16th Street intern Charlie Homerding shares more thoughts on MENORCA rehearsals...
"The first 2 weeks of rehearsal are over! We’ve had additions, cuts, and revisions of the script. It’s crazy to see the process of a new play. Because no one knows what they’re doing. Just kidding, I do, I make the coffee, remember? But seriously, we’re all trying to figure this play out together. Ann will take time to talk about the scenes making sure we’re all on the same page, and every day the actors will bring something new to their characters. It’s been great to be a part of the process. I’ve been helping the actors out with their lines, and I even got to fill in for an actor the other day! Well, it was really for just a scene or two… and I was carrying a bulky stage manager binder. But still fun!
Next week the actors are supposed to be off book. We’ll see how well they do."
Friday, August 27, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Creativity, genius and showing up to work
Paula Swasko sent this to me. Thoughts on the creative process and where it comes from.
It is a video of Elizabeth Gilbert's speech at the 2009 TED Conference. Didn't know anything about this author before or her work (though I think I saw the film Coyote Ugly) but now I am intrigued.
I hope you enjoy it and that it inspires you to show up for your part.
It is a video of Elizabeth Gilbert's speech at the 2009 TED Conference. Didn't know anything about this author before or her work (though I think I saw the film Coyote Ugly) but now I am intrigued.
I hope you enjoy it and that it inspires you to show up for your part.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
MENORCA Rehearsal Blog
Charlie Homerding, who was my assistant director on last summer's The Last Barbecue is joining us again to help out with MENORCA until he goes back to school at Northwestern for his final year. He will be sharing his thoughts and impressions throughout our rehearsal process. Enjoy! -- Ann Filmer
"Most of my days this summer consisted of half hour drives down Harlem Ave. that took 20 min. or 45 min. depending on road construction, car accidents or my own tardiness. My destination? The 16th Street Theater. Yesterday was our first rehearsal for Menorca. I was told to make coffee. I really don’t drink coffee… How much do I put in? I figured stronger was better than weaker. The actors can always put more creamer in it, so I went with five – not four – spoonfuls of the generic coffee mix that Ann bought.
"Most of my days this summer consisted of half hour drives down Harlem Ave. that took 20 min. or 45 min. depending on road construction, car accidents or my own tardiness. My destination? The 16th Street Theater. Yesterday was our first rehearsal for Menorca. I was told to make coffee. I really don’t drink coffee… How much do I put in? I figured stronger was better than weaker. The actors can always put more creamer in it, so I went with five – not four – spoonfuls of the generic coffee mix that Ann bought.
The actors slowly filled in the seats around the large table that our stage manager (Patrick) and his assistant (me) made out of two smaller tables that can be found in many park district basements. I noticed the age diversity in our cast as they poured their coffee (hope they liked it) and chatted with each other. The older members of the cast are, for lack of a better description, middle aged. The younger members range from early 20s to young 30s. Where do I lie? I’ll be 21 on August 18th. Ages are important. It helps when we can put people on a spectrum.
The opening monologue begins with the main character’s perspective on time. Layers are more important to her than linear progression. She’s an archeologist and likes to dig. Apparently that qualifies her to make grand statements about the world. Like she’s been through life or something. Oh wait, I forgot... she’s middle aged. And of course, we later see her struggle through slightly confusing time lapses that capture everything from love to identity crisis. And she doesn’t really talk about layers and linear progression again… at least not as overtly as in that opening monologue. Her life is confusing. She grew up speaking Catalan with a Basque accent, then Castilian with a Catalan accent. Then went to England with a “Spanish” accent, and now she’s in America where she fits perfectly. Ha! Just kidding, she doesn’t fit perfectly. That’s the whole point of the play.
I think this play is about deconstruction. We start with the epiphany. We start with message. It’s there in the first five minutes. The audience can leave. See ya later! Come back for next season! But a paragraph or a quote or a cute little message doesn’t really touch an audience. It doesn’t let the audience have their own epiphany. We have to deconstruct first, and that happens when we see this character slowly realize how fragmented and chipped and fractured her life is. She doesn’t think linearly. She can’t.
