The Phonecall: A (Melo)Dramatic Scene, Written by a Narcissist

Time: A Tuesday. Election Day 2012.

Setting: A tea shop in SoHo

Celia (27-30), an actor who works in the shop, is a tiny Chinese-Jewish woman. Attractive in a cute and quirky way, she wears big, thick framed glasses. She has been antsy for over a week due to having taken part in the final callback for a Broadway show. The worst part, as every actor will admit, is the waiting. Celia has never been so close to a Broadway contract. Though she is consistently mistaken for (much) younger than she actually is, she is not a spring chicken. Time is ticking. Money is dwindling. Desire is rising. She leaves the shop floor to check her phone. The screen says: "1 missed call: Agent. 1 voicemail: Agent." Her heart rate rises rapidly. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. The voicemail she picks up from her agent says: "Hi Celia, call me back." Her hands start to shake. The immediate thought of, "Oh my God, maybe I got it," is quickly replaced by the thought that, if it is bad news, she will have to go back onto the shop floor and smile at customers as if everything is not just fine, but great. She has done this before. It is not easy. The shaking has spread throughout her whole body and her armpits have broken into a sweat. She takes her trembling hand and dials her agent. She is having trouble focusing her thoughts when he answers.

Celia (working hard to control her voice from warbling): Hi, it's Celia.

Agent: Are you somewhere you can scream?

Celia: Um...I...what?

Agent: Are you somewhere you can scream?

Celia: I...um...I'm at work. 

Agent: ARE YOU SOMEWHERE YOU CAN SCREAM???

Celia (the ability to focus diminishing): Um...um...uh...I...I'm in the bathroom. Why? Tell me? Oh my God, why?

Agent: You're going to be in a Broadway show....!!!!!

She inhales ferociously and loudly. Silence. She doesn't scream. Silence. She holds her breath. Silence. She cannot remember how to exhale. Silence. Silence silence silence. She can only hear the disconnected sound of her heart pounding in her head. She stammers:

I can't breathe. I'm shaking. I'm shaking! 

Everything is fuzzy. A fuzzy blur. Jumbled. Like the pieces of a puzzle, unopened. Then, she has her first rational thought: "I am at work."

Celia: Um...I...I have to go back to work. I'm at work. I have to go back. I can't talk now. Can I call you later? I'll call you later. When I can talk.

Agent (laughing): Okay, call me when you are able to talk. 

Dazed, Celia goes back onto the shop floor. She cannot shout it aloud. She looks at her two colleagues. A smile the size of a frying pan spreads across her face as she softly says:

I'm...gonna...be...on...Broadway. (Silence. They stare at each other.) I think...I need to clock out and take lunch. She finally lets out a squeal. She has told someone. Which means it's real.  Hugging and squealing ensues.

Celia clocks out. She calls her agent. She calls her parents in Spain. Her Dad's first response is "MAZEL TOV!" She tells them to call her sister in Paris. She texts her best friend in London. She texts her cousin (in New York). She cannot call or text anyone else; she has no time. She still has tea to sell. She remains calm and carries on. The rest of her day is spent guiding customers through tea. When people ask how she is, she does not declare, "I JUST BOOKED MY FIRST BROADWAY SHOW!" She replies with still composure, "I'm fine, thank you." That evening, Obama is re-elected. Celia has far more important things on her mind. Like the fact that, after a lifetime of dreaming, wishing, praying, crying, dancing, fighting, loving, singing, acting, hoping, believing, and learning, she is going to sing, dance, and act on Broadway.

Time: The next day.

Celia wakes up. It is just like any other day. She steeps a cup of tea and quietly sips it while eating some biscuits. While watching a clip of the show she finds online, she starts to cry. A cry she didn't even know was on its way. Alone in her room, she starts to let herself believe that her biggest dream of all has become a reality. Silence. The tea sits. the computer runs. And the tears fall. When a dream comes true, it makes no noise.

My Sandy (and Windy) Adventures

On Sunday evening, my venue of work, Harney & Sons, shut its doors at 5pm instead of the usual 7pm, in accordance with the early closing of the subways due to an impending visit from Hurricane Irene's big sis, Sandy. Instead of making my way back home to New Jersey, I walked just a few blocks to the Chinatown apartment of some friends whose cat I am taking care of for the week. Sandy, who had not yet made her appearance, was already proving to be a nuisance. I had planned to go home on Monday to pick up some clothes for the week, and now that the subways were closed, my plan had turned to dust (sand?). Not sure when I'd have a chance to get back home, I thought that I'd just have to wait until Tuesday to go shopping.

