The 2nd to Last Blog

I know what you're thinking: 2nd to last blog? Come on Andy, you're back in the states. Just finish it up already! Plus, I've been following this for 5 MONTHS! SERIOUSLY, 2 MORE?

In response: my apologies. But in truth, I never forced you to read my blog. Unless this is my grandma, in which case I did. Actually, upon seeing my grandma when I got back to the states, she informed me that she had been following the wrong blog! Apparently she was reading some nut (who also had the ingenious idea to call his blog "Andy Abroad) who referred to himself as "the wasp." Goodness knows how long it was until she figured out that it wasn't me. And when she did find my blog, it was "too long to actually read."

Looking forward: For my final blog, I would like to do something impossibly cheesy and heart-warming. Therefore be warned; if you search for warmth of heart, read no further and just wait for the final one. If you seek sarcasm and illusive references, read on.

When I left you it was December 1st, location, London. Life was beginning to wrap itself up. I went to a couple of plays, including a punk-gothic rendition of the world's greatest love story. Juliet was brilliant, Romeo was chunky, and there was the most unfortunate appearance of a countertenor who should not have been a countertenor. I also went to some concerts, and realized I've become an orchestra snob. I feel slightly more qualified for such a pretentious title as I did spend a semester working for an orchestra. Even if you were a great Russian cellist back in your day, you have no right to destroy the most overplayed movement of the Carnival of Animals, and then have the audacity to smile with pride. My Irish and Greek company abandoned me at the interval, and I was left with an Italian who demanded wine if we were to stay for the 2nd half. (Justifiably so...the swan lay murdered, the killer holding his blood drenched roses with brazen confidence. And those roses did not remove themselves for the second half; their guilt and sin glared from the conductors podium where they had been uncouthly placed.) Awkwardness presented itself in the form of the British national anthem, which left me confused to my proper response, though the Italian insisted we remain seated. I think we made the wrong choice. But, as Madonna tells us through the medium of James Bond, I guess I'll die another day.

Finals came, and finals went, and still I could not raise any academic enthusiasm. Fortunately these are all pass/fail, so those miserable Bs will not leave their ugly mark on those precious numbers which have been reduced to the dreaded acronym of GPA. Then a wave of goodbye parties, mostly bittersweet (and thankfully without too much bitter, at least on my end.) The goodbyes came in many forms, respectively and incomplete: a swanky Indian meal in a private wine cellar, a thrown-together Sherry party with a champagne thank-you, shouted embraces in a crowded club, a lovely traditional game stew and quick awkward tube hug--which I still believe to be divine intervention from the Eel pies, a feverish morning mumble on the streets of Edinburgh, a hurried and fairly impersonal ushering from the door and car, and a brief unsaid heart pulse from Heathrow for a city that my infatuation had grown into love.

Yes, I went to Scotland for a night, fatedly-marred by fever. Yet the haze and the heat could not remove the medieval and Potterish beauty. Trains brought me Glasgow accents and eventually London. 5 months is a long time to be gone, and my excitement prevented even my sickly tiredness from coaxing me to sleep the night before. Before I knew it, I had devoured 4 movies, brain-numbingly transported to my skull from the back of a Delta seat, each collectively more stupid than the previous. I started with Salt, and with it's gun-wielding, plot-lacking, action-packed, trashy-spy-movie goodness, it was the most intelligent. Before I knew it, I was in Middle America, making an unanswered phone-call announcing my arrival, and then taking a girl to coffee who I had happily argued about the phone with. The girl went on to tell me her current relationship problems, which I would retell, but it took 3 hours for her to tell me, and frankly, it's not very interesting. But it was nice to have company and eat a hamburger, a meat I had not tasted for 5 months. By midnight I was in Seattle, delirious and in the arms of 3 wonderful friends. Stories were exchanged, my reverse-culture shock manifested itself most powerfully, and within 14 hours I was in Medford.

And that's my life. Andy is no longer abroad. Instead, I have been filling out last-minute internship homework, changing my graduation date (May now...always the masochist) and physically attaching myself to the piano as a recital is quickly approaching. Have I changed, you ask? Sure. I'm not the same as I left. But I think I'm more Andy than I have ever been.