Every night I drive home from 16th and Ridgeland and go back to Burbank, IL, and I see the landscape slowly change. I pass through Chicago’s very own borderlands. Cultures and languages that have nothing in common find their place on a pot holed line called Harlem Ave. Do we just see it as a spectrum? Where each end stays put and everything in the middle is lost in the shuffle of left turns and yellow lights? Or do we see it as layers? Where one thing makes up the other thing and we build upon each other?
I guess the only way to answer that question is if we deconstruct. What are our layers? How can we be this thing and also be that? Can I be the rehearsal assistant stage manager and learn more than just how many spoonfuls makes the best coffee?
I don’t know… I guess we’ll have to see how the rest of the rehearsal process turns out."
Monday, July 26, 2010
Bones, Basques & Barcelona: Day 9 (Final Day)
Hope you have enjoyed actress Kirsten D'Aurelio's blog. This is her final post. Rehearsals for MENORCA begin in just 3 weeks from today!
"On our last day of “Where’s Ollie?”, I was up and out of our Barcelona hotel with great anticipation to see a local phenomenon of cultural identity: the Sardana.
Every Sunday at noon in Barcelona's Barrio Gotico area, traditional Catalan music is played by an 11-piece band. As the music begins, groups of men and women appear, forming circles of about 12-30 people. In the center of the circle, they all place their belongings—purses, shopping bags, etc. as a statement of sharing, unity, trust. When the music starts, they clasp hands and hoist them above their heads, where they remain for the whole dance. Then the fancy footwork begins (I couldn’t get it down), sometimes with a spring in the step but never rotating the circle very much at all. This is the mid-19th century folk dance known as the Sardana. The dancers, most of whom were in their 60’s and above, had very determined expressions on their faces. Though the music sounds pretty upbeat to me, there’s wasn’t a lot of joy expressed in the dance; it doesn’t seem to be about that. There is a quiet elegance, a rootedness about it. Some of the dancers wear white espadrille shoes (invented by the Basques, by the way.) When the song ended, the groups dispersed, but others popped up all around the plaza while the band continued to play. An elderly woman approached me for a donation “for la musica”, and then looked me strongly in the eye and carefully pronounced the word “Sardana” to me, as if this were an important moment of cultural transmission between us. When I repeated it back, she nodded and gave me a sticker with the name of the sponsoring organization on it, and then disappeared into the crowd, just like the dancers. I was so moved by this display of unity, cultural pride, creative expression. For me, there was a feeling emanating from them that this dance is a link to a collective past, and ain’t no way they’re letting go of it (and indeed, there was one group of 40-somethings, not quite as skilled, but clearly grooming themselves to receive the torch.) All of this was made even more meaningful to me when I learned that the Catalans had their own 9/11 terror---in 1714. The King of Spain sent orders from Madrid to slaughter Catalan patriots, and they were killed on September 11, 1714 and buried in a mass grave in another plaza nearby, which has a monument with an eternal flame commemorating their 9/11 massacre. Even today, this dance is apparently ridiculed by many in Spain. So expressing their cultural identity week after week is an act of historical defiance and cultural survival. The serene but resolute looks on the dancers’ faces tell the whole story of what this enduring ritual means to them. I was moved to tears by the entire thing and will never forget it. Here’s another traveler’s footage of it:
After this glorious beginning, it was on to the Picasso Museum. Somewhere into his Blue Period, I was hit with a mild case of Stendhal Syndrome and Could. Not. Take. In. One. More. Visual. So I sat on a bench while my husband finished the exhibit, and I contemplated the artist’s loooong baptismal name, a series of names honoring various saints and relatives. The early paintings in the exhibit were signed “Pablo Ruiz Picasso”. Then “Ruiz Picasso.” And by 1901, I noticed that the Ruiz had dropped out. From then on, he was just Picasso, which is his mother’s birth name. Why did he go the nontraditional matrilineal route to self-identify? Was Ruiz too common? Was he closer to his mother? My character’s name, Ollie, is actually a nickname for a long set of names like Picasso’s, but her surname is the traditional patrilineal. So much of the “who am I?” and “where do I belong?” questions seem to be wrapped up in a name. Perhaps that’s because, as the Basques say, “Izena duen guria omen da.” (“That which has a name, exists.”) When you choose a name, you pull that identity more strongly into existence.
