Adventures With The French Consulate, Part Deux

My oh my. I'll preface this post with the fact that I do now FINALLY have my French student visa. Also, no fathers or daughters were seriously harmed in the making of this day-long adventure. 

OK, so I get home at 2am on Monday August 24th, thinking that somehow I will go to the consulate on Tuesday, regardless of the fact that my receipt from the last visit reads clearly "August 24th 9-11am." Once I get home and start to discuss getting there with my Dad (he's a night-owl, what can I say?), I become increasingly sure that it would be a much better idea to go on the 24th instead of after. And so it begins. Will we drive into Manhattan, during rush hour, only to have me step into the consulate on the Upper East Side and wait god knows how long to get my visa, while Dad drives around aimlessly because it cots a zillion dollars to park in Manhattan? I think not. I think we should take the train. I log on to Amtrak.com, only to find that a same-day one-way trip just into Penn Station from Hartford will set us back $98. Shit. So no way we can do round-trip, but maybe a Greyhound back to Hartford? Yes, I reserve it. Non-refundable, mind you. This will be relevant later. 

So I get no sleep, my Dad gets an hour, and we leave by 5:30am. Wait, that's a lie. We should have left by 5:30am to catch the train leaving from Hartford at 6:26am. Instead, we leave at 6am. My Dad's pretty good at getting to Hartford quickly. We should have been a half hour late for the train. We were six minutes late for the train. Also, we missed the exit to the train station by a couple feet, and my Dad backs up on the freeway in the breakdown lane. We didn't die. I can't imagine not dying if I had been in the car with anyone else. So, in the train station, we're told that the best we can do is drive to New Haven and catch the train there. We do so. We find the parking garage almost entirely full and have to drive all the way up to the 4th floor. It is 7:19. The train will get in at 7:30. We park and race down the stairs and into the station. Dad says "did you lock the car?" I proceed to worry about my lovely little Honda for the rest of the day. We get to the desk and I beg the guy to tell me the train hasn't left yet. He says "why don't you just take Metro-North? It'll save you a bunch of money." OK, so he refunds the $98 and we buy round-trip tickets from New Haven to Grand Central Station (see, the car won't be in Hartford, so the Greyhound is out. There goes 44 bucks.) for, get this, $65. We saved 30 bucks! 60 bucks if we compare it to the price of an Amtrak round trip, right? Right. Missing the train saved us money, if it also cost my Dad a couple years off his life. Score.

So, the Metro-North train takes us right into Grand Central, from which we only have to take one subway, the 6 train, to the 77th street station, from which we follow the same zig-zag I ran with Mom on the 11th, although this time we're not late (we got to the consulate by 10am!) so we can actually walk. They let me in at 10 East 74th St. and we wait. And we wait. We are packed into the bathroom-sized waiting room with a ton of other people. And not a big bathroom, either. A truck-stop bathroom. Standing-room only. We wait for almost 2 hours as people filter in and out, shuffle their visa applications, twirl their hair, and eat bananas. Actually only one girl ate a banana, but I thought it was worth mentioning. She was pretty cute, too. FINALLY the little French man with longish salt-and-pepper hair (the one who tried to locate my mother last time) calls "Madeleen Hennessey" and makes sure that I'm aware that my last name is that of a fine cognac. Boy do I love the French. After a brief reminder that we all have to register with the French authorities upon arrival, our visas are stamped and signed. And now I have a visa. Thank God. 

So Dad and I find our way easily back to the 77th St. station and get on the subway back to Grand Central, where we find that the next train back to New Haven leaves in about 40 minutes, giving us enough time to get coffee (I downed a large iced coffee in about fourteen seconds. I needed that coffee.), a bagel for Dad (those New Yorkers really have bagels down, despite the $1.50 cost of cream cheese), and a peanut butter cookie for Mom (it was enormous!). Before we know it, we're on the train back to New Haven, and it's 2pm. 12 hours, a harrowing drive, and a visa later, we're pretty much done with the whole process. 

Also, on the train, I played Dad "Queen Bee" by Taj Mahal and "Fix You" by Coldplay, two of "our songs," on my iPod and, I hope, made up for the horrible ordeal I had just put him through. I love my Daddy, I really do, and I am going to miss him like crazy when I'm in France. In eight days. Oh God. 

The drive back from New Haven was punctuated by The White Stripes, Tom Petty, The Doors,  and the Rolling Stones, and Dad even filled my tank with gas. What did I do to deserve this man as my father?

So what else can I say? I've got my visa, and one week in the US until I set off on a much greater adventure. I imagine my blog posts will become vastly more interesting posthaste, but I certainly hope they will be less hectic and stressful. Needless to say, it was worth it. 

