Country Roads, Take Me Home...

I am writing from our country retreat. Our family idyll. Our escape from reality. Truly, since our 8 hour drive from not-so-sunny Detroit I have been kicking back with the fam and getting accustomed to driving the country roads in my father-in-law's boat. I mean car. Anything bigger than our fiat seicento back at home always feels like a Cadillac.

My lasting memory of Detroit will be leaving my Broadway debut behind me in the damp distance. 1515 Broadway to be accurate. The aptly named black box commune across from the opera house saw Mariela's much anticipated half length show in its first, trueset, most terrified form. I think I have discovered a new angle on fear. Nothing can quite prepare you for the nerves and adrenalin that preceeds your first foray into solo performing. I turned to share my feelings with collegaues, but there weren't any. Cory feeding the cast and crew in the foyer. I jumped around, waltzed with ghosts to the Sardinian music pumping into the house and generally noticed the tightening of my throat and any other muscle in its viscinity. Then the crowd entered, quietended and we opened with the screening of a short movie I had made of her some 4 years ago. After the first few shots there were belly laughs. It made me happy and terrified in equal measures. Then, out I came, all be-tached and grinning like a stocky Sardinian street cat and offered Mariela's bawdy obsevations and wise tales of her beloved farm land. And her husbands genital peculiarities. There were a lot of laughs. At least that's what I remembered. We managed to get it all on tape so at least this time I will actually have a record of the madness. my producer has already gt me planning my San Francisco full length version. Talk about cracking the whip. Gheesh. BAck at the theatre the 45 strong audience all gave me their ideas for how I should continue to develop her into a full show. Their support was a beautiful thihng So too was the bear hug Theo, the tecchie gave me just after the end of the show, humming the last song out loud. Hard to imagine a tecchie in a pub theatre in London doing the same thing after having known me for all of, what, one hour?

What a wonderful way to leave the desolate metropolis that is Detroit. Slightly marred perhaps by the fact that an hour or two before the show, Cory lost his wallet yards from the theatre and the nice person who found it chalked up small sums at the local McDonals curtesy of American Express. What this meant was that our first few days upstate New York when Cory had planned to put his feet up and put the worlds to rights with his brothers on the sofa was taken up with driving all over town getting a new drivers license and sorting out grubby credit card details. These things always take more time than you expect. Our drive home was long, but smooth. Sammy-man was in good spirits, if somewhat bemused by his mother's alter ego. We left the industrial landscape of Michigan behind us and drove through Pennsylvania and on to upstate New York. As night fell we scoffed on fried goods and later at around 1 in the morning we drank coffee for the last leg from Buffalo to Rochester. Sam, woke, somewhat delirious, had a doghnut ball and drifted back into chocolate fuelled sleep. At last the rolling moonlit country hills of Walworth welcomed us home. Grandma was up for a quick 2 in the morning chat, Sam delighted with the conversation and eventually the family relaxed into a much needed slumber.

So now, with Daddy, recovering from strep throat, up in Toronto with our other family the boy and I are organising our days into some semblance of normality. With the help of our friends and family we have found a lovely little pre school which the boy will be given some freedom at a couple of mornings a week. As we arrived, Mrs Bonnie, a smiling kind but firm lady introduced herself to Sam. Quickly, one young Nevin took Sam's hand and introduced him to the rest of the children. It was hard to leave. We have been counting the sleeps till Tuesday ever since. The weather has been glorious and beyond Cory's parents home are some inviting woods. Boyo and I trekked through the corn field to reach them, and tip toeing through the brambles found ourselves a log to have our picnic on. He picked up a stick and declared it to be his violin. I was handed a "bass drum" and requested to play every song from the show. I was corrected on my tuning several times. Some people are so hard to please. Then we listened to the woodpeckers. Peeked for deer and peeled the bark of a disintegrating stump. I watched him run back to the house through the corn and imagined his dad having done the same thing through most of his childhood. These woods were Cory's playground. He and his three brothers were allowed to roam free. Magic. I hope that the place will become a treasured space for our boy. You can give a child nothing better than freedom. This is such a fiercely strong feeling from my memories of my summers in Sardinia. The adults always seemed on the periphery of our world. People to visit at food times and in times of, rare, trouble. Otherwise we were all happy to let each other get on with our own work. I came to know the cobbled back streets of my mother's home town very well as well as the children who ran them. I would wish the same liberties for Sam. Here. There.

A lady who always makes our stays here specail is Sandy. She is probably the reason why Cory ventured into the business of show in the first place. I ought to thank her for our tour. It was she, who spotted Cory at a choir rehearsal at the age of 12 and suggested to his parents that he dance. The rest, as they say is history. Think of the teacher in Billy Elliot and you get an inkling of this lady's perseverance, fierce loyalty to her students and unswerving attention to detail and technique with which she raises outstanding dancers every year. Without her steel Cory would have been eaten alive in New York. Nowadays she is my creative mentor, inviting me to join class at every opportunity and every trip we make time for at least one session of brainstorming of ideas. Last year she even let me choreograph her show's opening number and write the dialogue for the piece which gave me a huge amount of pleasure. This morning I took the floor barre class and tried my best to keep up with the limber 16 year olds in front of me. Turns out my P90X work has not been in vain. Well, as usual what I lacked in fitness or technique I made up for in ham. Give me a space, some music and a few moves and I think I'm Matthew Borne or Isadora Duncan. I take off into my little world and feel alive with expression. Total, unadultered indulgence. Food for the soul. My body willl thank me for it later.

Whilst mum made like she was god's gift to Martha Graham boyo was a jumping bean next door, and in the final across the floor jetes of mum's class he was escorted back by Sandy's grandaughter Nicole and sat watching the young ladies and me sweat into the closing bars of the class. It was followed by a sumptous brunch cooked by my sister in law Sid. Blueberry goodness drizzled over waffle wonderfulness. Much coffee. Chat. General at home feeling.

Just before I get too comfy cosy though do we receive an excitement announcement. Ladies and gentlemen (drum roll please Stan) I am now the proud owner of workng papers! Yessir! I am all bone fide almost green carded legit working gal. Now all I need is a job. Details details. Point is I can charge tickets for Mariela now. Ok, lets not get ahead of myself. But hey, perhaps I can find a little somethin somethin on our travels. Ride the rodeo in Texas? Play the joanna in San Fransisco? Who knows? Point is I can! Now the little detail of our imminent Green Card Interview.

It is scheduled for April 13th in Baltimore. Back we will go, to one of our home stops to persuade smiley Imigration officer to let me have free leave of the joint. Sam is probably going to come for the ride too. He is a little peturbed at this fact, but reconciles himself to it by the fact that Blue Ian and Silver Ian have to collect their "pink card" there too. At the same time. How very convenient. Fingers crossed that they are willing to give it to me there and then. It would make life much easier. Will keep you updated.

So for now, its back to a real proper Saturday afternoon with the family. There is talk of movies, dinner, of which I have been doing much of. Last night we went out for a Friday fish fry. Yellow Mills, somewhat of an institution amongst the locals was packed with fishy folk tucking into sea-friends. Amongst which were my in laws close friends Jan and Tom (eating not being eaten) who invited us back to their place after dinner. Sam hit it off with them immediately (they have many grandchildren) and we giggled into the night. Mum practiced her night driving keeping a watchful eye out for renegade deer making suicidal dashes across the road, which, by the way was littered with squashed Easter bunnies, racoons and skunks. Not a good time of year for the wildfolk I guess. The other night we drove back from Orbakers, a burger joint that has been there since the twenties and which I have to visit at least once when we are back. Its bright red bar is manned by a cluster of willing young high school folks and the fare is delicious. I never knew I liked malted milkshakes till I came there. No better way to pass a thursday night. As we hit the road home a fireball sun was dipping into the horizon and the indigo orange sky silhouetting the pine and firs on the wide sweeping curves downhill to the homestead were simply breathtaking.

