After the events detailed in our last installment...
I proceeded back to the house, finally arriving around 1:00 am. The events of the following hours remain something of a blur. I do remember at one point or another in the cold, pure hours of the morning, in an almost catatonic state, standing on my bathroom scale with each of my suitcases, attempting to get each one under the regulation 50 lbs for Air France. Followed by me frustratingly getting off and proceeding to play musical chairs with articles of clothing, arbitrarily grabbing handfuls of rolled clothes and transferring them from bag to bag, praying I hit those magic numbers.
At long last, I zipped up my last bag, each perfectly balanced and each under the maximum weight limit, just as the alarm I had set last night, naively assuming I would sleep at some point before an 8-hour trans-Atlantic voyage, began to slowing ooze the soothing tones of NPR into my room...
Not long after, I exchanged sweet-sorrow partings with my Mother, as she not-very-subtly attempted to slip me an extra $100 for the trip. <3
Eight hours to go until I had to leave for the airport.
As much of a slobbering, incoherent zombie as I knew I would be if I didn't get any sleep, I couldn't for the life of me make it happen. Maybe it was excitement, maybe it was my body thinking I was back in college during an all-nighter and sending me an Incredible Hulk-style adrenaline rush. Whatever the reason, eight hours passed and I finally set out to pick up my Dad (my traveling/materiel gathering buddy) and take to the skies on my way to Her Majesty's Realm.
Eight hours in Coach can be rough. Eight hours in Coach sitting next to a 5-year old with Tourette's Syndrome when you're just about to fall asleep for the first time in 24 hours...
In the end, I was determined not to let a harsh flight get the better of me. After all, I was in Paris...
Dad and I were on the same flight into Charles de Gaulle, but we had to take separate flights into Birmingham, his leaving two hours before mine, leaving me with two hours to kill in the airport...How bad does that sound?
To answer that question, if I ever direct a production of Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit, I'd replace the Second Empire furniture with the orange and yellow bench seats of Gate 24.
This is not entirely a judgement on Charles de Gaulle Airport, the clientele who frequent it, or the city of Paris at large. Granted, the young woman selling me my Coca-Cola at the cafe seemed to lose all patience with me the minute she heard my slightly American-accented "Bonjour" and the old French gentleman sitting uncomfortably close to me in the terminal were slightly irritating. But the real reason those two hours in the terminal were so unpleasant can be found at a slightly closer source. In other words, to adjust that famous Sartre quote:
"L'enfer est soi-même." "Hell is one's self."...
I say this because it was during those two hours, I was quite possibly the most uncomfortable I have been in years. As I awkwardly sat in my molded plastic chair, snapping my head back every five minutes after realizing I had been drifting off to sleep, wiping away the sweat that made me feel as though I had a thin layer of slime over my entire body, Doubt began to roll in. The doubt that seems to cross the mind of everyone after they make an important life decision. Doubt took a seat right next to me in the terminal, cleared its throat, and slowly began its disjointed dialogue with my brain.
"I just don't know. Eric, what are you doing here? Are you really making the right decision? Here you are, leaving Pittsburgh, the city you love, along with all your friends and family, to go to school for a year in a city you know next to nothing about. You're gonna miss them all so much! Why are you even going to this school? How did you even get into this school? You're a terrible actor! Who do you think you're fooling? Who do you think you are, anyway? YOU SUCK, ERIC!!!"
"L'enfer est soi-même."
Considering the fact that I'm sitting in my apartment in Birmingham writing this right now and not still huddled on the carpeted floor of Charles de Gaulle Airport slowing rocking in a fetal position muttering and weeping, it goes without saying that I was able to work my way through these feelings. My confidence has been fully restored and I eagerly await the beginning of the school year.
What managed to pull this stone off from around my neck? Will our hero still be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of his own subconscious?...Well, it's late and I'm far too exhausted to type all that up now. :p
Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of the "Burgh to the Brum" saga. Coming soon to a Blog-o-Sphere location near you.
Cheerio, n'at.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
The Burgh to The Brum Part I: And Then A Hero Comes Along
Finally, after three days with wi-fi being either unavailable entirely or set at outrageous prices, I am finally able to tell the story of my travels. (Note: I started this blog post as I sat in the terminal at Pittsburgh International. It was unfortunately cut short with the boarding of my flight.
Pittsburgh International Airport...
A hub that on occasion actually lives up to the "International" component of its moniker.
Air France Flight 8617 to Charles de Gaulle, two-hour layover, Connector to Birmingham, my ultimate destination.
As I sit here in the terminal, glad to be rid of my checked baggage: three full suitcases all painstakingly set at the Air France limit of 50 lbs., I realize that I'm really going to miss Pittsburgh. Not just because of my friends and family and all of the other things that make Pittsburgh wonderful. But because of moments like last night...