Continuing our exploration of the Barri Gotic, we found the old Jewish Quarter, which was an active ‘hood in the 12-14th centuries but now has been completely subsumed. We peered at buildings up and down those narrow streets until we finally spotted a mezuzah (ritual door ornament) on a small, unobtrusive doorway. At that moment, a young man and and elderly woman approached and knocked on the door. “It’s the old synagogue,” he said, and it was closed, but according to the elderly lady we could find a Hebrew plaque “dans la rue.” Several meters down la rue, we finally saw some Hebrew lettering and an inscription dedicating the service of one Rabbi Samuel. Scrawled on the plaque in pink spray paint were the words “LIBRE PALESTINE!”, making the dedication to the rabbi only partially legible. As Ollie says in the script, “It does not matter if you are not political, because the world is political, and you live in it every day....you cannot avoid it, it follows you home.”
The easy, clean Metro took us to 3 final attractions: La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s cathedral-in-progress (since 1882); Park Guell (wonderfully whimsical Gaudi—Willy Wonka meets Dr. Seuss); the Magic Fountains of Plaza Espanya (even better than Buckingham Fountain). Then on to a fabulous farewell meal with tapas and sangria. Barcelona is a beautiful city that anyone would be proud to call home.
Now back to Chicago to integrate the things I’ve learned in the last 9 days so I can bring Ollie to life! Thanks for traveling with me. Hope to see you at the show in September!" ----Kirsten
"On our last day of “Where’s Ollie?”, I was up and out of our Barcelona hotel with great anticipation to see a local phenomenon of cultural identity: the Sardana.
Every Sunday at noon in Barcelona's Barrio Gotico area, traditional Catalan music is played by an 11-piece band. As the music begins, groups of men and women appear, forming circles of about 12-30 people. In the center of the circle, they all place their belongings—purses, shopping bags, etc. as a statement of sharing, unity, trust. When the music starts, they clasp hands and hoist them above their heads, where they remain for the whole dance. Then the fancy footwork begins (I couldn’t get it down), sometimes with a spring in the step but never rotating the circle very much at all. This is the mid-19th century folk dance known as the Sardana. The dancers, most of whom were in their 60’s and above, had very determined expressions on their faces. Though the music sounds pretty upbeat to me, there’s wasn’t a lot of joy expressed in the dance; it doesn’t seem to be about that. There is a quiet elegance, a rootedness about it. Some of the dancers wear white espadrille shoes (invented by the Basques, by the way.) When the song ended, the groups dispersed, but others popped up all around the plaza while the band continued to play. An elderly woman approached me for a donation “for la musica”, and then looked me strongly in the eye and carefully pronounced the word “Sardana” to me, as if this were an important moment of cultural transmission between us. When I repeated it back, she nodded and gave me a sticker with the name of the sponsoring organization on it, and then disappeared into the crowd, just like the dancers. I was so moved by this display of unity, cultural pride, creative expression. For me, there was a feeling emanating from them that this dance is a link to a collective past, and ain’t no way they’re letting go of it (and indeed, there was one group of 40-somethings, not quite as skilled, but clearly grooming themselves to receive the torch.) All of this was made even more meaningful to me when I learned that the Catalans had their own 9/11 terror---in 1714. The King of Spain sent orders from Madrid to slaughter Catalan patriots, and they were killed on September 11, 1714 and buried in a mass grave in another plaza nearby, which has a monument with an eternal flame commemorating their 9/11 massacre. Even today, this dance is apparently ridiculed by many in Spain. So expressing their cultural identity week after week is an act of historical defiance and cultural survival. The serene but resolute looks on the dancers’ faces tell the whole story of what this enduring ritual means to them. I was moved to tears by the entire thing and will never forget it. Here’s another traveler’s footage of it:
