Chicago - Catching up with friends

Amanda instigated this trip to Chicago when she told me she was going with her family and asked if I wanted to join in the fun.  I wanted to see the city again, and I always enjoy travelin with her and hanging out with her family, so I accepted the invitation.  But I also wanted to catch up with a couple of other friends who live in the city, and who I hadn't seen in far too long. 

On Friday I broke off from the group and met up with Jennifer, a girl I met when I was in law school in New York.  Her real job was at one of the big investment banks, doing something currency-related, but I knew her as the spinning instructor at the NYU student center.  She's vivacious and smart and tons of fun, and she's been living and working as a yoga instructor in Chicago for the past few years (because that's what you do when your bank implodes during the economic crisis and you're dating a hot yogi who owns a studio in Chicago).  We met up at Milk and Honey Cafe and caught up over a tasty late lunch.
 

Lentil and quinoa burger with hummus garlic spread, tomato, romaine and provolone
on a pretzel roll, with homemade potato chips

On Saturday (after the disastrous visit to the aquarium), I met Vanessa and Stephen for lunch at Chicago Q.  The barbecue was fantastic (we were informed upon arrival that the chef was a "competitive barbecuer" and had "won the throw-down") and it was great to catch up.  I first met Vanessa and Stephen ten years ago in Rennes (she was a student at the IEP and took me under her wing; he was her American boyfriend-now-husband).  We talked about work (Stephen's a lawyer, too) and Vanessa's and my upcoming trip to Vietnam.  And all the while we ate and ate and ate.  By the time we left, I was so full of succulent pulled chicken and cornbread I nearly burst!

Pulled pork sandwich with honey-butter cornbread

The sauces (from left):  The spicy one, the mustardy one, the one that actually tasted
like traditional barbecue sauce, and some sort of vinaigre

(Just think -- the next time I see Vanessa we'll be in the airport in Seoul, Korea, en route to Hanoi!  can't wait.)

Chicago - Flowers and fish (and tiny little dinosaurs)

Saturday morning dawned clear and beautiful.  What better way to enjoy a perfect spring day in Chicago than by visiting a flower show at the Lincoln Park Conservatory?

Their spring gardens were exquisite with their foxgloves and lilies . . .

and astilbe, geraniums, daffodils and hydrangea.

The orchid room was a valiant attempt but couldn't hold a candle to the orchid room at the Smithsonian's Botanical Garden back home.
 

At some point koi are just too big and become scary.

My favorite thing was the obvious sense of humor that was on display in the fern room. Someone on staff clearly understands what would make walking through a bunch of plants fun for a three-year-old!



They weren't kidding about "small" dinosaurs . . .
(a mastodon, on the other hand, it completely anachronistic here -- come on guys)

Meow.

After the conservatory, we headed down Lakeshore Drive to the Shedd Aquarium.  I had originally been excited to see the aquarium, which claims to be one of the best in the US and vaunts itself as Chicago's top attraction, but was appalled at the size of the crowd in the ticket line (which, to be fair, arguably wasn't the aquarium's fault) and the outrageously incompetent management of said crowds inside (which was entirely the aquarium's fault). 

After waiting in line for nearly an hour to get inside, I spent ten minutes wandering through the darkness feeling lost and crowded and wondering where the fish were.  I'm pretty sure that's not the sort of experience I was supposed to have.  Adding up the horrendous crowds, the poor layout of the space, and the astonishing admission price (most tickets ranged from $25 - $40), I would definitely not recommend the aquarium to anyone -- unless, maybe, you were someone who loves fish as much as this guy:
 

Chicago - The Joffrey does Othello

The Chicago cultural scene has more than just fantastic architecture.  It's also got one of the leading American ballet companies, the Joffrey Ballet, and we were thrilled to discover that our trip fell during their run of Othello. 

