Finding me-self in the Praha

I am sleeping when the door to my dorm room opens.
“Up!” says the maid.
“Excuse me?”
She lifts her arms.
“UP!”
“Oh. Okay then.”
I get up and she changes my sheets. I lean into the closet to find my outfit for the day and I feel a hand tap my rear. I look up to see her laughing as she exits. After getting over the bewilderment from being awoken from a dream and being fondled by a Czech maid, I go to school. SCHOOL. What a foreign concept! I take the train, which people ride basically for free on the honors system, and go by the sites I have walked and gotten lost in several times already.

Castles, cathedrals, general gorgeous scenery:



Weird art: Franz Kafka:

And architecture:
Cubism:



Cobble stone streets (my poor high heels have not left the suitcase)Fashion:

Chandeliers:

I had a thought of buying one if I could find a tiny and more importantly cheap one, meaning less than $50, to like, put next to my plant or use for parties or something … but unfortunately, I couldn’t score any Swarovski crystals for a good price. But this is good because I don’t have the additional self-imposed challenge of figuring out how to get it home.

Other than that, besides meeting some fantastic people and getting some edumacation in my other secret identity of writing, here are other things I accomplished in Prague:

Aside from the few goulash indulgences, there were days when I had this diet:
Breakfast: a donut. Lunch: A hot dog Dinner: pepperoni pizza. Snacks: ice cream and a bag of mnm’s.
The next day, when I had a piece of lettuce on my sandwich I got concerned I was getting off track with too many vitamins. However, with all the MacDonalds and KFC locations, I have not once succumbed to homesickness for America in that way. Woohoo!

And finally, I have confirmed the discovery my “inner travel child.” This comes with the knowledge of a) Though it is hard at the time, I like being alone, because for some reason this is when I have the most fun, b) I am now a big fan of yoga, which was offered for free twice a week and whether because of the location or the humidity or the teacher, made me hooked on it and even getting a little more fond of nature (of which there are several spots in Prague...not just mowed grass, but even some trees) and c) Perhaps this is bad, but often I can only fully appreciate things later by looking at the pictures. I have a knack for creating juxtapositions in pictures, particularly with advertisements I find funny.

I enjoy this a lot actually. Maybe too much. But in Prague, there are no boundaries.

Pukey la Paris

Rule #1 in a travel experience with Liz:  no matter what, when, how, where, etc. there NEEDS to be at least one really amazingly not fun experience.  It is just a requirement.  After all, where would I get material for these blogs if that were not the case?

Two summers ago, on my first trip to Europe, I got sick before I left, and was sick the entire time until I came home (I was better by then).  I also neglected to bring the right plug adapter to Italy, and naturally, this mistake was bad.  I could not buy one there.  It then took me 2 days to get home because of flight delays, being stranded at the Rome and Montreal airports (in Montreal, a hotel an hour away from the airport with a voucher of not enough value to get me there which resulted in a lovely shouting match with a cab driver), and almost being moved off the last flight home because of overcrowding.  

I also realize I might have caused some concern with the last blog about my survival skills, but the reality is that I am quite badass.  That is why, despite some horrified reactions from people, I decided to take the plunge and try to see some of the freaking world.     

On this trip, the little tortures that come with traveling have been frequent and strong.  A few (of many) things include spending an hour of a two hour period in Munich looking for the ladies room, having to abandon needed items for the sake of time after trying in vain to unlock a broken door, somehow getting possession of counterfeit money, setting off the fire alarm in the train station (my elbow slipped, sorry), spilling my makeup all over the floor when trying to participate in an estrogen bonding experience with other girls on the group, having my headphones break before the 9 hour bus ride, and finally, coming down with the flu right as I got to Paris.  Although I knew my body was shutting down, I was determined to get up the Eiffel tower with everyone.  With my whole body shaking, my chest hurting every time I breathed in, and my stomach cramping, I clung to the metal handles of the elevator with one hand and to a bottle of pepto with the other.  I made it up (barely), took a picture, and went back down. 