After this glorious beginning, it was on to the Picasso Museum. Somewhere into his Blue Period, I was hit with a mild case of Stendhal Syndrome and Could. Not. Take. In. One. More. Visual. So I sat on a bench while my husband finished the exhibit, and I contemplated the artist’s loooong baptismal name, a series of names honoring various saints and relatives. The early paintings in the exhibit were signed “Pablo Ruiz Picasso”. Then “Ruiz Picasso.” And by 1901, I noticed that the Ruiz had dropped out. From then on, he was just Picasso, which is his mother’s birth name. Why did he go the nontraditional matrilineal route to self-identify? Was Ruiz too common? Was he closer to his mother? My character’s name, Ollie, is actually a nickname for a long set of names like Picasso’s, but her surname is the traditional patrilineal. So much of the “who am I?” and “where do I belong?” questions seem to be wrapped up in a name. Perhaps that’s because, as the Basques say, “Izena duen guria omen da.” (“That which has a name, exists.”) When you choose a name, you pull that identity more strongly into existence.
Continuing our exploration of the Barri Gotic, we found the old Jewish Quarter, which was an active ‘hood in the 12-14th centuries but now has been completely subsumed. We peered at buildings up and down those narrow streets until we finally spotted a mezuzah (ritual door ornament) on a small, unobtrusive doorway. At that moment, a young man and and elderly woman approached and knocked on the door. “It’s the old synagogue,” he said, and it was closed, but according to the elderly lady we could find a Hebrew plaque “dans la rue.” Several meters down la rue, we finally saw some Hebrew lettering and an inscription dedicating the service of one Rabbi Samuel. Scrawled on the plaque in pink spray paint were the words “LIBRE PALESTINE!”, making the dedication to the rabbi only partially legible. As Ollie says in the script, “It does not matter if you are not political, because the world is political, and you live in it every day....you cannot avoid it, it follows you home.”
The easy, clean Metro took us to 3 final attractions: La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s cathedral-in-progress (since 1882); Park Guell (wonderfully whimsical Gaudi—Willy Wonka meets Dr. Seuss); the Magic Fountains of Plaza Espanya (even better than Buckingham Fountain). Then on to a fabulous farewell meal with tapas and sangria. Barcelona is a beautiful city that anyone would be proud to call home.
Now back to Chicago to integrate the things I’ve learned in the last 9 days so I can bring Ollie to life! Thanks for traveling with me. Hope to see you at the show in September!" ----Kirsten
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Bones, Basques & Barcelona: Day 8
Second-to-last post from actress Kirsten D'Aurelio...
"We’re back in Catalan territory here in Barcelona, though there are little touches of Basque culture here---mostly bars or restaurants, where the Euskera font is used to draw you in, but the food isn’t really Basque cuisine. It’s just a lure, a way of appearing exotic or something, and a bit exploitative if you ask me, like a Native American at a casino. No Basque flags, no Euskera on the signs here. It’s fascinating how geographically contained Basque culture is; just a short 45-minute flight southeast within Spain and poof! A whole would-be nation has disappeared. Which means that Ollie was an outsider here at 8 years old, and found herself faced with a new language (Catalan.) By the time this play begins, adult Ollie can speak Euskera, Castillian Spanish, Catalan, and English (British, Canadian, and U.S. varieties.)
