Saturday 29 May 2010

Going Back to Houston....













The sprawling pink blue indigo Texan sunset framed by our floor to ceiling windows on the fifteenth floor makes me glad to be back in our travelling mode. Admittedly the heat, which we have so longed for through the chilly depths of the Michigan and Minnesotan winters has come upon us in dramatic fashion. Who knew that 35 degrees and what feels like 100% humidity would reduce the weary jet lagged ones into a heap of sleep deprived weather wimps. I mean, I have Sardinian blood for goodness sake. I should be able to take this heat. Not so.

For the past couple of days, since boy and I arrived, we have been hiding away in doors and letting rip when you can almost breathe outside, usually after 4pm. It feels wonderful to let your skin breathe again after mummyfying ourselves for so long on the tour. Boy proudly strutted his England football uniform. We are training him up for the world cup of course. And preparing him for some in family feuding. I am rooting for Italy, and its not just because the players are pretty, Dad is on "team" USA (couldn't resist sorry) and boy will be painted red and white. We are a true coalition. Its all the rage in England these days don't you know?

The joy of boyo finally being allowed to wear his shorts took me back to school days when we would change over into our summer uniforms. It was then that I would know it would be only a matter of weeks till we would pack off to Sardinia for the summer. Yippeekayay! A term we have been indoctrinating the boy into saying. Well, we are in dude country now. Best get with the lingo. We past a 5ft man on the street the other day and mum, rather too loudly shouted out at boyo to look! Course he looked in the opposite direction. I had spotted my first cowboy. Well, my first man in a cowboy hat. Sammy asked me if he was with his horse too? He then asked me if I was so keen to buy cowboy boots should I not then in fact, be a cowgirl what with me being a girl. I answered in the affirmative. He then drilled me on whether they lived in the same place as cowboys. I admit I struggled on answers for all of the above and so, as a family, we have decided, for educational reasons of course, to find ourselves a dude ranch on our way to San Antonio next week. It'll be like City Slickers meets Bugsy Malone, I can just see it now....

Our first few nights in Houston have of course been spiked by some serious jet lag - nothing like waking up at 3 in the morning to a viciously AWAKE three year old - but also a warm reunion with the acting brigade. Sam boy and I had planned on playing outside the stage door in the balmy evening whilst dad brought home the bacon (we had slept all afternoon and mum didn't fancy staying indoors) but a thunder storm sent mum and boy running inside. We were greeted by the lovely Mr Vargo, who, as a swing in the show, often has time for a good natter. Down we went to the green room and set about a marathon round of Mousetrap. It was interspersed with pop-ins by everybody in the company who took it in turns to vie for Sammy's undivided attention so excited were they to be reunited with their mascot. By the end of the show he had been squeezed and teased by most of them, sat on beautiful ladies laps, been fed birthday cake (this week is littered with celebrations) and generally held court in a way that only a three year old can. He even managed to sit next to Ry, the actor playing the monster, in his full make up, without clinging onto mama. The boy is growing up. And clearly happy to be back with his other family.

At lunch today he started to give Cory suggestions for ad libs. At one point in the show his dad has slipped in a "Samalamadingdong!" which makes our son squeal in delight every time. Last night, he shouted out at the monitors in the green room a loud "thank you Dad for saying my naaaaame!" Today however, he was full of alternatives, including substituting the above for "Little big bottle of ketchup!" Not sure what Mr Brooks might have to say about that one. Later at dinner, he sat, bolt upright, eyes a-sparkle with love for his papa whilst drilling him for details on how the show went and why and how and why and who and when and why. It was like being at a pub after a show with the performers. I don't know who was loving it more. Boy or slightly bigger boy. I was fussing around the peripheries trying to make a decent dinner out of our bathroom, sorry kitchen, with the use of a foreman grill and a helpful microwave.

The past few days have seen us leaving London after a few more teary goodbyes with our best (newlywed) mates, a quick turn for me as a mean posh bird in another children's comedy BBC show, or as I like to think about it - mum playing dress up and getting paid for it - and some serious grandma and grandad time. Now we have returned to our travelling life and I feel perversely settled again. I can now fully appreciate why people do this for years and years. I remember being left open mouthed when John Mark on the crew told me he had been on the road for 14 years. I struggled to truly comprehend what this meant. Now me and my bones get it. And as for the folks who are so keen to remind me that when Sammy starts school it will be curtains for travel I just have to observe the soundy giving him magnets from his tool box to enlighten him on the magic of physics, Nicole the spotlight operator (who presented Sammy with a night light in the shape of a Lego man just yesterday) carefully explaining why a hex rivet is called so and the performers taking it in turns to pass on tricks of the trade to know that the little tyke is getting a very special education. For now anyhows. Whilst we live the pretend end of the reality spectrum.

