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Sunday, October 13, 2002 The days here have turned mostly gray and cool-- a kind of Vermont weather that sometimes becomes far too normal a part of autumn for my taste. The good part: when the sun does break through, the land positively glows. Yesterday morning: drove into Montpelier on roads wet from early morning rainfall for a session of self-punishment at the gym. Turned out to be member appreciation day, meaning platters of fruit, bagels, healthy snacks arrayed at one end of the reception counter and people testing for blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol, blahblahblah. Tests confirmed that I am excessively healthy. Next: stopped at the Montpelier farmers market where I mostly ate (vegetable samosas, egg rolls, steamed Chinese dumplings -- not your usual country farmers' market fare). Got home around 11, remembered that the local power company had scheduled an outage for yesterday morning between 9 and noon for line work, giving me an opportunity to put a dent in clean-up waiting to be done. Not much fun, but looking after one's living space can be its own reward. (And if I spew more aphorisms like that, someone, please, shoot me.) The colors, though past peak in many places around here, have grown widespread enough in this muted, low-key autumn that the landscape has begun to look like a patchwork quilt spread over the sides and tops of the hills. Cloud cover gave way mid-afternoon, the sun lighting everything up in a quietly spectacular way. Yesterday evening: drove down to Hanover, N.H. for a performance of flamenco at the Hopkins Center at Dartmouth. A small company called Noche Flamenca -- two guitarists, two singers, two dancers. The theater was packed with as multicultural a crowd as you'll find in these parts -- whites, latinos, blacks, asians -- including a vocal Spanish contingent, producing high energy both onstage and off. I was prepared for a more buttoned-down response than what I was used to in Spain, a more repressed, intellectual display from the New England audience. Instead, people around the hall whooped and clapped, calling out "¡Vale!" and "¡Olé!" at any wonderful moment onstage or any old time the spirit moved them. Made me homesick. Both guitarists were superb, both singers excellent, especially the older of the two, Manuel Gago,a 50ish guy with a tremendous, expressive voice that just wouldn't quit. The weakest member of the troupe was the male dancer, a 40ish fella who had the spirit and some good moments but suffered in comparison with the female dancer, Soledad Barrio, who gave as sharp, explosive a performance of dance as I've ever seen. Man, this woman was good -- she had a long solo number near the end of the show that just stretched on and on, with bursts of astonishing dancing -- majestic, transcendent. A killer performance, one of those times when the individual simply catches fire and the audience is privileged to get a glimpse of something far beyond the ordinary. Afterwards, the artistic director along with one of the guitarists, the older of the two singers and Ms. Barrio (who looked exhausted, and no wonder). At one point they were talking about the part improvision plays in flamenco -- like jazz, there's a basic structure within which the performers can improvise, calling each other out and supporting each other when the energy/emotion is right -- when one of them mentioned that her solo last night ran twice as long as it had the night before. I gave thanks that I'd been there to see it. The artistic director was bilingual -- the other company members spoke only Spanish. Felt fine to see that I understood everything they said, which was not the case when the singers were performing. Their Andalucian accents were thick enough that I could only get phrases and individual words here and there. Might have been demoralizing if I hadn't been able to get all the dialogue during the Q&A. Before the show yesterday evening, I stopped in for a meal at an Indian restaurant near the theater where I listened to a conversation between three Dartmouth students at a table next to mine, one of them, a young woman, telling a story about a friend named Loren. Seems that Loren and her roommate had taken in a third roommate, another young woman. Soon after moving in, the new arrival noticed that Loren had cleaned hair out of her hairbrush, tossed into the bathroom wastebasket. She advised Loren that you should never throw your hair away -- it should be flushed down the toilet because you never know when it can be 'used against you.' That apparently was the exact phrase -- 'used against you.' Soon after that, one Saturday morning as Loren slept in, the new roommate's mother came to visit, and Loren's second roommate overheard the mother ask her daughter where Loren was. "She's still asleep," the third roommate answered, sharply disapproving, "at 10 o'clock in the morning." Apparently, the second roommate saw the mother and daughter exchange a dark look, after which the mother quietly suggested putting a hex on Loren. Between that and other voodoo references, Loren and the second roommate moved out soon after. Ah, life. rws 12:27 PM [+] |