We got to the theatre early and settled into our seats . . .
 

moi, Amanda and Rachel (her sister and ballet connoisseur)

admired the cavernous concert hall . . .

complete with allegorical frescoes that, apparently, were painted by some guy
who beat out Louis Comfort Tiffany in the contest to get the commission

and enjoyed the show, which was based on the same tale of jealousy and murder as that on which Shakespeare based his tragedy.  Lar Lubovitch (about whom I've written before) did the choreography, so it was very modern and full of gorgeous and unusual lifts.  Here's a preview video:



The first act showed Othello's marriage to Desdemona and, frankly, was kind of boring.  Like Shakespeare, I probably would have cut it -- after all, a happy newlywed couple can only hold your interest for so long when you know it's all going to fall apart in the next act.  Act Two, when it finally came, was amazing.  The men dancing Othello and Iago were both fine dancers, and Lubovitch had some wonderful passages that explored the power dynamic between them.  The act ended with one of the most alarming ballet fight scenes I've seen (those drums!).  The narrative in Act Three felt weaker again and dragged a bit when we got stuck with Desdemona dancing around her boudoir with a crucifix.  But then it picked up again when Othello showed up and murdered her at the end of a breathtakingly beautiful pas de deux.  Rachel complained the pas de deux was too loving to plausibly end in a murder, but I decided I didn't care and just soaked up the beauty of the dance.

Chicago - Grandma and the bean

Millennium Park is a great outdoor public space that sits between Lake Michigan and a pack of high-rise buildings that stretches out from the city center towards Indiana.  One of it's more memorable features is a giant sculpture called Cloud Gate.

Call it what you will, it looks like a giant bean.  A very large and reflective bean, but a bean nonetheless.  And, as one does with giant beans, we wanted to have our picture taken in front of it.  I handed my camera to Amanda's grandmother, Rosina, and discovered that 80-year-old French women and iPhone cameras don't necessarily go together -- unless, of course, you're going for a series of candid shots that capture you at every moment other than the one when you actually think you're being photographed.
 

Fortunately Rachel and Susan were standing by with cameras of their own and were able to supplement Rosina's collection with a few more composed shots.

Chicago - City of architecture

Every time I come to Chicago I think, Oh man, why don't I live here?  Then I remember the horrible winters and my hankering to move to the Midwest dies down -- but doesn't go away completely.  Because just look at that skyline!  Any city with architecture like Chicago's merits special consideration.
 

In my opinion, Chicago is the best city for architecture in America.  In past visits my attempts to educate myself about that architecture were foiled due to thunderstorms and demanding work schedules, but this time we scheduled an architecture tour first thing -- and everything went perfectly.  At 10am we boarded our boat on the Chicago river; ninety minutes later we disembarked, new-minted experts on the various species of Chicago skyscrapers. 

I don't remember the names of any of the architects (a heresy for sure, because they're all so famous) and the years of construction are muddled in my mind (lots of 1920s and '30s; a surprising number from the 1980s and even the 2000s), but here are some photos and a few snippets of what I do remember:

The Tribune building:  An example of art deco style (note the strong
vertical elements) topped with a gothic "cathedral" with fake (i.e., non-
weight-bearing) flying buttresses.

The building on the left, which I basically missed, was given as an
example of the classical style, with its columns and perfect symmetry

Far left: The four "temples" on the corners used to house water tanks. This building has a
drive-in elevator that enabled a tenant jeweler to drive right into his shop and avoid robbers.
Far right:  The United Airlines building with a modern take of the Parthenon on top.

The "corn cobb" building; designed by architects who didn't believe
in right angles.

Built in the 1980s; the tour guide called this the "grey flannel building".

The two blue/green glass buildings on the left are "contextual" in the
sense that they were designed for that specific location, to mirror the curve of the river
and reflect the colors. The one on the left put all the mechanical apparatus on the bottom floors
(rather than on the roof) to insulate tenants from the noise of passing trains. 

More art deco. A 1920s ordinance required that any tower taller than a certain height not
occupy more than 25% of the plot; hence the lower portions below the tower.

Another building by that guy who didn't believe in right angles.
The building is meant to operate as a self-contained city, with schools and shops and
condos and boat docks below.

