Marathon hits Hartford

The city was alight with Marathon fever today. Thousands of locals and not-so locals took to the roads for the grueling 26 mile slog. At around 9 o'clock, when Sam (thank you for sleeping in boy!) and I took off for our new coffee local Jo-Jos we passed the relatively relaxed 5k finishees clearly relishing their breakfast bagels. On our way back after our lunch, and after some hard core park-age with his father, Sam and I witnessed the half marathonees sweating through satisfied smiles briskly walking back to reality on the pavements of downtown Hartford. It was not till the early afternoon, after a lengthy laundry adventure involving a quarter-eating non-cleaning machine or two, that we came across the hard core hobbling elite. The expressions on their faces, a moving mix of pain and joy made me want to run baths for them and touched the deep part of me that has been nurtured to be a compulsive feeder. Oh, if only our bimbo were plugged in, I would have rustled them up a plate or three of pasta. I don't think I have ever seen a city so awash with lean muscley running machines as I have done this past few days. Everywhere you went there were lithe beshorted folk in preparation for today. In the evenings our hotel was a carnival of clashing luminous printed T-Shirts with the runner's families showing up in force to support them and their chosen charities. Suddenly, the stiffness in my knee was no more, and, inspired by the numerous foil wrapped individuals crossing our path I too performed my own mini marathon. No, I don't mean a sprint to the cupboard for a chocloate fix, I mean a bona fide, power ballad theme tuned dance on the treadmill. It was in all intents and purpose more like a battle on the treadmill (will it successfully push me off, so abhorred with my lack of technique or mental prowess?) and when I say power ballad I actually mean an ipod shuffle of hip hop and Sondheim with a few Neil Diamond surprises thrown in. Leave it. But in the end I think I won; I am not limping, I am not scared to get back on. Yes, definately an une pointe score to me today. Well, I figure if the lot out there can manage 20+ miles, surely I can withstand 20 minutes. The past few days here have been under a dampish cloud of autumnal humidity. That sort of threatening to rain sort of atmosphere. As I took a walk down main street the church bells were ringing out a chopin waltz, with that slightly off the beat thing that bells tend to do, the sound floating up hill as if underwater. Despite the people hustled around the bus stops all along the strip and the commuters jostling down the sidewalks (Dunkin Donuts coffee firmly gripped) the juxtaposed effect of the music made me feel like I was in a scene from a movie. I half expected everyone to burst into Ally McBeal Fisher King routines. I wouldn't have been surprised if the woman outside the church half way up towards the library had done so however, she was already living partly in another world 25 bags of I-daren't-know-what in hand. We are definately starting to feel a world away from home. Mostly in a good way. Blessed be Skype is all I can say. I wonder at Sam who takes it all in his stride, so perfectly normal is it for him to have a chat with the grandfolks or hang out with my best mate and her fiance (aka second parents to the boy) on the computer screen. To me however, of the Atari generation, it is still so thrilling. Our friends and I hung out for almost two hours and were, almost, apart from some excitement induced antics (my friend pulled out every instrument in their home to entertain Sam. Who would have known they had a blowy piano thingy? Or a shakey metal wotsit?) we (almost) behaved like we were sat in the same room. We even ate muffins together. Well, we had carrot and raisin stuff and they had Cadbury's milk choc biscuits. That probably explains why the streamers came out. I mean I'm not saying our mates can't hold their sugar or anything. I am saying that I love the fact that the four of us, Sam watched on bemused, worked together and used up the entire final stock of their streamer supply (who has those in October?! Their story is that the last owners of the flat left them in the attic. You buy that? People will go to any lengths to make you believe they don't keep a regular stock of streamers.) trying to work out the best angle to shoot it from. On the first four attempts the streamers went right over the camera so that all we got was a bang and not much else. Ok, now I realise why Sam was so bemused. Anyway the point was, we got to play together which was very cool. Only down side was the good bye bit at the end. Felt happy sad tears at the pit of my stomach and decided to keep them there for another time. They don't know this, but we are just priming everyone up to do some Skype-sitting. Sammy is a pretty good listener at the mo, why not take advantage of the fact and give our friends some unadultered time with their boy without us in the way. I don't mean for days at a time or anything, and admittedly bath time might be somewhat tricky, just a half hour of books every now and again. When the rush of interest in being in a new city has begun to fade, you are saddened by so many Skype goodbyes and homesickness begins to rear its little head there is always a trip to the theatre to raise the spirits. In between shows today we joined the troupe for dinner at the theatre. Everyone sat at long tables scoffing delicious catered food and generally making a great fuss of their mascot. He in turn, relayed particulars of his day and at the end of dinner announced he was going to do his fathers make up. Not many boys his age could say the same I would suspect. Up we trekked round the back alleys of the theatre, passing a bass player bowing his instrument who graciously took the time to give our son a brief masterclass. Sam looked up at him and asked if he would show his friend how it worked. He meant Beth of course. The player kindly obliged. Up another floor through the bustle of the pre set, only a few of the crew didn't stop what they were doing to share a moment or two with Sam. He announced to all of them in turn also, that he was going to do his fathers make up and that he would be three on the 19th of November. Up then to Cory's cosy dressing room, which is nestled in the older part of the building. Half the dressing rooms are in the new extension - bright, roomy, luminous and the other half are in the original building and have that familiar old feel about them which I love; slightly tired plaster, original frosted metal framed windows, wooden lengths for the table with innumerable layers of paint, low ceilings and that warm glow from the lamps that always makes me feel overcome with a yearning for theatrical times past (I was regressed once, as an esoterically minded teenager and the "memories" involved a place not disimilar but thats another story) We camped out and Sam perched on the edge of the dressing table taking aim with the appropriate brushes under the guidance of his daddy. Its a good job that Igor's make up can be a little crooked here and there but trying desperately not to be biased I have to say the boy has a good eye. And quite a steady hand. I guess if the all-star baseball team, Michelin star chef, poet-musician thing doesn't work out he can always fall back on the make up. Who knows how our life in the wings is being processed in his little busy mind. All I know is that as we waited outside in the cool starlit Hartford night for our taxi and as we rode home with a rhinestone studded baseball capped driver who had spent many christmases in Manchester our son recited back to me, almost verbatim the notes that the dance captain had just given Cory as we passed him at stage door on our way out. I was a little freaked. But deeply proud. When we got back, half of Samuel Whiskers (I have brought Beatrix Poter with us - its is DEEPLY soporiphic especially when the readers can't work out how to pronounce half the words or read out the monetary references, very British, and supports our deeply Victorian way of parenting) sent him off dreaming whilst I looked, somewhat overwhelmed, at our suitcases to be repacked for Monday's trip to Cleveland Ohio. Let the theatre marathon commence!