As I waited for the elevator, I had a romantic moment by being hit on by a toothless Algerian.  I was about to head for the stairs when the elevator finally came.  I had to stand next to him for the next five minutes as he repeatedly tried to get my information, obviously not turned off by me hunched over, pale, and about to puke.

“Phone numbah?”  

“I don’t have a phone.” 

“Email?”  

“Don’t have a computer.  Excuse me.  I gotta go over here now.”

The next day, while the rest of the group went to Paris, I spent 14 hours in a 9 x 9 log cabin.  This was probably good because I sweat so much that I probably lost a pound or two, broke the fever, and my stomach calmed down.  Once I was feeling somewhat normal again, though still weak, I went to try and meet up with the group for the fancy dinner and cabaret show.  A bus driver for another group offered to give me a lift, which I happily accepted.  Two hours later, we had not gotten a mile from the hostel because of traffic.

I ended up having dinner with a different group and still making the cabaret show which was fun.  However, during the show, I wanted a glass of water, but all they had was champagne.  At the end, I was so desperate for a sip of water that I went into a bar next door and bought the only thing they had – a one-liter bottle for 6 Euro. 

The contiki trip was a very efficient way to see a lot of Europe in a short amount of time (not necessarily experience it all but at least see it), and with 50 other people and a lot of claustrophobia...let’s just get to the point:  I won’t be doing it again.  I am thankful to be getting better now and that I didn’t lose anything of massive importance along the way.  I even got to see a couple sites in Paris yesterday...without fear of throwing up.  And now, finally, I’m going to Prague. 

Here are a few pics:

Cliffs of Dover

Venice

Pigeons in Venice

Swiss chocolate makes everything all better. 

At the top of the Swiss Alps

French Delicacy

Mona

Notre Dame 

Yippeeee!

Quite Bloody Lovely

If you didn’t know that I was planning on spending the summer in Europe, now you do. I am slowly making my way to Prague where I have a scholarship to participate in a nonfiction writing class. Here’s what I’ve been through so far in the beginning of this adventure.

When I got off the plane at Heathrow, I purchased the phone card for my unlocked cell phone. As I called the number, I was told I needed a registered credit card in the UK in order to activate it, and when the automated voice asked yes or no questions by pressing 1 or 2, it repeatedly resulted in “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that.” So much for the pretty extensive research I did on the phone situation. But because I was not in the mood for frustration, I hopped on the “tube” towards “Cockfosters” and got off at Piccadilly Circus. No there aren’t elephants and acrobats at this circus. It is basically London’s version of Times Square.

This is also my first experience in a real European hostel. Luckily, Piccadilly Backpackers is in an AWESOME location, right in the center of everything. But as is to be expected, its not the Ritz. After arriving, a half naked man walked into the elevator and asked me if I was impressed. I got off on the wrong floor…on purpose. Later, as I finally got the guts to walk into the freezing shower, a loud alarm started blaring. As I stepped out, my hair dripping, people started to exit the building. I got outside and the fire engines pulled up. Luckily, five minutes later everyone went back inside. And even more luckily, there was no fire.

The next day I woke up feeling a little disoriented. The phone (which I trusted had the correct time) said it was 1 p.m. After getting dressed I realized I misread it...the phone now said it was 7 p.m.

The sky looks the same (cloudy) all the time, and it doesn’t get dark here until about midnight, so I assumed I had slept through the entire day. That is until I went downstairs and everyone was saying "good morning.” It wasn't 7 p.m. but 7 A.M...I wasn't going to eat dinner, but breakfast…I had not slept for 13 hours, but more like 6. After correcting the settings on the phone, I went to lay down for a few more minutes, and woke up at 2 p.m.

Then, feeling refreshed, I left and took a stroll down to Oxford Street to the Vodaphone phone store and successfully got help in activating the phone. Then, calculating that it was 10 a.m. in Los Angeles, I called my dad. It was nice to talk to him, except for the fact that still, I didn’t know what time it was…I woke him up because it was really 7 a.m.

