Brighton Beach, Wednesday Evening

Now that I've lived in Brooklyn for almost a year (HOW is that possible??) I've stopped carrying my camera with me. This means that sometimes really great things happen and I have no photographic record of them. The next few posts will be about these great things.

It was Wednesday. It was 90 degrees and I was feeling sick-ish. My evening plans were to eat some Rice Krispies and then start a Dorothy Sayers book while wallowing in my surliness and sweat. And then, like a divine intervention (or whatever) I got a text from my cousin, something along the lines of: "I just got out of work and I need to be in a wide-open space. Wanna meet at Coney Island?" The answer to that is yes, of course.

And let me tell you, Coney Island is a great place on the first 90 degree day of the year. People were hilarious. The old men had set up their chess boards, the women were stripping, and the kids were running everywhere. The handball courts were full and the ocean breeze was, well, breezy. I took a few deep breaths, buried my feet in the sand, and felt immediately better. My cousin and I found each other on the boardwalk ("I could tell it was you from far away because of how you walk," she said. Huh.) and as she hadn't eaten in awhile, we looked for a place for dinner. And we found it. When you walk down Coney Island to Brighton Beach, there are a row of Russian seafood places with a lot of outdoor seating on the boardwalk. We picked Tatiana's, which was kind of in the middle.

I don't quite know how to describe Tatiana's. The menu is in Russian on one side and English on the other, and the servers all take their smoke breaks on the boardwalk about three feet from the tables. We both got kvas to drink, which is sort of a non-alcoholic beer. I really liked it--it reminded me of a strong, natural root beer (and I do love me some root beer!). I wasn't that hungry so I ordered the calamari, while my cousin got some concoction of seafood, broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus and about a pint of cheese, cream, and butter. The food was more expensive than we usually indulge in, but the portions were BIG. The calamari was enough for two meals, and was really tasty--the broccoli I sampled from the other dish was good too. A man came by and offered to sell us some pillows (my question was, who buys pillows while they're eating? while my cousin's was, who buys pillows from some dude on the street?)

We ate outside, but the indoor decor deserves a mention. Think Eastern European brothel meets Czarist Palace meets some sort of classy law office. A lot of mirrors and carpets, and outside the bathroom: two lamps which were womens' bodies with lampshades instead of heads; one black, one red. There were a bunch of weird figurines--I took a pic on my phone of the shelf containing a bikini-clad woman hugging a tiger, which was flanked by figurines of Santa Claus and a polar bear. The bathrooms themselves were really nice, in case you were curious.

The sun set and the full moon rose, and the twinkling Christmas lights came on under the awning we were sitting under. It was beautiful, quiet except for the other patrons chatting in Russian and the clink of glass and far far away the sound of waves. It felt like we were on another continent. A wizened man with an accordion wandered around, taking requests. We didn't recognize the first few songs, but other people were singing along. He eventually launched into, "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "La Vie En Rose," "Bicycle Built for Two," and any American patriotic song you can think of. Let me tell you, you haven't heard the "Star Spangled Banner" properly until you've heard it on the accordion!

If you're looking for a laugh, do check out Tatiana's website here. It's hilarious, and contains both a "morning after" drink recipe, and the suggestion that men shave before going there, because "there are plenty of people to impress." Perfect antidote to the mid-week blahhs.

What is Your Word?

I am in the midst of reading Eat, Pray, Love, which is crazy good. I was a bit dubious going in, because I wasn't sure how much spirituality-talk was going to happen (I tend to find that sanctimonious, depending, especially since I am untrained at meditation and when I do try and meditate, it just makes me nervous). But it is mostly not sanctimonious--it's about life getting really gross and having your heart broken in many ways and then working to make things right for yourself again, because that is what we all deserve. Balance. Pleasure. Meaning. Good food. Good friends. Travel, if you are fortunate enough to be able to do so. Happiness. Also, it made me hate Elizabeth Gilbert a little bit (even though she seems like a cool person) because I wanted to go to Rome so, so badly after reading her Italy section.

Anyway, there is a chapter in the Italy section where she and one of her Rome friends discuss how cities have one word which describes them or sums them up. He claims that Rome's is SEX, and the Vatican's is POWER. Gilbert thinks New York City's is ACHIEVE and Los Angeles's is SUCCEED. Her Swedish friend thinks Stockholm's is probably CONFORM. (Gilbert, 103-104).