Hubby may have become a commuter boy, staking it out in his hostel up north but life is still sweet. Perhaps it was time after all for these restless folk to take the time to smell the flowers. At least until monday when we hit the road again to Buffalo to meet my aunt Pat and uncle John. The former is a nun, whose mother was my grandmother's sister. She is quite a special lady full of curiosity and affection for the wolrd and its people. She is also a fantastic cook. Every time we have visited she has laid on a feast that brings tears of joy to the eyes. Dad will meet us there and then come on home for the night just enough time to take his boy to his first day of American pre school. Kleenex at the ready no doubt.

In the words of John Denver, country roads have, if only for a short time, taken us home....

Fun (with a big fat frenetic capital F)

The last few days has been a frazzle of social delights. From high tea down Birmingham way to play dates of an inflatable bouncy nature, posing as a law student in Ann Arbor to running around the back doubles of the theatre dressed as a member of the white trash brigade - all for the sakes of a party. But I get ahead of myself. Perhaps I should take the time to piece apart the torrade of frenetic friendly fire.

Last week ended on a note of splendour as our friend Matthew Vargo, cast member, took us to tea at the Townsend Hotel don't you know in fashionable Birmingham. It's main street boasts a noticeable lack of chain stores and an abundance of uber stylish boutiques of the paper bag & tissue paper ilk, selling trinkets and, well, paper and crockery and bathrooms and anything else the hoy poly of the town delight in spending their disposable incomes on. The wealth from the car industry that grew and then in its demise ultimately crushed Detroit is still visible in the jaw dropping homes that encircle the town. Vargo - delicately named by father and son - had arranged for us to perch on a 4 seater velvet sofa by the roaring fire bestooned with spring blooms and belanterened with chandelier. Boy had been be-tweeded on request and even Dad had put on a fancy jacket (with sneakers of course, just in case he came over too posh n' that). Backs straight, tea cups pinched delicately in the hand, free flowing tea and staff that couldn't pamper us enough, family and friend were happy campers. Add to this a beauty of open tea sandwiches displayed with the pride and care of an award winning sushi chef followed by a plate of chocolate delights and mama was a happy, if slightly calorific lady. Towards the end of tea, Cory got a phone call from an old New York friend living just down the road from our tea haven. Ten minutes later I had the pleasure of befriending said pal, an effervescent Melica, an actress of Serbian descent full of Eastern European warmth and zing. I could have talked to her for hours (and later in the week we did, but more of that anon). Mr Vargo and I then perused the shops whilst Cory and Melica caught up, hanging out at the local library with the, still be-tweeded, Sam-boy. I managed to buy a few unnecessary items including a little gift for the lovely Austin who was set to inaugurate his travelling, fuschia, pin up decorated bar. You can never have enough cocktail sticks in the shape of luminous pink flamingos. Everyone knows that surely.

Yes, siree, come sunday night Cory and I were unrecognisable as a white trash couple trashing the party down Dearborn way. Least that was the plan. In practice I looked more like a Mexican just smuggled over the border and Cory, well, looked a lot like Cory. Inspite of this, and perhaps somewhat disturbingly so, we fit in rather well with the millais of randomness that greeted us on the 1st floor. At the entrance to the party was a patch of astro turf complete with picket fence and paper decorations. Real mud included. As the door swung open a mason jar found itself into my hand, my name was written on it and some sweet rummy red stuff filled it and my gullet in almost one swoop. Around the crowded room mason jars bobbed about filled with various concoctions which the Austin man had cooked up some time earlier in 5 gallon buckets with taps attached. Everybody was giving it some with the old trash accents. I found myself sounding like a drunk Indian in Wales. Top marks went to the hair department who turned up in force utterly in character the whole evening and somewhat alarmingly in tune with their inner trash. There were "preggos" pretending to smoke, men with "black eyes" and girls who had used the world's supply of hairspray on their heads. We were loud. It was good. Cory and I took it in turns to run in to the bedroom to check on the boy, now lifted out of car seat and into a bed.

He had been well and truly tired out at the theatre earlier. Firstly, by watching the matinee show; it takes a great deal of fierce concentration on his part. Always seeming to me, like he is checking if everyone remembers their lines correctly. Secondly, by listening to the evening show from back stage, where stage manager Joe and dance captain James talked the boy through the science behind the video monitors and flicked between channels so we could even watch the scene changes normally done in black out. That was after Marcus (sound) had taught him how to use a laser spirit level and dad had zoomed around with him on his bike. Meantime mama chatted in the girl's dressing room. When Cory later went on to do his little turn on the hay wagon, he looked discreetly up at the overhead camera and waved to us. It delighted boy and mum in equal measure. Took me back to 1980 when Dad came back with a similar monitor and filmed me prancing about and generally being my 5 year old exhibitionist self. The pleasure and unadulterated excitement I got from watching it back is a memory so crisp and visceral even now. Back in the dressing room, a few minutes of Samuel Whiskers later, and the boy was out to the world straddled across two armchairs and tucked in for the night with the echoes of the show swirling through his dreams.

Who could blame him? It had been a full day, topped off by a trip to mum's venue for the Mariela extravaganza. Last night Cory glibly announces that 20 minutes of material is good but thirty would be better. I tell him to stop taking his producer role so seriously. Then I go into the other room and come up with ten minutes more stuff. The venue was purchased by the lovely Chris back in 1987, who then moved in upstairs and developed the cafe and theatre space downstairs. The air of ageing roadie hippie wafts about him in a barely perceptible purple haze. The kind of loveable eccentric who would not be amiss down the allotment. His reliable tecchie Theo can't do enough to show me different lighting states, and the smiley Dave offers to operate the film for me. Artist Joe, tumbling out at the same time as we arrive surrounded by be-speccled trendy film students gives me permission to borrow his projector. I suddenly feel like I am in a film commune. The spirit of support and curiosity is a marvel to behold. It is true what the sign read outside then: "Detroit. Always an Adventure." This wonderful find is an oasis of experimental splashes in the middle of what, in Chris' own words was a "waste land.". He points at the former crack house, the new car park and the theatre and paints a dreary picture of the place 20 years back. As we are speaking on the sidewalk, I see a two car mono rail glide above in my peripheral. The eponymous "people -mover". I don't know if the folks who designed it ran into copyright issues with Monorail inc. but the title tickles me. Sam and I are due to be "moved" tomorrow during the matinee show. It will be a way to distract mum from any residual fear of getting up in front of friends and, well, generally being foolish for their entertainment. And mine of course. I love to bear my pre-wax pre-excersise alter ego. My mum once succintly described her as "well, you really, just with a costume on." This was after she, my dad and my aunt sat front row on my first outing as the quirky widow in a cavernous cellar of a pub in Great Portland street and proceeded to listen to me tell stories about Sardinian pubic hair topiary. They walked on the same side of the street as me after. Proudly even. Now that's what I call love. I remember catching a glimpse of my aunt, during the act, laughing in spite of herself. Its a cherished memory of the usually poker faced Sardinian undisposed to fits of giddyness.

And so, trashed and Mariela'd out the family found time for some serious mental stimulation in the form of the University of Michigan's Law School. Cousin Jess (a student there, I didn't just gate crash) met us in her lunch hour and whisked me into a den of deli-sciousness that is Zingerman's. A local and much loved institution serving up an array of fat sandwiches from a tiny kitchen huddled beyond a small mountain of delectables from olive oil to peruvian dark chocolate nubs. I spotted, and tasted, a fine Sardinian Olive Oil and coveted some aged vinegars irresistably decantered in gorgeous bottles. I sniffed and stared and wowed and ate. Rather quickly. Boyo had been left sleeping in the car with dad who had much neede time to catch up with some calls. My disguise as a student involved black dressage with scarfness for relaxed comfort topped with my thick rimmed glasses for a projected level of superior intelligence. I think it worked. As we hurried into the hall a student turned round to me and asked if I was a prospective one. I was tempted to give an affirmative. Your honour.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the first thing that struck me beyond the beautiful loftyness of the stone walled room dipped in the diffused afternoon light filtering in through the frosted leaded windows was the sea of open lap tops. It was like Tom Brown's School Days meets Spooks. I felt rather, well, old. Time warped. As if I had missed the past 15 years of technological development. You'd think, from my reaction, that I had never seen a computer before. I just had never seen so many. In one go. Clever people decked the tiered desks. All doing some serious Learning. And typing. The professor is a firm favourite amongst the group revered for her frighteningly sharp memory and ability to run the gamut of years worth of analysed cases with the speed and grace of a mental gymnast. When I meet her, she is surprisingly approachable. We compare notes on our 2 and 3 year olds. She describes the marvel at her daughter's astute sense of negotiation, attributing it to the fact that both parents are professors of law.

