Oxford

OXFORD!!!

Sooooo ooooooold. There were literally men in the cape things that you expect Oxford professors to wear. Some sort of graduation ceremony was going on, and may I say, if you want your audience to take you seriously without strenuous effort on their part, do NOT accessorize with a powdered wig. It's quite counter-productive.

We found an amahaaaaazing exhibit. I haven't googled it yet, but try searching something like "Oxford Story Museum" or "Alice Day." It was so magical! Local artists and poets had converted an old warehouse into a children's/fairy-tale lover's art installation. Each room had a different theme.

My favorites:

The Room of Secrets, which featured locked boxes and keys with little tag lines on them, such as, "Long story short, I wouldn't recommend waking up on the pavement in just your boxers," and other cringe-worthy insinuations; when you matched the key to the box, the rest of the story was inside. They were real-life stories donated by real-life citizens. I added one to the post box, but you'll never know which!

The Room of Lost Objects - aaaaah, I would have stayed there all day if it weren't the size of a generous closet. There were little nails and screws and shiny bits-and-bobs all over. They were made into sculptures, hidden in secret compartments in very tiny boxes, AH! Everywhere. And in the middle of the room was a big safe with lots of small manila envelopes inside - visitors take one and then e-mail a story about it back to the museum.

It was just awesome. OH and there was the SNEEZE factory! Ah. God. Sometimes I want to borrow a kid so that it's socially acceptable for me to stay in places like that longer. But it was a little adult, too. It wasn't totally for kids.

Anyway, we also saw The Ashmolean, which is, like, Britain's oldest art museum or oldest... bah. I don't remember. Oldest something. It was great and chock-full, but we only had 30 minutes. Poor Vicky had to spend it being hit on by the most socially awkward man... very full ginger beard, kind of popped up out of the woodwork. She was looking at a violin and he goes, "Do you play?" "Nope." "Have you ever... built an instrument before?" "N... no, I haven't." "I have! A fender stratocaster! (launches into story)"

I abandoned her to that and ran around to find the Pre-Raphaelites, a movement I am quite proud to know by name! Thank you, Art History 102. I really like Dante Rossetti, because he paints strong women that I feel related to. I mean that literally, not poetically. The room I was looking for was a "smallest chamber, tallest tower" situation, so I got there, out of breath and sweaty, just in time to locate and photograph one of my favorite paintings of his ("Persephone") before the steward shooed me back out. I rebelliously found my exit through a bunch of other exhibits, claiming I was lost whenever approached. I reeeeeally want to go back and spend the day there. They have a medieval exhibit with swords and crowns from maybe 900 a.d.! WHAAAAAT!?

And then. Fatefully. We wanted to see a show - the only one playing was Anne Frank. Anne Frank, right? Can't screw that up too much, right? Wrong. It was spectacularly bad. When Hitler's forces (or rather, Hitler's force, in the singular) raided the annex in the end, Vick and I were crying with laughter. See, the Nazi, the lone, very effeminate Nazi had been sitting onstage for the entirety of the show with a bright light shining on him, not moving and ruining all dramatic, low-lit moments. Finally, after all that build-up, he just walked into the attic and started shouting "Ssssssschnell! Sssschnell!" in lispy, surprisingly tenor German and poking people in the head with his gun. The Franks and Van Damms, who weren't bad actors in their own right, sort of obligingly shouted a bit and tripped over themselves, but their heart wasn't in it. 

Because of the atrocity we'd just seen, Vicky and I ran to the nearest pub for a post-show chat-up. And that's how we missed the last train out of Oxford.

But the hostel was nice! We stayed up until about three watching "Oliver!" with three very drunk men, one of whom was Russian, ("Hahahaha!!! They are sell him, like animal!") and then retired to our chamber. I passed out immediately, but Vicky said she had trouble sleeping because "one of the girls'" kept snoring and farting. In my defence, we had had a lot of beer and Lebanese food.

Tomorrow we go to Chiltenham to see Gifford's Circus, then back for an evening rehearsal. More. To. Come.

Eddie was right about the peacocks.

Vicky and I have rehearsed all this week and we're having stupid amounts of fun coming up with material.

There are little peacocks all over! Just chilling on roofs, mewling loudly. They really do mewl. It's the noise a kitten/monkey hybrid would make.

We popped into St. Mary's Cathedral a few days ago. I am continually stumbling across dates from 1320 a.d., 1240, 1150. Ancient. I share every inch of ground I stand on with thousands of years worth of spit, blood, sweat, gum. And the churches have big graveyards in the front lawns - ivy-covered above-ground caskets with crumbly feet, just free to be touched or graffiti-ed. I guess it would be impossible to protect all the history here. And the vandals are probably bored of it.