Thoughts from the Human Outpost

Elsewhere moon-orientated scientists are preparing to blast the lunar top soil in search of evidence of water in view of a possible "human outpost". I, in the meantime from within our own human outpost am tuned into Radio 4 on our computer having just flashed a few pilates moves to counteract a few days worth of indulgence and settling down to ponder our day. Our new friends found us as promised down at the old Billings Forge Farmers market. I had braced myself for a chaotic herd of scrupulous city dwellers frantically stocking up on their organic produce for the week (I am always struck by the mild neurosis in the air of such events back in London, or, for hard core foodie fanatics, its Manhattan counterpart at christmas, as people brush past one another dodging pesticides and GM ingredients whilst plugged into their blue tooth wotsit in their ears and flinching silently at the prices) what I found however was a handful of laid back sellers collected around a community green of a restored red brick forge basking in the warm october sunshine without fuss, or fear or fecklessness. Fabulous. It took us all of 15 minutes to glance over everybody's products. Just enough to smell and touch everything and buy one of most of everything, amongst which were a pumpkin and raisin loaf (inhaled by son) and just the right amount of pumpkin curry to tide us over till dinner (we have been over indulging somewhat, best not send message to brain that this is a daily ritual). Halloween anyone? One lady-shopper we spotted was most prepared for it sporting proudly as she was a rainbow coloured cardigan with all manner of cross stitch style motifs emblazoned. Sam proudly, and loudly, picked out the pumpkin on her left hand pocket but the witch flying across the full moon on her back lost her audience. Monsters are somewhat on the brain I fear. Ones of the green, Frankenstein sort being at the forefront of most conversations. I was explaining that we would be flying to Cleveland Ohio on Monday with everyone from the show, Sam quickly insisting, "Not the monster though." He has met Schuler, the artful actor who brings him so sensitively to life but the whole green thing has touched that terrible hulk part of Sam's brain and it is going to take several months for him to really feel that he is not scared of him. At the moment he is still in the feigning ambivalence phase. He seems to do that for most things that he clearly is unsettled by; loud toilet flushes (the ones we have encountered here have been on turbo boost, one in particular almost sucked both he and I down the drain, it was one of those fandangled automatic ones. One unexpected breath or shift of weight and you and your excretions are done for) thunder, lightning, Grandad's china man outside their house and the like. The last is a dodgy ode to the Terracotta army. Not sure if he fears the poor quality of it in terms of accurate replica or the 5ft 5-ness of it looming in the shadows as you approach the door of a dark night. It is painted a moody shade of slate with surprising copper coloured highlights (a DIY addition) to hide the cracks. Turns out it wasn't made to the high quality the market seller down in Xian promised Dad it was. My father's love affair with all things China deserves a blog in itself, this is but way of introduction you understand. Picture Del Boy strutting down a midnight market in Shanghai and you are half way there. This might be the right time to report some criticism on my blogged thoughts from said Del-Boy. According to my father I would do well to be "less slick and educated" in my daily reportings. Less "mental" and more about what we are actually "doing". Apparently "every day people don't want an excercise in dissitation". Apologies Dad. Please excuse me for one moment whilst I dedicate the following list of actions for his benefit before I make a sunday dinner's worth of musings of essentially quite a peaceful sociable little day in a new town with very warm welcoming new friends. When push comes to shove this is what our day actually was:

1. FABULOUS coffee at Jo-Jos on Pratt Street (see yesterday's post)

2. Walk through Bushnell park and under big important historical civic building. One carving on which was labelled Hooker's March but judging by the pointy pilgrim hatted figure in it, not an allusion to the nightlife sort. Childish I know but you would have thought the same.

3. Market with friends and food.

4. Bus ride to friends house. $1.25. Children free.

5. Playing with friends at said house.

6. Bus ride back. Brazilian flag in hand. (a keepsake of Sam's young love)

7. Light but lovely dinner.

8. Blogging

9. Listing items for blog.

10. Hopefully proving that a list is not as much fun as a moderately structured stream of consciousness.

11. Stopping the list thing before anyone believes I am taking it the suggestions too seriously.

12. Looking forward to tomorrow's Skyped review.

There.

Now I'll get on with the over-wordy bit.

The afore moentioned flag now lies scrumpled on the desk. They say history repeats itself. It seems fitting that one of our little fella's first female friendships is with a young Brazilera. His father some ten years back was involved for almost a decade with one such also. I know the presentation of the gift certainly brought a wry smile to his Dad's face. The two tykes (Talita and Sam not Sam and his Dad) tired themselves out good and proper and shrieked, skipped, ran, jumped and argued their way through the minefield that is three. By the end of the afternoon they were hugging desperately. Sammy slightly weepy, waved goodbye at the bus stop (I like nothing better to ride local buses in new places especially when it allows you a glimpse of another reality aside from the carefully manicured centre of town. I spied some authentic looking mexican ma and pa places and a cluster of chapels in apartment blocks with hand painted signs written in Spanish most of whose pastora's were women) but nevertheless managed a "Have a good swim!" before the flood gates really opened in earnest (she was off to a swim class, it wasn't just one of his metaphysical salutations). A good day had by all. We are set to hit the Mother Goose session at the library tomorrow morning. I pray we encounter the sort of librarian who doesn't take the view that stories must be shrieked in that hyper talking-to-under-5's voice, or, like some parents I meet, the what I like to call the piercing parenting voice. I believe it is a phallacy that decibel level will determine attention level from young ears. I usually find the opposite is true for our boy. Hey-ho. Room for everyone I spose. As long as some golden eggs are laid, we'll all be happy.

If Libraries and ShowBiz be the Food of Love......