Left:  The Willis Tower (nee Sears) formerly the tallest building
in the world. Supposedly built to resemble a stack of cigarettes that
had been partially shaken from their packaging.
Right:  A newer, round building made of Texas pink granite and blue
glass intentionally designed to contrast with the Willis tower.

A moment of sunshine on an otherwise chilly and cloudy morning.

Later in the day, and in keeping with our architectural theme, we ate dinner at Le Cafe des Architectes.  The food was great, and the restaurant surprisingly accommodating of a group of eight with one toddler.  In a stroke of perfection, we had a French waiter who bonded with Rosina (Amanda's French grandmother) over the pleasure of good wine, and who flirted shamelessly with Lois (Amanda's American grandmother) by serenading her with a full-on rendition of "La Vie en Rose" on bended knee.

Tuna tartare with avocado puree, caviar, sturgeon roe and sweet potato chips

Amish chicken ballentine with boursin polenta, black truffle jus and maitake mushrooms

Miniardises consisting of pistachio macaroons, lemon bars,
dark chocolates and marshmallows

Chicago!

I'm in Chicago!  It's just for fun -- a mini-vacation to break up the holiday-less months of spring.  Amanda and her family (parents, sister and nephew, two grandmothers) flew in from Colorado, Utah and California.  Two friends of mine from college and law school days already live here.  I flew out to join the party.

Naturally (because there's always something when I fly to or through the midwest), my flight was not without incident:  We were delayed in Washington for a little over an hour due to equipment problems.  But that's better than the last time I tried to do a long weekend in Chicago with Amanda, when my flight got diverted due to massive thunderstorms and I ended up spending the night on the floor of the St. Louis airport.

I got to the hotel before the Waterhouse clan, so while I waited for them to arrive I went down the block to grab a piece of iconic Chicago pizza. 

Sadly, pizza was not to be had at 10:30pm (at least, not readily -- they would have had to start from scratch), so I just ordered a salad and meatball sandwich covered in melted mozarella. 

 

Thus commences a weekend of extravagant eating!

Who in their right mind signs up for this on purpose?

Today's workout:

Yes, it was every bit as horrible as you might expect.  Well, as horrible as you might expect if you had the non-existent fore-arm strength that I do.  If you looked like someone -- anyone -- drawn by Arnold Friberg, then you wouldn't have anything to worry about.

And if you weren't sure what to expect because of all those weird terms, here's a mini glossary:

• Double-unders = Jumping rope, where the rope goes under twice for every jump
• WOD = workout of the day
• AMRAP = as many reps and rounds as possible within the specified time
• Handstand pushups = do a vertical pushup while in handstand position
• Hang clean = pulling a barbell with weights from approximately knee-height to your shoulders
• Burpees = those things where you go from a pushup to a standing jump to a pushup, over and over and over again
• Kettlebell swing = swing a kettlebell from between your legs up over your head

What a way to start the day!

Not myself

Okay, so here's a weird thing that my family (or, at least, I) learned about my grandfather recently:  He apparently gets migraines but doesn't feel them.  I mean, he can tell they're happening and all because other symptoms (like the aura) occur, but he doesn't feel any pain.  Which is kind of cool, like a quasi super-power or something. 

And I've been thinking lately about whether I've got any quirks like that.  Not because I want to have migraines or anything; mostly because I resemble this grandfather in a lot of ways, and in some ways I think that understanding him better might help me understand myself better.

So far I haven't come up with anything -- I'm pretty normal.

But lately I've been wondering:  If painless migraines exist, could there also be depressionless depression?  Is it possible to be depressed (or something like it) and not actually feel depressed, even though other symptoms are happening?

Now, I realize that by asking this question some of you might get worried about whether I actually am depressed.  So let me just say that I'm fine and there's no cause for alarm. 

But here's the thing:  Earlier this year I learned that a certain performing arts center was looking to hire a new lawyer.  Miraculously, everything seemed to align:  The job description seemed to have been written for me; I had incredible connections and glowing recommendations.  If, as people say, landing a job is as much about "who you know" than "what you know", then in this case it seemed like I had both the "what" and the "who" in the bag. 