To get a fast orientation to Barcelona since we’ll only be here 2 days, we hopped on a city tour bus that allowed us to hop on and off as we pleased. First stop: the Joan Miro museum. Really wonderful collection. Then we rode a cable car gondola that took us to the top of Mont Juic (“Mount of the Jews”). Ironically, the 9th century Jewish tombstones that gave this place its name were moved to a museum one year ago, so it’s now really “Mount of No Jews”...But the view from there is stunning, overlooking the whole city, harbor and sea. Barcelona really is a gorgeous city. Back on the bus, we glimpsed the Olympic Stadiums and a cool sculpture by Calatrava. Then a very tall statue of Christopher Columbus on a colonnade near the harbor. It’s interesting how many peoples like to claim him: his native Italians, Italian-Americans, the Basques (who built his ships and sailed with him), the Spanish (who employed him.)
Also saw the stadium complex for FC (Football Club) Barcelona, the city’s pride and joy athletic institution and soccer team. Ollie mentions them in the play.
Got a brief taste of the wonderful Gaudi architecture at the Pedrera house. I’m starting to understand “modernisme” (the Catalan art noveau movement) better, and in general the contributions by Catalans like Gaudi and Miro. Catalans here live inside the city, but are also outside it (one bit of graffiti read “Catalonia is NOT Spain!”) So would Ollie have felt a kinship with Catalans, who have a separate, distinct cultural identity just as the Basques do? Interestingly, there was a “Forum of the Cultures” in Barcelona in 2004 to recognize “nations without states,” and attendees included Basques, Catalans, Native Americans, Roma (Gypsies) and Maoris. A big party for the outsiders.
Late in the day, we wandered the Ramblas, a long pedestrian mall lined with trinkets, trash and tourists, which I found to be crass, commercial and cacophonous (wasn’t happy to see Burger King, McDonald’s and KFC jammed with excited tourists at 1 a.m., either.) But on one side street off the Ramblas, there is a recently-discovered Roman necropolis right in the middle of this commercial district! Not your every day find in modern day Barcelona, and the novelty of this made me wonder how the heck a person like Ollie becomes interested in antiquity (archaeology) when surrounded by so much modernity in a big, up-to-date cities like Barcelona and San Sebastian. Where did her vocational passion come from? Have to figure that one out.
Here are the tombs:
Tomorrow: my last day to soak up sunny Spain, and to find more of Ollie in her childhood city!"
"We’re back in Catalan territory here in Barcelona, though there are little touches of Basque culture here---mostly bars or restaurants, where the Euskera font is used to draw you in, but the food isn’t really Basque cuisine. It’s just a lure, a way of appearing exotic or something, and a bit exploitative if you ask me, like a Native American at a casino. No Basque flags, no Euskera on the signs here. It’s fascinating how geographically contained Basque culture is; just a short 45-minute flight southeast within Spain and poof! A whole would-be nation has disappeared. Which means that Ollie was an outsider here at 8 years old, and found herself faced with a new language (Catalan.) By the time this play begins, adult Ollie can speak Euskera, Castillian Spanish, Catalan, and English (British, Canadian, and U.S. varieties.)
To get a fast orientation to Barcelona since we’ll only be here 2 days, we hopped on a city tour bus that allowed us to hop on and off as we pleased. First stop: the Joan Miro museum. Really wonderful collection. Then we rode a cable car gondola that took us to the top of Mont Juic (“Mount of the Jews”). Ironically, the 9th century Jewish tombstones that gave this place its name were moved to a museum one year ago, so it’s now really “Mount of No Jews”...But the view from there is stunning, overlooking the whole city, harbor and sea. Barcelona really is a gorgeous city. Back on the bus, we glimpsed the Olympic Stadiums and a cool sculpture by Calatrava. Then a very tall statue of Christopher Columbus on a colonnade near the harbor. It’s interesting how many peoples like to claim him: his native Italians, Italian-Americans, the Basques (who built his ships and sailed with him), the Spanish (who employed him.)
Also saw the stadium complex for FC (Football Club) Barcelona, the city’s pride and joy athletic institution and soccer team. Ollie mentions them in the play.