Repent, for the End is Near

Return.

A strange act which I will commit (Lord willing) in only 12 days. It looms with me everywhere now, whether I try to put it out of my mind or not. At classes there is a general fever of excitment, and it is a common topic of discussion. I can't go a whole day at work without it's mention. I'm going back.

It's time to go back.
It's time to see my family and my old friends.
It's time to reconnect and recreate an old and new life.
It's time to take the next step.

Oh dear, I seem to have gotten too serious. And we all know I don't write serious blogs.


MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

Thanksgiving was thoroughly un-British, which was something to be thankful for. Some good choices were made, some not as good choices were made, but it was a lot of fun with friends here. My friends from work also threw a Thanksgiving party, which was marvelous.

I went to a play, called Warhorse, and I saw something beautiful. Now I am trying to discover how to create something beautiful.

A Wardrobe Away from Narnia

Some days you find yourself riding a train through the English countryside next to the ocean, eating a brownie, listening to Christmas music, drinking tea and reading a good book. This is a good day. And this is how my day began yesterday. I fully expected that when I arrived at the station, I would find myself at some grand estate, then a hide-a-seek game later I would be having tea with Mr. Tumness. Instead I found an excited Jan picking me up and then taking me through a surreal journey to the world of Peter Grimes.

Aldebrugh is where Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears called home and eventual laid themselves to eternal rest. I likewise laid myself to rest, but thankfully not eternal, and after a wonderful day which included a concert, fis and chips, a sappy Christmas movie, and thought provoking conversations with my favorite Irishman, but not necessarily in that order. And earlier that day Jan said something quite fun: "I don't want you to take offense to this, but sometimes you sound like Michael Jackson." Never been told that before! Unfortunately, she was not talking about my singing voice.

Rewind to one day earlier. I was exploring Cambridge, take 2, only this time with 16 excited Americans and 1 not-as-excited Englishwoman. Since I had already been to Cambridge, my enthusiasm was at 80% instead of its usual 180%. One amazing art gallery and a sleepy train ride later I found myself back in London. I met Jan and Den, then went ice skating. I don't get paid for my work with Orion, but I definitely do get some perks! Ice skating beneath the London Eye, I got tips from my Italian friend Onofrio. "I'm pretending I'm royalty," He would say as he raced laps around the rest of us. While he transformed from a Russian Prince to a Belgium ambassador, I became more and more comfortable in my skates.

Then up the London Eye, at night, as romantic as you could possibly imagine, except for the romance part. Afterward, sushi, my first in months. I failed in my attempts to use restraint as I gorged myself on conveyor-belt delicacies. Then on to salsa dancing, and then several long bus rides home. The best part was I made friends. The worst part, I do not know their names.

Then off to Adlebrugh. But I've already said that. This an experiment in backwards, disjointed writing--please indulge me. Speaking of writing, I've realized that people are still reading my blog, but now comments are normally shared in private. My suspicion is that you don't want to be associated with my ramblings. Brave soul, I dare you to publicly comment!

Life continues to turn and shift, and though I can hardly say I have things figured out, I can say I'm in a better place. A glance at the date reminds me that I only have 3 weeks--how fast it has gone!

Andy Writes

Every once in a while you find yourself wandering between various Prets and Starbucks searching for internet access outside the tower of London because you are meeting a class there in an hour and the reason you are so early is because you wanted to practice the piano but the church was not open like it said it was but you find that the mushroom soup was quite lovely in regards to the the lousy weather and you own well-being also quite under the weather and green tea is always a nice and rare commodity in England and then you're starting to regret eating that chocolate chip cookie because it was almost 2 pounds and you are in fact sick.

I'm having one of those days.

As several of you might already know, I did not make it to Ireland. I would recount the story for you, but I find that I have hard time doing that without including profanity. If you are nonetheless determined to hear the story, please ask a mutual friend that I have already vented to and perhaps they can filter out the cursing for you. Enough said on that subject.

