eleeeeezabet, my dear," he said. "Perhaps you need a day off."
Indeed, two days later, the instrument played good as new.
Then was the Longy School of Music, a conservatory next to Harvard University that is little-known except for in Boston itself. Since the building used to be house, the public restrooms had bath tubs. For some reason, during my audition, these questions kept coming into my mind:
Could someone literally bathe before this audition? Could they potentially do so after? Does anybody bathe here after the building closes...like, if they didn't want to go home, could they just bring a sleeping bag and a towel? Well, and maybe some moisturizing body wash?
Unfortunately, I did not get any pictures of the tub.
To the happiness of all, the ice is starting to melt,
and the mountains of snow on the street are slowly getting smaller as the grime and dirt that makes up the city sticks to them.
(see piles of filthy snow, bigger than size of average car, on left)
To let off a little steam, I drank a beer (maybe two) with some friends for the first time in a while. Certain things amazed me. It wasn’t the hour-long walk home which should have taken five minutes because I went down the wrong street, but the fact that just yesterday I was in middle school, refusing to have a bat mitzvah, then I was in college, going through the sets of dramas and friendships and heart breaks that I missed out on in high school, which was reality but not reality, and now I’m here on the other side of the country that in comparison to the rest of the world is really not so big after all, in a COAT, being careful of stumbling on the ice, but I am still the same person inside, at least in the ways that matter.