We'll go to Oxford tomorrow.

Stratford? Stratford was sweet, if a little underwhelming. We saw King John at the RSC for a mere five quid and hope to see a lot more there for the same price. This summer, along with the Olympics, England is host to the World Shakespeare Festival. All of Shakespeare's works will be produced, mostly by international companies (to my fellow Russophiles - Vahktangov's Measure For Measure is their ambassador. TAKE THAT, REIKEN!) at various hotspots; Stratford's RSC is one, The Globe in London is another, Brighton... I really want to see Japan's Coriolanus, but I don't know if we'll get to. There's also a really cool-looking piece called "The Rest Is Silence" playing in Brighton - an adaptation of Hamlet stretched out across a warehouse. But what I'm truly keeping my eyes peeled for is an amateur production of Grease. I will drop everything for that. A lusty Danny Zuko played by Wesley Frothingham of Snitterton would be the highlight of my summer.

Aside from the occasional day-trip, Vick and I have been very anti-social. We don't know anyone our age here and we're both a little shy when it comes to making friends. We've also built ourselves a pretty tight schedule, so we've only gone out for a pint a few times. FOR A PINT. It's so novel! PUDDING. PINT. BISCUIT.
Oh, yeah. So I bought a box of "Wheat Bisks," using my serious Brit Slang knowledge to deduce that I was about to enjoy some whole wheat cookies. Upon opening, I found in my hands two sleeves of something that looked like the horse treats I used to feed Sally, our old pony.
"Psh," said I, "clearly a 'bisk' is distinct from a 'biscuit.' Using my powers of reason, I shall conclude that this is, in fact, a very thick cracker."
I plopped some honey on it and set about munching. It was very thick.
Several days later, Vicky asked me why I never put milk on my wheat-a-bix. It's cereal. Like, you put it in a bowl and pour milk on it and it disintegrates. But at least it wasn't embarrassing.

Erm, let's seeeeeee... still on the list of things to see are Warwick Castle, which looks incredible from the outside (that's where all the damn peacocks are coming from), a Victorian mansion Vicky's been on about ("on about." listen to me. soooo fetch.), as many sites featuring historical re-enactors as possible because we're both the nerdiest, and STONEHENGE!!!!! For the summer solstice with Vicky's mom's hippie best friend! Can't wait. Apparently, when Vicky went last year it was just a bunch of stoned 14-year-olds, so my exciting Earth Mother naked dance scenario will have to wait for another occasion, BUT it's one of the few times of the year when tourists can get close enough to touch the stones. Eeeee! Aliens!!!

Whelp, it's 1 a.m. here, and for this little lady, that means bunkbed time. Love you all, miss ya. I've taken pictures! Maybe I'll post?

Mgootnait, fyemily yend fryends. 

Flapjacks. Not just pancakes anymore.

So the past few days have been spent grinding out details. One of our biggest concerns has been rehearsal venue - we'd booked a place that was too pricey in the hopes of finding something better when we arrived.

First on the list was the local Quaker chapter, where we met with the manager, a man named Eddie that I think Ricky Gervais wrote. He took us through the lovely building, which he kept insulting and describing stiffly as "the new one" until finally dropping the detail that it had been rebuilt in 1645 after "the old one" burnt down in the Warwick fire of 1644. Brand spankin'.

Then he showed us the gardens, which were everything Pride and Prejudice promised.

An Excerpt from The Garden Scene:

(loud cawing is heard in the distance)

Vicky: Was that a peacock???

Eddie: Ah yes, they fly in from the castle. Nasty birds, they are. Et all the flowers. But me dog scares them off.

(Vicky and Molly, ignoring this, both praise the garden's beauty)

Eddie: Yeh, it's nice an all. 'Course, underneath it is the Quaker cemetery (dumbfounded silence from V&M). Oh, they don't let us bury anyone here any more. Just the odd ash sprinkle on the lawns. (M quickly steps back onto sidewalk) See that bump there? 

And we DID see the bump. In the end, Eddie gave us a list of other venues, even suggesting renting pub space, which he seemed to find distasteful. We shook our heads at the thought of rehearsing in such company, declined his offer of coffee, and left vowing to visit every pub in town. 

This next bit... I'm a little nervous to write it in case I jinx us. Long story short, we went to The Rose and Crown, a nearby pub, and unless we both completely misunderstood, have secured a lovely rehearsal space for the price of a drink every hour we use it. We spent a good fifteen minutes coordinating our schedule with the very assuring and confident R&C employee, so we both feel pretty solid about its legitimacy. I'll let you know what the best Warwickshire cider is. I'll hopefully be trying them all, one at a time, every morning at nine.