The past week has been eventful, complete with an Orion concert last night. To say that the 1st half lacked music that had the ability to give me an ecstatic endorphin release would be a drastic understatement. The 2nd half was much more suited to my taste (which, as we all know, is pinnacle) and showcased the orchestra as the fantastic group they are. Also, the 2nd half was absent of a certain pianist a la manner Lang Lang. This woman unfortunately reminded one of the Chinese superstar's lesser traits, including wild and dramatic antics unequaled with a deficit in musicality, though in her defense the concerto hardly lended itself to leaving one amazed. To quote a colleague, the piece was a bit "indulgent."

Once again, I apologize for the weirdness of style I have adopted for this current blog. The apology is false, for were it sincere I wouldn't write in this style, but it amuses me and therefore it is retained. Yet still I feel as though I should make an excuse for it, as though to make up for the fact that it is odd. My writing style is something that I am feeling more and more confident about. I find myself writing more than I ever have, between classes and work. Not that I have been getting positive feedback, in fact, the feedback is always on content and never on style, but the self-discovery of voice through experimentation as been wonderfully amusing. At serious poetry I am horrendous; and if rhyming is involved my readers normally flee and find the nearest wooden spoon to gag themselves upon. My light poetry is childish and gruesomely cute. Hallmark would groan if they read it. Academically, I am too casual and generally lazy in my research and approach: my most successful, discussing the endlessly boring topic of Jewish aesthetic theory in German 12-tone opera that I alone seems to find interesting, sits in a stack, only partially edited, while the author fantasizes of transforming it into an undergraduate publication. For journalism I am too long-winded, and "concise" is a term I have yet to learn. For prose, I strive for success, but with unsuccessful results. The mysteries lack the structure, the horrors are unpurposefully comical, the romances miss the real experience, and the fables have no morals. For plays, nothing could be worse, for dialogue is the most unnatural of my creations, perhaps due to my inability to talk and converse. (ha ha. ha ha.) For advertising, I lack the wit of 1 sentence. Why should I ever use 1 when I could use 7?!?!

This leaves me with one option, which I have learned to embrace fully and unabashedly: satire. The sarcasm oozes, the insults take wing, and my cynicism is finally put to healthy use. Yes, healthy is a debatable term. Therefore I take up my satire, boldly and fiercely, for it is all I have in terms of words.

Oh dear, I haven't even really written about London today.

4 weeks later...

Before I begin I should mention that the computer I am currently on does not have spell check. Spell check is one of the most brilliant/damaging inventions mankind has ever come up with. Brilliant, because, well, that goes without saying; damaging, because as young 20-something hoping to soon enter the professional world, I still cannot spell. Oh the embarrassment.

4 weeks since my last blog. So much can happen in 4 weeks. So much HAS happened in 4 weeks. I've been growing, and metaphorically the last 4 weeks have come and gone and left me several inches taller, complete with the pains and the stretch marks. I'm not a new person but I am an older person. This is an interesting phase of life, where I am forced to balance so many contradictions: the wisdom of age, the cynicism of experience, the arrogance of youth, the energy of childhood. These are overflowing within me, and like an unschooled pool boy I am frantically and constantly remixing the chemicals in hopes of finding a non-toxic balance. Thankfully there have been no deaths, but my childish inexperience has not only killed the bacteria but left rashes on some few poor, unexpecting swimmers.

Forgive me, my analogies are ridiculously extended, and by now you are no doubt wishing you had swallowed chlorine. Metaphors and emotions I abandon thee thus and now embrace the more simple and tangible facts. When I left you, my dear readers, I had just finished the big October concert and was preparing for the legendary midterms. The papers (as grades reflected) were anything but legendary, but the vacations were worthy of such an adjective! I began the break with an Ian Bostridge concert/lecture--he's tall and a bit awkward, though quite funny. Free CD and now a claim-to-fame later, I spent the first part of the break working.

By Monday I was off to Venice. Disneyland for grownups was how the city was described, and no description was more fitting! I loved it, though it was quite a fairy tale. If anyone tells you Venice is the most beautiful city in the world, believe them. I chased my Venice with an unusual trip to Cambridge. Alone, it once again confirmed that this is not my preferred way of travel, but I enjoyed the beautiful town. What type of University has their 800 anniversary? Not an American one.