For the next few days we plan on soaking up Houston, catch a ball game, perhaps a farmers market, a trip to the (air conditioned) children's museum and some serious wiffle ball action with the troupe....

Its good to be back "home"........

Wednesday 12 May 2010

Gettin to the "Church" On Time....

As I stood, shakily reading Bob Dylan's Wedding Song to a small sea of friendly faces at my best friend's wedding before the justice of the peace ceremony began, I felt the tears of gratitude fight to stay inside till at least the closing lines. I was moved that we all managed to be there, and that she had bestowed such an honour upon me. My acting training went as far to help me to remember to breathe and make myself heard, but I never did manage that control-your-emotions-with-the-stoicism-of-an-unflappable-royal or some such very well....Still, I got through it (without looking at my friends in the eye - then the flood gates would have been opened past the point of no return) and puffed out my chest with pride. Our son, had just finished his turn, walking calmly down the aisle, wearing his waistcoat with the shyness of a peacock in training. Having reached the half way mark on the red carpet, he paused. For dramatic effect of course. He then proceeded to show each side of the party the rings, tied delicately on a lacey cushion flown in from Italy. Right. Left; Ladies and Gentlemen, exhibit A. Then on to his seat. The boy's a pro. My video is shaky from laughing.

Gone was this poise but a few hours later when, full of a tiny dip into pink champagne and stuffed with bread and starters and jelly beans and roast dinner and desert and cheering and clinking glasses to get the couple to kiss (it's an Italian thing) boyo had turned into a diminuitive and somewhat manic Romeo chasing all the flower girls and trying to keep them rounded up in the main party room. In the end he prooved a light weight, when, after the room had been turned aorund for the second time into a dance floor and stage (klezmer band included!) the girls, having napped danced into the night in that delightful tribal style that small folk do whilst he conked out on grandma's lap and was laid across three chairs and slept through the subsequent three sweaty hours of dancing. The Klezmer band touched the gypsy within all of us as we fumbled our way, almost touching the floor, into circles and patterns, whooping and cheering and taking turns and strutting in the centre of the clan to cheers and claps and general happy group-ness. Having been sworn to resist inducing tears from the morning (I helped Gabby get dressed and her mascara was to last at least until the end of the ceremony!) I finally succumbed when Gabby's mum shimmyed over to mum and I and the three of us, arms around each other bopped up and down. I imagined Gabby's grandmother and my aunt Patricia popping down to link on to the ends and enjoy the party too. The happy sad tears came. After James and his band (the groom) did a fantastic turn towards the end of the night it was almost time to scoop up the boy and tip toe back out into the incredibly cold Welsh night and back into our cottage. He woke up, somewhat deliriously chatty, scoffed some wedding cake, hugged uncle James, exclaimed yet another squeal of delight in the fact that we got to live in a cottage in Wales and then fell into another bout of sleep. The following morning there were hugs and fried breakfasts and more Italian family-ness and friends, and goodbyes. Why always the good byes?!

Turns out, it is more of a see you in London in a few weeks' time, as my producer from the series I finished last september surprised me with a job offer the first day we arrived. Hows about that for a home coming?! It's a guest spot in an episode of another kids comedy show he is doing in which I get to play an arch villain. A spoilt, ruthless, brash and evil manipulative young lady. I can't wait. Don't misunderstand me, I do not long to be back on the audition circuit, dreaming up jobs, I am delighted to dip in for a few days and then return to what I truly appreciate now more than ever, to be our pretend life. The heavy clouds, the chill in the air of London and it's Londoners has confirmed to all of us that we are no where near ready to settle back down just yet. The dusty heat of Texas is a callin' and my boots are still made for walkin' - specially if they are leathr high heeled and turquiose encrusted thank you very much.