My brain loves this idea. I spent most of my commute today germinating on this. What would my hometown be? I settled on BEHAVE. Although, since my hometown was founded by Swedish and Italian immigrants, maybe some combination of SEX and CONFORM would be apt (oh, it would definitely be apt). I discussed this with a friend, who thought her hometown's was probably WALLOW. What about Geneva? Maybe LEARN, or THINK. At this time of year, VERDANT. Or CONTRADICTORY. The house where I lived with my friends? LOVELY, or maybe RIDICULOUS. My parents house? WACKY. HOME. COMFORTING.

And what about Brooklyn? Today--SLUGGISH (my bus was stopped behind a semi for 10 minutes this morning). BLOSSOMING (well, the botanical gardens, anyway). HUMMING. CRABBY. I was reading Eat, Pray, Love over the weekend on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and was trying to wrap my head around meditating for 5 hours a day and how group meditation and all the energy might be able to help you commune with god(dess) (or whatever you want to call it.) Needless to say, I could not imagine how anyone meditates in Brooklyn, because I was having trouble concentrating on reading with everyone squawking around me. My neighborhood's would be COLORFUL. Or LIVELY.

Not all the words are good, though. What of those places or people that are DESPERATE, DANGEROUS, SAD, or DULL? Maybe though, even if you are those words, you wouldn't pick them for yourself. I feel like those are only words that others might label you as (you probably don't think you're DULL, but maybe I would. Or you might think I'm DULL. Very likely, actually.) I found myself doing that on the subway today--"guy in the suit. PRETENTIOUS. nurse. TIRED. man with the goatee. ENIGMATIC."

As for my word? Tricky, that. WANDERER, ROVER? Maybe, but also NESTER, HOMEBODY. Definitely LISTENER, but also definitely TALKER. SEEKER. STUMBLER (literally--over curbs, down stairs, and figuratively--into ideas, out of ideas, whatever). AWKWARD (yup). CLASSY (when the mood strikes). Mostly, though--CONTENT.

What is your word? What is your town's word? Do you wish your words were different?

Real Estate Fate

With real estate there are no rules. It's like check-in at an Italian airport.
--30 Rock

I'm moving to Indiana in approximately 3 months and I have no idea what I'm doing. I think part of the problem is that I have never rented an apartment before, and have an overly romanticized view of Midwestern boarding houses. I secretly want to live in a Thin Man movie (yeah, I know they are not from Indiana) in the 1930s, with a crotchety old landlady and a raggle taggle yet good-hearted group of boarding housemates. I want to barter for services (I'll trade knitted coasters for fresh eggs or fixed tires). I realize that this kind of thing doesn't really exist any more, if it ever existed at all.

My magical undergrad advisor once pointed out the house where she rented a room when she first started teaching. It was owned by Arthur Dove's brother (yes, really). However, considering the general magicalness of this person, it is very likely that while she ended up sipping sherry with Arthur Dove's brother and hearing stories about Georgia O'Keefe rollerskating through downtown, I would end up with Grant Wood's weird great-niece, or an heir to a BB gun fortune, or a bassoon playing sociopath. I've had really, really good roommates up until now, and I don't want to tempt fate on this. Moreover, my google search for "Victorian house rooms for rent Bloomington" turned up nothing, and the subsequent search for "Victorian house turret rooms for rent Bloomington" was even more in the realm of wishful thinking.

One of the nice things about living in Brooklyn and living in numerous other places (some furnished, some not) in the past few years is that my possessions have become pretty streamlined. Although this does mean that I don't have any pots and pans, but I do have an avocado slicer, corkscrew, and garlic press, which are, after all, the essentials. I have good pillows but no towels. I have many mugs and wine glasses but no cutlery (and no tea pot.) And I don't really have any furniture...

Digressions aside, back to Brooklyn, since that is where I live, after all. I am lucky (lucky lucky lucky LUCKY) that my magnanimous cousin is letting me couch-surf, so I am not paying rent here. New York City real estate, as anyone will tell you, is insane. Just on a lark we looked up apartments in Chelsea a few months ago and it is enough to knock the wind out of a person. If you can afford it, great, and there are deals to be found (rent-controlled, or landlords who aren't up on how much prices have increased) but they are pretty few and far between.