Another week fulfilled its typical usual unusuality. I saw one of the most fantastic productions of Hamlet in my life, and then attend a Leif Oves Andsnes masterclass. After watching him sight read Mephisto Waltz better than an already-brilliant Royal Academy student, I wasn't sure if I was watching another fantastic pianist or a Norse God with super-human musical skills.

Then I went to Bath as opposed to taking one. The baths themselves proved to be the most unremarkable item of the town, though the abbey was probably the most beautiful I've seen in England. At a whim I decided to crash there for the night with a few others from the group. The next day was spent exploring various English towns and really getting in touch with the English countryside. Regarding the latter, there simply was no choice. Our request to find Stonehenge was answered by a bus driver dropping us off in the middle of a field. We wandered, climbed barbed-wire, dodged cows, and found the underwhelming world site only to be barred by a chain-link fence and £7 tourist fee. Fortunately, cameras can overcome chain-link fences. Unfortunately, batteries cannot overcome death, and I was forced to stop my photoshoot short. Back to London

Halloween came a night early in the form of an awkward over-50s pub. Yours Truly was an effected Andy Warhol, complete with an Eddie Sedgewick, a Glitter Fairy, some sort of crazy schoolgirl, though the last two were not connected to the theme. (Though considering I was Warhol, the latter two don't sound all that strange.) The lack of a dance floor only encouraged its creation, and I now find myself dreading when such incriminating videos will be posted. Naturally, my health had had enough by this time, and has left me withered with a raspy replacement for a throat. In 15 minutes I will go to catch a plane to Ireland--perhaps I should be writing down my family member's address if I am really going to find them.

If you are still reading this, you a brave soul. I find my head of late to be in the lands of Joyce, Mann, and Haddon. Though nowhere near their talent, I apologize, for you have undoubtedly been the unfortunate victim of such influences. Until next time!

Musings of a non-Poet

I have decided to write my blog today because my writing skills seem to be quite unpredictable as of late. I just wrote a 5 page paper on Welsh National Identity in a couple hours, as the words seemed to just flow out of me. Yesterday was not so wonderful. During an art history journal, my response to the prompt “Why was the title of the Surrealist exhibit ‘Poetry and Dreams’ appropriate?” was “So much of Surrealism can really be summed up by two words: Poetry and Dreams. That’s why it’s appropriate.” Realizing that I was at the height of wit, I parted ways with my homework and decided to listen to opera. Oh the days when listening to opera was my homework: I miss you!

On a different note, I realize that by now I must sound obsessed, but it’s because I am: I am endlessly fascinated with social anthropology! In other words, I find the endless differences between English and American culture fascinating. My poor boss is subjected to my endless stream of observations and questions about social rules: I approach everything from driving to swearing as if it were the seminal part of my cultural immersion. The class system, which is so rigidly in place here, never ceases to bewilder, and don't even get me started on accents!

As mentioned earlier, I’m finding out how American I am. Even in the coffee shop where I am sitting now, I watched from afar with American horror as a very European family had lunch. The family ate carefree as their youngest child bounced on the chair, chips in mouth and hands, drool oozing out of her mouth and covering her front. The over-protective American childcare worker inside of me wanted to rush to the child, place her on her bottom, wipe her little facey clean and frantically explain the dangers of choking, falling, bad manners, head-trauma, paralysis, and death while complaining about the lack of seat-belts for children at coffee shops. Luckily, I did not interfere and was amazed to find out that no tragedy occurred in such a danger-filled situation.

Living in such an amazing city is so surreal. One day I'm at a concert at Wigmore Hall, where anybody who's anybody has performed. The next day I'm inside the Royal Festival Hall, but I get to see it from the stage first instead of the audience, because I'm performing in a choir there. I stop at a free museum on my way home, and hey, there just happens to be Raphaels, Durers, Monets, Van Goghs, Picassos, not to mention that Arnolfi Wedding we all learned about back in high school. I've started to toy with the thought of a long-term relationship with this city, but right now it is only toying. (Stop freaking out Pop and Amy, I didn't say I was moving here. yet.) Though when the CEO of my internship asked how they could keep me after December, I said "Well, you could pay me."