Then I walked to Buckingham Palace:
(flag is up, the queen is home!)

That night I met up with Camille, a friend from Oregon. She has been living here for about a year, working in music and getting her master’s degree. It was really nice to see a familiar face and catch up with her. The waiters gave us an extra glass of wine and a shot of some coffee liquor thing, which is why I am now up at 4 a.m. (I think) writing this part of the blog.

When I got back to the hostel, I discovered that the men’s bathroom (two doors down from me) overflowed into the hallway. The guy (who is felt really sorry for) was cleaning it up a mere couple feet from seeping under my door.

Then today I woke up early and did what ANY Jewish girl in a foreign country would do. I went to church.

Not just any church. Westminster Abbey church is 700 years old and makes up for the Sunday closed tour by opening up worship services to the public. The sung eucharist service with pipe organ and men/boy’s choir made my neck hairs stand up.

Then I went to catch the changing of the guards ceremony at Buckingham. Men in red coats, shiny shoes, and really fuzzy hats, some with guns, swords, and some with musical instruments, put on quite the presentation.
(he wasn't allowed to smile)


Then I walked to the Royal College of Music. They also had a free concert open to the public featuring upcoming players from the school. Unbelievable. After the second hour (and still going), I couldn’t take it anymore. The brain can only absorb so much talent.

So then I went to hear MORE music back in Westminster Abbey, an organ recital featuring J.S. Bach trio sonata in d minor. Once again, the loud parts could be felt through my feet and the phrases took 5 seconds to fade away. I totally picked the right day to have a musically-enhanced tourism experience.


Apparently mannequins portray the subliminal message that not only are these clothes cool, but if you buy them, you’ll also get a black eye!!! And seriously. Who DOESN’T want new clothes after getting punched in the face?


It didn’t take me long to get acquainted with London because pretty much everything about Boston (from the names of the streets to the little public parks to the cobble stones to the clocks on all the buildings to the “Squares”) was stolen from this city.
With that, this country seems very devoted and supportive of its child nation, having erected SEVERAL memorials to American things like 9/11, Abe Lincoln and FDR. Music in stores and cafes have all been of American bands, and advertisements for movies have all been for American movies. Basically, this was a good place to start because I feel like I haven’t really left in America.

One main difference, however: Apparently here, squirrels don’t have rabies.

Hard to think that in the Minute Man park (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Minute_Man_National_Historical_Park) next to my aunt and uncle’s Boston suburb home, we all once killed each other.

Why can’t the middle eastern countries put past conflicts behind them so well?

Now I’m onto meet up with my Contiki tour, hoping that the cheapness of it will at least come with luke warm showers, but nonetheless, excited to both be with a group and to see more awesome stuff!

I’ll conclude with the most important information: The English are so polite that when I bought a can of soda, I got more information than I ever imagine getting on anything. Ever. The name of the drink is “Yoga Bunny Detox.” (Now try to hear this in a British accent)
Yoga Bunny Detox
Balanced with Ginseng and Echinacea
Liquid Psychiatry! (lightly carbonated)
* NO NASTIES *
100% Delicious, Preservative free, Naturally prêt, nastiness free, 100% goodness
PRET is radical because it creates handmade, natural food, avoiding the obscure chemicals, additives and preservatives common to so much of the “prepared” and “fast” food on the Markey today. NO NASTIES. NO fructose syrup, NO sodium benxoate, NO aspartame, NO potassium sorbate, NO phosphoric acid, NO colourings, and NO artificial flavourings. Allegedly, the chemicals found in quite a few soft drinks aren’t good for your health. Who knows? We can’t be sure.

Hot Cross Buns

Yeah, they look good. But I'm not talking about actual buns.

That's right sillies...I'm talking about the SONG!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tVZM-8rs2Qw

Sadly, in my generation of elementary school beginner musicians, nobody (and I mean NOBODY) liked Hot Cross Buns. It was called “boring” “stupid” and even more mature terms like “lame” and "sucky.”