Oh how my father would have been proud to see me strut these gothic corridors, books underarm. Well Pops, this is the closest I will ever be to becoming an International Lawyer, in every sense of the word. Is it wrong that after the class I co-ersced son into starring in a short film of him filtering through oversized volumes of law books in the silent reading room, or running down the corridors towards lecture theatres, or, giving a counting lesson at a pew in a seminar room? Surely that is not pushy? Or phony? Or unnecessarily exposing him to the perils of filming and law?

To be sure, my mind was very much excersised for the entirety of the 50 minute class, where we watched a real poice video and then worked through potential ways that the state and defending lawyers would argue their cases to victory. I wrangled with the voluble ethics of the lawyer's role. The way arguing a case is divorced from whatever personal bias they may have. Many times during a lawyer's career they must needs often argue a point they do not agree with in any way. How a professional lives with this dicotomy is something I grapple with. Unsuccessfully. I suppose in the end it really is no different from me standing in front of a camera telling you to eat such and such, packet a fat cheque and bury the feelings that the product I have just endorsed represents everything about the state of our food industry I am opposed to. Kinda.

I love the atmosphere in the place. A viscious buzz of Thinking. A tangible feeling of Growth. Quest. Drive. Fear. Courage. And the gothic celinings and orginal painted window pains representing famous cases from the last century weren't too bad either. Back out in the real world we scoffed a Korean sesame ball, put the world to rights over Orange Pekoe tea and shared a cup cake on our stroll around the characterful Ann Arbor before starting a mad dash home to get the working man to, well, work.

Interspersed with all this activity was some serious playing time for the boy-o. Our little friend Jack made it back up to us and his nanny Jess made reservations for Bounce-U (grammar and marketing are not of the same gene pool). Since meeting her, our son has whined on why he doesn't get to have a nanny. After my non-committal answers he settles on an ultimatum that we either find him said nanny or place a dinosaur infront of the house.

After signing a waiver where I declared that I took full responsibilty for letting my treasured son loose on equipment that could potentially cause injury and/or death we head on through to a flurescent lit carpeted warehouse pumping out beach boy's classics pumped with giant inflatable slides, climbs and general bumpable-ness. It was like all your christmases in one. Sam froze with excitement and then through himself down a 10 foot inflatable slide with his dad a close second. By the time Jack joined us he had built up a sweat (dad that is) and the three of them threw themsleves around whilst Jess and I were giggly spectators. Once the crowd had been moved into the next room mama was ready to flex some jumping action too. I went down a slide (and left my stomach at the top) and then rose to the challenge of racing Cory through an inflatable obstacle course. I was going to prove to him that 7 weeks on P90X taught me to Bring It and that years of watching the Krypton Factor, I was, by the marvel that is osmosis, capabale of any army standard obstacle course let alone this kiddy one. Give me a break. This'll be synch.

Carpet burn and bumped nose later I conceeded defeat. Both hurt. The former has since turned into a bright red scab that bemuses the boy (the big one I mean). After a burger lunch, with comiseration maragrita for mum we shared fond goodbyes to our friends and set off back down the road. On our journey I passed a truck who was a Proud American, or so it's sticker said, a clothing company called "Closet" Man, a food chain offering "Lent Specials", a centre for Growth & Enlightenment at the periphery of the village of Beverly Hills. My personal favourite was the Sadkhin complex offices, who were offering "cures" for hunger. Or so the sign said. I never knew it was a disease. I wondered if it might actually be a charity for foreign food aid. After a minute or two of research I have come to understand that it is actually a "rapid" weight loss program. Dr. Sadkhin has personally "discovered" the:

"sixteen biologically active hunger control points behind the ears named The Sadkhin Points®."

Isn't it great that he discovered things with his name already?! Wait, there's more:

"This non-invasive technique allows you to stimulate the hypothalamus and secrete the hormones that control hunger and dramatically reduce hunger pangs. Patients follow a strict dietary intake program without the difficulty normally associated with debilitating hunger."

Or so the website tells me. Excersise. Schmexcersise. Get me some earrings and I am all set.

This week has been perfectly capped by a wonderful afternoon spent in the company of some luscious local ladies, actresses and director friends of Melica. We spent most of today chatting about life and theatre over coffee and bagels and soup and any other delights the wonderful hostess could shower us with. The four friends are like your thinking girl's version of Sex and the City. It was a pool of creative comfortableness and a great tonic for me. One of the ladies' three year old joined us, and she and Sam flexed the muscles of their upper registers whilst running like crazed puppies around the centre of her beautiful colonial home. I inhaled too much chocolate cake. It was a vegan recipe.....

As if all this whirlwind were not enough lets add in an ADR session into the mix. Yesterday saw me smuggle into Marcus' pad, where he and his colleague Wes from the show wired up a mini studio all for my benefit. My producer back in London on the series I had just completed before we came over had called to see whether I would feel comfortable recording a few lines from various episodes which they had added during the edit. There I stood, in front of a big ole mic, all proper like, with cushions on the chest of drawers in front of me to avoid reverb, revisiting the voices of some of the colourful characters I had been pretending to be all that time ago. Within an hour the boys had put it onto a CD, uploaded it onto a web site for the BBC to download and one producer in a small wood lane office was heaving a brief sigh of relief. The gentlemen will be thanked profusely during the Toronto stay starting next week in drinkable delights.

Sunday sees us heading on a mini road trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house immediately after the matinee. Cory + Sara + GPS = domestics. Cory will be heading on up to Toronto after a few days with us in upstate New York whilst we sit tight for the card what is of the green shade. I'm considering writing to Obama reminding him that I was the one in the chocolate number at his house back in December and could he, if I teach his kids piano and acting, speed up this whole process malarky already. Doesn't he know who I think I am?!

Cory plans to pitch up with several of the crew at the local hostel. Rated top party hostel in the world. He is a slightly scared man, but tempted by the ludicrously low charges for a room seeing as a chunk of wages will be used for car hire to and from Canada as he commutes the three hours south to his home town for a Sam fix. If that isn't fodder for a blog I don't know what is.

So there you have a whistle stop tour of my life this week. Fast. Furious. Fun. But, as always there is an end in sight. Going back home, for so the place upstate now feels to me (why have one when you could have three?) will be a tonic. Methinks it is time for some family recharge. Walks in the woods. Reading with grandma. I'll try to convince Grandpa to take up Sam's baseball coaching where his father left off when we could still get outside.

Time to see the spring in.

I can already pick up a whiff of its sunny, if slightly rainy head....

Buster, Meet Buster

In retrospect, my decision to expose our son to several Buster Keaton clips on You Tube this week may have been made somewhat in haste. I came to this conclusion when, son in question, climbed onto the armchair's arm rest balanced on one leg, called out to is dad that "this is what Buster Keaton does!" and then proceeded to forward flip down off it landing on his bottom on top of two cushions on the floor. Unfased. Unhurt. Mum and Dad had that heart throat feeling, and with as serious faces as they could muster (it really was quite a trick) to offer firm but hopefully not fear inducing suggestions to "wait for the gym" together with the "remember what Judith taught us" number. Judith is a kind lady at the sports centre gym we let steam off at back home, and who, having built a friendship with Sam, now gives him quick tips on tumbling here and there. She is probably the reason he does forward rolls every opportunity. He would do them along the aisles of the supermarket if we let him. It all started in the bath the other night when I called boyo Buster without thinking. Interrogation followed and a plotted history of the Keatons was delivered, with special attention placed on the fact that from the age of three he was in his parent's travelling act. Tykey's eyes twinkled with recognition. The next day, he hadn't forgotten I had promised to show him who the chap was. There you have it. I am a fan myself. He could be running around the house pretending to be Wayne Rooney or Peter Andre. Surely an stunt man comedy genius as an idol can't be a bad thing. Right? Right?