Imani In The Belly

I remember a book my parents read to me when I was younger called Imani In The Belly. They read it to me before bed while we were at the beach, during the two weeks we used to spend each summer in a beach house with my Grandparents on Old Lyme Shores. I can still picture in my mind the old, pink bedroom I used to sleep in, and the knobby white glass wall light next to the bed. The book had beautiful, vividly colored illustrations, so jagged and primitive that they almost hummed or moved on the page. The story was about an African woman who is swallowed by a lion, and must find a way to escape and get back to her children. She lights a fire inside the lion's belly and the smoke makes him sneeze her right back out. Or at least I'm pretty sure that's how it goes. I also remember that at some point Imani is walking with her daughter, and her daughter begs her for a piece of orange. I didn't understand what was so special about an orange, and my mother had to explain to me that in other countries oranges were much harder to come by, that they were a special treat. I wish an orange could make me as happy as it made the little girl in that book. 

I haven't the slightest idea why this story surfaced in my memory just now, but it does every now and then, and I supposed I would note it, on this day a mere three weeks from my departure from America all the way to Paris. The familiar becomes all the more precious when we are about to leave it behind, and I would give just about anything for another two weeks in that beach house, eating fresh doughnuts and my Grandmother's scrambled eggs. Now that the visa application is no longer standing between me and France, even as excited as I am to go abrod and experience a whole other world, I'm getting a not-entirely-pleasant feeling in my stomach, and I'm starting to fear that the big, strange city might swallow me up. I begin to wonder whether I am Imani or the lion. 

Adventures With The French Consulate

What an epic day in NYC. 

See, I'm going abroad next semester, and I will be in Paris from September 3rd to December 18th. This period of time is longer than 90 days, thus I require a long-stay French student visa. And so the fun begins. Anyone wishing to acquire such a visa must bring a big pile of documents IN PERSON to the visa section of their state's French Consulate (mine happened to be 10 East 74th St. in Manhattan) on a set appointment at least two weeks before their departure for France, since the consulate has recently increased the processing time. You will notice that today is August 11th, and with my departure on September 3rd, I was cutting it a bit close. Rescheduling, in the case of my neglecting any document or simply not having a document that the consulate (as I was warned) might randomly choose to request, would really not be possible. In other words, nothing could go wrong. Or else.

So I spent this week gathering documents, copying documents, filling out forms, and figuring out how to get from Penn Station, where our train from Hartford would leave us at 9:20 am, to 10 East 74th St. for my appointment at 10:30 am. This morning, I woke up at 4 am and did a wee double-check that I had everything I needed. Au contraire. I had overlooked a notarized financial guarantee promising that my parents would provide me with a $200 monthly allowance in addition to my college's fully-paid tuition, room, and board. Yes, not just a form, but a notarized form. Mind you, my bank does notarizations for free with almost no wait-time, and probably could have done so yesterday afternoon. But they certainly would not do so at 4 am this morning. Painful. OK then, I print a list of notaries in New York City, and I begin calling them all immediately. I find that several of these notaries provide 24-hour on-site "mobile notary" services. A mobile notary? Almost too good to be true. Almost. 

Meanwhile, Mom and I drive into Hartford, park in an all-day lot, and get on an Amtrak train to NYC. Three hours on a train, most of which time I'm repeatedly calling some various notaries. First, I leave messages. Then, a few pick up. No way they can meet me at the consulate at 10 am this morning. Now I'm starting to shit bricks. Finally, one guy calls me back, Mike. He can meet me at the consulate at 10:15 am. $45. Crap. Forty five bucks for a service I could have gotten for free. Goddamnit. Oh well, at least I have a notary, which really is a miracle all by itself. But here's the kicker: A few more of the notaries start to call back. Same-day mobile notary service rates: $60-$80. The way I see it, I saved $35. 

Back on the train, Mom and I get into Penn Station. We're ten minutes late, so we can't take the exact subway schedule I had printed out, but the same trains leave almost constantly, so we figure we can pull it off. A VERY kind man directs us to Herald Square Station, where we have to walk before we can take our first subway train. We take the R train to Lexington-59th, from which we take the 6 train (which I was convinced we would miss since we appeared to be on the wrong side of the tracks...) to the 77th St. station, from which we take a ridiculous and very rapid zig-zagging path to East 74th St. After momentary confusion between 7 and 11, I realize that 10 is across the street. And who is there waiting for me? Mike, the miracle mobile notary. I have never been happier to see a mousy man in glasses with a black shoulder-bag. Time? 10:19 am. The form and a copy are signed, notarized, and stamped. A personal check for $47 is written and accepted ($2 extra for the copy). Time? 10:26 am. My appointment? 10:30 am. Harrowing. 

