Waiting in Russia

Driving to the airport yesterday I listened to WBBM radio which, at the time, was broadcasting ‘60 minutes.’ I heard the wonderful story of Valery Gergiev, who is possibly the most audience pleasing conductor since Leonard Bernstein.

It’s not his virtues as a conductor that bring him to mind now. Gergiev is a bit off-center. He often neglects to shave, he is a morose guy in a Russian sort of way (“dad died young, so too will he” – is the mindset, one that I completely understand, even though my dad is still kicking… it’s just a Russian/Eastern European way of looking at things), he drinks vodka at inopportune times (before a concert), and he almost always shows up late for rehearsals. Because he is possibly one of the finest conductors alive, he works his orchestra hard and so rehearsals often continue past the hour of the performance itself. The guests wait outside, sometimes as much as an hour, before they are finally allowed to enter the concert hall.

This performance style does not play well in NY. Gergiev is so beloved that he now holds the position of opening night conductor at the Met. But the rules have been clearly stated: you want to do this, you show up on time, sober and clean-shaven. I think he manages all but the clean-shaven.
What really tugs at me in this story is the willingness of the Russian people to wait, knowing that what they will hear is worth waiting for.

I understand that NY is different. People there (here?) live by a clock that is forever setting the mood, the expectations, the permissible transgressions. Gergiev was told that in NY he could not be the person he is in St Petersburg or elsewhere in Russia.

Fine. But I am, on this one, with the people of St Petersburg. One waits for so much of the irrelevant in life – to have one’s teeth cleaned, to pay for the groceries, to pick up a bagel for lunch. Why not wait for something great, thrilling, genius-driven? We, on this side of the ocean, demand adherence to our standards in the concert hall in the same way that we demand conformity to our way of thinking elsewhere. I can’t comment on the larger issues now, but at least in music, wouldn’t it be fantastic just to let our senses rather than our clocks take charge?

Relax and Rejoice

If someone said these words to you – “Relax! Rejoice!”—you’d think a religious conversion is about to take place. Maybe Nader sees himself as a prophet, a spiritual healer. Why else address democratic constituents in this way? (These, in fact, were Nader’s words, cited in virtually every news source today.)

Relaxation rarely comes as a result of a command. It takes practice: breathe in, breathe out. Rejoicing is even more tricky. In Nader’s case, is it a resigned command, signaling the futility of life, as in “rejoice, you have no choice.” Or, is “rejoice” meant to guide us to happiness in spite of adversity? Sort of in the spirit of “don’t worry, be happy” as sung by Bobby McFerrin? Do you remember the lyrics? The song is, I believe, out of the 80s, which makes it considerably older than Nader’s nadir, but it is very Nader-esque:

Ain't got no place to lay your head
Somebody came and took your bed
Don't worry, be happy
The landlord say your rent is late
He may have to litigate
Don't worry, be happy
Don't worry, be happy!

It’s the kind of song I imagine you’d sing where someone is passing around things you’d sniff or injest in odd and not necessarily legal ways, or in Poland – in the course of passing around bottle number 37 of Wodka Wyborowa.

Well, I suppose that’s right. Four more years of cataclysmic governance…. Don’t worry…(pass the bottle) be happy (one more time)…

You and your car

A student came in to chat about her career plans…she made a comment that made me smile. She said of her friends “they’re the kind of people whose cars have the bumper sticker ‘Draft SUV Drivers First’.” There are so many possible meanings to that proposition that it was tempting to mull this over with her, but she was task-oriented and moved on to other topics.

Truax

Last night I was forced to visit the Dane County airport two times, so I got to experience severe depression and anomie twice in one night, even though each time I was greeting arrivals that should have lifted the depressive elements from the experience instantly. I understand that Orville and Frank are working hard to improve the airport building, but sometimes it seems as if it will take the same number of years to finish this as it did to finally get Monona Terrace up and running (was it fifty years?).

True, someone read my post from early January, and the animal-safari-perpetually-50%-off bags got pushed to the back, but replacing them with bright-neon-flowered-bags, also at 50% off is hardly a move in a good direction.

And why is there nowhere to go, to sit, to stand, nowhere at all? It is just too awful to get there and find out that the flight, which just half an hour ago posted “on time” on my computer screen, is now five hours delayed (just a slight exaggeration), even though it only had 85 miles to fly from Milwaukee.

I studied the prize winning art work of 50 children whose drawings were selected for the promotion of US Savings Bonds. Lots of eagles. I opened and closed zippers of the flowered bags (this inspection service which I was so willing to provide seemed popular with no one, least of all the sales ladies who appeared personally offended by it), and I felt the yellow kiddie Wisconsin parkas for their warmth value (forget it – there’s none, but they are only $19.95, so what do you expect), I analyzed minutely the mock boarding pass on display in front of security screening (in case you don’t know what it is that you have to show to the agents waiting to inspect you, your shoes, and your travel documents) and wondered how many Mary Smiths have been offended by the overuse of their name, especially when appended to a photo of a person who looks positively MEAN (see for yourself next time you’re there), and all this took only 15 minutes.

Today I have to drop one of the visitors back at the airport. Tempting as it is just to stay in the car and wave her off, I know I’ll be in there again, this time adding the Croissant Store (closed last night) to my rounds (will there be more blueberry cheese or plain cherry ones on display?).

More than 100 commercial aircraft take off from Truax each day. You’d never guess that, standing there with a small handful of others, waiting, taking in all that gloomy, windowless quiet.

Monday nostalgia

To please and pamper an overnight visitor, I set out this morning in search of fresh bakery treats. Ever since Atkins-mania struck again, bakery people are extremely nice to you when you walk in and ask for four pastries. They bring out the whole staff to celebrate your wonderful and unfortunately unusual indulgence.

I reflected about how my favorite little brick strip mall (‘favorite’ by virtue of being the closest and having at least two stores that I periodically set foot in) is forever transforming itself. Where a kids’ book/toy store used to be is now a stitchers’ center (I have no idea what goes on behind those doors – do they sew? Knit? Darn socks?). Where Breadsmith once produced breads, there is a combination of Wild Grains and Victor’s Coffee. Victor’s Coffee once occupied another spot which is now a Taylor shop (yes, really). Only Brugger’s has clung to its corner location, refusing to change anything but the staff (which they seem to do on a weekly basis).

I waved to people driving up for their morning coffee, their low-carb bagels, their half a sweet roll and for a few minutes I felt that this wasn’t suburbia – this was a small village with stores where everyone greets each other each morning and checks up on the health of the missus. Perhaps I shouldn’t get carried away here, but it was such a warm moment – the stores, the bakery treats, the neighbors. So much better than starting the day with an angry anti-ACLU rave (see yesterday) or a bowl of healthy granola (see everyday).