With our new found suburban lives we oscillate between finding stimulation in the outside world and turning our living room into a fairly safe climbing arena for our chimp. Mama chimp is still aping her aunt in the kitchen department. Our bimbo is showing signs of fatigue. I am in denial. I made a batch of banana bread to prove I still know how to cook without buttons and numbers. Just before she came down with the flu I had just finished a batch of profitteroles - (from scratch people from scratch!) filled with bimbo-ed creme patissere and home made chocolate sauce. I don't know who was more surprised, me or the boys. It was in honour of a pot luck dinner round at one of Cory's colleagues flats across the way. 7 of us snuggled around their table inhaling delicious pork loin, breads, salads, veggies. And profitteroles. Happy bunch. It was the first time I felt like going in to do a show with them. No sooner had this thought been shared does Cory pop on his producer hat and beaver away at setting me up with a slot at the black box theatre across the street for a scratch night of moustachio madness. Yes, the merry widow is out again and this time with the aim of presenting a half hour of material. My palms sweat just thinking about it. I have a song, a short film and about 15 minutes so far. Where on earth I am going to conjure up some more abstractions of Sardinian eccentricities frightens and thrills. The plan is to perform in between the matinee and evening performances next saturday (next saturday??!!!!) for the cast and crew post pizzas (on us). In essence I will be bribing them to laugh at or with me. My biggest fear I suppose is polite laughter. But then again, as Cory so delicately put it, if I flop out there at least I won't be seeing the folks for a while whilst I go hide away in a secret location in upstate new york and Cory jets away to the Canada land. Green card is still not in the hand. The authorities have informed me that a decision will be final within 50 days. Cory's stamp for entry into the UK a few days after we were married in 2002 when he visited the British Embassy back in New York took all of 20 minutes. Just sayin. Its getting all a bit close to the wire for my liking, what with best friend's wedding on the spring horizon. But where there is a will there is a way. I'm hoping should it not be tied up soon I can apply for a travel document to get permission to leave and re-enter without upsetting the nice immigration lot that greet you smiling with open arms and cookies when you get to the counter after landing.

The last few days we have been mooching about Royal Oak area where we have found a few activities for the chap. I have just about recovered from the "gym" class. It was led by a substitute teacher, a lithe, tanned converse booted ex cheerleader in her early forties who shouted and screamed her way through the hour as if we were out in a windy field trying to round up 100 rugby players. Even the toddlers seemed a bit be-mused with the whole decibel to size of room ratio. Took me back to high school P.E immediately. That echo-ey screeching of instructions which you could never understand because of the acoustics leading to confusion whilst I scrambled (sometimes without my glasses for added fog) to work out what on earth we had been asked to do in the first place let alone wokr out if I could do the bloody thing anyway. Usually the latter was a negative. Unless it was hockey. With a stick I knew what my objectives were. Which role I had to play. I still have the odd shin bump to prove it. If only Mr Haydn had given clear, quiet instructions I could be an Olympian by now surely? Stop your sniggering. So anyway, there they were, eight little tykes looking expectantly up at Miss Susie who was telling them how good it is to be loud, and how fast can you go and somersault this and crawl that, whistle screech here holler there. Boy was fried by the end in utter delight. He could have kept it up for the rest of the morning. Mum and Dad finally walked him out and on to a place for mama. A charity shop.

It was like getting into a cool pool on a stifling summer's day. I had no idea how much I been missing this quintessential part of our London life. I mean tea and radio and skype for the family is one thing, but there is no substitute for a good old rummage at the local charity shop. The ladies in Golders Green know us so well they will even pop into our cafe and tell us about a particular item we may be interested in. You'd think we were the hoy poly clientele of a classy boutique. Which of course, we most definitely are, clearly. I knew I had let it all go to my head when I was galled to find a pair of real leather boots for sale at £20. I don't shop in double figures people. I was raised with a long line of hand-me-down-borrow-me's. Jumble sales as a kid, my great aunt's wardrobe from the sixties/seventies as a psychedelically attired university student, my other aunt's wardrobe for costumes and all round wear with plenty of mum's (and dad's) bits and pieces in between. So there I was rummaging through American schmutter. Perfect. Or should I say awesome. I perused 1960s corn on the cob sets, shell suits, crock pots, christmas ornaments, frames and frilly lamp shades. Cory saved me from buying a table (yes a table - mini though, for Sammy boy) and a set of antique-ish martini glasses for Austin, a crew member (think back to Cleveland market) who is having a party to inaugurate his hand crafted travelling bar. It essentially looks like the other working gondola trucks used back stage to transport costumes and wigs from the outside, but for it being painted a fanstastic shade of fuschia. When I saw it some weeks ago it was still in its pre production phase, with a glass holder to be added and so forth. It is on wheels and will furnish each of his rooms along the way. He will have it stocked up with every increment needed for perfeck cocktail. He even makes his own vodkas. He gets five stars from me for retro-marvellousness.

After our step into thrift-centre I headed over to the post office, where a little printed sign in front of each of the clerks informed me that today was "a HAPPY day". I wasn't totally convinced. From the clerk's expressions I suspected they had forgotten to change it from yesterday. It was followed by a jaunt around the local health food shop. I'm talking health with a sodium fat free fairly traded organic bio dynamically harvested capital H. On entry I was asphyxiated by that herby hempy lavender-y echinacea smell like those health food shops I remember from my childhood before Holland & Barrett sterilised the market. The manager was a pale wispy haired guy who I caught ushering a customer around the book section and gluten free shelf the latter sporting a fedora and a native american earring dangling from one ear. I never heard someone so passionate about flour. The stock was huge. I've never seen so many variations on the humble peanut butter or organic fairly traded tahini in my life, or vegetarian cheese and buckwheat & quinoa udon soba. Don't get me even started on the teas, I wouldn't get to bed till tomorrow. I jest, but needless to say I bought five things more than what I went in for, including gluten free falafel mix and brown rice and seaweed tortilla chips (?!) I was entertaining that evening. I told Cory quite clearly that if I didn't have some adult company that night after almost three days straight of manic baking and cooking and listening to Sammy's favourite kid's shows tunes I would be in danger of some serious combusting. A couple of our friends came over from the show and I had me some good food, good company and belly laughs. Recharged for the next few days.

Today, on our drive in to the play centre once again, we were invited to celebrate Vivaldi's 332nd birthday by the chummy folks on the radio. I didn't have the heart to call in and kindly point out that the clever chap has long since gone to his harpsichord in the sky. 332 years ago to be pedantic. Maybe I'm just not offay with the music world. Half way through a Carmen Fantasie they interrupted to explain their machine had conked out and that they were sorry and please give them a moment to rev up the manual back up. Nicely played.We drove on past S. Alexander avenue (small things, small minds) and back home for a play date with a friend we met at East Lansing's ice rink three weeks ago. Little Jack, who would not look amiss sitting barefoot and flat capped on a New York stoop in a black and white photo from the Great depression was very much welcome into Sammy's universe. My personal highlight was when Sammy turned to him and took his hand, "I have an idea!", Jack answering, "What is that Sammy?" and the two of them toddling off to Sammy's room. He came along with his nanny Jess, a wonderfully warm easy to be with lady and his mum Seann, and orthopeadic surgeon. I had all I could not to start waxing lyrical about my meniscus repair in 2001 (she is a knee and hip replacement specialist). Our house felt like a home what with it filled with people from the outside world. I mean outside the theatre outside world.