This story is nowhere near over. A guard comes out to accept all the people with 10:30 appointments. Once inside, there is quite a line. So I wait, talk to a nice woman who works for the UN and is flying to Paris at 10 pm tonight (I suppose she's in the air now, if all went well), shuffle nervously through my documents for the millionth time, and inch towards the front of the line. Finally, I'm next in line. The woman in front of me takes out cash. Shit. Application fee. Luckily, a nice man has come out to make sure we have our passports ready, and I ask him if he might call my mother in from outside to pay the fee. He snatches my passport and zips down the stairs. Moments later, he re-emerges with my passport, only to say that my mother is not, in fact, outside the door. Oh God. Now I zip down the stairs and out the door to find my mother nowhere in sight. I call her cell phone, and she's down at Central Park. Needless to say, she hurries back, and we are allowed back inside. Now I've lost my place in line and have to wait again, but eventually we get up there, and Mom doesn't want to pay cash (we don't have much for a day in the city) and tries to use my father's credit card (she had recently lost hers somewhere in her room, admittedly because I bought something online and then left it on her bedside table... insignificant detail), which has both his picture and his name on it. He lent it to us for the day and provided us with a written note, signed, with permission to use it. The French woman behind the window does not care. She is in fact rather irritated by our attempt to use my Dad's card, and also by the fact that my mother seems not to have her own credit card. This, I suppose, is the unfriendly consulate employee about which I had been warned. After filling out some useless form, which the woman proceeded to tear in half, we paid the $70 in cash. Thank God Michael took a personal check. Money and passport taken, fingerprints scanned, photograph snapped, I was instructed to sit down and wait for my interview. Meanwhile, I met a UConn student going through the same process, and we ended up being called to our "interviews" simultaneously. The interview consisted of handing over various copies of documents to a MUCH NICER woman behind a window, having those documents stamped, and being told to return on August 24th to pick up my visa. What? Pick up my visa? This endeavor, over which I have been having a week-long anxiety attack, has actually been successful? What a relief. 

[INSERT MASSIVE SIGH OF RELIEF] 

Now my Mom and I had an afternoon to kill in NYC. Sounds like fun to me. But first, I was starving. All that anxiety and subway-navigating and speed-walking in 90-degree weather will make anyone hungry. Also, I had to find some sunglasses. I had forgotten my Ray-Ban knockoffs and simply had to find another pair. I found one just like mine for five bucks, with 400 UV protection to boot. Now I felt much better. Then we found a nice cheap sandwich shop (after passing up the pricey pizza place we'd found in a AAA guidebook), got some delicious sandwiches, and returned to Central Park. We sat on the grass in the shade, there was a lovely breeze, and my visa application was DONE! Also, I love when fresh basil and mozzarella are actually fresh basil and mozzarella. Even the rolls were good. Plus, the nice woman from the consulate was apparently on her lunch break, since she and a few friends (not including the unpleasant woman from earlier, I noticed) sat down to a little picnic behind us in the park. At this point, I would have almost been happy just to take a nap there in the grass. 

Then we pulled out our handy-dandy New Yorker Magazine to locate an interesting art exhibit nearby. The Met looked good, but we wouldn't have more than two hours, so it seemed like kind of a waste of money. Instead, we walked about 10 blocks up to look for a "Bodies Revealed" exhibit at the American Academy museum. We found it just past the Guggenheim, walked in, and found it closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. We loitered in the open and air-conditioned gift shop and debated whether we should just go back to Penn Station since we didn't want to shell out for the Met. We were then informed by the two guards at the museum that the $20 admission fee at the Met is in fact just a suggested donation, and that you can donate as little as a dollar and still get in. And so that is just what we did. We saw some beautiful stained glass done by Tiffany (really, it was amazing, massive wall-sized stuff), as well as some lovely sculptures in the New American Wing, and some alarmingly blue porcelain from the 19th century. Alas, soon it was time to get back out on the street and catch a bus back to the station. As we walked back to the bus stop, I spotted a lovely five-dollar red pashmina, and simply had to buy it. Moving on, we got the bus, got on for 50 cents because the driver took pity on my attempt to pay him in cash (they only take quarters, all you hicks from Connecticut), and found our way back to Penn Station, where we bought some delicious muffins from Krispy Kreme, a delicious smoothie, and what turned out to be a delicious salad. It's never hard to find something good to eat in a train station these days. 