My friend who just moved here has been subletting, which means that you aren't signing a lease, but sometimes filling in for people who are out of town for a few months. Sublets can be a few weeks long, or a few months, it just depends. It's a good way to go about moving to NYC, I think, since you can get a taster of a few different neighborhoods before committing. I've been on a few sublet visits with her and they have been...interesting. Her first sublet was rented from an older Brazilian woman who talked to us for quite awhile, and was super nice. One we visited later claimed to be in downtown Brooklyn, but was definitely not (it was near a lot of subways, to be fair).

Another one, the most hilarious of the visits, was in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is a mix of warehouses and hipster hang-outs. It was a loft apartment (those are the ones that are a large room, very open, with a few almost bunk-like bedrooms. Except they aren't bedrooms, they are just beds up by the ceiling. It would be a tricky place to live, even with really good friends.) This loft was in a warehouse, which looked like a bit like a college dorm + bullet holes, and the door of the apartment we were looking for was bright purple and pink. We knocked, and the girl who opened the door was a hipster poster child. She looked us up and down, and it was immediately apparent that we were not going to be cool enough for her (clearly, the black trenchcoats we were wearing--because it was raining--meant that we were too conservative, or something). So we go in, and it was spectacularly awkward, and both of us were getting the giggles but trying to hide it so we couldn't really look at each other. The hipsters were kind of vague about where their other roommate (who my friend would be replacing) had gone, and when we asked when they would like a decision, they said, "um, by...tomorrow?" so we figured that we were out of the running. We got out in the hall and made it about 3 feet before we cracked up about these women and their art studio and their turtle pond and the zero privacy. My friend ended up getting a nice room in a place about 4 blocks from Prospect Park, which is fabulous. And as there is an Italian Ice stand between her place and the park, well, that is fabulous too.

I wish I knew more about housing markets and how all of this stuff works. How do certain areas get so inflated and gentrified? Here, is it because of closeness to Manhattan, to subways, to other members of your racial group? The worst, the absolute worst, and something I will never get used to, is people who have no home at all. For a few months when I was working the later shift and taking the bus at midnight, I was seeing people asleep on the streets on a near-regular basis. It's not quite as common a scene in Brooklyn as it is in Manhattan, I think, but it certainly occurs. I know it happens in every town, too, but it's just such a high number here. I didn't even think about this until my cousin mentioned it--how do they get counted in the Census? The phrase "falling through the cracks" seems especially apt. And especially sad.

Greenwood Cemetery

I've never consciously thought about this, but it turns out I really like cemeteries. I tend to visit them when I move or visit someplace new (much like other people scope out churches or grocery stores). As such, I have a hierarchy of cemeteries I like, based on sereneness, aesthetics, interesting statues, lawn beauty, and age of graves/amount of famous people. (Hey Jazz, remember that cemetery in Paris where we thought we'd get attacked by feral cats?) Based on my criteria, Greenwood Cemetery in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, might be the best I've ever been to. It might also be one of my top three favorite places in NYC now.

The day helped. It was a sunny Saturday, I had just eaten a delightful lemon Italian ice, and I was with two people that I very much like (one of them, my cousin, took all these pictures. Thanks Melis!) None of us had been to Greenwood, but it's very neat. It was originally a 478 acre park, and is full of rolling hills, ponds with fountains, and lovely architecture, some of which was designed by Richard Upjohn (be excited, Genevans!). It is the highest point in Brooklyn and involved the first hills I've seen in awhile. A very calm, quiet, lovely place. And free, of course, which is even better.

We made it through about a third of the cemetery (in over an hour, mind) and saw a few famous plots. Louis Comfort Tiffany's was very unobtrusive (we couldn't find it originally, in fact) and Boss Tweed had an entire family plot. We were interested in seeing the Steinway Family Mausoleum and the guide by the gate told us, "you can't miss it. It is large enough for about 200 bodies." And yet, we did miss it. We walked by it, twice, both times because we spotted interesting statues farther away. But up close, the Steinway Mausoleum is about the size of a house. (for a cool Steinway story, check this out.)