When I awoke on Monday to a little bit of drizzle, I was dismayed that everything was shut down, because I would have seized the opportunity to buy a couple of clean items of clothing. Let's just say, in light of what happened in the next 24 hours, I am lucky that I am a neurotic Jew who packed 4 pairs of underwear for what I thought would only be a couple of nights before I could get home to pick up more clean underwear.
After an uneventful Monday (when I actually got all caught up on emails and such, by being house-bound), Sandy showed up that evening. The blackout came at around 9pm. It still didn't occur to me that the power outage would last beyond a day. My electronics were charged up, candles were lit, and my book about reincarnation was entirely appropriate. I read by candlelight, having fun with the whole romantic aspect of an otherwise dreary situation. And, at least the kitty was still sane, if not a little anxious and confused.

My romantic inclinations ended on Tuesday morning when I woke up to find that I had no phone service or wifi service. Oh. Okay. Well, no biggie, I could deal with a day of nowt. I thought it might be an adventure to see what was happening in the aftermath of Sandy (whose visit I kind of just slept through), so I headed outside to scope things out. Absolutely everything was shut down. Okay. There went my (entirely imbecilic) idea of relying on restaurant food post-Sandy. I had boiled 4 eggs the night before, so I had some protein, and there was some fruit in the apartment, and cereal. Hmmmm. That would be sufficient for me, but I wondered if I could possibly find something a little more exciting. There was one grocery shop open, and though I really didn't need anything, I joined the line to get inside just to, you know, get the full 4D experience of the day after tomorrow. I bought a can of Cola. As I walked the streets, I saw a lone vendor selling wontons. Hmmmm. If I didn't find anything else, I'd go back for some. Trust a foodie to be picky about food under such circumstances. I DID find something else. A Halal cart! Yup, there it was, a miracle within the rain and the bleak and palid streets! You don't have to convince me to eat street meat, even when it's not post-hurricane, so I got on line for some hot food. I must have waited a good hour. Well, not like I had anything else to do that day. I got my street meat, and passed by the wonton stall again. 4 wontons for $1. Okay! I got 8 (lukewarm) wontons. For the rest of the day, I read, and when it got too dark to read, I worked on my laptop until it was almost out of juice. Oh dear. By the night time, I was lonely and anxious that I wasn't able to receive calls and/or texts. I knew my parents wouldn't worry, that they'd assume that I would be okay, but it would have been nice to send them an assuring email (they live in Spain). I went to sleep at 9:30pm, slightly perturbed, and wondering how long this lack of contact to the outside world would last. I had spent the day with no electricity, no heat, no hot water, no phone service, no wifi service, no real food, and one book. A repeat might have driven me more insane than I already am.

I awoke at 3:30am and turned on my phone to see if there was progress in cell service. I had received a text! Another miracle! One of my friends who lives in midtown had graciously offered use of his apartment, should I need it. By this point, I hadn't eaten a proper meal since Sunday, hadn't showered since Monday afternoon, and both my phone and laptop were about to die. I text him immediately, saying, "I'm coming over. Text me when you wake up."

On Wednesday morning, I packed my bags with my dirty laundry and laptop and headed to Midtown. On foot. That's like, over 50 blocks. On my way to my friend's house, I passed a hotel which had generously set up a phone/laptop charging point. What a relief! There were people huddled about, and though everyone was desperate to re-charge (we're New Yorkers; if we can't access email in 10 minutes, we start sweating), everyone remained calm and patient, and waited for an outlet to become free. People were in good spirits, despite the situation, and my heart was filled with the kindness and generosity of strangers. Strangers helping each other; it exists and it is amazing.

I spent the rest of the day hanging out with Seth, and letting people know that I was okay. I did laundry, drank tea, ate hot food, and took a hot shower, all of which felt novel. Feeling human again at 9:30pm, I headed back to Chinatown. It's a little unnerving to be a pedestrian at night in a city where there is no light, and cars are driving without the aid of traffic lights. Though the streets were not entirely deserted, it was almost pitch black, and I kept thinking, "I could totally get raped, and no one would know because it's too dark to see a thing." Oy. I made it back home without being touched, thank goodness.

Thursday and today have been spent walking into Midtown and spending the day hanging out at people's houses whose power hasn't been effected (lucky buggers). I even managed to get to ballet class yesterday. Gotta work off that street meat! As work has not been open since Sunday due to the lack of power, I have the exciting task of going in to empty out the fridges of the rotting perishables. Can't wait!