Now if you will please excuse me. I need my beauty sleep for tomorrow where we are being taken a swanky tea room down in Birmingham. Yes I know, you Brits out there would not necessarily put these two images in the same sentence. I mean Birmingham, Michigan of course Limies! We are all set for a slap up delight of wonderfulness. Or so I am promised. Boys are excited. Maybe not quite as much as mama. I have found deeper respect for those who do that baking thing, now that I know how much time and effort and washing up it involves! Also there is that little thing of preparing a show to attend to. I am open to suggestions if they are absolutely magnificent. No knock knock jokes please.

On second thoughts......

Troy. Michigan-Style

I think I have just about reached my snow limit. No offense intended dear Michigan, but really, the weather you greeted our arrival with has much to be desired. It is also playing significant havoc with our healthy eating. With nothing more than snow and more snow and that cold sharp sleet thing going on outside all I want to do is get cosy with my bimbo and pump out baked delights. And I don't even like baking. Till this week that is.

I am now on my fifth day of domestic pirouettes in the kitchen. That's what you get when you move into a ground floor apartment that looks like one of the Golden Girls just moved out and left the furniture. 1988 gold wall clock included. Also plastic fauna. Lots of them. We have a fat sofa, many lamps, a full size dining room table, an army of closets and two bedrooms. We are, it would seem, playing house. I have taken on my homebody role with gusto - for three weeks that is. I always throw myself into my roles, this much I knew already, and, as with all acting jobs, the end is very much in sight. Now, if this whole cookie baking, brioche braiding had an indefinite nature I would be running up frozen trees and wailing like an imprisoned banshee. That's why Cory sits back, scoffs what he can (roasted a chicken 10 litres of chicken soup created yesterday). He knows these waves are intense when they come and dissapate as quickly as they rear their, mostly garlicky, heads.

I spose there is something to be said about really experiencing an entire winter. When I woke this morning around 5ish, and found myself lying next to Sam in his bed, and had a. the sudden remembrance of his 11pm bedtime having had a fat nap late afternoon and b. the pleasure of taking a moment to look out of the window and notice the tall fir tree being blown by mists of snow flying through the air off the roofs in the midnight blue of a pre dawn wintry sky. It was beautiful. A watercolourist's delight. Not so beautiful was the sound of the glass pane in our bedroom knocking against the frame in the gusts or the whistling of the wind through the tiny gaps. I have been doing my P90X bouncing around there and I fear I may have caused some irrevocable structural damage. I'll send the bill to Tony Horton (he's the man with triceps whose name is synonymous with this three month extreme fitness malarky).

The highlight of my week was most definitely finding out that my family and I were about to move into the city of TROY. Yes sir, for but a few hundred dollars you too can time warp yourself back into that tumultuous era and hide yourself in a wooden horse. I have insisted Cory call me Diana for our stay. Turns out the town isn't so ancient after all. Our complex is much more 80s AD. Still love to look at the sign when we drive down West 14 Mile Road. 14 miles to where? Nobody seems to know.....

Our travel day was as long as predicted. After two flights we arrived at Detroit, grabbed our 700 suitcases and then via several elevators finally found the rental car shuttle. Kind driver then mounted our 700 suitcases into said shuttle and shuttled us, with information blurb to rental car office. All 700 suitcases made it onto the pavement whilst Cory signed bits of paper and looked serious. Car arrived, eventually (we had to ask for one that would hold all 700 cases) and we piled 700 cases and us into it. 45 minute later we had shifted all 700 suitcases into new home, whilst boy, in true travel day style, slept it off in his car seat. Quick about turn and we were on the road again to meet our cousin Jess (you may remember mention of her back in Chicago's November) at Sweet Lorraines. It is always so great to see a familiar face when you are utterly new in town. We scoffed in true weary traveller's style. You'd think we were notching up calories for a marathon the next day. The best bit about the place was the fact that it has been owned and nurtured by the same family team for 25 years. After a jaunt around their varied menu we finally settled on a veggie Jambalaya, rainbow tilapia and tuna fajitas. Our boy uncharacteristically opted for the peanut and jelly sandwich (when in Rome) and gobbled up the home made corn bread and houmous. Mum had a sip of wine. Espressos capped it off. Happy people went home for fat sleep.

The next day we ventured out for a Grocery Shop. It becomes very much an event when you don't know where you are really. Having been presented with a full size kitchen, I will be the first to admit I went a little overboard. Or, as I prefer to think about it, bought exactly enough for three weeks, thank you very much Cory's raised eyebrows! Sam was in overdrive packing the bags, he hasn't seen me shop like that since a tesco run before our farewell barbecue at the flat in London back in August to which about 40 people came. The irony was that after this enormous shop we were all hitting a major sugar low and had just enough time for lunch before Cory had to go in for sound check and so ended up eating out. On the strip mall closest our apartment (the main road is littered with them) we came across a Medittarranean grill. Basically this means stepping in from the cold and into a be-lanterend middle eastern taverna just like the ones down Cricklewood back home. Double dose of what the homesickness doctor oredered. There was nothing more comforting to me at that moment for some proper homemade marinated chicken Kebabs with authentic homous and freshly made rice, with the little noodles in it, just like uncle Pierre makes back at the cafe. I don't even eat it that much at home but on our first day out it was just perfect. Even the waitress looked Polish (until she spoke that is) just like in the bakery by the number 16 bus stop opposite the Crown pub, stuffed daily with pastries and huddles of Arabs and Irish putting the world to rights. And the odd, post dance class Anglo-Yank family inhaling amazing coffee and oversized buttery-ness.

Back to the present....since our shopping foray, we have been very much homebodies, our days spent enjoying the space and dipping our toes out in the snow. I did take the time to discover an Aveda Institute however and took myself in for a haircut. This was quite an event. Being a school, the prices are seriously low and I was asked to sign a form which stated that I understood that the services would be given by senior students and that I would not be tipping. Call me British. Call me English. Call me stingy. Call me a gal from Golders Green. All I know was that for $33 I had be a chic new crop and eyebrows that no longer looked like Mr Groucho (I also bid farewell to the kind of facial hair that reveals my close relation to the ape but I am too vain to mention that in the blog). Course with that fat saving I had to go and splurge on a few of the products. Sucker yes. Or maybe just human. They're all plant based organic goodies, post consumer recycled plastic and all the other check boxes that co-erse you into guilt free spending. Enough already, suffice it to say that the place was quite an experience. I don't think I have ever seen so many hair stations in one room. There were literally thirty or more young women all with Hair Do's shimmy shammying with hairdryers and combs and scissors. The young lady who snipped me was very sweet even if she did cut every hair individually. As did the waxer. When both had finished they called their supervisors to get the A.Ok. My hair inspector opened with "Hi! Oh you're hair looks so cute!". A few minutes earlier I heard her colleague say the same to the girl next to me. With exactly the same tone. That's what I call training. The lady who inspected my face was a little more discerning, so much so that she shoved a flourescent magnifying mirror into my chin and, with the forced calm and slightly hushed tones of a surgeon mid eye surgery, explained to her student that there was a very wirey short white hair still embedded in my skin. She continued the rest of the operation without anasthetic deftly bringing the culprit to a tidy end. Phew. Don't want to be sporting a white wire on the end of my chinny chin chin now do I when we go to the theatre tomorrow?

This is the plan. Sammy and I are going to Anne Frank it in Cory's dressing room, a term coined by colleagues who have smuggled various friends and partners in their rooms after the half hour call. I know Sammy is the mascot and all but we both fear burning of bridges seeing as the gestapo, I mean company management office, is literally next door to Cory. We're taking the chance. Lets hope for the best. The theatre has already been hot with upset this week,wouldn't want to compound it. Roger, who had to fly to L.A for a screen test was replaced by his understudy, this has caused a great deal of commotion. After two nights of understudy 1, understudy number two is going on tonight. The undercurrent to this is the ominous air hovering over the crew with growing unease rooted in various issues. Our flyman Squatch jumped ship some time ago for a better deal elsewhere and for a few weeks there has been a palpable malaise about the merry band over and above the tiredness that a month of one weekers brings even the most energetic soul!