There are plenty of other famous-ish people interred there: Henry Ward Beecher, Leonard Bernstein, DeWitt Clinton, Currier and Ives, Alice Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Lorenzo da Ponte (ack!!) and a few slightly less famous but still interesting people: William "Bill the Butcher" Poole (head of the Bowery Boys gang), Susan McKinney Steward (the first black woman to get a medical degree in NY), Laura Keene (actress who was on stage when Lincoln was shot), and Henry Bergh (founder of the ASPCA).

And here are some statues of note:


Greenwood is awesome; therefore, Brooklyn is awesome. It is one of those places that Manhattan doesn't have and never will. It's a beautiful place, especially in the May sun with good friends. After we left there was a street fair a few blocks away, and we got some roasted corn-on-the-cob and wandered among balloons and smoke and cotton candy, not to mention booming basses. Again: Brooklyn is awesome. But we all knew that already.

A Year in Numbers

I graduated from college a year ago today. I was expecting graduation itself to be a teary farewell mess, but surprisingly I was dry-eyed through it all. Perhaps I was too cold, perhaps the speeches were too inane,* perhaps I knew that the people I really loved and cared about I would see again and talk to fairly often, but in any case I stayed pretty stoic. Mostly I just wanted to drink something celebratory (and bubbly), hug some professors, eat some cake with my friends, and go to sleep (which is, in fact, exactly what I did.) I feel like a lot has happened in the past 365ish days, and alternately that nothing has happened. I didn't chop off my hair, or get an amazing job. I didn't travel anywhere exotic, learn another language, or take up any thrilling hobbies. I did, however, move to Brooklyn. So things have changed, of course. Here are some figures:

Number of blog posts written: this makes 91. Word.

Number of jobs held: jobs--2, internships--1.

Number of weeks unemployed, in Jamestown, or on sick leave: 16ish (egads)

Number of cover letters written: at least 30

Number of job interviews that resulted from said cover letters: 5?

Number of graduate school admissions essays written: 5

Number of months it took me to completely apply to grad school: 3 1/2 (egads, again)

Number of Amtrak journeys: at least 20

Number of cross-state bus journeys: not counting transfers--4, counting transfers--10ish

Number of times I had to spend 5 hours in the Buffalo Bus Station--2 (fun fact: one was New Years Eve)

Number of operas attended: 3

Number of hours spent waiting in line for opera tickets: 12

Number of plays attended: 4? 5?

Number of states visited, other than NY: 4

Number of Art History books read: 6ish (bad, very bad)

Number of German verbs which I still remember how to conjugate: 2 (bad, very bad)

Number of novels read: a LOT (good, very good)

Number of times I exploded soup while pureeing it in a blender: 2

Number of immersion blenders received as a birthday gift from a friend who was concerned about my inability to make soup: 1

Number of nun themed or Virgin Mary themed presents received: 3 (and so it begins)

Number of Red Bulls consumed: 2 (by contrast, number consumed in the month prior to graduation: at least 15)

Number of different curries tried: 4

Number of museums visited: at least 15, most more than once

Number of scarves acquired: 4

Number of days when I have missed Geneva, at least in some sense: 365

Number of days when I was glad I was not in college, at least in some sense: 200, give or take

Number of days when I missed high school: 2

Number of different NYC subways I've taken: all except the M, J, and Z

Number of boroughs visited: all 5 (I think the most I've done is 3 in one day)

Number of live sporting events attended: 3

Number of times that our apartment has ordered ginger noodles from the Thai restaurant up the block: well, a lot

Number of bagels consumed: weekly? 2 or so. You do the math.

Number of days I've missed sleeping on a bed: 365

Number of days I'm glad I live in Brooklyn: 355
Number of days before I move to Indiana: 97

*(side note: I think they should not spend money on someone boring and platitude-spewing and instead have a professor make the main grad speech. They're a lot more interesting and insightful, by and large. Or, hire someone with a lovely voice to read Adrienne Rich's "Claiming an Education.")

Bus Tales

There are certain points of Brooklyn that you can't get to by subway, and so you have to take the bus (like Red Hook, where I work, or Canarsie, where my cousin works). Ah, the bus. It's like a microcosm of New York City--the good, the bad, the funny, the nutty, it's all there, and it's all contained. I like it because I can look around outside. I don't like it because I can't read on it without getting sick. Also, I fell over the first time I took the bus, but have sorted myself out. Well, kind of.