Shiiiire.... Bagginnnnnnns!

I left you, dear family and friends, in the safety of a Heathrow cafe.

Moments later found me body-slamming a rapidly closing gate, a gate that stood between me and the London Underground. My midwestern charm was failing to dissuade the old bloke padlocking me out. I hate taking buses. 

Wendy had given me twenty pounds before I left, which was the only cash I had. Not really being familiar with buses, because I hate them, I boarded and thrust my twenty-pound note towards the driver, saying in a thin, falsely cheery voice speckled with hard r's, "One to Piccadilly Circus, please." 

His eyes met mine, and I swear, I felt a little squeeze on my throat as though he were trying to telepathically strangle me. Without looking away, he pulled out his own wallet and started counting change. 

I wasn't sure what to do, so I lingered in the cabin. A line was forming behind me. 

"Moo ow ta green, la," he said. 

I smiled pleasantly, hoping he would give me my change so I could put my big bag down. Another girl boarded, clearly as confused as I was. It turned out that we were trying to find the same hostel. 

The bus stared at both of us, her pointing at her brightly-colored map and speaking in broken English and me lurking next to the stairs as unobtrusively as an elephant in five shirts and a ukulele. We realized at about the same time that cutting our losses was the only way to deal with this. As he handed my change back and said, "Ma'am, please would you move out of the green zone, you're blocking the way," we scampered off the bus to a choir of exasperated sighs behind us. 

A middle-aged man with a greying mullet, probably named Ned or Reg, saw us trying to count our change. He descended and enthusiastically informed us that bus fare was two pounds seventy, but that we'd better not pay in paper because our stop was the first of the late run and the driver wouldn't have change yet; we'd put him in a foul mood for the rest of the night. Oops...

Ned/Reg ended up taking the same bus as us and chatted our sleep-deprived ears off about everything London and everything bus. He seemed to have the routes memorized and labored under the delusion that we wanted to know the intimate details of the N19 line, which... we didn't.

At the hostel, I tried to get some sleep, but since by body kept politely informing me that it was just about time to head home from the theater building and start making dinner, my best attempts were wasted. Instead, I left all my stuff tucked under the sheets like a very fat tourist and poked around the city until dawn. I watched the rising sun backlight Big Ben and drank a cup of coffee next to the Thames. Parliament is gorgeous. 

I made it back to the hostel via Trafalger square, slowly seeing the flaw in my romantic "spend the sunrise exploring London" scheme - namely... jet lag (dun dun duuuuun).

Getting to Warwick was a caffeine-laced hallucination. The surreal paranoia that I was still asleep in The Nook wasn't helped by a series of gag announcements broadcasting over Chiltern Station's intercom in the dryest of British voices, the most memorable of which was:

"Attention, we have a message for a Mr. Mowgly. Message reads : Ooh hoo hoo, I wanna be like yoou hoo hoo. That's a message for a Mr. Mowgly. Thank you." 

I sat next to a very sweet and cute guy on the train who's name was Ahmal ("What's your name?" "Amalia." "I'm Ahmal." "Amalia." "Ahmal." "You can just call me Molly...") and he, saint that he was, let me sleep and woke me up at my stop.

Vicky met me with her grandma and grandpa. We screamed like little girls when we saw each other and one of the conductors commented on the loveliness of our reunion. YES. IT WAS LOVELY. WE'RE LOVELY PEOPLE.

More to come! Sorry for the overload. Seeing King John at the Royal Shakespeare Company on Saturday for Vicky's birthday!!

No, guys, Marmite. WTF. The yuckiest.

-Molly

TARDIS. TARDIS. Come on, TARDIS... (Crosses fingers)

I'm in Heathrow. My flight was awesome - Midnight In Paris was the in-flight movie, my seat-mate was an adorable old man who slept with a blanket over his head like a tent, I got my food before everyone else because I checked the "vegetarian" box online...
Adele has been every other song playing since I sat down in this cafe. A cute tattooed guitarist called me "love" a few minutes ago. I'm grinning like a fool and about to hit London.
I'll see YOU fools in August.

A flea-bitten circus

Ladies, Gentlemen, Margie:

Welcome to charming Ashfield, Massachusetts (yes, you guys, I DID learn how to spell it eventually. Through trial-and-error).

Population: Small enough that people know we're Double Edge interns because they haven't seen us before and we're under the age of sixty.

Population: Small enough that we, all innocent eight of us, are being persecuted by the local library because of crimes committed by previous interns WHOM WE HAVE NEVER MET. Good ol' Puritans and their grudges...