Tonight I plan on finding out about what Detroit can offer a 3 and 33 year old of a (snowy) saturday afternoon. We won't be going ice skating that's for sure, mum made the very wrong choice of hiring hockey skates this morning because the figure skates were gauging a hole into her ankles. I couldn't even stand up on the ice. What happened to my best olympian impression I had down pat last week in Kansas City?!!!! I am looking forward to our city jaunt. It is only 16 miles away, but the little snowy Michigonian bubble we have been floating in makes it seem so very far away to me. Perhaps I have connected to 3 year old sense of time and space. Not a bad place to be I spose.

We're living the suburban dream people! Yihaaaa!...I mean, cookies are up boyssssss!

.........If I start to mention frilly aprons you can call in the heavies

Blogging or The Art of Avoiding Packing

Cory has just come back to our pad and nonchalantly told me that we have a taxi booked for a 7.45 pick up. AM. Turned my laissez faire attitude to packing into a turbo blasted frenzie of clothes and what-nots. That'll teach me for letting myself get distracted by Hava Naghila on ice, brought to me by the Israeli champions. The ice skating olympians accompanied me through the drafty evening with various shades of surreality. I watched Russians pretend to be aboriginals (I use both terms loosely) and Americans give their best Bollywood turn. This is my parting memory of our last night here in Kansas City.

We have made the most of the latter part of our week. We played - and lost - poker in our living room with a handful of crew, ice skated, ate at a diner that delivered extremely fast fast food to our tables via overhead miniature trains (we placed our order via table top telephone and wore train driver hats) and took ourselves on a date to hear some bone fide city Jazz. After a few deserted streets we hit upon the Phoenix, a red brick, fairy lit corner venue. A laid back bassist, enthusisatic drummer and head swinging pianist were blasting some Ray Charles as we walked in. Tempted as we were by the bar that encircled the trio we opted instead to sit a little further back where we might be able to hear one another speak. Too loud, too old, yes I know. A few business men from Nebraska were giving it some whoops from atop their whiskey glasses whilst a couple in the corner swayed in each other's arms. Cory, ravenous from the show polished off three baskets of tortilla chips. Kitchen had closed whilst we were chinwagging with Brad back at the hotel who had agreed to babysit. When I was reminding Sam that Brad would be in the living room should he need anything whilst mum and dad were out, he turned to me, all earnest puppy dog eyes and announced that, should he indeed wake, it would be a nice idea perhaps to take uncle Brad to the restaurant downstairs. I half expected to see the two of them propping up the bar when we returned. In the end tykey didn't wake at all, much to the disappointment of our friend. So there we were, mid g&t's when in walks John Mark, one of the props team. A quiet, retiring keeps-himself-to-himself sort of fella, but away from crowds of loud actrines and crew he happily joined us for a cider. Over the following hour he educated me on the history of Kansas City and its inability to fully recover after the depression, especially after the stockyards closed, the overall conservative nature of the folk round these parts (he grew up not far from here) and life as number 7 of 7 brought up in Parson, a little known pit stop for mafia bosses who would smuggle prohibited alcohol and dead bodies from Chicago. He, particularly drawn to the occult, then came back with us to feel out our haunted hallways. We left the dimly lit Phoenix behind us in the night mists, under the heady aroma of roasted coffee embedded in the wet air from the Folger's factory around the corner, passing a handful of ghostly 1920s hotels and a curio store of hardware displaying a plethora of antique tools in the shadows of its original windows. Probably a favourite with the godfather's of old no doubt.

Now a little weary from two socials in a row (I have got to build up endurance people!) Sam and I opted to spend the following afternoon at the theatre, more, in truth, for mum's sake. Tiredness shared is tiredness halved right? The boys left me to my X-ing and ran riot around the back alleys of the theatre on Sam's bike. I caught up with them at the half hour call and ensconced myself in Cory's sweltering concrete dressing room and received a few hours worth of friendly visits from his colleagues who took it in turns to chat with Sam and mama. The weekends are when homesickness sweeps by me in general and company was much needed and enjoyed. His room is very close to the wings and whilst the show played overhead on the tannoy it seeped up and into the room from the wings also. Sounds ringing about us as if floating in from a past. Boy had fun calling out the names of who was speaking. Most of the afternoon he had that far away look of concentration. By the time we left for dinner, he looked rather exhausted by it all, compounded by the fact that dad's room was next to Schuler's, who plays the monster. Much energy was consumed repeatedly asking me whether he would suddenly run into daddy's room. I wondered whether I had made the right decision to bring him in. The fear passed as quickly as it descended especially however, when Sammy was introduced to a real, bone fide, Maggie.

Let me explain. As part of the intricate web which is Sammy's Mr. Gee show is a character by the name of Maggie who is good friends with one Bo-Bo and is, I quote, a "summersaulting kind of girl". According to the creator she looks like a girl on the tide detergent bottle - a cute little brown haired twinkly eyed little thing. So when the real version, a brown haired twinkly eyed little thing showed up, boyo was beside himself with a dream realised. He called out to Maggie from Cory's mezzanine to come look at his bike, daddy's dressing room, his hump, his helmet, his bike, his bag, daddy's dressing room, his bike, his bike, daddy's dressing room. She played a little hard to get but by the time we had finished dinner at the hibachi grill round the corner they were playing all over the place, including a brief stint of boy being chaffuered around the space in his pushchair with M piloting. Between the new friend and the theatrical fire-loving chef flicking his knives and spices about in between throwing food into our mouths boyo was hovering ever so slightly off the ground. The three others who sat at our grill, a red faced man, his prim wife and what I presumed to be their adult son fell under a cloud of dour silence induced most likely by the mottley crew about them including a man in Igor make up and two beautiful dancers plastered with stage hues. Needless to say bedtime was a little like taming a crazed baby orangutan after a pint of M&M ice cream. Praise be the lie-in this morning then. Any parent will vouch for the joys of their child waking them with a kiss and exclaiming "It's nine-oh-three mum!" Aaaaaaaaaah. Now if he could just get the coffee making thing under his belt we would have the whole ritual sorted.

We were all rested then, for our sunday matinnee outing preceeded by Sammy's Sunday Bagel Brunch. We suggested (decided) that he spend some of his winnings with those who had helped him become a rich three year old. You may recall some weeks back he had won $100 on dollar Friday. Its a sweepstake tradition where players put in a dollar with their names on and the one pulled out wins the pot. Dad had come back with a fat wad much to the bemusement of our son. Anyhows, a few splatters of paint and we made ourselves a poster invitation of which Sam was infinitely proud. Bagels were delivered around 11 and we had ourselves a party by noon. After scoffing was done the boy and I sprinted through the underbelly of the pit and out into the most magnificent 1930s theatre I have ever been in. What struck me most was the preserved state it was in, every detail was beautifully intact, from the chrome backlit signs to the gorgeous geometric light fixtures and over-size murals. In all its concrete splendour it seemed to have lost nothing of the uber modernity of its day. We dashed to the ticket office, mum open mouthed at the refined style of it all enjoying the stark difference to the older houses we have visited so far, narrowly avoiding the temptation to pull down on eof the signs for our bathroom at home. Even Sam squealed with delight at the diminutive doors of the bathrooms, so low that even I could just about look over the top (turns out people used to be my height) and at the circular mirrors illuminated from inside over the sinks. It was a 1930s collector's paradise. I felt utterly underdressed without my white gloves and hat. Sam enjoyed the show, especially whispering to the friendly folks behind us that his daddy had just come on stage. Time will tell how this Brooks exposure will shape the memories of our little boy. His questions (interrogations) about the show are becoming more specific, drawing on certain lines, usually throw-aways that intimate to something crucial to the plot. I haven't broached the dead back to life issue, but perhaps, in his little head, he has already filed this for another day, waiting for when he intuits his mum and dad know how to explain it.