All that notwithstanding, I didn't take anything for granted.  I spent a ton of hours crafting a knock-out resume and strategically activating my professional network.  When those efforts resulted in my getting a call to interview (from among hundreds of applicants), I spent another 36,000 hours preparing for the interview -- researching the organization, reviewing my own experience, doing mock interviews with friends. 

But it wasn't enough.  A couple of weeks after the interview, I got an impersonal email notifying me that someone else had been hired.  Heartbreaking news.  I mean, here was my dream job, for which I had been calculatingly preparing myself ever since I started law school -- and, frankly, for which I was very well qualified -- and it went to someone else.  It felt wrong.  Objectively wrong -- as if the universe had made a mistake.  I've wanted other things before, and worked hard for them, and when I didn't get them I felt disappointed, but nothing has ever felt wrong like this before.

Boo-hoo.  C'est la vie.  Get over it.  I know.  I know -- and I will get over it.  As time goes on, I'll get more perspective and other opportunities will arise, and (maybe) I'll look back and be able to say (and actually believe) that things worked out better this way. 

In the meantime, though, ever since I realized that I wasn't going to get the job, I haven't really cared about anything.  I go to concerts and plays; I buy new suits; I plan cool vacations; my sisters have babies; I go to work and church and hang out with friends.  But I don't really care.  I procrastinate the important stuff.  I blow off everything else.  I don't look forward to doing things I normally enjoy, and when I do them anyway I come away thinking, "Meh."

And that is what's weird.  Because normally I care a lot about that stuff.  Heck, I care a lot about pretty much everything.  That's why I'm the neurotic, perfectionistic, driven person that I am.  It's the source of all that crazy enthusiasm I have for things like running up mountains and sitting through six-hour operas and working crazy hours at the law firm and planning multi-continent travel adventures.  But now?  Not so much.

Which is why I've started to wonder if it's possible to be depressed without actually feeling depressed.  Because I don't feel depressed, just apathetic, and isn't that a symptom of depression?  Google searches say yes, but who am I to diagnose what's going on inside my head?

In any event, I'm not sure what to do about it.  For the time being, I'm just going to give it time and try not to beat myself up over it.  I'm also going to focus on the change of the season.  This winter has been full of cold and concerts and work (and the endless Les Miserables, which merits another post in and of itself).  As we move through spring and the theatre season ends, maybe it will be good for me to have a conscientious change of pace:  get outside more, find different ways to socialize, set new goals and priorities, plant some flowers.  Find new things to care about.

The Ride: Spring and Sting

Those of you who read this blog and live in DC know just how cold and horrible this spring has been.  Months of rain and gray and cold; the cherry blossoms delayed so long they basically missed the festival.  Seriously, we might as well have moved to Minnesota.

But the past week and a half, or so, has been wonderful.  The sun came out, the warm air moved in, and all that pent-up springtime energy has sprung forth in the riot of flowery color that makes this season one of my favorites in DC. 

When the flowers come out, so does my bike.  Yesterday morning dawned bright and breezy (and kind of chilly), and I was eager to get out on the road and log some miles -- and see how well my winter-time training paid off.  Thanks to relatively light work demands, I managed all of the above.  I did a nice 35-mile loop up the Potomac River into Maryland through some lovely woods and posh estates.  As for my wintertime training -- let's just say that spin class, however rigorous, is just not the same as pushing around a real bike over real terrain (even if that bike is a ridiculously light all-carbon frame).  I definitely benefitted from the winter workouts, but by the end of the ride my legs were ready to be done!

So was my face.  Which is a weird story. 

Around the 30-mile mark, I was rolling along at a good clip when a bug hit my face and got stuck under my helmet strap.  Annoyed but not worried, I reached up to brush it away when I felt a jabbing pain into the side of my head -- the damn thing was stinging me!  My "brush" turned into a decisive "smack" that ended the days of that unfortunate bee and nearly caused me to lose my balance. 