Though the train was fifteen minutes late, we got home without a hitch, and now I just have to go back one more time before I'm finally ready to go to PARIS!!! I daresay I will have more to blog about then. If a bit less time in which to blog. It's a trade I'm willing to make. 

Heady photos, man.

At the beach early Friday morning: 

The pier that was really much longer than I had anticipated: 

The magical, unattainable lighthouse at the end of it: 

The sky lightened up beautifully on my way back: 

Take only pictures, leave only footprints: 

The clouds were truly amazing to look at: 

Taking cover in the tent, quite merrily in fact:

The vibrational massage gongs: 

All drooged out: 

"Sunrise With Jug":

THE BEST cup of coffee I have ever had:

This hat was a ground-score. It was clearly made for Kellen:

Rockin' the fairy wings: 

The wicked cool little girl with her Daddy:

The very beginnings of the rain-exodus during and after Crosby, Stills & Nash:

My God, I have so many more photos. But those were the highlights. Again, an amazing experience. 

Zen and the art of remembering to stop along the way.

Four days, twelve hours of sleep, zero showers, scads of bands, torrents of rain, ankle-deep mud, glorious vibes. All in all, the best $200 I have ever spent. I'm talking about the Gathering of the Vibes festival at Seaside Park in Bridgeport, from which I returned only last night. Needless to say, sleeping between clean sheets in a bed, rather than in a sleeping bag (albeit on a lovely air mattress) in a damp tent, was very nice, but I am still bummed to be back in society. The Vibes was quite a wild and wonderful oasis. 

My Dad and I drove down and got through the drive, traffic, line, and the extra line because Dad had to get a VIP ticket separate from my general weekend pass, by about noon. I helped Dad set up his site and then waited for my friends to call and tell me where they were. It turned out that they were WAY the hell to the west of the venue, somewhere near a large Canadian flag. I carried my stuff about a quarter of the way, which was not terribly comfortable, then I found a really nice guy named Kevin at the Solar Power tent (we're so eco-friendly at the Vibes...) and he gave me a ride the rest of the way on a solar-powered golf cart. Good luck already. I got to the site in time to witness and assist as Adam modified his outrageous tarp contraption, affixed to all the tents in the circle (actually, it was more like an amoeba or perhaps a kidney bean) and to he shade canopy, for what seemed to be an endless amount of time. Aside from some leaks, which we attempted to patch as they appeared, everything was pretty much all set by the time the rain started. We spent quite a while under the canopy and, although I'd planned to, I did not have the willpower to get out from under the tarps and trek through the rain to see Donna Jean. We did make it to the music for a wicked but very wet Dark Star Orchestra set. They played an amazing St. Stephen, and I literally danced right out of my shoes when they played Sugar Magnolia--I honestly forgot that it was raining--but right after that song, the rain just got ridiculous, and Kellen and I booked it out of there and took cover in the massive den that was Adam's tent. Meanwhile, some unattended cigarette holes in the floor had created a layer of water on the bottom of the tent, so thank God for the air-mattress that doubled as a raft and kept all of our sleeping-gear dry. We decided not to venture out for the late night band, The Machine, since we were dry and warm and perfectly content to stay that way, so we turned in relatively early. My sleeping bag never felt so good. 