And yet again, another goodbye. I won't lie to you. My bones are happy to leave the 20th floor in the near distance. Tonight the old sash windows have been rattling with the whistling wind snaking through the cracks and the stairwell next to us has been clanging with activity like a horror movie soundtrack. Perhaps I ought to have taken a leaf out of our neighbour's book of tour survival (Cory's colleagues) and brought our own light bulbs with us in the bottomless hamper, to change a hotel's unforgiving blue flourescence for a flattering warm glow. For those of you out there who are keenly aware about my own obsession with lighting and getting it just so in our home (much to the desperation of all around me) you will be pleased to know that not even I will go to these lengths. Turns out I am a failed lighting designer after all. I have heard stories about vaudevillians taking their own set of gels for the lighting operator to use for their acts. Things haven't changed so much after all I spose.

And so, with the obsessive compulsive bejewelled cleaners - sorry olympic curling contestants - in my peripheral and a pile of dirty clothes to be smuggled into our luggage I make my way reluctantly back to the task at hand. On the news there are weather warnings on snow and people persuading folk to stay off the roads. I spare a thought for the truck drivers trekking up through the night on the highways to the Michigan straits hauling the heavy sets to Detroit's opera house.

A two flight, 30 mile drive travel day is on our own horizon.

Better pack me some Patience pills and a double dose of good humour.

Ghost Town

Kansas City is a ghost town. Or, moreover, a town of ghosts. Between the first travellers, the jazz prohibition revellers or many of those who fell foul of the mafia's bloody hands the city has been through a plethora of upheavels. We have arrived during one of its most recent resurgence, as one city of Power & Light. I can see the official red neon sign from our window. The new downtown area's Miltonesque title gives it an air of industrial triumph over adversity. The development is impressive and not unlike much of the architecture we observed over the developing UK cities we visited on The Producers tour. Metal abounds, funky colours, uber trendy watering holes all designed to attract the young professional. In line with this is a huge food market, (supermarket, Brits) minutes from our hotel that stocks everything from milk to toasted seaweed sheets, just in case you were in the mood for rolling your own sushi. Put me in a place like that and to buy just enough food for a week is a huge challenge. Especially with the Cory man giving me his raised eyebrow look every time I add a different herb or such into our over burdened trolley disguising itself as my aunt's larder (the one she stocked when she fed 100 people daily at the nursing home that is). Our first night in the new old place restored our weary souls with a fantastic night's sleep. On the second night however, after Cory left for work and the Sam man was ensconced in bed I started to get the hibbee jibees about the place. I attempted rational thinking, an uphill fight at the best of times. I dismissed my goosebumpy fidgets, attributing them to the cold blue light the shades give out from their unforgiving energy saving flouresence making us all look like we are all perpetually in a scene from a David Lynch movie. Didn't help that the only channel that held my attention was the one about ghost hunters and child psychics. The bumps, creaks, rumbles up from the street I tried to note without judgement. The way I kept looking over my shoulder as if I were being watched I chastised myself for. That was all, until Beth gave me a call this morning to borrow one of my P90X dvds having left hers at the theatre. She asks me what floor we are on and when I tell her she gives me an "...oh...".

"Oh?" I answer

"You guys are on the special floor."

"What are you on about?"

"You know..."

"Talk to me when you get here."

When she does comfy herself on our sun lit sofa with Sammy pottering around her feet with her trains, me sweaty from jumping about to dvd number 2 and Cory cosying about in his grey morning cardigan (its a deep held tradition) she relays the fact that our floor is the most haunted in the hotel and the one where the housekeeping team have had the most experiences of the paranormal sort. I don't prod for details, this is enough for the little hairs on the back of my neck to deal with. Add to this the fact that one of our troupe, James, the dance captain had felt someone hug him tightly in bed (not his room-mate either) so much so he could hardly breathe and my imagination and I are putting me through an uncomfortable rollercoaster. In fairness, James' mother had a similar experience last week and they both feel it may have been his late father contacting them. Either way it's got me spooked. When Cory texted me after the show asking me whether I'd preferred him to come home rather than go on to the opening party, I tried my best to text a nonchalant, "go on if you are feeling social if not head back and we'll have a cocktail. Either way cool." He was at the door with a singapore sling within 15 minutes. Turns out he had had the feeling I would have been a little antsy. I am not proud of this you must understand.

Anyhows, the feeling followed us through town today and was perfectly channelled during our visit to Union station, site of the massacre of 1933 in which four law enforcement officers were killed whilst gang members tried to free the prisoner they were transferring to the city prison. The building is grand as they come in that lofty marble gorgeousness of old stations. The ceilings intricate and bold, chandeliers hanging, echoes floating. Our eyes swept the space, and past the glory of the shafts of sunlight cutting across the expanse we quickly noticed the emptiness of it all. Underscored by the grand piano at its centre playing itself. Quite impressively I must add, the phantom pianist was giving it some serious musical interpretation I must admit. It entertained Sam no end. So there we were, drowning in the deserted-ness of it all and hunger struck. We opted for the retro diner rather than the Steak house, both harkening back to the station's hey day. In we stepped, its bright white triple height ceilings dwarfing the enormous booths. All around us on the walls were black and white prints of trains and the diner back in the day. Waiting rooms lined with well dressed travellers, some looking out at the camera and down towards us inhaling our sandwiches, begging to be unlocked from their historical freeze. Our effervescent waiter was a walking sit com. My personal favourite amongst the classic one liners bubbling off his lips was his throw away to a couple of blind people heading across the diner, "Long time no see!" Moments later he is complaining to someone sitting at the bar that the guide dog had attacked him without provocation and that the owner would do well to consider retiring him. Hmmmmm....

We take a stroll around one of the wider corridors at the centre after our lunch, marvelling at the stunningly preserved sliding deco doors to what woudl have been the platforms I assumed, some flanked by original signs for the 8.40pm Katy Flyer to Texas via Coffeyville and Waco or the daily 9.30pm Flying Crow to Pittsburg. We walk on by the waiting room, seemingly unchanged since the 30s, as was one of the three customers sat on the long wooden pews. After several visits to the marbled bathrooms with boy we take our leave of Kansas City's quiet spot (most likely a train arrived minutes after my observations and all the closed shops and coffee bars suddenly sprang into life) and head for the rink.

Once little fella heard about ice in the city he has been nagging us to hire a miniature set of boots to let him slip slide about. $10 later, big and small boy were doing the laps weaving in between a large group of exciteable teenagers, who, I noticed, flung themselves about the space in a similar way to the five year olds I had watched a couple of weeks back in East Lansing. Sam begun by clinging to the dad, but half an hour later was pushing his father's help away and sliding his way to self sufficiency. It was like watching him learn to walk all over again. I belly laughed with excitement from under my thick hat and sunglasses, wiggling myself into warmth. There were 3 year old tears when it was time to go. Up until hot chocolate was discovered at the cafe round the corner that is. We defrosted, headed back, had a family bimbo-meal (fresh pesto rotini thank you very much with bimbo-d turkey burgers, George Foreman'd for fat free delight), dad left for work, boy left for dreams and mum has olympics in the background and blog in the foreground.

Just little ole me now, and the light and power of the city that twinkles about me from the skyscrapers surrounding our twentieth floor.