At first I thought I'd just push on through (no sense in ruining my ride time by lamenting a bee sting), but as I continued on my way I could feel the wing brushing around the stinger and whatever remaining bee parts were sticking out of my head.  And the pain kept getting worse, as if the stinger venom was still pumping into my head.  Not cool.

So I pulled over at the first business I could find:  A shabby dry cleaner where for some reason the entrance of a be-spandexed cyclist with a narwhal tusk sticking out of his head didn't merit any sort of acknowledgement.  I looked around and decided no help would come from anyone there, so I left.

Fortunately, just around the corner was a little hair salon.  Mirrors!  Perfect. I went inside and asked if I could look in the mirror to extract my assailant's body part, and all the old ladies just smiled and nodded their heads (I'm pretty sure none of them spoke English). 

Sure enough, there was the stinger and the remains of the bee's abdomen sticking out of the side of my head.  I gingerly pulled it out and, natch, snapped a photo for blogging, Facebook and press release purposes (because clearly EVERYONE deserves to know about this). 

And that's basically all there is to the story.  I finished the rest of my ride -- which ended a bit earlier than I'd intended; nothing like a bee sting in the face to take the wind out of your sails, if you know what I mean.  The sting didn't hurt long, but there's still a nice goose-egg welt on the side of my face.

Leaps and turns (or, Why we go to the ballet)

There's nothing like ballet for revealing the astonishing beauty of disciplined athleticism.  Take, for example, the ABT's performance of Le Corsaire tonight at the Kennedy Center.  In Act II, our eponymous pirate hero hides out in his grotto with his slave and his captured Greek girl, both of whom (thanks to the inevitable logic of ballet) proceed to dance a pas de deux with more leaps and spins than any other that I know of.  It's incredible.

Here's a clip of the pas de deux -- it's out of context (looks like a concert or something rather than the full ballet), but the male dancer is the same as I saw tonight, and he's amazing.  The best parts are at approximately the 4:00 and 7:30 marks.



Here's another clip -- it's the same production as I saw tonight, but with different dancers.  The slave's solos are at 1:20 and 4:40.
 

I saw the performance with Amy and Anna and, fortunately, we had really good seats.  Right down in the front orchestra, slightly to stage left.  Probably a little too close for the stage makeup to be believable (seriously, it looked like a bunch of twelve-year-olds had drawn on their beards with Sharpies), but just right to appreciate those outrageous legs.

(And speaking of outrageous, a note to all the 90-year-olds in the men's room at intermission:  Just because you're ancient doesn't mean you can strike up a conversation about the size of the pirates' thighs while at the urinal and not have it be super awkward.  Seriously.  Just focus on the task at hand and we can revisit that subject out in the foyer.) 

Babies!

In the past month, two new people have come into the world with the distinct honor of getting to call me uncle.  I can't wait to meet them!

Adri Jess, born March 12

Baby boy, born yesterday, April 10 

Cherry Blossom Ten Miler

My alarm went off this morning at 5:00am.  A few minutes later I was eating a bowl of oatmeal and checking the weather report.  I warmed up and stretched and pulled on my running gear (and then pulled it off, and back on, going through every possible permutation of shorts/tights/shirt/jacket/gloves before finally coming back to the outfit I'd originally planned last night).  By 7:20am I was standing in the pre-dawn chill on the National Mall with 17,500 other runners waiting for the Credit Union Cherry Blossom Ten Mile Run to start.

As the horn blew and we shuffled toward the starting gate, I thought, "Holy cow, what am I doing?  Can I even run ten miles?"

Good question.  You see, in October 2011 I injured my knee while training for a marathon -- and I haven't run since.  I replaced running with cycling, and supplemented cycling with weightlifting, yoga and, last fall, CrossFit.  But I haven't run for more than two years.

So it was kind of a gamble when I signed up for the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler.  A last-minute one, too.  The Cherry Blossom is enormously popular, and entrance is determined each fall by lottery.  I always wanted to run the race, but I never won the lottery during my running days, and then I thought I'd sworn off running and stopped trying.  But then my friend Katie moved to Seattle and offered to me her bib.