A quick word mention now of our last week in Boston. Having spent the first, in the company of my cousin, her husband and their two young boys, you would think that the English clan would lay low and re-coup after all the excitement. But why, when there were green card parties to organise?! Why rest, when there is celebrating to do darlings? The party itself, echoed the immigration process. The room was all set: The hamper was covered with green tablecloth, our enormous dining table was greenified also. A green helium star balloon bobbed up and down attached to an ice bucket. The bath was full of sparkling alcoholic things and sodas. Pizzas and antipasti were ordered. Boy was sat on the sofa, scrubbed, fed and sitting patiently next to his bedtime books. This is the order of the events that followed:

Mama tells him she just has to make a quick call to front desk to ask if she could borrow the glasses that they had told her the day before she could have for a party. The lady on the desk says no and carries on to explain that the limit for glasses is six. Mama explains that there are about 30/40 people coming in under two hour's time. Front desk lady says six is the max. Mama asks for plastic ones instead. Front desk lady says six is the maximum. Mama changes subject and asks for a little help with ice seeing as the bath is rather deep and the machine is a five minute walk away. Front desk lady says I can help myself to the ice and take as much as I wish. Mama says the bath is enormous and the recepticles in the room rather tiny. Front desk lady does not budge. Mama please-s. Front desk lady says, in any case she could not help because the ice is for a party and she cannot condone a party in a guest room. Mama feels like a spoilt little rich girl when she points out that they have had the good fortune to be living in a HUGE suite. Front desk lady replies with a HUGE no on all counts and a please stop harranging me miss, goodnight. That ole' green card bureaucracy rearing its head once again. Does mama stumble? Panic? Scream and shout? No siree, mama dresses boy up, who is now speechless with excitement at the fact that bedtime has suddenly turned into urban adventure. We traipse out into the Bostonian night and just over an hour later return with a bath full of ice and plastic champagne glasses and tumblers. Somehow boy and ma manage to mix up the green, green card cocktail, lay out plates, fill the bath with ice to cool the drinks, have shower, and get boyo to sleep, all in under 45 minutes. You've got to hand it to these short folk, we know about speeeeeeed. You should have seen the little boys face, droopy with tiredness as I whizzed around fixing up the room, turning to me and quietly announcing he was ready for books now ma. He slept through the whole noisy affair. Through the operatic a capella harmonised version of Land of the Free, through the squeals of delight from the girls as the food arrived and those of mama when she received a sea of, mostly edible, "green" gifts. It was just lovely. We toasted to absent friends. I nearly cired. Everyone cheered. I was a happy camper. Boyo only called out as the very last guest was leaving around 2ish and when ma and pa were more than ready to hit the hay. Then followed a family filled weekend with my in-laws and and their brother and sister-in-law as well as my cousins from Philly area. It was, as they would say in the welsh valleys, simply, lush.

We did arrive back in Blighty a little bedraggled I have to say. Nothing a bucks fizz and impromtu bank holiday party at my old neighbour's house couldn't fix. When we arrived my cousin - who is more of a sister - was waiting for me, and we partied into the afternoon. Now there's a way to ward off jet lag I tell ya. I managed till 8ish that evening until I literally fell onto the kitchen table, sound asleep, waking up, drooling onto the wood about an hour and a half later. Jet lag is the closest to purgatory I ever wish to get thank you very much. The not so dark secret of wannabe jet setters.....

Weariness aside, we have managed to squeeze in our top haunts. Cory did his usual manic turn at the plot. A planned morning of earthiness turned into the best part of a ten hour dig/fix-fest. He returned home red, weary and satisfied. We got to have a pint at our favourite little pub. Partied. Travelled the British countryside form the lush green Welsh valleys thorough the picturesque villages of Gloucestershie and Oxfordshire. My land of birth is a pretty one to be sure. But I am not ready for it to be home just yet. Course the green card situation has added another slant on things. There is a pressure for me to make sure I put it to very good use. Cory has already got me planning a full scale production of my one woman show by LA come August and I have already started putting a slow simmer of panic on my back burner...

Our bi-continental dream has its costs. Right now I type whilst Cory travels solo to St Louis and Sam and I sit tight till mummy has done her turn on camera and then it's direct to Houston, Texas. The seperation is but brief, and for this I am truly grateful, and yet it serves as a gentle reminder of the challenges that we may have to face if we truly are to protect our residency in both countries. Nothing a little determination and good humour can't handle.

And luck.

You can never have enough of that...