Among its haters, however, I liked it. My tolerance for the simple and sometimes obnoxious little melody was perhaps the first sign that I was kinda different. (Here’s me in a third grade recital.)


Later, in high school, I was trying to get a summer job. They asked us in interviews, “What do you do with your free time?” and people responded by saying, “I play volleyball, “ or “I make photo albums of me and my friends,” and I responded by saying “I play the flute” (and almost corrected the bad grammar).
After a few moments of silence, the interviewer quickly moved onto the next question. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.

One time at music camp, despite having gone to religious school, for one of the first real times in my life, I prayed. In that adolescent mixture of egos and competition, I prayed that I would be able to get somewhere, someday, with this perhaps unusual yet strong passion; that this mysterious calling would amount to something worthwhile.

Then last week, two hours before I was to give a deposit to Boston University’s College of Fine Arts for graduate school (who had given me no more time to extend the decision), I got a new email.

Dear Elizabeth, At this time a re-evaluation of your application for admission is complete. On behalf of the Woodwinds faculty and Admissions Committee of New England Conservatory, I am pleased to offer you admission to the Fall 2009 Master of Music program in Flute Performance. We hope that you will accept this offer and will choose to enroll with us this fall.

I nearly destroyed my computer by almost spilling the coffee, and then proceeded to jump up and down while screaming a series of curse words. Luckily, these were curse words were joy.

On my way to NEC to give them a deposit, I thought how I have spent this year in limbo.
Even though it hasn't been easy, I have been hungry for life like a tiger hungry for the flesh of a little bunny. (maybe without quite the degree of violence). Identity crises and struggles the appetizers to a main course I didn’t know the contents of (like tuna “surprise” at flute camp, but in this case, not tuna). With the worse recession in more than half a century and a quarter-life crisis, I was determined to not let this time be a waste.

Life has given me some good lemons, and some lemons more sour than others, but one thing is for certain. In this chapter, I have FINALLY made some lemonade!

In this conclusion to a wild nine month adventure of being in this place, the good moments have never in my life felt so truly good, not just sort of good, or superficially good. The bad moments, well, weren’t really all THAT bad.

However, I know that these things will eventually blend together like a swirly cloud of pastel colors. In the future, what will really stick out about this experience is the way I have utilized the valuable tools given to me by my extremely wonderful teachers and mentors, and the connection I’ve made with my family.

So, hot cross buns, all I have to say is, good job.

Here is New England Conservatory's Jordan Hall, one of the best performance spaces in the world,

and its newest member for the next two years.

Confusheroism

Everyone likes learning new terms. Here's today’s “term of the day”:

QUARTER LIFE CRISIS.
www.quarterlifecrisis.com: “a period of anxiety, uncertainty and inner turmoil that often accompanies the transition to adulthood.”

Wikipedia: “a term applied to the period of life immediately following the major changes of adolescence, usually ranging from the early twenties to the early thirties. The term is named by analogy with mid-life crisis.”

While I go through my quarter life crisis, I invent new characters. This one is a superhero. Yes, he is fictitious, and no I am not scizophrenic.  Yes, he is a dog. And the “C” well, naturally, stands for “CONFUSION,” which I decided today is an extremely heroic state to be in.

So, you might be asking yourselves...what the heck does Confusion have to do with heroism?

Let's face it people. If Confusion were a heroic state, I'd have more capes than freaking Superman.  Not that I fantasize about future little children sitting in classrooms a hundred years from now, leaning their chins on their hands, staring up at the domed-city skyline, and thinking, “Wow, that Liz…what a HERO she was!”

I mean, come on. What I’m going through now is not even close to heroism. I only try to boost my own little self-esteem to distract myself until there is conclusion to all this nonsense of the quarter-life crisis.