Population: Largely farmers, largely dairy farmers. Next door to 551, our house, is a farm that raises sheep and chickens, who apparently get murdered every morning between the hours of 4 and 6 a.m. One of the sheep sounds like a very bored collegiate male. You'll hear, "(high pitched) baaahaaahaaaa, (medium high) baaahahahaaa, (high pitched) baaahaUUUUUUUUUUUUUH." (That was Regular Sheep getting interrupted by Math Test Frat Sheep).

We live with two cats, Abdullah and (best guess at spelling) Julenar.

Julenar is morbidly obese. Her favorite pastimes are lying in the middle of the stairs when you're carrying something really heavy, getting yelled at for jumping on the table, and miscalculating her own tremendous mass, thus causing her to crash heavily into stationary objects when running frantically around the living room.

For a while, three of us thought Julenar was pregnant. She exhibits all the symptoms, down to the weird patchy balls of fat hanging off her belly. We treated her really nicely for a day before finally double-checking with one of the permanent residents who informed us that, no, she was spayed and just incredibly overweight. He suggested that we start complimenting her on her figure, so she'd be inspired to keep herself up better. He suggested, "Oh, Julenar, you're so slim. What a lovely tummy." We have instead taken to shouts of, "Stop eating my cereal, fatass!"

Abdullah is this, like, 1920's mobster cat who sneaks out all the time and won't take no guff from nobody.

It is because of Abdullah that we now have fleas.
Though, I have to admit, there's something satisfying in being able to claim that I am now literally a flea-bitten actor.

Last night, two of the other interns and I went to see a local puppet show called, "Once Upon A Compost Pile." Ashfield is scary into the green movement. This show was... and I mean, I'm a fan of composting myself, as my previous downstairs neighbour will gladly tell you over a beer, but... awkward. Charming, but very decidedly coo-coo bananas.

Mother-son team, presenting a show in three acts. Act One: Their life up to this point. No joke. Recap of their life. Act Two: VERY INTENSE puppet show about how the girl puppet (played by the mother) should stop approaching non-composters with ten page flip-charts and should instead "let her hair down" and do something FUN with composting, like... oh, did you guess it? Write a puppet show. Act THREE. The puppet show she and her puppet son wrote. Encore: Puppet comes into audience and very aggressively asks audience members if they compost. He first asked this really cute old lady, who, unfortunately for her, didn't compost. This was especially uncomfortable as she was the next door neighbour of the mother. A tea date was promptly set up. The second victim was yours truly. APPARENTLY, composting isn't enough. What was my favorite PART of the decomposition process. What was my favorite MICROBE. These are the sorts of questions, folks.

So that's all for now, I think. I need to ration out my stories because it's really rare that we leave the ten-mile radius of Ashfield and I need fodder enough for two more months.

Oh-ho-HO. Very important closing note:

Ashfield Hardware: Home of

FIFTY. CENT. HOMEMADE. ICE CREAM, Y'ALL.

God blurss Ahmurica?

Love ya's.

Westmass. (Read: Westmss)

Oh, boy. I don't think any of us were expecting this. 

There comes a time in a girl's life when she realizes that she needs to tone down her imagination. She needs to stop fantasizing about things before they happen because they inevitably will not be what she's dreamed about. I think a lot of women have this revelation because they're tired of figuring out how crappy their significant other actually is, but for me, it's happened most with trips and adventures. It's not so much that they're WORSE than what I'd wanted or BAD or something, just very, very different. Sometimes, much better than I could have hoped. Sometimes, a bit of a letdown.

Before this trip, I calmed myself. I said, "Molly, do NOT get attached to an image of a, like, a tribe of free-thinking thespians who could absolutely dominate the world of theater if they weren't so grounded and generous. Also, do NOT imagine a gorgeous, sacred working environment with every instrument and costume and carpentry tool known to humanity. And, most specifically, DO NOT UNDER ANY CONDITIONS believe that you will make friends with any of the other interns. That's not what this is ABOUT, Molly. In fact," I said to me, sagely, "in fact, just try not to think about it too much at all."

But, of course, I DID think about it, and, of course, I imagined all those things.

And guess what? THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT THIS IS. It's creative boot camp. The ensemble members are INCREDIBLE, the setting is already breathtaking and it's only going to get better because have I mentioned FALL IN NEW ENGLAND, and there are at least two other interns that I'm hands-down sure I'll be lasting friends with.

We trained twice today, two hours apiece. It's constant movement. Right now, things are a little difficult because we're really following our leading ensemble member's movements, but I think it will become more free-for-all later. 

I'm too worn out to write much right now. I have wi-fi, so I'll be able to keep in touch much better than expected. 

Trips to New York and Boston will be organized!

And guess what? Guests are welcome. Just. So you know that.

Love you.