I received word this morning from my flat mate that the power and internet at home in New Jersey are back on, hallelujah! But the kitty needs me until his parents get home on Sunday, so I'm racking up karma points by taking care of him. He's a fickle one, too. Just like every man I've dated. He loves me one minute and can't stand me, the next. And yet, I walk 3 hours a day to make sure that he is fed and taken care of. And that, my friends, is the way a loyal Libra shows her unconditional love in the aftermath of Sandy's hectic visit. Stay warm and safe, New York City.

Oh, one more thing. I am sure that the men and women at the power companies are working tirelessly to bring us back to normality. We can place blame all we want, but the fact is, we had a natural disaster, or, as the Brits say, "an act of God." It is not easy to prepare for Mother Nature's unpredictable wrath. People are doing the best they can. I'm just glad I'm still here. It'll take more than a hurricane to blow me away!

Contradictions In a Woman Who Wants It All

I have not written a blog entry in a really long time. I have not written a blog entry about my dating escapades in an even longer time. So, here it is, 2-in-1; 2 for the price of 1; killing two birds with one stone. Et cetera, etceteros, and so forth.

I met a man recently whom I was really into. Like, superly duperly into. I believed that he was superly duperly into me. Turns out, after about a month, that he was superly duperly NOT into me. Ah, therein lay a big rub. Being a woman of utmost humility and modesty, I spent a couple of days trying to come up with a rational answer of HOW this guy could NOT be into me. I mean, he laid eyes on me, Asian cheekbones and all; he had been privy to my dazzling intellect and humour during our lengthy conversations; he even had the pleasure of watching me eat tripe and intestines in a Vietnamese restaurant, once. So, HOW, after all these exhibitions of my fabulousness, could he NOT be into me??? Folks, there is no rational answer. Love and lust are not rational, and the practical side of my brain was left confused, while the more emotional other side was left (completely) disappointed.

I sulked for a couple of days. And when I mean sulk, I mean that I, like a child, behaved as if the world is an unfair and unjust place, because if a woman such as myself, who is a great catch, has not been caught and is now THIRTY YEARS OLD…well…OBVIOUSLY there is just something wrong with the world. How dare it treat me in this unfair manner. You’ll be rolling your eyes by this point and be relieved to hear that I then got the fuck over myself.

How exactly does a tiny Chinese-Jew who is focused on, Mission: Get on Broadway, get the fuck over herself? She grounds herself back into what is real and who she truly is. This is what is real: I moved to NYC in 2009 with one goal -- to sing, dance, and act on the Broadway stage. I am not more myself than when I am alone in my apartment belting out musical theatre showtunes. I do not feel a more familiar surrounding than the backstage of a theatre or inside the ballet studio. No matter how sad, overwhelmed, anxious, or stressed I can be, I walk into a ballet studio, take my place at the barre, and feel safe and in control. Then I take ballet class where the feelings of turning out and pointing my feet and physically responding to the music are as familiar to me as walking and writing. So, after being rejected and sulking, I worked on some audition material and went to ballet class and sang and danced my sadness away (almost).

I want to fall in love. I really, really do. But, I always ask myself the question: if I had to choose between love and being onstage, what would I choose? I have never been able to make a choice. I really don’t know how to make that choice. I really don’t want to. However, it constantly feels as if the Powers That Be are forcing me to choose. When I’m dating and excited about someone, they pull me back and ask me, “why are you wasting time on this frivolity when you should be concentrating on your career?” When I AM concentrating on my career, I leave no place in my soul whatsoever for any man to chisel his way in. Which is a shame, because I really do feel like I deserve to be in love and be on Broadway AT THE SAME TIME.

Now, with a closed heart and no distractions, I plough ever forward, with a couple of major auditions coming up that I am ready to take by the horns. I cannot control love, or when I will fall into it. I cannot control outside factors in a casting process that will either make the job mine or mine for the losing. What I CAN control is who I am as an artist, and shall continue to do just that. My journeys to Broadway and True Love are very rarely easy, smooth, or simple, and constantly filled with rejection. But, boy, I must be crazy, because I am having so much fun!

The Art of Friendship

Solid, true friendship really does last the tests of time and distance. It's pretty awesome to look back on a decade (or more) of close friendships and the memories that they have brought. It's even more awesome to meet close friends now, seeing that they have achieved the things that they set out to achieve. Whether it be booking jobs, becoming a parent, or travelling the world, my friends are living the lives that they planned for themselves. I know this, because I was there during the inception of their many dreams. I was in the college singing class witnessing beakthroughs in vocal techniques, when we all fantasized that these baby steps would lead to a professional contract. I was there for the end of many a relationship when we all believed that it was for the best (which, it always was, as marriages and engagements to the right partners have proven). I was on the other end of the phone many a time, freaking out that someone had just booked the contract of their dreams. I think about the shows that I have travelled to see, the weddings I have attended, the offspring that I have met, and I feel a warm sense of pride for my friends.