In the mean time, each time I go on facebook seems to be an opportunity to discover another high school friend is engaged. What the heck guys? Well, I should say girls, as I have yet to hear about a guy friend who is ready to jump into a life-changing commitment, knock on wood. Seriously though, I wish you the best of luck, and I will try to make it to the weddings that I can, but in the meantime I'm working on perfecting my already refined skill of bachelorhood.

At my job, which seems to be increasingly more awesome each day, they decided that they wanted to join me for their first ever American Thanksgiving. I wish I could describe the childish glee the artistic director and the CEO got when I told them the "essentials" for the menu. They seemed nervous about this foreign use of pumpkin and have decided that the meal should include Christmas pudding. "Pudding" does not seem to have a direct translation as it in no way means our version of it (you know, the thick milk stuff), but rather it seems to refer to dessert in general. As British food is always hit and miss, we'll see how it goes.

Oh, did I mention I'm going to Venice next week? Otherwise, I send my love!

Confessions of a inconsistent blog-writer

My apologies. I have been getting progressively worse and worse at writing these blogs. I could offer a paragraph of legitimate excuses, but I won't. Maybe it has provided a necessary break--apparently even my grandparents has been filing complaints on the length.

Some wonderful things have been happening in my life as of late. Really wonderful things. My anxiety of housing has finally ended as I've seemed to found a wonderful new house to live in upon my return to PLU. Also, my goal for this whole trip was to get some direction, in terms of career, etc. I'm excited to say that I think it is becoming more and more clear what I want to do. I have realized that I'm miserable without a piano. Sure, I function, I can do other work well, but really, the hours I spend chained to that horrible black monster within the claustrophobic 4-walls of my practice room are apparently necessary for my existence. So I simply have to do a job that keeps me out of the office and on the piano if there is any hope for long-term happiness. Which means I'm planning on going to graduate school and doing some degree which will keep me further chained to the monster. I had done some hard-core flirting with programs like Teach for America and Jet Teach, seduced by the prospect of eliminating my college debt and teaching for a couple years. But after 2 months of a break from serious music-making, the thought of 2 years of further self-inflicted torture seems unbearable. I'll just have to find a way to support myself making music.

On a slightly different note, let's talk about addictions. I definitely went to the wrong country to end mine. I love tea. LOVE tea. And England is pushing this to new limits. In fact, at this point in the blog I'm already on my third cup of tea. But the English love it, and I love it, and I love the English, and I love it when the English offer me tea. And besides, three cups of tea within the course of 20 minutes is really not unusual in this country. In fact, I don't think I've worked at my internship more than 2 hours without there being a round of tea. But there was this tragic day a few weeks ago. I arrived at school, and naturally went straight to the kitchen to turn on the kettle (yes, tea is always on stock at school.) To my horror, I discovered the kettle was broken. I was inconsolable, though only 1 or 2 of the other Americans could understand why. Naturally, my British teachers equaled, if not surpassed my state of panic. The kettle was fixed a few days later, and life could return to its healthy caffeinated state.

Tea is just another reason to love London out of countless others. Yesterday I was riding the train into Victoria Station, and right when we were crossing the Thames I realized how much I love this amazing city. It is so vast, so huge, so unconquerable. Each time I discover a new place I'm intrigued by the sub-culture of the borough, of the neighborhood, sometimes even of the street. When I stick to familiar places, I discover more and more, because there is simply so much to see even within the microcosm of an alley. For a small-town boy who thought Tacoma was the big city, London is like the endlessly vast Roman Empire. As I walked out of Victoria station, I looked around. The people, the energy, the opportunities that this environment offered, it all made me so happy. I can see myself here long-term, if that's what God has in plan. As I walked from the station, I just happened to pass Buckingham Palace, because almost always sights like that get in the way when going from A to B. Incredible

Though the further away I get from Northwest America the more I realize how patriotic I am. Don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to fight and die for the US; pacifism still reigns sovereign. But I really love little things about the states. Currently I miss good customer service, something that is extremely rare here. But enough reminiscing.

An overview of what I've done lately: Wales--country walks, open air, more sheep than people, best hostel of my life. Canterbury--beautiful, small, got to watch the choristers rehearse, meet the organist. Next week is the first concert for the orchestra, and now I have to head off to the first rehearsal!