So, a lot of bus riding has occurred of late, and some great stuff has happened. Here are the highlights.

B61 to downtown Brooklyn
Ahead of me boarding are two men with Fairway Market shirts on.
Guy 1: I'm sure you got the job.
Guy 2: I don't know man, I'm not very qualified, I'm trying not to get my hopes up too high..I could really use the money though.
They back away to find seats.
I swipe my card.
The busdriver, over the loudspeaker: Hey! I don't need that type of negativity on my bus! I'm sure you got the job, brother.
Guy 2 (who is now in the middle of the bus and has to yell): Well, maybe, but I don't want to get too excited about it.
Busdriver: Positive thinking, man. It works.
Guy 2: And I have a job now, so at least my family won't starve.
Busdriver: Good, that's what I like to hear.
Guy 2: Hey, maybe I want your job.
Busdriver: Brother, you do not want this job. They're cutting us all over the place.
[note: this is true. The MTA just cut a LOT of bus routes and jobs, effective at the end of June. It's miserable. And some of the bus drivers have started announcing some stops like, "Union St, transfer to the B71, FOR NOW, before somebody cuts it." Not a great climate with the MTA right now.]

10 minutes go by, and the bus has filled up a lot by then. People are standing a bit too close to the rear door, so the busdriver picks up the loudspeaker again.
Busdriver [in a deep and scary voice]: Please step away from the back door. The last man who stood that close is no. longer. with. us. Poor Tom. May he rest in peace.
[Pause]
Busdriver: That means YOU, gentleman in the blue jacket!
Blue jacket gentleman is either zoned out or does not understand English, because he does not move. The man next to me reached over and gently tapped him on the shoulder and moved him away from the door.

B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Quiet Saturday morning. I'm sitting next to a woman who has two daughters with her, probably about ages 3 and 6. They are adorable. There is a fashionable looking woman and her partner across the aisle from us.
Fashionable woman: I just wanted to let you know that your daughters are beautiful.
Mom: Oh, thank you. I had to stop telling them that because I didn't want it to go to their heads!
Fashionable woman (to the girls): just always know that you are beautiful and no one can ever, ever take that away from you.
Partner, squeezing her hand: No, they can't.
Older girl: Ok.

B65 to Crown Heights
Woman 1: did you ever have that moment when you were reading a book as a kid? And you were sitting under a tree on a blanket and thinking that you were suddenly in another world, and there was no where else you would rather be? Mine was The Secret Garden. That's when I realized what reading could do.
Woman 2: Mine was Little House on the Prairie. I felt like I was Laura. I never forgot that.
Me (in my head, not out loud): Mine was Walk Two Moons.

B65 to downtown Brooklyn
Early morning, and 3 girls get on for school; I presume they are sisters. The youngest is very young, probably 5, and the oldest is maybe 12, and the middle around 8. The 12 year old is in charge of them. She sits next to me, and they sit in the seats behind us.
5 year old: I don't like the way the brakes sound. They go squeeeeeeak.
8 year old: Me either. Hey, did you press the secret accelerator?
5 year old: No! Ready...NOW!! [they simultaneously kick the back of our seats]
12 year old: KNOCK IT OFF. Please don't embarrass me.
8 year old: Warp speed! We need the emergency break.
5 year old [poking her sister in the head]: We're going into space!! WE'RE GOING INTO OUTER SPACE!!!
12 year old: Oh, please stop yelling.
5 year old: BLAST OFF!!!!!
Me: [bursts out laughing]

B65 to Crown Heights
We are stopped at a red light and see a cab cut off a biker. It didn't seem like that big a deal to me--the cab wasn't anywhere close to hitting him--but the bike driver freaks out and punches the fender of the cab, while screaming. I can't hear anything through the glass. I think I'm the only one even looking at this scene. The cab stops. The bus driver whips out his bike lock and is waving it at the cab as if to go for the window. The light turns green and we go on.