I never worry that living across an ocean would weaken the bonds. In the age of social networking, it is incredibly easy to keep in touch with people and keep up to date on each other's lives. I couldn't make the wedding of my friend, Jo, who graciously told me, "it's only a day, and we will be friends forever!" 

My dad asked me the other day if, now that I have lived outside of the U.K. for 3 years, it still feels worth the effort to come back and see old friends, and I responded with a stoic, "absolutely." Being with old friends who knew you before you truly became an adult, before you achieved your biggest dreams, it's like coming home. There is no standing on ceremony or walking on eggshells. There is no need to stroke each other's egos. Long-term friendship breeds honesty, respect, comfort, and love. It is a reminder of who you truly are, without the pressure of having to be anything different. You can speak candidly and openly about any subject, and boy, can you laugh. Laughter between old friends; that unabashed, unhindered guffaw: is it not the best kind of laughter? Most of all, it is an acceptance of each other which has lasted over the years. We all have our flaws, and we have all pissed each other off. I remember having an argument with my best friend, Mark, during the year on tour when we first met in 2004, and I yelled at him in front of other colleagues, "YOU MAKE ME FEEL THIS BIG!" as I held my fingers up to indicate a tiny size. We didn't speak for a few days. When I saw Mark a couple of days ago, we reminisced, and couldn't even remember why we were arguing. These things happen. The important thing is that, when these situations arise, good friends realise that the friendship itself is worth more than a petty argument, or a petty flaw in the other person that irks us. And, thank goodness for that, because I am most definitely a culprit of irking others with my strange ways.

I like to think of myself as someone who is pretty good at bringing people together. When I was still living in London in 2007, I went to NY in the summer and organised a big summer-camp reunion. The last year I was at summer camp was 2000, and I had managed to stay close with most of my camp friends. I had numerous people come to me during the reunion to say that they hadn't seen each other in years, and it was because of me that we were all together again. I even had someone say to me, "I left the house because you!" It was a nice thing to hear. 

I have always been good at friendship. That is not to say that it comes easily; the art of friendship requires a good effort. If I care about someone, I will be one of the first people in line to buy a ticket to their show. I will be straight on the phone calling them if I've heard through the grapevine that something is amiss. I will cross an ocean to see them (time and money permitting). This trip back, I'm managing to see almost everyone who is most important to me. Most of them have already met each other in the past, or at least know of each other. As I said, I am good at bringing people together. I saw one of my friends comment on another of my friend's Facebook wall recently, and I wrote, "how do you two know each other???" I then had to go back and write, "Oh, you know each other through ME!" I had completely forgotten that I had introduced them.

It has been wonderful to reconnect with people, as if no time has passed. We are the same, but different. Mark joked to me the other day, that, while everyone else is getting fatter with age, he and I are getting skinnier. We had a right giggle about that, and I have to say, that all my friends are looking fantastic. Everyone is in great shape and wrinkle free! We are coming into our 30s, and even with so much happiness already, I feel that the best is yet to come for everyone.

I am a Libra who was born in the year of the dog. Librans are responsible for bringing people together; we are the communicators. Dog is man's loyal best friend. Thus, I'm a dog who seeks to unite. Unless I dislike you. Then I will pee on your foot. 

The Telling of Stories: A Discussion on Live Theatre

I am very sad to have missed last night's broadcast of the 66th annual Tony Awards. The ship which I am working on did not televise it, and though waking up this morning with a view of the gorgeous French Riviera (Villefranche, to be exact) was quite a nice compensation, I very much miss the tradition of gathering at a friend's house to watch and support the Broadway community. It is important to begin by saying that I have the utmost respect and admiration for the artists who work on Broadway, and for the work that they create. When I enter an audition room and recognise dancers whom I have seen in Broadway shows, I feel incredibly honoured just to be dancing beside them at the same audition call. To be sure, it was on Broadway that I saw Lincoln Center's revival of CAROUSEL, which would plant a seed that would later grow into an idea that would change my path forever. At the time, I was still a little girl with fierce ambitions to be a principle ballerina with New York City Ballet. I would happily sit through many versions of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake" to watch Odette flutter to her death, or see the title couple's magnificent pas de deux during the balcony scene in Sir Kenneth Macmillan's version of Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet." When my mom told me that I would have to sit through a show where the pointe shoes would be replaced by a bunch of acting, I was sure that it would be a couple of hours of complete boredom. In fact, CAROUSEL moved me to tears. This was possibly the first time when I was made aware that the telling of story though song, dance, and book could be so affecting. Broadway is where stories are told as such in the highest calibre, which is why I currently live in NY; to grab the chance at joining the ranks of all the amazing artists who make Broadway the center of the theatrical universe.