There is something about the half hourly rumble of a train and its horn passing through the station next door that propels me into the dramatic getaway section of a black and white detective movie. As it punctuates my evening I can envisage the smoke, the glare of its front beam and the to-die-for sultry close ups of leading ladies and their men impeccably dressed and lip-sticked smouldering under the heat of being discovered for their crimes. Whatsoever they may be. There is something about the view across the way (once you get past the air conditioner the size of a small studio directly infront of our window) that harkens back to the tenements of 20s America. I can see windows infront and above me and its enough to give a bit more soul to our building. There's that train again screeching through the night. It brings my fantasy of being a real live living breathing travelling circus a little closer to life you see. A convoy of trucks is not quite the same as having our own train but still. Imagination will fill the cracks reality exposes. Despite all the newness of this particular location I was delighted to spy another one of those gold US Mail boxes by the elevators this morning and have made a promise to myself to use this one. Actually I find myself in the unprecedented feeling of having almost an entire evening to myself. Our little man was so overcome with his day that he passed out on my lap at dinner around 6.30 (oh no, does this mean I am going to see 5.30 again this morning?!) after only a few slices of mouthwatering-fresh-from-the-oven-bread dipped in olive oil. We had found ourselves stumbling across yet another gastronomic find (blessed be Cory's per diem which allows us to enjoy such treats!) around the corner from the theatre. After passing an hour or so watching - wide eyed and intensively alert to all his father's movements - the troupe's publicity photo call on stage and in costume we had built an appetite. I think the amazonian dancers overwhelmed our boy. One in particular seems to have etched herself somewhere deep in his psyche. When Sam first met Beth (who beautifully plays an upper class New York socialite, fiance to Dr Frankenstein) in the flesh he recognised her from a picture message Cory had sent a week or so before hand. When she came back into Cory's room with her illustrious flaming red wig on Sam seemed uncharacteristically bashful and by the time we past her in the corridor with her full ruby sequined jaw dropping glittering gown on he was positively speechless and barely caught her eye. Add to this the fact that towards the end of act one when we watched the show in Providence, he asked where the red lady was I think we can safely say some impact has been made on the young soul. I can understand the allure of the older woman for him. They seem to have the time to listen to all his musings on life and laugh wildly at his jokes. Hang on. I have just stumbled upon the discovery that an almost three year old male's needs aren't so different from their grown up counterparts after all? How can you compare the wide eyed expression of joy that Beth casts over Sam to the changeable and unrelenting demands of her three year old counterparts. I'm thinking specifically of one Talita, the petite Brazilian beauty he met over plastic fish and sweetcorn at the tail end of Alphabet Time in Hartford's public library in the play kitchen section. The luminous glassy room, the stacks of books, what better place for the sparky meeting of freshly grown and burgeoning intellectual minds. Her mother Carolina and I watched as they played together, Talita making clear demands on where each item should be placed on the rug and Sammy taking great care of her needs by asking her if this was the right spot on every item he pulled out of the wooden play food boxes. Suddenly the weight of a mother's responsibility makes my shoulder muscles tighten. I watch him attending to his new friends and feel torn between the feeling that we are helping to nurture a very caring soul sensitive to the needs of others and predisposed to co-operation and the fear that in fact I am so utterly controlling that he must needs seek and be drawn to the kind of women that abuse their power (I can tell you she barked out her orders in a most forceful manner, in true three year old style). Later at the nearby cafe (freshly roasted beans on the premises and mouth watering tea. Yes, tea, served in an iron japanesey pot on a small ebony tray with a cup that had two handles on either side. I am a sucker for details, somone once attributed that to the cluster of planets in Virgo in my chart but I will try to keep personal astrological facts out of this to minimise offence) he put his arm around her. I, wrongly, interfered adding, "That's nice Sam, you can give her a hug." He looked me square in the eye and without diffidence or a hint of provocation he plainly replied, his arm frozen in its chosen position of comfort,"I am not hugging mum." The young couple looked up at me with a fleeting earnest look of pubescent love and just as I etched it to memory they broke into a tickle fight and threw themselves back into three year old and the couch. I love the juxtaposed way mock adult behaviour sits alongside the oblique sense of realism in a three year old. Whilst we were sat in the auditorium this afternoon Sam told one of the company managers that the cogs on the set were like the wheels on Harvey the crane engine (Thomas fans will understand) which is absolutely correct. In the next breath he asked the same man whether he lived on stage. He told him he lived under the stage. Sam held his gaze for a moment. I could see his own cogs turning to figure out what that meant exactly. Then dinner was called and we were onto salivating over thoughts of pasta and such. We did end up in an Italian but this was as far away from spaghetti and meatballs as you can get, not that I don't love a good spaghetti and meatballs but seasonal leaves with caramelised walnuts, goats cheese, wild cactus fruit drizzled with a Tahitian vanilla bean vinaigrette, it ain't. This is what started our feast. It was followed by grilled artichokes Roman style (they certainly made me want to be prone and draped in a loose fitting toga) and home made ravioli and a divinely delicately cooked sea bass laid over fresh roasted vegetables (already miss our allotment, we had those stripy beetroot ready to pick just as we left) and potatoes that so creamy they seemed to be made entirely of butter. I was sold from the moment they served Cory's iced tea in an oversize wine glass and presented me with a small liqueur shape glass on which to merely balance a slice of lemon to flavour my tap water with. We finished of with a "Triticot of Signature Deserts". I figure that my daily quota of egg to keep my iron in check also includes a rich chocolate souffle disguised as some sort of cocoa bread pudding right? I mean the doctor told me to eat eggs, she didn't say don't eat chocolate or don't eat chocolate and egg together. What more pleasurable way to ward off anaemia? Still I will compensate tomorrow at the farmer's market - our new friends have told us to catch the 61 bus with a dollar and 25 cents each to get there. Here we plan for Sam to meet Talita (we'll see if it was true friendship or just the glow of the early afternoon light) and her mother and baby brother once again and enjoy the fruits of local farmer's labours. I hope to bring back an armful for our bimbo too!