As the sun began to oh-so-frustratingly set around 8pm, I drove myself to finally finalize packing my bags. As I rolled T-shirts, stowed shoes and sweaters, and pressed as much weight as I could on my suitcase to get it to close, I had a sudden realization. I had promised my friend Bill that I would loan him my copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman to read while I was away. So at around 10:30, I called Bill, only to find out that he was at our mutual friend Brad's house on the South Side. Hoping to get this done as quickly as possible so that I could get some sleep before leaving the Burgh, I parked the car in a lot near the 10th Street Bridge, grabbed an armful of graphic novels and walked a few blocks over to Brad's.
Bill was getting ready to leave when I arrived, so we met on the street, exchanging hugs and Sandman volumes. As I handed the books over to Bill, my hands fell instinctively to my side, revealing a horrible truth...my keys were not in my pockets. In my rush to get my books and phone out of the car and head over to Brad's, I completely forgot what I had done with my keys.
As soon as the expletives stopped flying, I asked Bill to give me a lift back to the lot, all the while my head full of frightening scenarios. "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them?" "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them...and used them to take my car?" As we pulled into the lot, I immediately pulled up the flashlight app on my phone and frantically began searching the area, only to find that...I had locked the doors of the car and left the keys in the ignition...&%$#^*@!!!
After a few minutes of anger-masking laughter, Bill and I finally started thinking of ways to fix the situation. Call a locksmith? How many of those are out and about at 11:00 pm on a Tuesday night? Not to mention how much that might cost. Call the police? Yeah, but then again they might just solve my problem with some carefully placed nightstick-to-window action. Wake up my parents and ask them to bring their keys over? Sure, and hear on the whole ride home from my mother how this is some sort of omen and that I shouldn't be getting on a plane now? Finally, Bill takes out his phone and calls Brad's house. After a couple minutes of listening to a one-sided conversation explaining my plight, Bill puts the phone down and says: "Don't worry, the A-team is on its way!"
In a few minutes, emerging from the late evening fog, came my friends Brad, Dave, and Steve. Armed with straightened coat hangers, screwdrivers, plungers, and all manner of implements that television has taught us can be used to break into a car, they immediately set to work trying to get the driver's side door open. After a few fruitless attempts, me all the while either holding a flashlight or standing off to the side laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we began to formulate other possible strategies. Deciding to take a chance, I phoned the South Side Police Station. I was informed by the officer that too many civilian complaints had forced the Police Department to no longer allow officers to open locked doors for the public...&%$#^*@!!!
Eventually, Brad, Bar Bouncer and Guardian Angel, informs me that he has a AAA account and would be willing to call them to help me get the door open. Excitedly listening in as Brad called the number on the back of his membership card, I overhead that a AAA employee is on his way to assist us with our problem and will be arriving in approximately...90 minutes...&%$#^*@!!!
Roughly 83 minutes later, the AAA guy arrives on the scene, producing his "tools" which, oddly enough, looked almost exactly like a straightened coat hanger. Employing almost the exact same methods that we had tried, he managed to get the door open.
Just before the AAA worker arrived and began the process of opening the door, Dave and Steve elected to go down to the corner gas station to get some snacks. They arrived just in time to see my door opened and keys returned to me. Being the good friends that they are, they arrived on the scene with a five-pack of White Owl strawberry-flavored cigarillos, a tacky yet greatly appreciated gesture to celebrate this now triumphant occasion.
As we stood in a small circle in a South Side parking lot, smoking our gas station cigars. I realized two things. The first being that I'm truly lucky to have such wonderful, devoted friends. Second, if things had gone according to plan, if I had dropped the books off to Bill, said "Goodnight", went straight home, finished my packing with enough time left for a good night sleep, not only would my send-off not been quite as memorable, I wouldn't have this story to share with my own loyal contingent within the mighty Blog-o-Sphere. It's moments like this that will make me miss Pittsburgh and make my return for Christmas seem all the more exciting. Until then, with a bit of luck, I'll be able to share some more misadventures with you all through this blog, hopefully ones that don't involve this much inconvenience. And with that, this one goes out to The A-team: Brad (Hannibal), Steve (Face), Dave (Howling Mad Murdock), and Bill (B.A.) for being the heroes of my departure.
Coming soon: The Burgh to The Brum Part II: La Vie En Noir
Cheerio, n'at.
Pittsburgh International Airport...
A hub that on occasion actually lives up to the "International" component of its moniker.
Air France Flight 8617 to Charles de Gaulle, two-hour layover, Connector to Birmingham, my ultimate destination.