In light of the (interesting) public discussions about this year's Tony Awards featuring a performance broadcast from a cruise ship, I feel a need to address a few issues. To be clear, as supportive as I am of the cruise industry for creating employment opportunities for artists like myself, I do not think that the Tonys, which recognises excellence on Broadway, should be showing clips from any show that has not been part of the current Broadway season. However, this view, which many Broadway artists very fairly share, has been accompanied with the more unfair, somewhat elitist view from many of the same that the calibre of live theatre which is found on Broadway cannot been found anywhere else. This is the argument that I beg to differ. As remarkable as Broadway is, it is not a flawless entity that can do no wrong. I have seen more than a few Broadway shows which I have walked out of wonderfing how on earth the creative team sat there during dress and tech runs and deemed it good enough by any standard, let alone the Broadway one.

People go to the theatre for different reasons. Some people go to see dancers kicking their legs to their face. Some people go to hear the golden voices of fantastic singers. I go to be told a story. I want to walk out of the theatre aching for a discussion, because the story that I have just watched unfold before my eyes has been intensely thought-provoking. In my opinion, theatre should always fuel a discussion. Isn't that why we create? To explore the world in which we are living by holding up that famous proverbial mirror? Yes, there is something to be said for a good old fashioned book musical with fabulous production numbers accompanied by a fun, fluffy script. However, I am always most drawn to theatre that tells me a story uniquely enough to be pushing boundaries. I want to be made to think, I want to be made to ask questions, and I want to perhaps have my mind changed about topical ideas. While Broadway has always told, and continues to tell many great stories in ways that are ground-breaking, it is certainly not the only platform on which such live theatre can be seen.

Now, please bear with me as I refer to three pieces of theatre which I have seen, but which I cannot remember clearly. I may not be able to speak of them in specific detail due to my lack of memory on the specifics, but I can definitely describe how I felt during and after these shows, which I remember clearly.

Arguably, my number one theatrical experience was in Orlando, when I went to see Cirque du Soleil's LA NOUBA. Anyone lucky enough to catch a non-touring Cirque show will know that these theatrical spectacles are in a league of their own, not just as a circus, but as a live theatre event. I say non-touring, because, while both fantastic, there is a substantial difference in the Cirque shows which tour, and the shows which play in a space that is custom-built for the productions. I was in my first year of college when I saw LA NOUBA. I remember being awe-struck from the second I entered the space, which created a mystical, fantastical world even before the show began. This feeling stayed with me long after I left that space; to this day, I still reference the production when discussing great theatre. The storytelling of LA NOUBA is unparalleled. Why? Because the obvious love that went into that production from all departments created a world so specific and detailed, that I would venture to say that it was flawless. From the perfect type of eyebrow painted onto each performer to the perfect piece of rhinestone sewn onto each costume, each bit of detail had so obviously been discussed and mulled over and discussed some more before the creative team decided that it was the right choice for their story. Then, you have the actual performances. My goodness, who has watched a flying trapeze act and not felt an array of emotion? From fear to awe to elation? In the Cirque, the performers (the best in their field) of the acts are not presented to us as mere circus artists. They are characters within the story, or physical representations of the theme. The flying trapeze artists might represent wind while the contortionist might be playing the Goddess of Air. The clowns who enter between each act to give us a break from the spectacle by rooting us back into the honesty of the story actually come on now and then to tumble with the circus artists! They are acrobats as well as comedians as well as brilliant dramatic actors! My oh my. Thus, I left the theatre having been taken on a remarkable journey. I didn't understand the foreign song lyrics, nor was there text to help tell us the story. But, I understood, and left with jaw agape by the perfect union of physical and visual brilliance.