That was a month ago, and I figured four weeks gave me plenty of time to get myself back in shape for a road race.  So I bought the bib -- and then did nothing to prepare.  Seriously, nothing.  Because the month of March was essentially the Arctic Springtime of Doom, and all I wanted to do was curl up in front of the television while eternal winter raged outside. 

Then all of a sudden I started getting emails from the race organizers with messages like "Come pick up your race stuff!" and "See you on Sunday!"  Sunday -- as in four days from whenever I was reading that message.  So I picked up my packet and resolved to start training for real this time (as if whatever last-minute cramming I did could actually be called "training").

Only I didn't even do that!  Instead, I went to CrossFit on Friday and did 300 double-unders (which is where you jump-rope with the rope going under twice for each jump) -- which left my calves completely shot.  Whatever "training" aspirations I had flew out the window as I hobbled around in pain and agony.  I was more focused on making it from my desk to the printer than on running some ten-miler by the river.

So you can see why I felt a little trepidation as I lined up for the race to start. 

The good news is that everything went just fine.  I scaled back my expectations for speed and grouped myself with the folks who would be running an 8:30 mile.  I turned on my headphones, found a pace that felt sustainable, tuned everything out, and just ran.  At the 5-mile mark, my knee started acting up, so I pulled out a supporting strap and told myself that if it got any worse, I'd quit the race and go home.  The strap helped, and by mile 7 both knees felt perfectly fine.  In fact, I felt awesome and finished strong.

Just over the finish line

I came in just under an hour-and-a-half (which is what I'd expected), with an average pace of 8:36 (also what I'd expected).   I placed 691st in my age division, and 3201st among men -- which doesn't sound great (and certainly isn't remarkable from any competitive standard), but in the context of 17,500 participants, I clearly could have done a lot worse.   For my maiden run after injury and inactivity, I'm happy with these results.   Who knows, maybe I can be a runner again after all!

You want me on your team

Today was blocked out for all-day negotiations on a European manufacturing/distribution deal that I've been working on for the past year for a major pharmaceutical company.  Our client had flown in from the Midwest, our counterparties from the South, and we had conference rooms reserved for the long haul (not long haul like we did in December for the Dodgers deal -- we weren't planning to move into the conference rooms for the next month -- just long haul for the day). 

And then discussions ended at 3:30pm.  Wahoo!

Only our clients' plane didn't leave until 10:00pm.  What to do? 

What to do, indeed.  Within ten minutes I had . . .

1. Made reservations for mid-afternoon dessert at Del Frisco's Grille (because they've got a killer coconut cream pie, and Ed had just been lamenting how hard it is to find good coconut cream pie);
2. Arranged for a private tour of the National Portrait Gallery with the gallery's resident historian (because the first thing Joe said when he realized he had an open afternoon was "I'd love to see the Portrait Gallery");
3. Secured the firm's suite at Nationals park for tonight's game (because Tom is a die-hard baseball fan); and
4. Made reservations for dinner at J&G Steakhouse (because it's Joe's favorite steakhouse in DC, and because it's next to the White House, which I knew Tom really wanted to see).

The only thing that ended up not working out was the baseball game -- the group decided it started too late and didn't want to risk missing their flights.  But everything else worked out perfectly.  The gallery tour, in particular, was an enormous hit (all thanks to the quick work and generosity of my friend Jennifer who made it happen!).  By the time we had finished dinner, everyone was happy and smiling and pleased with the day. 

On the way back to the office the partner expressed amazement at my ability to throw together such a great afternoon so quickly.  My response:  Hey, I've told you before that I'm the one you want on your team.  There's a lot more to me than drafting contracts.

 

Lemons

When life (and by "life" I mean Lincoln Center) gives you lemons, eat a Belgian waffle and talk about the lemons later.

