I was always interested in drama, from grade school on, and had a few supporting roles in middle school and high school plays. In college I was the theater Publicity Manager and worked as a House Manager on performance nights.
I took theater history and learned about the Dada movement, Samuel Beckett, and Bertold Brecht. I studied in London and saw Lady Diana Rigg in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf,” Peter Jennings and the RSC in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and Vanessa Redgrave in “The Cherry Orchard.” I went to New York with my mom and saw five shows in a week — musicals, dance shows, serious theater, fringe theater, anything we could find.
Later on, I acted in Christmas productions and dinner theaters at church, and eventually performed as part of a comedy improv troupe. I’m no star actress, but I do have a great appreciation for those who are.
In the past couple of weeks, the Arteest and I have seen three local plays:
“Tonya and Nancy: The Rock Opera” was the low budget world premiere of a new musical about the ice skating arch enemies. It was…unique.
Then “The Beard of Avon,” a comedy set in Elizabethan England, musing about who actually wrote Shakespeare’s plays. And in repertory with The Beard, was a phenomenal production of Shakespeare’s comedy, “Twelfth Night” — both at Portland Center Stage.
I love being around the theater — even from the sidelines. And I’m a sucker for curtain calls. I remember going to see Les Miserables in high school and being so caught up in it that when the house lights came up and the cast came forward for their bows, I jumped to my feet, arms all goosebumpy, and a lump in my throat.
There is something so satisfying about seeing a brilliant, energetic production (like Twelfth Night) that brings the audience almost involuntarily to their feet…the adrenaline is contagious.
The Arteest and I carpool to work, as we work just five blocks apart. Carpooling in the little hybrid is actually cheaper than buying two bus passes, and affords us a lot of flexibility in coming and going. We pay $125 per month for a reserved parking spot in a nearby lot. Once in a while, we pull in to find that someone else has copped our spot…on very rare occasions, if we can’t find the offending parker, we actually have to drive somewhere else and pay for parking.
This morning, we discovered another driver in the process of parking in our spot. When he emerged from the car and started helping his wife and child out of the back seat, I rolled down the window and said, “Hey there, this is actually a reserved spot.”
“Oh, really? Where can I park?” The man seemed sincere enough, and spoke in accented English. I pointed to the street parking adjacent to the lot, and he promptly moved his car.
So why do I feel like such an ass? Rationally speaking, we’ve paid a goodly sum to park there, and it does have the word “reserved” painted on the spot (albeit in somewhat faded paint). So there’s no question that we have “the right” to park there. But somehow…even though it’s “our” spot, I felt like a jerk asking this immigrant and his family to move. I hate that feeling.
After spending the first part of the day helping some friends move, in the late afternoon we looked at the crisp blue sky and decided to head out for parts unknown in a spontaneous mini-adventure. We ended up eastbound in the Prius, stocked up with some good tunes (Vampire Weekend, Derek Webb, Ruthie Foster and Lyle Lovett) and stopping for fro-yo at the TCBY in Gresham…because there just isn’t enough soft serve fro-yo in the world anymore. (Am I right?)
Then — out to the Columbia Gorge Historic Highway for a leisurely drive. Stopped at the Portland Women’s Forum and took in the view; it never stops amazing me how far you can see in either direction, on a clear day. The gorge is such a breathtaking panorama.
We had a really weird experience during the drive. All of a sudden we became aware of the fact that we were following a line of six Volvos of varying vintages and models, and another four Volvos were behind us. A number of Volvos passed by in oncoming traffic. We looked around for some sort of obvious Volvo rally or strange cult gathering, but couldn’t find anything obvious. After a few miles, a couple of the Volvos peeled off from the group…and soon it had trickled down to just three. The bizarre moment passed. [If there's anyone out there who can help us solve this mystery, I would be fascinated to hear your rationale.]
We drove across the Bridge of the Gods (I think it always seems cooler than it is, because of the name) and up to Skamania Lodge. They have a nice lounge area with a huge wall of windows out to the river — we helped ourselves to some of the free Tazo tea and relaxed on one of their loveseats for a while, and then walked around the grounds. I felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying all of this lodgy goodness without spending a penny, but consoled myself by reasoning that we were simply “doing research” for some other time when we’ll go have dinner out there and stay overnight.
Back on the road, we drove over to Hood River and had dinner in a cute brew pub perched just above downtown. Then, because all good adventures must come to an end, we pointed the car west and headed back to the bright lights, Big City. But the fun wasn’t over: on the trip home, in one of the best parts of the day, the Arteest recreated almost the entire Journey: Greatest Hits album in soulful, acapella renditions that could really give Steve Perry a run for his money. (“Lovin’ a music man ain’t always what it’s s’posed to be…”) I tried to sing back up, but ended up laughing too hard.