As a teenager, I spent a couple of years in high school at a boarding school in Surrey, England. Our theatre department took us to see The Globe's all-male production of Shakespeare's ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, starring the incomparible Mark Rylance as our tragic heroine. Most people reading this will be well acquainted with The Globe. Many audience members stand, as was the practice in Shakespeare's day, and the actors may refer to the audience during their asides. If an audience member is feeling particularly rowdy, he or she may just holler back, and it wouldn't be considered ill-mannered. The onstage action, from lack of scenery, and live musicians during scene changes, are kept as close to the tradition of Shakespeare's day as possible. I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mark Rylance onstage since his performance as Cleopatra, nor did I know at the time what a world renowned actor he was. I remember watching his dying soliloquy and having to remind myself that this was actually a man onstage. I have seen all-male casts of Shakespeare's plays where the men playing the females purposefully heighten the female qualities, both vocally and in their physical mannerisms. It is a storytelling device that I have found works for comedy. For example, having seen a touring production in England of an all-male cast of TAMING OF THE SHREW, I laughed out loud througout at the lead actor's hysterically histrionic performance of Katherine. The production of ANTHONY AND CLEOPATRA was quite muted, as far as the flamboyant tendencies went. There were no Pantomime "Dames" onstage. All the men who played female characters played them with absolute truth, with perhaps a singular feminine wave of the hand or lift of the eyebrow for a subtle comic effect. In an age of hydraulics and high production values, I believe it to be a feat to keep an audience's rapt attention with only the simplest costumes and set pieces to accompany the scenework. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA did just that. Not being a Shakespeare scholar, I didn't understand fifty percent of the actual text. The quality of the acting alone told the story. Nothing else was needed, and as Rylance, with his grief-stricken painted face, played Cleopatra's death, I was aware that I had just witnessed a three hour masterclass in acting and storytelling through text. I am reminded of an acting teacher's constant words: "Go back to the text." Too often in the theatre, the text is sacrificed to show off other flashy devices. The text should be our bible; the story must start and end with the text. I will never forget ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA for being such an honest example of this.

Lastly, I will note a production of Sarah Ruhl's PASSION PLAY, which I saw in Brooklyn. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the name of the theatre, isn't that awful? I went to see the play to support an old camp friend. The story takes place in three acts, in three different time periods, in three different locations. During each time period, a community is putting on a production of PASSION PLAY (a dramatic presentation of the passion of Jesus Christ) for Christmas, so at times, the audience will witness a play within a play within a play. Every actor plays the same role in each time period. For example, it is always the same actor playing each character who is rehearsing to play Jesus in the different time periods. Among the many issues PASSION PLAY discusses, there is the one of how taking on a role like Jesus can affect your own reality and personage. Will it change you? Will you begin to believe yourself to have the qualities that Jesus had? Will people perceive you differently? I discussed the play for days afterwards with the friend whom I had seen it with. Isn't this the best type of theatre? The kind that keeps you asking questions? The space was a non-conventional one; I believe that it used to be a church. It was one big room, with no proscenium arch or raised stage. There were huge (when I say huge, I mean GIGANTIC) boxes that were moved around the space by the actors to signify scene changes, and on which playing levels were made. It remains one of the most innovative pieces of theatre that I have ever seen. It moved from scene to scene seamlessly, and we were immersed in these worlds as if watching an Imax 3D movie. The action was in and around us, even, at times, above us. The acting was grounded in authenticism, and I remember thinking, and still do, that if I am ever lucky enough to be cast in such a production, I would be incredibly honoured.

You may have noticed that I have not discussed any musical theatre. The honest, somewhat sad truth is that, more recently, commercial musical theatre productions are leaving me a little cold. Recent productions that spring to my mind as bold an innovative: Roundabout Theatre's multi-racial casting Broadway revival of 110 IN THE SHADE; The Chocolate Factory's stunning London revivals of SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE and LA CAGE AUX FOLLES; Donmar Warehouse's 2003 production of PACIFIC OVERTURES (I'd like to believe that the Donmar's 2007 production of the original London cast of PARADE which I was proudly in is also in that league); Broadway's JERSEY BOYS. Moments of musical theatre that I will never forget: Audra McDonald breaking my heart in her rendition of "Old Maid" in the aforementioned 110 IN THE SHADE; Brian Stokes Mitchell finishing a flawless rendition of "The Impossible Dream" to a mid-show standing ovation in the Broadway revival of MAN OF LA MANCHA; Robert Cuccioli's continued transformations between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde when the two characters confront each other in the original Broadway production of JEKYLL AND HYDE; walking out of the original Broadway production of DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS right at the beginning of its run and having a very strong physical sensation that told me that Norbert Leo Butz would win the Tony that year for best actor in a musical (he did).

Thus, here we are, back to the Tony Awards, and back to Broadway. I love musical theatre, and I love Broadway. The Tony Awards are specific to Broadway, but live theatre is not. Just as I will never underestimate the brilliance of Broadway, nor will I forget the unparalleled theatrical experiences that I have had in places a far cry from Broadway. It is so important that, even if we are disappointed in the Tony Award producers for featuring non-Broadway performances, we do not begin to snub our noses at live theatre elsewhere. Anyone who truly thinks that if it is not on Broadway, then it is not worth it, is severely under-cultured, or severely under-travelled. (Or both.) As far as I am concerned, if a production is keeping me and/or my friends in employment and paying us so that we can eat and pay our rent while we get to do what we are most passionate about, and do it for an audience that may not necessarily have the funds or means to get to Broadway, then it is most definitely worth it.