On the Road to Asylum

The first thing that strikes me on our entry into Hartford is the fact that we spend fifteen minutes driving around in circles looking for a street named Asylum (My PMT wasn't that bad was it husband dearest?!) quite fitting for the dizzy state we ramshackle ourselves into corporate housing world and for the afternoon I willingly imprison Sam and I in our new cell. I mean apartment. He immediately forms a slightly unnerving attachment to his "cage" he means crib. Honestly, we gave away our old cat's one after he had to leave us for a diamante studded one in the sky. Even on skype Sammy jigged from one leg to another urging the grandfolks to admire the metal sleeping construction. On wheels. Just like in baby asylums. Sorry I mean institutions. I exagerrate my attention to inconsequential details, once you get past the plastic fauna draped over wall hung baskets and the faux cosy corporate look of our little place it makes for quite a neat little cave. Add to it the noise of a few well loved toys and books and you have yourself a home. Besides, we have an unadulterated view of the megagalactic air conditioner that services the building right outside our window. The beginning of the afternoon started well with a surprisingly delicious lunch just across the street. It may come as no surprise for me to give some substantial rumination over food, it is after all how I judge the success of any given day and is one of my primary passions for existence; with my Jewish and Italian routes it is something I have never fought on any level. I was wary on first entry to the place. TAPAS was emblazoned in psychadelic purple and yellows above the doorway and on first inspection the interior seemed a poor tribute to any tavernous spanish inglenooks I have dreamt of going in on balmy Sevillian nights. I imagined a menu heavily Americanized. Basically quesadillas and wraps disguised as "foreign" food. What we got however was a mouthwatering gambit of marinated chicken and veg, in a wrap yes, but a world away from bland deep fry-land, a crisp greek salad slathered in good quality olive oil dressing and herbs and clove-loads of garlic topped with a succulent salmon steak and our boy devoured a generous swirl of houmous surrounded by fresh pesto, olives, chillies, sun blushed tomatoes and capers. Ok maybe we ate everything but the houmous and pesto which we managed to stop ourselves from sopping up with the warmed pitta wedges and leave to the growing tyke. Whilst the boys left for their post lunch ablutions (Sam hurrying back after his and, when after a little while his father followed, he hollered across the restaurant, "Did pooh come for you too Daddy?" my husband hanging his head low in embarrassment which for me is a personal rare moment of delight seeing as he has dedicated so much time and energy in cornering me into public displays of cringe that any pay back is always gratefully chalked up) I started conversation with the owner. He has an air of Vince Vaughn about him but smaller and shiftier. He keeps glancing from side to side as if he is about to be recognised. He has started a little music hub in his place, which was originally opened by his father in the 1960s. A long island native he appears to have a somewhat ambivalent attitude towards his Conneticut home and even more so about Hartford itself. When I ask him, somewhat naively perhaps, what it is exactly that attracts people to the place he shrugs and tells me that is what he has been trying to figure out himself for the past 20 years. Kind of a conversation stopper for the new kid in town. I was hoping for a nugget of local wisdom or pride even but the only thing of importance I could ascertain from this character was how much he loved to play in his band (hence slightly open linen shirt) and how playing lead guitar was his primary passion (magnum PI uber retro cool shades check). I think he sensed I was loosing interest a little when he started waxing lyrical on how much he and his band buddys make in the nearby casino - largest in the states - for playing just one night. Actually that bit got my imagination, I think the heart sank when he told me people take their kids there "cos there is like a mall inside and all these crazy shops." Traipsing around a place like that with the two boys in my life would be like my own purgotorial abyss. Also during our short exchange I gather that there is no grocery store in the area. This means two things. 