Friday morning, I woke up a little before 6am and just had to get out of the tent to walk around. I grabbed a bag and went for a walk down the beach. I took the beach road sidewalk ALL the way down past the campsites and into the park area of Seaside Park, past the beach and onto a pier (much longer than I had anticipated) that ended in a lighthouse. My ultimate goal was to reach the lighthouse, but that really wasn't possible, so I settled for the end of the pier, looking out over beautiful water and some amazing clouds (ones that I fervently hoped were NOT the foreshadowings of more rain...). Then I went down to the soft sand on the beach, made some dank footprints, picked up some lovely shells, took some amazing photographs, and trucked my way back ALL the way to the VIP camping to visit my Daddy and his new buddy Mark (I was hoping they'd sneaked me some free VIP goodies...). To be perfectly honest, I went all the way there partly because I'd missed the turnoff to my friends' campsite and in my relaxed morning logic I figured I'd just keep on going. I chilled there for a bit, ate the banana that had apparently been rather hard to get out of the VIP tent (I guess they cracked down this year on goodie-sneaking), we swapped some stories, and then I meandered on back to my site. On the way back, I saw Kevin at the Solar Power Tent, got some free water, and bought the solar folks a bag of ice for their iced sun-tea. I realize now that all this walking, probably more than 6 miles a day, plus bathroom-runs and food-runs and water-runs, was the cause of the very painful blister I developed in between my left big toe and second toe and then had to nurse for the rest of the weekend. Ouch. Back at the campsite, it was time to put all of our stuff on the tent so it would dry in what was shaping up to be very hot sun. I had forgotten to pick up my raincoat and folding chair at my Dad’s site, so I walked ALL THE WAY back AGAIN, making sure to apply scads of sunscreen while I was at their campsite. My God all that trucking back and forth took FOREVER. I felt bad for delaying the cleanup at the campsite, since Adam still had to get the air mattress out of the tent to fully fix the leak. After I returned from my journey, the tent would be patched with duct tape (an entire roll was used during the festival, between the tarps and the tent--don't leave home without it!) and we would EVENTUALLY set off for more music. I was excited to see Strangefolk and since no one else at the site was particularly into going down for them, I went on my own to catch the last few songs with which I was very pleased, especially since I had been less than thrilled with the last time I'd seen Strangefolk. I was right up front and enjoyed it the whole time (even though I think Strangefolk was better before Greenier left). After they finished, I managed to locate my Dad and Mark on the field, and then Kellen and I tried to catch Cornmeal on the Green Stage, where some of our friends were, and we arrived literally at the end of their last song! Oh well, we went down to the beach to sit on the rocks and cool down a bit (it really was getting hot) and wait until our friends came down to see Keller Williams, who I don't know much about but who turned out to be pretty good. We chilled on the edge of the field, and stayed the same distance for George Clinton & P-Funk. We needed to run back to the site before Deep Banana Blackout, which I really wanted to see, and again there was some delay. Kellen and Adam and I ended up just giving up on waiting for folks and just took off at a critical point, getting way up to the front and enjoying about the last third of the set. It was great! Being up close to the stage is like nothing else in the world. And after Deep Banana Blackout, it was time for moe. I had come to this Vibes especially because moe., one of the original founding bands of the festival, way back in ’96 when it was called Dead Head Heaven, had not played a Vibes for TEN YEARS. I was dying to see them. They played about four songs. Then an electrical storm took them off the stage, and they did not come back. First lightning, then thunder, then more pouring rain, and we all had to stampede back to our campsites and wait it out. We got pretty soaked, although I did have my raincoat (I had only had an emergency poncho last night, basically a glorified blue trash bag with arms and a hood... really not intended for hours of dancing), and after huddling in Gabe’s shelter for a bit we got back to our own tent, where we holed up until the rain stopped. We were still hoping that moe. would come back, but no such luck. I was seriously bummed. My bummed-ness would last through to the next day. C’est la vie, I suppose. We did get over to the late night stage to see Lettuce though, and that was really amazing. They were so hot and wild and we were right up by the speakers and I was so exhausted but I just did not stop moving and the lights were all over the place and everyone was dancing like crazy... What a way to end the night. Back in the tent, we passed out in barely enough time for me to find the shirt I was sleeping in. I don’t even remember falling asleep. 