B63 to Atlantic Avenue
The seats are mostly full, but the bus is not super crowded. An older woman gets on with a 2 year old, who toddles on while her grandma/aunt/babysitter hunts for her card. The girl is about half way to the back on the bus when the busdriver starts to pull away from the curb, and I'm not kidding when I say that every person within a 6 foot radius, myself included, lunged out to make sure she didn't fall. People stuck out legs, arms, canes, and one man held on to her until her grandmother could get back to her.

B6 to East New York, courtesy of my cousin:
A lady gets on, sits down for 3 seconds, and proclaims loudly in an amazing Caribbean accent: "Jesus is coming, people." She then continues on a rant about the state of the world. This happens on a daily basis. Finally, one day...
Lady: "Jesus is coming, people."
Random guy: "WHEN IS HE COMING? You've been saying this every day and he's not here yet."

And a bonus boat story:
I am eating lunch outside on the docks, and am walking to throw out my trash. I'm holding a bottle of seltzer in one hand. A wizened, shirtless man standing on his boat (which is called "My Lady") yells over to me, "Hey doll! Hope it's vodka in that bottle." I responded with, "oh, I wish it were," and then we waved and went our separate ways.

S'Mac

I love macaroni and cheese, but really, who doesn't? I make a pretty good baked version (usually with broccoli in it), but am also happy enough to eat some sort of Kraft product, especially if the pasta is shaped like characters from Toy Story. I'm not fussy in the pasta department.

(thanks to the Retro Info blog for the image!)

So really, me google-ing "mac and cheese restaurants New York City" was not a huge surprise. And there is one, a restaurant that just serves mac and cheese, salads, desserts, and a few types of drinks. It is called S'Mac, which stands for Sarita's Macaroni and Cheese, and is in the East Village.

I was worried about the trendy factor (the East Village is so fun to walk around, but can be a bit annoying, hipster-wise) and the crowded factor, particularly since we went on a Friday night. But even if I had to wait an hour for a table, I would go there again. Plus, they have take-out. The place ROCKS.

What did we get? We all got the Nosh size, which was the smallest, and since I had lunch late it made me comfortably full. If I were quite hungry, I might up it to the Major Munch size. They serve it in individual skillets. We scraped the sides of the skillets when we were done, hunting for more--it was that tasty. I got the Napoletana (a word I have trouble saying, for some reason) which was mozzarella, roasted tomatoes, garlic, and basil. I'm not big on tomatoes, but they didn't overwhelm it in the slightest, and the basil was a tasty addition. One of my friends had the 4 Cheese and a salad (which she said was also good, the rest of us weren't virtuous enough to comprise the mac with excess green stuff). The other friend got the Garden Lite, which involved cauliflower, broccoli, and mushrooms. This friend can't eat gluten, and they not only had gluten free pasta, but gluten free breadcrumbs to put on top. Since it was officially the weekend and we were belatedly celebrating Karl Marx's birthday, we got Cabernet to go with it. It was served in plastic cups. Works for me.

Any downsides? It is a bit small inside, so when we were leaving the line was out to the street. The cashier/servers weren't outrageous friendly, but they certainly weren't surly either. Forks should be located on each table, so if you can't find them, it may be that they haven't been restocked.

You can create your own, but we went with some of the recommended ones, and there are plenty more (Parisienne with Brie, roasted figs, fresh rosemary? Cajun with andouille sausage, green pepper, and onions? Alpine with Gruyere and slab bacon? All there.)

We'll be back. You can order it online, but I feel like the delivery to Brooklyn would not be cost prohibitive, nor feasible. Plus, when I was walking from the subway I saw a man carrying a piano across the street, so the people watching is solid. If you're intrigued, do check out the website--I linked it above, but here it is again. They have some vegan-lactose intolerant options, as well as the gluten free ones. I like that they also seem to support a few different women-centered organizations.

Creditors: A Tragi-Comedy

(thanks to my friend Annalise for snapping this picture in the subway)

"A superbly taut, tense and terrible little play"--a 1959 review

"Don't be afraid later, when you see me at work dissecting a human soul and laying out the bits and pieces here on the table. It sounds nasty if you're a beginner, but once you've seen it done you won't regret the experience." --Gustav, one of the three characters in Creditors

"It seemed to me to be less of a play and more an almost demonic experiment on a set of three human lab rats." --David Greif, current playwright and translator

"The characters don't argue; they use words like clubs." --Germaine Greer, reviewer

If this doesn't sound like your idea of an enjoyable Tuesday night, well, I'm with you. But it turns out I was wrong.