Dear Mom

A playwright friend contacted me to ask if I would be interested in participating in her new project. The new play would focus on mother-daughter relationships, and she asked if I would consider writing a letter to my mom as part of the material that would be collected for the play. Here is the letter that I wrote:

Dear Mom,

I have vivid memories of falling asleep to the sound of you cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner. The clattering of the dishes and the running of the tap as you washed up served as comforts to a little girl who was terribly afraid of the dark. I’m sure that you remember that it took me until I was well into my teens to be able to sleep properly some nights without my bedside light on. Those sounds of you clearing up for the evening and putting the house to sleep assured me that I was safe and protected. I remember coming to you for such protection once when some of my friends told me that they didn’t want to play with me anymore because I was a bully. When I came to you crying, you did not take me in your arms and hush me, telling me that I was a good girl; you replied, “serves you right for being a little brat.” Tough love, they call it. I couldn’t be more thankful that you raised me on tough love. You never led me to believe that I was good at something that I wasn’t. You hit me once until your hands were black and blue because I was acting like a spoiled brat (a story that I’ve heard many times, but that I have no recollection of). When you watched my ballet classes on parents’ nights, you didn’t tell me that I was a beautiful dancer, but that I should smile more. To this day, if you don’t have anything positive to say, you remain quiet, rather than lie to my face. Consequently, I have grown into a woman who appreciates honesty, and who cannot be anything but honest. I am well acquainted with my flaws, and do not live in a state of delusion. I still ask you for your opinion when I am tired of the bullshit I hear from others and I know that you will give a straightforward answer. You taught me, “the only people you can rely on to be truly honest are your family.” We don’t stand on ceremony in our family, and for that, I am proud and grateful. We have enough people around us who lie to us, even if it’s an attempt to protect us. In our family, we need not lie to each other, because we protect each other with unconditional love and honesty.

When I look in the mirror these days, I see you in some of me; in my cheekbones. In my severe jaw line. In some of my facial reactions. I have you to thank for my slim figure. Partly because of your great Asian genetics, and partly because you made sure that I didn’t get fat by calling, “Celia! Are you going to the refrigerator?!” when I was a teenager and I’d try and sneak in a snack after dinner. To this day, I still obey your rule of only one piece of bread before the main course. I still hear your voice in my head as I reach for the bread basket: “Celia, ENOUGH. You’ve already had one piece of bread. You have an entire meal coming.” I acquired my rule of one soft drink a week from you, because you only used to let me drink it as a treat. And thus, I am almost 30 and still have visible ribs.

You took absolutely no interest in my studies whatsoever, even though I barely scraped by with C's. Not because you were a neglectful parent, but you had the instinct that I would learn when I was ready. You were not a pushy parent who ever made me do anything I didn’t want to do (how un-Chinese of you). You knew that, when the time was right, I would make my own choices as to what was important to me. And, if I may say so, I ended up making pretty decent choices. I choose to be a decent person and to work hard. Alas, you never taught me how to save my money from working hard, but instead gave me this nugget of advice when I purchased my first Louis Vuitton bag: “Celia, a Vuitton is for life.”

I remember telling you in the car on the way home from ballet class that I didn’t want to be a ballerina. All those years of time and money put into the prospect of my becoming a ballerina gone to waste, and I cried when I told you, because I thought that you would be so disappointed in me. But, you told me that I wouldn’t have to be anything that I didn’t want to be. And when I decided that I was going to be an actress, I think you thought for the longest time that I was going through a phase. I think that you are still wondering when that phase will end. Being an actor is not considered by the Chinese to be a noble profession. But, you humour me and support me, because you know that it is my passion. You and Dad always told me, “you do whatever makes you happy, as long as you don’t hurt anyone.”

So, thanks, Mom. Because of you, I was using chopsticks when other kids were still trying to handle a knife and fork. How unique. You are one half of the reason that I am the unique (and skinny) Chinese-Jew that I am very proud to be. I love you.

Idiots Abroad: A Tale of a Man and an Elevator

Tourists are weird. When I'm a tourist, I believe that I, too, am a weirdo. What is it that turns normally bright, alert people into stupid, idiotic versions of ourselves when we travel? I have definitely been that tourist who has asked where the bathroom is, only to have a waiter point to a door that is clearly marked, "toilette." Once, I visited that Sistine Chapel, and I was that ignorant bafoon who huffed too loudly, completely unmoved by the experience, "is this it??"