Saturday morning, I woke up desperately needing to pee. I jumped out of the tent only to find Kelly, another member of our campsite, returning from the bathrooms to tell me that they were 100% backed up and impossible to use. We were the only ones up so we decided to go in search of serviceable porto-potties and then to try out the morning yoga that was scheduled for 9:30 every morning. The bathrooms weren't hard to find, but the lines were huge, so we walked a little more and found relatively clean ones with no lines at all. Then we walked a ways down the road to kill time, considered buying fresh donuts or coffee, decided not to because of the huge lines, and went through the nitrous-alley on our way and saw some clever individual with an inflatable sex doll strapped to his back attempt to jump over a trash can on a bicycle with a jerry-rigged ramp made of spare boards. At least he didn’t die. We eventually got to the food/water pavilion, where I filled up my water bottle, and, after I saw some guy doing it, I BRUSHED MY TEETH by the water fountain. A truly amazing and under-appreciated feeling. Then we continued our search for the yoga. It was supposed to be on the concert field, but that was closed due to all the mud, which the Vibes staff continued to cover with straw, so yoga was moved to the green stage, which was booked for a panel discussion at 9:45, so we moved yet again, this time to a nice grassy spot under a tree, where I managed to stretch away my dancing-induced aches and pains. After that unbelievably refreshing activity, Kelly and I went to get vibrational massages from a guy who had two gongs set up with a chair in between them. The gongs were supposed to be cosmically attuned to the sun and some other dwarf planet, and were intended to wash away negative vibes from past lives. I don't know about cosmic re-tuning, but the space in between those gongs was pretty cool to inhabit for a little bit, and just added to the yogic relaxation. We came back to the campsite to pack up enough stuff to get situated for the afternoon at the concert field, and after some delay set out for Assembly of Dust. Kellen and I put down a blanket (a godsend for my terribly abused feet) on the relatively dry dirt/hay pretty close to the stage, and I did not stop dancing for the rest of the set. They played ‘Valhalla’ and ‘Roads,’ which I love and which I listened to on the drive down. Did I mention that I love Greenier's voice? Well, I do. Amazing set. Also, they played longer since State Radio cancelled last-minute. Their set completely made up for moe.'s truncated one, and then some. I was just so damn happy by the time they finished!  Max Creek was playing next, and we met up with Kelly at a set of stacked-up picnic tables, where I proceeded to dance on top of a table through most of Max Creek (BUT SOMEHOW I MANAGED TO BE GETTING FOOD FOR MY FRIENDS DURING BERTHA!!! Goodness gracious the food pavilion was the WRONG direction at that moment) and Guster (they were pretty great, actually, and they're not a band I listen to a lot. However, their dissing of the "bullshit" encore tradition did irritate me a wee bit, since that tradition has been going on since before they were born...). Plus, some awesome chick handed me a pair of sparkly orange feathery fairy wings to dance in, saying “You look like you could use these. Just pass them along when you’re done with them.” I was miracled. Also, from that moment on, I danced up on those tables with those wings and had my picture taken by so many people that I could barely believe it was going on. I remember looking at girls like that when I was a wee one, and now I AM one. Amazing how these things turn out. However, we did have to leave halfway through Guster's planned encore so Kellen and Adam could change into their costumes for the evening; red striped pants, suspenders and a top hat for Kellen (this got a lot of comments) and a blue velvet tailcoat and a red top hat for Adam. The evening music consisted of the Levon Helm Band, Bob Weir & Ratdog, and Perpetual Groove. I can't even express in words how amazing the show was. It took us a bit longer than expected to leave the campsite again, so we were booking by the time we finally did--I was so excited to get back to the field that I practically ran, even on my destroyed little feet. We got there just before Levon started playing ‘Attics of my Life’ (Bobby had joined them onstage) and were content to dance back by the sunshades and blankets, but when they started playing ‘Tennessee Jed’ I just had to dance all the way up the left and get close to the stage, even through the muck, in which I nearly lost a sandal--I just took off my shoes and danced, up to my ankles in the squishy mud. Amazing. We returned to the tall picnic tables for Bob Weir & Ratdog, who played a ridiculously great show: hey started with 'Festival' (fitting, I think...) and played an amazing set that would be (and already has been, I suppose) better reviewed by a music-type blogger, but I was thrilled by 'Birdsong' (always makes me think of my Dad), complete with a reprise, 'Bertha' (since I'd only heard it from the pavilion when it was played earlier), 'Scarlet Begonias,' 'Iko Iko,' and 'Days Between.' The best, however, was saved for last. Bobby played 'One More Saturday Night' (which I had called at the very beginning, I mean, it was Saturday night) and my feet moved faster than I ever thought possible, especially since they were already damaged goods. It was exhilerating, and it was finished off so perfectly when Bobby followed it, joined by Donna Jean, with a sweet, mellow 'Ripple' that just begged to be swayed to. Beautiful. I could barely breathe when it was over. This is why I go to The Vibes, and I was not at all disappointed. Back to the campsite for a bit, then off to Perpetual Groove under the tent at the Green Stage. We showed up about halfway through, and thank God we did. If we had been there the whole time, I might not be writing this right now. Seriously. The show was so rockin' under there that I just could not stop moving, and fast. We kept hydrated with an enormous Arizona iced tea jug that we'd been carrying around since Friday, but if I had danced that hard twice as long at that particular time in the wee hours of the morning, I might have had to be carried back to camp. I was so pumped after they finished that I didn't want to go to sleep at all that night (last night of a show, it happens) so I suggested a sunrise on the beach. We made our way down to some soft sand by some volleyball nets, threw down the blanket, and watched the sky lighten up. It was pretty cloudy, so the actual sunrise was more of a gradual light-spreading beyond the fog, but it was lovely anyway, especially on the beach. However, a few seconds after we had decided that the sky was definitely light, it started to sprinkle, then sprinkle harder, then rain. And rain. We ran back to the campsite in an absurd, zig-zagging path, and it rained just enough to get us uncomfortably damp. Five minutes after we got in the tent, it stopped. Oh, nature... Well, by that time, we needed some sleep. I barely even remember putting my head down. 