I had not heard of August Strindberg or his play Creditors (1888) before a few weeks ago. It passed my radar when I was looking at upcoming shows at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (which is called BAM.) Creditors, importantly, was directed by Alan Rickman and coming off of a very well-received run in London. Being a very big fan of Alan Rickman, and more specifically his voice, I was even more thrilled that he would be giving an artist talk before one of the performances. Hastily, two of my friends and I booked tickets and decided to go to the play as well.

Now, as I said, I didn't know what I was getting myself into, so I checked a Strindberg book out of the library, hunkered down, and realized that I would be dreading this 90 minute, no intermission battle of human emotions. There are three characters (Adolf, Gustav, and Tekla) who form a pretty twisted romantic triangle. I don't do well with plays which only take place in one room. I had more fun preparing for the Alan Rickman part, where I watched four of his movies in one weekend.

So: the day arrived, we met our out-of-town friend and had a lovely time with her. We went to the talk, wolfed some food in the lobby (between us we'd smuggled in about 1 1/2 pounds of sweet potatoes in our purses--it was pretty classy) and climbed the 70 stairs to our seats in the nosebleed section. The seats, I should add, were bar stools with backs that you had to hop into, so I was even more not excited about sitting there and being depressed.

The play was great. Genuinely heart-wrenching and gut-wrenching, but also--funny? Yep, I laughed, and more than once. The words which seemed so dull on the page came out of someplace in the actors that felt very real. Rickman must be a very, very good director (listening to him talk, you get the sense that he is.) What was intriguing about the performance is that I hated all of the characters at one point or another, and then two lines later pitied them immensely. Humans can be awful sometimes. But we recognize that awfulness, too.

Here is one thing I don't quite understand. When I read the play, I chalked Strindberg up as a misogynist, and sort of dismissed him as such (Greer points this out, too). But, as I watched the play, I realized that 1. his male characters are just as vile and cutting as his female ones, and 2. Tekla was the one with the power, the drive, and the self-confidence to do what she wanted. Since she is more powerful than the men, is that a negative portrayal of women or not?

And what about the Creditor to my heart? (ha, nice one.) Celebrity must be such an odd thing. People kept giving Rickman presents after they asked him questions, which we thought was both hilarious and off-putting. What were they, copies of screenplays they wanted him to look at? Anyway, here are my impressions of the Man, the Myth, the Legend:


(thanks to BAM online for the image!)
1. He has a way of smiling which is completely disarming. He said that his old acting coaches told him to stop sounding like he "was talking out the back of a drainpipe" but his voice is mesmerizing. He thinks a lot before he speaks, so every word takes on a certain purpose. He lingers on the words he likes, like "vicious" or "relentless" or the phrase "subtle cruelty," which he said with great relish.
2. He seems normal. Yes, I certainly wasn't talking to him face to face, but he was modest and kept chuckling (which sounded like a bear laughing) and was self-deprecating and very English.
3. He is smart. Having just watched Bottle Shock, a movie which no one has heard of but which I enjoyed (if you liked Sideways you would like it, I think), I was pretty sure he was fluent in French. Not only that, but as he talked he spit out quotes and examples from a bunch of different directors, theatrical and otherwise. He could recite theory and pop culture with the same ease.
4. He genuinely loves acting, and I think he really likes the theatre. At one point, he said that there is a "human need to be told a story," which can only be fulfilled by seeing someone in person and feeling the energy there. Having watched Creditors, I would agree. There were a few points where people around me actually jumped or gasped. Rickman also said that he hoped that truly listening would equal truly learning. Well Alan, you got certainly got me to listen.

Don't know much about Alan Rickman's career? Watch this and this and this. Immediately. For more of his voice, listen here. And for an irreverent (and very good!) impression of him by John Sessions, check this out. For even MORE irreverence, check out Strindberg and Helium.

At one point, Tekla tells Gustav, "there is no guilt, Gustav. There's just...people--men and women, fallen human beings--trying to do what they can to live. No one is to blame, Gustav. Not even you." It shouldn't be reassuring, this thought. But somehow it is.