As I sit here in the terminal, glad to be rid of my checked baggage: three full suitcases all painstakingly set at the Air France limit of 50 lbs., I realize that I'm really going to miss Pittsburgh. Not just because of my friends and family and all of the other things that make Pittsburgh wonderful. But because of moments like last night...
As the sun began to oh-so-frustratingly set around 8pm, I drove myself to finally finalize packing my bags. As I rolled T-shirts, stowed shoes and sweaters, and pressed as much weight as I could on my suitcase to get it to close, I had a sudden realization. I had promised my friend Bill that I would loan him my copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman to read while I was away. So at around 10:30, I called Bill, only to find out that he was at our mutual friend Brad's house on the South Side. Hoping to get this done as quickly as possible so that I could get some sleep before leaving the Burgh, I parked the car in a lot near the 10th Street Bridge, grabbed an armful of graphic novels and walked a few blocks over to Brad's.
Bill was getting ready to leave when I arrived, so we met on the street, exchanging hugs and Sandman volumes. As I handed the books over to Bill, my hands fell instinctively to my side, revealing a horrible truth...my keys were not in my pockets. In my rush to get my books and phone out of the car and head over to Brad's, I completely forgot what I had done with my keys.
As soon as the expletives stopped flying, I asked Bill to give me a lift back to the lot, all the while my head full of frightening scenarios. "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them?" "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them...and used them to take my car?" As we pulled into the lot, I immediately pulled up the flashlight app on my phone and frantically began searching the area, only to find that...I had locked the doors of the car and left the keys in the ignition...&%$#^*@!!!
After a few minutes of anger-masking laughter, Bill and I finally started thinking of ways to fix the situation. Call a locksmith? How many of those are out and about at 11:00 pm on a Tuesday night? Not to mention how much that might cost. Call the police? Yeah, but then again they might just solve my problem with some carefully placed nightstick-to-window action. Wake up my parents and ask them to bring their keys over? Sure, and hear on the whole ride home from my mother how this is some sort of omen and that I shouldn't be getting on a plane now? Finally, Bill takes out his phone and calls Brad's house. After a couple minutes of listening to a one-sided conversation explaining my plight, Bill puts the phone down and says: "Don't worry, the A-team is on its way!"
In a few minutes, emerging from the late evening fog, came my friends Brad, Dave, and Steve. Armed with straightened coat hangers, screwdrivers, plungers, and all manner of implements that television has taught us can be used to break into a car, they immediately set to work trying to get the driver's side door open. After a few fruitless attempts, me all the while either holding a flashlight or standing off to the side laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we began to formulate other possible strategies. Deciding to take a chance, I phoned the South Side Police Station. I was informed by the officer that too many civilian complaints had forced the Police Department to no longer allow officers to open locked doors for the public...&%$#^*@!!!
Eventually, Brad, Bar Bouncer and Guardian Angel, informs me that he has a AAA account and would be willing to call them to help me get the door open. Excitedly listening in as Brad called the number on the back of his membership card, I overhead that a AAA employee is on his way to assist us with our problem and will be arriving in approximately...90 minutes...&%$#^*@!!!
Roughly 83 minutes later, the AAA guy arrives on the scene, producing his "tools" which, oddly enough, looked almost exactly like a straightened coat hanger. Employing almost the exact same methods that we had tried, he managed to get the door open.
Just before the AAA worker arrived and began the process of opening the door, Dave and Steve elected to go down to the corner gas station to get some snacks. They arrived just in time to see my door opened and keys returned to me. Being the good friends that they are, they arrived on the scene with a five-pack of White Owl strawberry-flavored cigarillos, a tacky yet greatly appreciated gesture to celebrate this now triumphant occasion.
As we stood in a small circle in a South Side parking lot, smoking our gas station cigars. I realized two things. The first being that I'm truly lucky to have such wonderful, devoted friends. Second, if things had gone according to plan, if I had dropped the books off to Bill, said "Goodnight", went straight home, finished my packing with enough time left for a good night sleep, not only would my send-off not been quite as memorable, I wouldn't have this story to share with my own loyal contingent within the mighty Blog-o-Sphere. It's moments like this that will make me miss Pittsburgh and make my return for Christmas seem all the more exciting. Until then, with a bit of luck, I'll be able to share some more misadventures with you all through this blog, hopefully ones that don't involve this much inconvenience. And with that, this one goes out to The A-team: Brad (Hannibal), Steve (Face), Dave (Howling Mad Murdock), and Bill (B.A.) for being the heroes of my departure.
Coming soon: The Burgh to The Brum Part II: La Vie En Noir
Cheerio, n'at.
Monday, September 19, 2011
In Which Our Hero Begins His Tale...