On Sunday morning I was again awakened by the urgent call of nature, so after only 2 hours of sleep I leapt out of the tent to find the nearest bathroom with the shortest line. After that, I found an amazing coffee stand; two bucks for a hot strong cup of organic fair trade coffee in a compostable cup. Easily the best cup of coffee that I have ever had. I took the trek to my Dad’s site again, meeting a really nice fellow named Steve along the way. He accompanied me and bantered about the weekend’s music with me as I walked past my Dad’s site at least three times before seeing it, and this was only after my Dad was standing by the car (I have NO sense of direction)... and then we parted ways. Only at The Vibes can such positive interactions happen so spontaneously and without any strings whatsoever, just good feelings. My Dad’s camp-mate Mark told me that there were ominous weather warnings, including thunderstorms later in the day and flash-flood conditions. Folks were packing up. I hustled back to wake up my site-mates and spread the news. While Adam was waking up, Kellen and I decided it would be nice to go and get some fresh hot donuts for everybody. So we went and got in line. And waited. And waited. And waited. The line did not move. The donut-maker ran out of bags. The donut-maker did not look fully awake. But we had waited so long that we simply could not leave. I sent Kellen over to the coffee line and we decided that when whoever got their item first, we would just leave. Finally, the donut line picked up. I got by five-dollar dozen of munchkin-sized apple cider donuts, which were very hot. I had not thought about how very hot the day was, because it was hot. Hot donuts no longer seemed like a good idea. But there I was with a bag of hot donuts, and back to the campsite we went. From the time that I woke Adam up to the time the tent was down and we were all packed up, about five hours had elapsed. Enough said. Then I had to lug all of my stuff to my Dad’s site to get it in the car, which was an incredibly long, hot, sunny walk that was helped only by the fact that Gabe, Kellen, and Adam helped me carry the load. We finally arrived at the concert field as Grace Potter and the Nocturnals were finishing up, re-filled the trusty jug, and got situated on the picnic tables, with which I had become quite comfortable. I got right up there for Buddy Guy, who was playing with some AMAZING little kid. Seriously, he must have been about twelve. He was whaling on that guitar! This kid completely blew my mind. Amazing set, as expected. Also, during Buddy Guy, I gifted a little girl (who was dancing with her daddy in such an adorable fashion) with my orange feathery fairy wings and watched her dance with them on. Needless to say, they were perfect for her. Unfortunately, Kellen and Adam and the rest of their crew had to leave when Buddy Guy finished up, so Gabe and I were the only ones left for Crosby, Stills & Nash. Now this is not a band with which I am terribly familiar, but I simply could not pass up the opportunity to see them. I didn’t know all the words like I did during Bob Weir, but they played, of all things, ‘Ruby Tuesday,’ which was pretty damn cool. Their set was great, although the sky just got more and more ominous, and eventually it started to drip, then sprinkle... I just put my towel over my head and kept on dancing, and then they started their last song, ‘Teach Your Children,’ which we all know and love (especially since I came with my Dad... warm fuzzies and whatnot), and the rain came down a wee bit harder, but I kept on dancing, and as the song ended, the sky OPENED THE FUCK UP. Seriously, it was pouring in mere moments. I didn’t know where my Dad was, but Mark found me and we ran back to their campsite, where he had a shelter set up. Thank God for that shelter! we stayed pretty dry and he played his guitar as we watched people leave, and I could not have been happier that I stayed for the whole set. Amazing. My Dad took eons to get back to the campsite, and it was dark by the time he did, and Mark had dogs to get home to, and we had to strike the shelter, and getting out of Bridgeport was hellish and we drove in circles and watched a prostitute get in and out of a car screaming at someone or other and we just wanted to go home... FINALLY we got on the right highway, and then it started to POUR. Torrents of rain came down. It was almost terrifying. The car was hydroplaning like crazy and I could barely see the highway signs, but SOMEHOW my Dad and I got ourselves home and I managed not to pee myself on the last leg of the journey. I unpacked my stuff, scrubbed my feet, dressed my festival-wound (damned flip-flop blister...) and went to bed between beautiful clean sheets. In other words, oh, I am so sad that it’s over. I have not felt that wonderful in a LONG time. I gotta get me to another festival ASAP. 

Although I am No Movie Critic...

...Bruno was a rip-off. 

So, one of my friends said it was hysterical. Another said it was a terrible disappointment. The review in the New Yorker used up two pages and a full-page illustration to thoroughly and viciously tear it to shreds. But I thought the previews looked good. So I showed my ID (really, children should not see this movie) at the theatre and my movie companion handed over $21 for two tickets. Let me begin by saying that the previews were much better than the movie.

Should have listened to the New Yorker. 