1. My son is going to start to honestly believe that eating out at establishments 3 times a day is normal and acceptable behaviour and 2. Our bimby will likely stay dormant much to my husband's distress. Ah. I sense a furrowed brow. A quizzical raise of an eyebrow? A what-on-earth-is-a-bimby kind of half shrug? I will gladly enlighten. The bimby, not to be confused with bimbo, is a masterclass feat of engineering brought to us by a group of friendly efficiency obsessed group of German engineers who decided what the world needed to make modern life simpler was a stainless steel electrically powered mega cooking machine. From the outside it looks just like a very sleek and slightly complicated food processor. But on the inside, it performs a plethora of functions to boggle even the most gadget friendly geek. You know who you are. This beauty chops, cuts, stirs, grinds, beats, steams, fries, whips, cooks, bakes, flips and generally blows people minds. The lure of being able to cook home made grub - in one pot, yes I'm talking pasta, sauce and all, and in under 15 minutes seemed too irresistable for life on the road. I mean seriously, a whole year without my aunt's pasta sauce or chicken soup?(She may have left us but her recipes will live on eternally) What kind of free wheeling globe trotting sado-masochist do you take me for?! It is for these reasons that my husband lugged our bimbo, sorry bimby, through premium economy as hand luggage (blade packed in suitcase) in a 50p kilburn market laundry bag purchased circa 1988 (another of my aunt's heirlooms). Make no mistake, classy is our middle name. And it is also why, he searched the internet high and low for a transformer (or what I have now fondly named robot in disguise) to use alongside it so that its 1500watts would not blow up our hotel rooms. One month into his stay here and 5 minutes after our Hartford check in do we receive the beauty. All 36 ilbs of it. Yes, our packing light motto is well and truly thrown out of the window. Hopefully not literally, because this is the kind of equipment that would take someone out. Sam and I watched his father unwrap the enormous parcel with the frenzy of a five year old on a sugar high at his birthday and eventually out of the mass of paper rose a cream metal box, gauge fronted and loaded with knobs. Its like something out of the BBC props store for a 1978 open univeristy experiment on vaultage with as much consumer appeal. Perhaps I have been spoilt being the proud new owner of an iphone and mac that my eyes have become jaded to the reality of electronics but this piece of weight looks like it would fit in better on a factory floor rather than a hotel's replica antique kitchen diner table, or in the dusty corners of my school's technology room somewhere half hidden between the drill and the soldering kits. My husband is its proud owner. Where I see unsightly gadget he sees chicken soup. I am like a 1950s housewife bowing under consumer pressure to get women back into the home and cooking for their men and brood. Still, the point is, magic as our bimbo is, she can't make something from nothing, so until Hartford can provide some basic supplies we are on the cafe loop, which, as it happens seems to be Hartford's strong point. I have had a glance at the map of downtown and it is clustered red dots - restaurants - and blue stars - "nightlife locations" - and a plethora of blue stars with red dots in the centre - "restaurants with nightlife". Not sure quite how to interpret the last one. I can't help imagining dimly lit restaurants with a hotch potch of ghosts popping up the bar amongst them Dick Turpin, Jack the Ripper, Fagin and a host of prostitutes to constitute Hartford's "night" life. I don't know why I take this tone, its nice to think you ave somewhere to get a carefully mixed cocktail locally should the mood arise even if the locale is named, and I transcribe their listings without edit, "NV (Envy)", or "Mad Dawg's" or "Fish Camp". Here I am dribbling around my day's musings when I ought to be sending my husband and the troupe my good wishes, hoping their first night here is going without gliches. It seems unlikely, at the last minute the curtain up was pulled back by at least ten minutes and the morning after the last night in Providence the crew were still loading out at 7 am when they should have been already travelling, in a 7 truck strong convoy, to Hartford. We know this because the head of costume met us rising to consciousness at Starbucks and in the hushed excitable tones of scandal he recounted a blow by blow account of the get out. Every company loves a little drama off stage and it is what everyone expected. It is a truly a feat to move the size of show that is Young Frankenstein and one that I know will be pulled off. Thats what happens in show biz. The human spirit finds a way to soar above the perceived limitations of time, humanity and reality. This is where I need to stop. I'm getting all pseudo lofty and I don't like who I'm becoming. Send me back to the Asylum street!