Got a brief taste of the wonderful Gaudi architecture at the Pedrera house. I’m starting to understand “modernisme” (the Catalan art noveau movement) better, and in general the contributions by Catalans like Gaudi and Miro. Catalans here live inside the city, but are also outside it (one bit of graffiti read “Catalonia is NOT Spain!”) So would Ollie have felt a kinship with Catalans, who have a separate, distinct cultural identity just as the Basques do? Interestingly, there was a “Forum of the Cultures” in Barcelona in 2004 to recognize “nations without states,” and attendees included Basques, Catalans, Native Americans, Roma (Gypsies) and Maoris. A big party for the outsiders.
Late in the day, we wandered the Ramblas, a long pedestrian mall lined with trinkets, trash and tourists, which I found to be crass, commercial and cacophonous (wasn’t happy to see Burger King, McDonald’s and KFC jammed with excited tourists at 1 a.m., either.) But on one side street off the Ramblas, there is a recently-discovered Roman necropolis right in the middle of this commercial district! Not your every day find in modern day Barcelona, and the novelty of this made me wonder how the heck a person like Ollie becomes interested in antiquity (archaeology) when surrounded by so much modernity in a big, up-to-date cities like Barcelona and San Sebastian. Where did her vocational passion come from? Have to figure that one out.
Here are the tombs:
Tomorrow: my last day to soak up sunny Spain, and to find more of Ollie in her childhood city!"
Monday, July 19, 2010
corrections for Chris Jones
Some corrections to Chris Jones review of THIS TRAINDear Chris,
John Rice is the guitar player, the music director and the one who wrote (along with Kat) the music for the song poems that Kat sings.
John did not have his back to the audience the whole time.
That man playing the harmonica was Buzz Kilman as the Hobo Ghost. You could also think of him as Mr Fowler.
The lyrics for those song poems are from Tony's Hobo Alphabet Series of collages. A collage was projected after a story (they go together) while Kat gives voice to the poem within the work of art. Video artist Kristin Reeves focuses our attention onto the detail of Tony's art so we can see the hobo alphabet symbols, poetry, details and objects within his collages. Then she shows the collage in its entirety.
THIS TRAIN was not found. It was deliberately and specifically crafted to give the audience a deeper look and understanding into Tony's work as an artist and a storyteller, along with his day-to-day struggles and shortcomings as a human being who lives, works and participates in our great and complicated city of Chicago.
more later
ann
Bones, Basques & Barcelona: Day 7
Actress Kirsten D'Aurelio's blog researching MENORCA... Day 7
"Devoted the last day in Euskadi (Basqueland) to visiting Ollie´s birthplace: Donostia (also called San Sebastian, in Spanish.) I was eager to see what kinds of formative sights/sounds/flavors might have shaped Ollie as a child. 2 buses got us from Bilbao to Donostia´s Boulevard near the old town, which is chock full of pintxos bars, gelaterias, and bakeries. After a quick breakfast, we strolled along the 2-mile shoreline of the Playa Concha, which has beautiful views of the surrounding hills and the Atlantic Ocean. Less beautiful though is the dingy promenade and the surrounding buildings. A bit like Coney Island--faded glory. For some reason that even the tourist office couldn´t explain to us, there were polizia everywhere, some doing random vehicle checks, and we also encountered some pretty unfriendly merchants in the shops. Are they sick of all the tourists (who apparently comprise 50% of the population at any given time), perhaps? We tried to shake it off by wading into the ocean, but the hypodermic that washed ashore didn´t help matters. What to do? Something that is not deductible on my performing artist tax return: a visit to the fancy beachside spa. 4 pools, 2 saunas, and a relaxation room later, we felt ready to return to the town. I sought out the famous "pastel vasco" (Basque cake), which has been around for centuries. It was oddly-shaped, sort of like a pot pie, but tasted delicious. The ikkariña (Basque flag) was displayed everywhere. Unfortunately, we ran out of time to stop by Bar Herria, a haunt for Basque nationalists, where apparently there are photos displayed of some of the more violent members of the movement, who are currently serving prison terms.