It is not so much my object to necessarily be a hero, but to SUCCEED,

 whether it is at waitressing - one of the most underappreciated and challenging jobs in the world - where I have watched people smaller than me carrying huge trays full of food with one hand above their head through a crowd of people with more grace than an olympic gymnast - all the while I cause near concussions with my small tray of two empty plates.

Or, being a flutist.

Or, a writer about music:
http://clefnotesjournal.com/yahoo_site_admin/assets/docs/BSO_Review_3142009.8995711.pdf

Or, well, myself:
“Ooohhh well,” I say, blushing. “Its nothing, I’m so glad you can take them off my hands. I just couldn’t finish them.” (I hand over a fresh, unopened bag of donut munchkins to the New England Conservatory Admissions woman.)
“And by the way,” I say, turning back from the exit. “How’s that wait list looking?”

Or, being nice about rejecting others.“I appreciate all the scholarship money and all the effort you are making to have me come to your school, but…”

But seriously, being a hero involves making decisions when you don’t have all the facts, rummaging for answers where there are none, taking advantage of opportunities but with a free addition of guilt, and certainly, not everyone who is a hero necessarily intends to be one.

There are REAL heroes:Willingly being confused in attempt to make a PLAN means I plunged myself into the deep end of the deep intimidating river (no pun intended…ehem, Hudson), swimming violently towards happiness, security, self-assurance and a NONCONFUSION.

Sometimes I imagine Enrique Iglesias pleading with me, "Oh Liz, let ME be your hero!"  

Perhaps, later in life, I’ll discover that my only real purpose was to jump in front of a bus in the middle of a big city to save the life of a tiny little African chimp who wandered in front of it. (Who cares that African chimps don’t show up in big cities? Don’t change the subject.)

In order to make something of myself, going to grad school, making money, having straight hair, and all the while not getting addicted to caffeine, thinking over a major decision is not like swimming, but rather like quick sand in a hole. The harder you dig out, the deeper you get.
That is the way of things.

Here’s a good part: I am, just by being what I am, I guess, a hero.

To conclude my randomness, I’ll use the words of the President:
“If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking, eventually you'll make progress. “
Well, Barack, in THIS quarter-life crisis (never mind the financial or terrorism or general world crisis), I hope you're right.

(Thank you to google image and everyone in my life who has taken the time in the last few weeks to have heart-felt, exhausting, at times LONG but extremely valuable conversations with my about my current life decisions, for your assistance. You didn’t necessarily sign up for it, but as a result, are my heroes.)

"The wind beneath my wings."

Movin' on Down the Road. Literally.

Since my auditions are now over, I now wait to hear back from schools.  Meanwhile, I continue my tasks for Radius and I search for another part-time job while everywhere is shutting the doors to their own current employees.  Despite the negativity in the slumping economy, I have scored a journalism internship and found out that I was accepted with a scholarship (in the voice of Napoleon Dynamite: yesssssssss!) to participate in a nonfiction writing workshop for two weeks this summer...in the city of Prague!!!  

To document things in an organized fashion, here are some stories as of late.

(By the way, why won't this blog website let me make charts?  Anyone know?)

My friend Andy from Oregon, who plays French horn, came to Boston last week for his audition at the New England Conservatory. We happened to walk in on a concert and during intermission we went back stage where Andy chatted with another student and I...well, I watched.  But later I was glad not to have been involved in social networking.

Once we were ready to leave, I pushed open one of the double doors, and stepped back when a bright red light crashed into my pupils. “WWWWAAAAHH WAAAAAHHW FIRE ALARM IS ON PLEASE EVACUATE WAAHWAAAH”
When I backed away I discovered something surprisingly not surprising: the door had a sign read “Emergency exit ONLY.” ☺
I turned around and the room of 50 something musicians all had their eyes were on me with fierce hatred.
“Didn’t you see the sign!?”
“Oh,” I said. “Wow, um, I’m so sorry! It’ll go off right?”
“Leave!”
“Just get out!”
“Go out the way you came in!”
“But…but, okay but..”
“Seriously, just get out.”
“GET OUT!”
“So,” I said to Andy as we hightail it away from the building. “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”
“Can’t think of any quite as good.”