Wintry Wonderlanding

I am weary from a serious blast of winter wonderland fresh Minnesotan air. Half an hour's drive out of the cities and we arrived, with Scott and Nicole from the crew with whom we hired a 4x4 (yes you read right) at Preston's family friend's hideaway. Turning five minutes down a hidden birch arched drive way, we were greeted by a chocolate box fairy tale log cabin. Enormous trunks, cut down from their some 80 acreage had been cut and crafted to create the sort of house Hansel and Gretel would not have looked out of place living in. Add to this a couple feet of snow all round, bright blue sky, unabashed February sunshine and a truck load of musical folk high on fresh air and you have yourself a great day out. Boy was set from the start, managing to describe all fifty of his imaginary gang to Nicole in great detail. He now, apparently, has "five thousand children!" Anyhows, no sooner had we arrived and had the grand tour of the jaw dropping woody loveliness of the place so tastefully pieced together (eyes out for the odd bit of branch left poking out of the larger timber) than it was time to do some serious bundling up and head out for a quick drive onto the ice. There could be almost nothing more counter intuitive on so many levels than the image of me, in the boot of a 4x4 being driven onto a frozen lake. But so we did. And it didn't crack you will be pleased to hear. You see, Preston, his dad and his dad's mate Chris had gone "scouting" earlier, and armed with their mega ice cutter and fish finder and general wonders of the technological world had already pitched geometric vision of tents and drilled 12" diameter holes all over our little camp. On we trod, most of us gung ho beginners, sniggerring and sliding about in the morning sunshine. Chris talked Cory and Sammy through the details of the ice fishing challenge. I relinquished the rod for documentation purposes (somebody has to be in charge of the camera right?) but, after watching the two of them jiggle and struggle I couldn't resist a moment by the icey hole. The art of fishing, is, I have come to find out, rather addictive. There I sat, warm but for my toes tingling with the beginnings of frost bite glaring eagerly at my bob, or bobbit, or, thingamig what the bait goes on. I wondered on the whole notion of my excitement of the prospect of my hook going sharp into some unsuspecting fishes mouth. Turns out they got wise pretty quickly to the novice up top. That was until the lovely Chris came into our little hut, all hunting gear and viking weathered skin. With a knowing hand he fiddle faddled with my bait and such, gave me a few instructions in his Minnesotan twang and lo and behold there was a fish. A sun fish apparently. Cute little thing. Looked at him just long enough to give a quick apologetic smile and in he was thrown back down to his icey abode to eat some other bait. I was in such shock at actually getting something I didn't even shout out to Cory and Sam. They missed the whole thing having gone out of our little tent to try and re-engage their circulation or something like that. Outside most of the troupe were huddled around various other holes alternately hurumphing with frustration and elation. When lunchtime rolled around we all drove back across the water (Jesus jokes abounded) and stuffed ourselves with home made chicken and wild rice soup with a hearty side of tangy pulled pork sliders (so called for the ease with which they, well, slide down). All the other children were there for the day (canine variety), folks cosied on the fat sofas whilst others hit the trail. Snowmobile trail. Motorbike on skis basically. Boys were delighted. I rode on for experience. Every time Cory hit 15m.p.h my legs involuntarily squeezed the blood out of his sides. I believe he still has the bruises. There was something quite elating about charging across the countryside and at the same time so terrifically out of synch with that which we were enjoying. I think I lacked the subtle boyseyness to appreciate the whole petrol speed fuelled cross country jaunt. No dog sleds in modern America after all I guess. It probably would be time I moved with the times but I remain somewhat unmoved and a little bemused by the whole motor on the snow thing. I am not a speed demon. This is probably at the heart of it no doubt. Or maybe, riding at the back with the fumes floating you ever so slightly beyond reality might also have something to do with my non-committal to the diversion. Does bring a zing to the cheek though and a thoroughly outdoorsy glow to the best of us. Needless to say we all fell asleep on the way home - boyo almost made it through the night from 4.30 in the afternoon! He had played hard. With everybody. We laid low the following day, still all a bit winter weary and rested up for our matinee weekend. On the one week stops this generally involves me rallying up all patience reserves for doing copious washing and packing whilst trying to encourage Sam to mantain his top helper status. I take two Patience pills every four hours or more if needed. Least that's the plan. It was made easier this time round by a visit from our cousin Lynsey who is studying at Carelton College just under an hour away. Her much anticipated arrival topped off with a t-shirt of her college for Sam and her involvement in Sam's bedtime little rituals. With great pride, and voice, he recited our little blessing and then urged her to join us for his bed time books. In we all snuggled under the covers, Sam finally drifting off, gazing into Lynsey's eyes to the sounds of Mrs. Tittlemouse getting busy with her hedgerow storerooms. We topped off our Mineapolite stay with our matinee outing. Having filled the hamper, Cory's dresser Debbie took us under the stage and straight out into the front lobby. A beautifully renovated house, which had been one of the most important Vaudeville haunts in its day, still with the original silver gilt domed ceiling. Chandeliers cascading all about, the audience tingling with anticipation. It was a warm house, though apparently not as raucous as the saturday version. My highlight was Cory ad libbing with the signers down right. House loved it too. The over all highlight of the trip to the theatre however was my tour with Dave, the otherworldy looking house operations manager. Cory dropped me off back under the stage at an area loaded with an antique metal menagerie whilst he and Sam carried on a bike ride to the orchestra pit. Come to find out what I was looking at were old cash registers, an original spot light form 1920 complete with coloured gel aparatus, a chandelier, various old electrical motors and instruments all used in the theatre and some fabulous original billboard and line up signs from the venue's hey day. Dave then took me round the corner to his storeroom and pulled out an array of framed vaudeville prints, signed by various perfomers and addressed to his grandparents who had been head of the wardrobe union and carpenter in this very theatre. Dave's father had been a sound man, his brother also, and he himself worked his way up through the ranks; from coal man to manager. I snapped pictures of the motley crew of folk he presented images of, including his great aunt Irene in mid comedy pose, my imagination doing back flips and listening for the applause they might have enjoyed. After the last print was put back into his locked store I pushed him for stories of the ghost kind. "Well," he says to me with a kind of shrug to the heavens, "I don't believe in all that stuff really." I am, obviously, not put off. Never better a ghost story told than by someone who doesn't believe. Minutes later he casually tells me about strange happenings on most of the opening nights of the various travelling shows, and he has seen plenty of them, having worked at the theatre under its 8 different owners, including almost a decade under the leadership of Bob Dylan. He tells me that at he opening night of Phantom he came down to the boiler room to find every single belt having been removed from all of the motors. When Julie Andrews premiered with Victor Victoria a sink blew off from the wall. When we are moving towards stage door he throws back to me over his shoulder, the story of him shovelling coal over night to the sounds of someone tap dancing on the stage above. "Folk on the stage door would be running around with all sorts of equipment trying to trap the darn ghosts. Gotta be a rational explanation I say. I just listened. Nothing more." A few breaths later he also adds a quick story about how two constructions workers during the renovations had heard opera singing on stage on several occasions. No better way to experience a new theatre than in the company of the Dave-man. It will be a cherished memory of the place. And, so it came about that travel day, was, once again on the horizon. We packed the bags and braced ourselves for another two flight day.

Here I am, typing in our roomy Kansas city hotel suite. We are on the 20th floor of a tastefully renovated art deco building which basked in the limelight of its roaring hey day, when the city was given the title of Paris of the Plains. When we landed the rolling plains struck me as the perfect backdrop for the canvas wagons we have come to associate with this part of the world. Our views from our new nest spread across the city. One of our desks (yes you read right) looks out onto the skyline. All I need is a pair of those thick rimmed glasses, a noisy typewriter and I will be a bone-fide writer. We have two bathrooms, one which has been converted into a kitchen/bimbo room (by the by I have discovered some evangelical users this side of the pond who have devoted entire blogs to the thing!). We are back to the kind of luxury I am scared I will get used to, and once again, wondering at the gift that this adventure is to all of us. Sam was stoic throughout our nomading today, through our dinner downstairs where the maitre d' took him on to help her with taking menus over and drinks to others from the troupe, unpacking and p-j-ing with only a very brief melt down before a few calming pages of Dr. Seuss sent him off to dream land.

Cory has his feet up on our retro sofa, a black and white documentary on the Kennedy's is on. I, blog into the near distance and set up our little map of the states ready for Sam and I to draw our next red line marking our progress so far. The blistering cold of Minneapolis is behind us, ahead of us only the promise of some true mid western barbecue delights....