Did a mad dash back to Bilbao to catch our flight only to find it delayed due to the rain in Spain. So all in all, not the best day of the trip. But still some highlights, like the picturesque views of the hills and valleys and the whitewashed, red-roofed Basque houses I could see out the bus window between Donostia and Bilbao. Also a great ariel view of the Pyrenees on the flight to Barcelona tonight (where I am writing this blog entry.) By the end of the day, we will have followed Ollie´s trail on 5 buses, 2 taxis, and a plane---whew!
And what of Ollie today? I came away from Donostia wtih the thought that due to the massive tourism industry in her hometown, Ollie was exposed to lots of people from different places, speaking different languages, different cultural values, etc. San Sebastian today has 180,000 people, so Ollie didn´t grow up in a tiny Basque village like the one we visited last night. She had a big view of the world right from the start, and though she would have had plenty of company as an "euskal herria" (speaker of Euskera), she was living in a place where other cultural identities were alive and well. Was that environment enough to cement her Basque identity, or did it leave a window open for questioning who she was? At 8 years old, she would move to an even bigger place--Barcelona--with her family, so that´s where I´m headed now to see where she finished growing up. Tomorrow: Barcelona!"
"Devoted the last day in Euskadi (Basqueland) to visiting Ollie´s birthplace: Donostia (also called San Sebastian, in Spanish.) I was eager to see what kinds of formative sights/sounds/flavors might have shaped Ollie as a child. 2 buses got us from Bilbao to Donostia´s Boulevard near the old town, which is chock full of pintxos bars, gelaterias, and bakeries. After a quick breakfast, we strolled along the 2-mile shoreline of the Playa Concha, which has beautiful views of the surrounding hills and the Atlantic Ocean. Less beautiful though is the dingy promenade and the surrounding buildings. A bit like Coney Island--faded glory. For some reason that even the tourist office couldn´t explain to us, there were polizia everywhere, some doing random vehicle checks, and we also encountered some pretty unfriendly merchants in the shops. Are they sick of all the tourists (who apparently comprise 50% of the population at any given time), perhaps? We tried to shake it off by wading into the ocean, but the hypodermic that washed ashore didn´t help matters. What to do? Something that is not deductible on my performing artist tax return: a visit to the fancy beachside spa. 4 pools, 2 saunas, and a relaxation room later, we felt ready to return to the town. I sought out the famous "pastel vasco" (Basque cake), which has been around for centuries. It was oddly-shaped, sort of like a pot pie, but tasted delicious. The ikkariña (Basque flag) was displayed everywhere. Unfortunately, we ran out of time to stop by Bar Herria, a haunt for Basque nationalists, where apparently there are photos displayed of some of the more violent members of the movement, who are currently serving prison terms.
Did a mad dash back to Bilbao to catch our flight only to find it delayed due to the rain in Spain. So all in all, not the best day of the trip. But still some highlights, like the picturesque views of the hills and valleys and the whitewashed, red-roofed Basque houses I could see out the bus window between Donostia and Bilbao. Also a great ariel view of the Pyrenees on the flight to Barcelona tonight (where I am writing this blog entry.) By the end of the day, we will have followed Ollie´s trail on 5 buses, 2 taxis, and a plane---whew!
And what of Ollie today? I came away from Donostia wtih the thought that due to the massive tourism industry in her hometown, Ollie was exposed to lots of people from different places, speaking different languages, different cultural values, etc. San Sebastian today has 180,000 people, so Ollie didn´t grow up in a tiny Basque village like the one we visited last night. She had a big view of the world right from the start, and though she would have had plenty of company as an "euskal herria" (speaker of Euskera), she was living in a place where other cultural identities were alive and well. Was that environment enough to cement her Basque identity, or did it leave a window open for questioning who she was? At 8 years old, she would move to an even bigger place--Barcelona--with her family, so that´s where I´m headed now to see where she finished growing up. Tomorrow: Barcelona!"
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