I was in the big apple for the weekend, meeting up with friends I met in Israel, and overall having a lot of fun.  Plus my audition, the main thing I went there for, which lasted for about 6 minutes.  

Leaving New York on Sunday night, it started to snow on Canal Street in Chinatown, where I stood on the side of the road holding my box of 100 green teas for $4, my stomach full of dim sum, and waiting for the Fung Wah bus, the $15 bargain that goes directly from New York to Boston.
A young father walked from his four screaming children toward the Chinese lady wearing a "Fung Wah Bus Staff" jacket.
“Excuse me, but I bought our tickets for 7:15 and it is already 7:45. My kids are cold and hungry. When is the bus coming?”
“Bus come in five minutes!  They just called me, they're coming right now!”
Five minutes later, another woman approached the Chinese lady.
“Excuse me, but I bought my ticket for 7:15 and…”
“You missed the bus, you got here too late,” she said.
“But, I’ve been here since…”
“No! You walk too slow!”

Ten minutes later, I saw another woman and the Chinese lady on the verge of a physical fight. The mystery of the changing story is concerning.  Is it the snow that is delaying it?  Is it safe to even drive a bus in the snow storm?  Would I be better off stranded in New York?

You get what you pay for, apparently, according to a young man standing in the back of the angry crowd, not concerned.  At last, when the snow began to plummet down in big thick flakes, the bus arrived.  Though finding a seat that the Chinese lady approved of was difficult ("You no put your stuff there, I need full bus!), I made it back to Boston. 

Speaking of snow. 

So, winter is part of the experience right? Yes, dammit. It is fun. 
I knew that this winter would either bring out my total wimpiness, or a newly found endurance.  This has been what people are saying is the worst in 30 years. So, on that note, IT CAN STOP SNOWING NOW, I think as I pound my shovel on the snow-turned-ice around my car, pouring on the useless ice-melting crap as my landlord yells at me from the doorstep: “why don’t you move your car out onto the street and THEN clean it off? You guys just put all the snow in the walkway for ME to shovel and that ain’t right!”
And I respond quietly and sweetly:
“I HAVEN’T MOVED MY CAR IN TWO WEEKS YOU JERK AND IT IS NOT MY FAULT THAT THERE IS SNOW ON YOUR GODDAMNED DOORSTEP WHY DON’T YOU TRY WEARING HIGH HEELS ON THE ICE AND I’M SO SORRY YOU EVER HAVE TO DO ANYTHING FOR THE BENEFIT OF YOUR TENANTS!” (actually I didn’t really say that, unfortunately).

Then I continue shoveling, throwing some of the snow into the bushes, and some more into the walkway (yes indeed, just out of spite).  Then I start the car and when I press the gas the wheels struggle, spinning but not propelling my poor little California Carolla who seems to be screaming “Liz, this is too much” out of the driveway.  A a gust of gas enters the air, ice chunks fly out into the street, hitting pedestrians...where was I going with this again?

Anyway, each audition released a rush of endorphins and now I am kind of sad, but tremendously curious.  What will happen?  Did I make the right choices of schools?  Am I really doing the right thing?  Should I join the peace corps?  Should I move to Europe and teach English?  Just as I am beginning to feel roots sprout in Boston, am I going to have to leave it?  Even though I can't read signs and set off alarms in the middle of concerts, am I meant to be a musician?  

Is this really the time of life, full of confusion and anxiety and terror and adventure, that people miss the most?  Am I asking too many annoying philosophical questions that have no answers just because I am too overly analytical?  Perhaps that last question is the easiest to answer.   

I have some big decisions to make and am ready to make them, but then there’s the next challenge - to make the right decisions, if there even is such a concept.  

Insulation, Education, Inebriation

On my 23rd my birthday, I played in a concert in the “Old West Church” (well, if you consider 1737 old).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.   

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.