Welcome to Burghingham, a state of mind existing somewhere between the borders of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA and Birmingham, West Midlands, UK.
I'm Eric Mathews: Chief Citizen of Burghingham...
Earlier this year, languishing in the disjointed void wherein so many post-graduate liberal arts students find themselves, I was resolved to go to New York...not in any "bright-eyed, 'Look out, world. Here I come!', That Girl" capacity. Rather, I intended to participate in the University/Resident Theatre Association auditions, as well as a few open calls, in the hopes of getting into grad school for Theater. I was content to test my theatrical mettle and see where my abilities could land me.
After a somewhat less than encouraging audition with one of the New York schools, my friend Rachel informed me of an open-call audition being held by Birmingham City University. At first, my bruised ego was compelling me to stay in the hotel room, drowning my sorrows in hallway-vending-machine Coca-Cola and daytime television. Eventually, perhaps through Rachel's encouragement, perhaps through the steadily increasing claustrophobia being induced by my disturbingly small hotel room. I put my coat on, marched through a snowy Midtown and signed in for the audition...
A few months later, having returned to Pittsburgh and basically forgotten about the auditions entirely, a snowy white owl flew through my window and handed me a piece of parchment, informing me that I had been offered a place in the School of Acting at Birmingham City University. Thus, the impetus for this blog emerges.
Admittedly, after hearing the news of my acceptance, I remember hearing myself say "I'm going to Birmingham! That's awesome!... Wait, What do I actually know about Birmingham???" Despite my shameful ignorance of Brum, the more and more I read about it, the more and more excited I became. As a Pittsburgher, I discovered that Pittsburgh and Birmingham share a great number of things in common, including a strong industrial tradition, a desire to create a new identity for the 21st century, near indecipherable accents, and an affinity for the use of the word "pop" when describing carbonated beverages.
Two cities, often framed by outdated, 19th century perceptions by their own countrymen, both on their way to a new identity in the new century. What that means and how it will happen have yet to be seen, but I do know that it makes for a hell of a backdrop as the curtain goes up on my year of grad school at BSA.
The purpose of this blog is to serve as an account of my journey through the city of Birmingham and points beyond over the course of the next year. This year, I hope to share with you my triumphs, failures, love, heartache, rapture, pain, apprehension, minutia, and everything in between.
Well, I'd say that's quite enough exposition for now. Stay tuned this week as the journey begins.
Cheerio, n'at!
I'm Eric Mathews: Chief Citizen of Burghingham...
Earlier this year, languishing in the disjointed void wherein so many post-graduate liberal arts students find themselves, I was resolved to go to New York...not in any "bright-eyed, 'Look out, world. Here I come!', That Girl" capacity. Rather, I intended to participate in the University/Resident Theatre Association auditions, as well as a few open calls, in the hopes of getting into grad school for Theater. I was content to test my theatrical mettle and see where my abilities could land me.
After a somewhat less than encouraging audition with one of the New York schools, my friend Rachel informed me of an open-call audition being held by Birmingham City University. At first, my bruised ego was compelling me to stay in the hotel room, drowning my sorrows in hallway-vending-machine Coca-Cola and daytime television. Eventually, perhaps through Rachel's encouragement, perhaps through the steadily increasing claustrophobia being induced by my disturbingly small hotel room. I put my coat on, marched through a snowy Midtown and signed in for the audition...
A few months later, having returned to Pittsburgh and basically forgotten about the auditions entirely, a snowy white owl flew through my window and handed me a piece of parchment, informing me that I had been offered a place in the School of Acting at Birmingham City University. Thus, the impetus for this blog emerges.
Admittedly, after hearing the news of my acceptance, I remember hearing myself say "I'm going to Birmingham! That's awesome!... Wait, What do I actually know about Birmingham???" Despite my shameful ignorance of Brum, the more and more I read about it, the more and more excited I became. As a Pittsburgher, I discovered that Pittsburgh and Birmingham share a great number of things in common, including a strong industrial tradition, a desire to create a new identity for the 21st century, near indecipherable accents, and an affinity for the use of the word "pop" when describing carbonated beverages.
Two cities, often framed by outdated, 19th century perceptions by their own countrymen, both on their way to a new identity in the new century. What that means and how it will happen have yet to be seen, but I do know that it makes for a hell of a backdrop as the curtain goes up on my year of grad school at BSA.
The purpose of this blog is to serve as an account of my journey through the city of Birmingham and points beyond over the course of the next year. This year, I hope to share with you my triumphs, failures, love, heartache, rapture, pain, apprehension, minutia, and everything in between.
Well, I'd say that's quite enough exposition for now. Stay tuned this week as the journey begins.
Cheerio, n'at!
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