Hard at work (it's a good thing no one can see what I'm actually typing)

By some magical shift in the stars, all of the projects I'm working on have managed to go into a lull at the same time.  The lull will end tomorrow, and I'm sure the rest of the week will be perfectly busy, but for now it's a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I'm at work, and I'm BORED. 

So let's talk about last weekend:  Lots of activities; lots of fun.  It was one of those weekends that makes me think I might get a little carried away sometimes in planning my weekends...

Friday Night

Remember how, at the end of that job interview the other day, the GC suggested that I get to know a guy who used to work at the LC and recently moved to Washington?  Well, I met up with Brandon briefly during the week for coffee (Perrier and a banana for me, actually), and then again for dinner on Friday at Del Frisco's Grille.  The food was good (and the decadent coconut cream pie nearly did me in) and it was fun to get to know Brandon.  Seems like a nice guy; we certainly have a lot in common:  same law school, similar language/poli sci undergraduate majors, enthusiastic international traveler, way into the performing arts.  But what I really wanted was for him to give me a sense of what my chances were for getting the job.  Sadly, he was totally useless on that front.  Grr.

Saturday Morning

The New York City Ballet was in town last week for a series of performances at the Kennedy Center, and on Saturday morning they offered a master class for folks interested in learning more about ballet.  Natch, Amy and I signed up right away. 

The class was small and taught by Daniel (a principal dancer with calves the size of small children) and Emmy (a member of the corps and approximately 7 feet tall).  The other students were mostly middle-aged (or just past) women and two other men, most of whom seemed roughly familiar with dance, but by no means advanced dancers. 

The goal of the class was to teach us excerpts from the pieces that the company was performing during the program that night at the Kennedy Center.  The bulk of the class focused on a long sequence from Glass Pieces (Jerome Robbins, Philip Glass) that had the great virtue of being both formal enough to feel like we were learning dance moves, and informal enough that our approximation of those dance moves looked basically okay.

Yes, we did this.

The other piece was a much shorter "polka" segment from Vienna Waltzes (Balanchine, Strauss).  We learned this one at the end, in kind of a rush, but everyone had had such fun with the Glass Pieces that we were eager to give it a try.  Plus, with the exception of one bit of fancy footwork (which may have been physically impossible, the teacher's demonstration notwithstanding), it was intuitive enough that we caught on pretty quickly.

Why, oh why!, did they not have eveningwear on hand for us in the rehearsal room?

The class was enormously fun and MUCH better than the ballet classes I've been going to here in town.  I did not get every step, and I'm sure my form was all over the place, but I had fun and never once felt lost or frustrated.  What a difference it makes to have a teacher who is both good at dancing AND at teaching.

Saturday Night

Saturday's dance programming didn't end with the ballet class -- that night Amy and I returned to see Malavika Sarukkai perform traditional Indian dances at the Kennedy Center.

To be honest, I went into the performance with some skepticism.  I knew these traditional dances were largely symbolic narratives about Indian mythology, and since I know very little about Indian mythology and related dance symbology, I thought I would be bored.  Not at all!  The movement and music was really lovely and at times entrancing.  The lighting needed some work (surely there's a better way to light improvised portions than just turning on all the lights) and it either needed to be twenty minutes shorter or have an intermission, but overall the presentation was very strong.  Now I need to go to India.

Sunday Night

After church on Sunday I headed back downtown to meet up with Amy and Danya and another friend of theirs to see Mike Daisey's American Utopias at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre. 

As with all of Daisey's performances, this one consisted of him sitting alone in the dark at a table on the stage -- telling stories.  That's what he does, tells stories -- and he's SO good at it!  The substance of the stories can be funny or provocatively political (often both), but the technique of the telling is what fascinates me.  The way this homely, obese man can sit there and keep us captivated for two hours without an intermission.  It makes me want to be a better story-teller.

But being a good story-teller is hard.  Unless you're on some crazy travel adventure, or going through Trials and Tribulations at home, the stories won't come unless you pay super close attention to what's happening and take the time to recognize the story and develop it.  None of which I've been doing lately. 

And now?  Back to work.