First five minutes: pubes. Seriously, pubic hair. I don't even know if it was two minutes in. There was just too much penis in this movie. Too much penis and too many totally innocent people being much less offended than they ought to have been. A refugee camp? A middle-aged swingers party? Hasidic Jews? Come on, Sasha Baron Cohen, have some shame. Also, penises should never talk. Ever. I'll admit, the tiny Asian gymnast lover was amusing. As was the bit with the black baby. And I laughed out loud until I almost cried during the minute and a half that Bruno and his assistant/lover, Lutz, stumbled through a sidewalk full of anti-gay protestors while attempting to extricate themselves from the ridiculous bondage trappings they'd got themselves locked together with during the previous night, all to the familiar 80's beat of 'Tainted Love.' Seriously, I could barely breathe. 

The man is truly a great character actor. Bruno was a great idea for a character. He even had a great accent. Even better than Borat's, I'd say. But if you like a plot, this movie is not for you. If you like homosexuals, this movie will enrage you. If you do not like homosexuals, this movie will terrify you. If you are hoping for a movie to righteously lambast and satirize the foolish celebrity culture of America, you will be sadly disappointed. If you like Austria, this movie is probably not for you. And if you like Hitler, you should realize that Hitler did not like gays. 

However, if you will be happy with just umlauts and Velcro and sculpted pubic hair as well as stereotypical gay-sex romps, you may just be satisfied by this movie. 

My vote: wait for it to hit HBO. 

(Note: this review may or may not be influenced by the fact that continually during the movie I kept getting bubblegum and licorice jelly beans from the bag we'd snuck into the theatre, and those flavors can ruin anyone's good time.) 

The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Well, it seems that, as I predicted, I have not really kept this up-to-date. I was going to post the other day, when I went to Stop & Shop to return bottles and cans, and discovered that the bottle-return at Stop & Shop is not somewhere you want to be when it has been a rainy week, which it had. It is a very damp and filthy place. And I was wearing flip-flops. Can you get syphilis through your feet? If so, I may have to be concerned. Also, I observed that many people are returning massive quantities of bottles and cans. Sort of like how the coin-return at the bank regularly has had a line recently, and the bags are always filled up. (By the way, my family returned over $1,000 worth of coins. Try it, people.) Recession? Coincidence? I think not. I think it's like the modern bread line. Only not. Because in this recession, we have iPods. And MacBooks. And Central AC. 

So then I was going to post on the 4th of July, which really is a lot of fun in my former hometown of Willimantic Connecticut. We have the only boom-box parade in the state. Maybe in the world. Jodi Rell comes to our parade. Don't mess. Also, the parade was on the FIRST actual sunny day in forever. However, this year I noticed a bothersome lack of boom-boxes. I guess they're hard to come by these days, what with technology. And the recession. So for the rest of the day, I got to eat deep-fried everything at the Semi-Annual 4th of July Deep-Fried Freake-Fest (I coined part of that term). Seriously, we deep-fried everything. Oreo's, Twinkies (I have actually never had a normal Twinkie, and probably never will), candy bars, oatmeal-chocolate-chip-cookies, tortillas, potatoes, and even a lobster (which I did not eat, as I am a vegetarian and also took the liberty of naming the lobster Craig). Note: Lobsters cannot be deep-fried whole, they must be boiled first and their meat may later be battered and deep-fried. But if you deep-fry a lobster tail, God will strike you down. Or someone will. Someone who really likes lobster tail. 

Then I was going to post because I made Turkish Eggplant Salad, fresh whole-wheat pita bread (and burned myself to boot), and still more Tzatziki. But it really wasn't that astonishing to look at, and you can't capture the smell of fresh-baked pita bread and put it on the internet, so I didn't bother. 

Then I was going to post because I made pizza, and they were really some gorgeous pizzas, with fresh sauce that you could absolutely eat on its own, but my house was erupting and the fire alarm was going off and the dogs were barking and my folks were in a sour mood so I was just happy to get the damned pizza on the table. When I made pizza again, I only had whole-wheat dough, so the pizzas were flat and quite crispy (actually pretty tasty, now that I think about it), and although I arranged the peppers and onions beautifully, I had company, so I really didn't want to have a pizza photo-shoot. Also, the memory card on my camera is full, and doesn't seem to realize that I have already deleted almost every photo... What to do... 

So now I am posting because my friend Jacob made me huevos rancheros this morning (I helped with the sauce last night as well as the assembly in the morning, but really, he made them) and they were super-ultra-delicious and I am so going to make them for dinner sometime but I really just needed an excuse to update this silly thing. So I hope anyone reading this enjoys my elaborate procrastination and rationalization. And thank you Jacob.