 I do fancy myself as a pro-active traveller; I may ask stupid questions from time to time, but on the whole, I manage to visit foreign places while taking care of myself quite successfully. I certainly always try not to look like that idiot abroad. You know, those loud Americans on the tube in London who create a bad name for the entire country. And then there are those travellers who just don't give a shit about how they look to an outsider's eye. Like this man I met today by the elevators. I was on my way back to my cabin after our weekly guest safety drill which we do at the beginning of every cruise. At this point, guests have only been onboard for a couple of hours and have not yet had time to acquaint themselves with the ship. Such as the man by the elevators and his two kids.

He asked me how to get to the Screening Room to watch a movie which was playing, which is actually a very valid question. Because of where our onboard ice rink is, you cannot walk from one end of the ship to the other on decks 2 and 3 (well, crew can, because we take those "private area" routes, but guests cannot). The Screening Room is on deck 2, but this man and his kids were on the wrong side of deck 2, so I explained to them that they had to go up two flights to deck 4, walk across the ship, then come back down to deck 2 on the other side. This would take all of 5 minutes. 3 minutes at a brisk pace. I could probably make it in under 2 minutes at the speed of which I walk in New York. They responded as if I had told them that the only way to get to the Screening Room was to run a marathon. "But, HOW do we get to deck 4??" The man asked in exasperation like a 12 year old child. I am surprised he did not accompany his whining with stomping of his feet. We were standing right by stairs and elevators, both of which I pointed out to him. "Show me," he said, pointing to the elevator. So, I took the 3 steps to the elevator (we were that close to it), and pressed the "up" button for them. Oh, the things one can be degraded to when in a customer service position. "Now, you're going to take this to deck 4," I said very slowly...

 As we waited for the elevator, the man pulled out his Cruise Compass (a daily planner which tells guests of all the activities onboard), to ask me about a couple of activies: the sail away party at 5pm, and the parade at 6pm. I explained each activity to him and where to go for them. He asked me which was better, and I told them that they were both really fun, and that his kids would enjoy each of them. Then, I kid you not, he whined,"guide me, tell me what to do!" To which I calmly said, "Sir, one activity is a 5pm, and one activity is at 6pm, so you can easily do both of them." "But, help me, guide me!" he kept saying. Good grief. I mean, I already went 3 steps out of my way and pushed the elevator button for him, what else did he want me to do? Escort them?

 As we were still waiting on the elevators, I told him that they would get to the Screening Room much faster if they just took the stairs. He gave me a disgusted, couch-potato pout, and one of his kids giggled and playfully punched his dad in his middle-aged gut while I said, "it's only 2 flights of stairs, you can walk that easily." I, myself, make it a habit of taking the stairs instead of the elevators. The only time I use the elevators is when I'm going from my cabin on deck 2 to the restaurant on deck 11. While riding it, I am always surprised at how many people take it to go up or down one flight. Healthy, able-bodied people, I mean, who can't be bothered to just walk one flight of stairs. I really will never understand how or why people are this type of lazy.

 But, let's get back to Mission: Getting Man And His Kids To the Screening Room As Quickly As Possible So I Don't Have To Listen To His Whining Anymore. I was in the process of repeating to them that they could go to both the sail away party and the parade, when the elevator finally arrived. "Look! There's the elevator!" I yelled, and urged them inside before they could protest. The door closed as I yelled, "go to deck 4 then walk to the other side and come back down to deck 2!"

 I have no idea if they made it to the Screening Room, or if they decided to go to the sail away party or parade or eventually realised that they could make both. Just as I left them, another couple asked me where the sail away party was. When I told them that they could take the elevators all the way up to deck 11 and watch it there, they said that the Cruise Compass said it was on deck 2. Knowing that this was probably not the case, I asked to look at their Cruise Compass, and sure enough, it said, "Sail Away Party..............Deck 11." I pointed it out to them, and repeated that they could take the elevators upstairs. They looked at me like I was crazy, without saying thank you. I walked away thinking, at least I'm not the idiot who looked at "deck 11" and thought the two ones together meant "deck 2."

Choosing Fire

Heaven? Quite frankly, I don't want to go to a Heaven that is filled with hypocrites. God, Allah, Jesus, Buddah, or whoever you are that makes that decision, I won't be offended if you send me to Hell along with all the other non-believers who never claim to be anything they aren't. At least I will be in the company of souls who admitted openly to their wickedness. Far better than hanging out with people who cowardly believe that you can be free of your sins if you just, what's the word? CONFESS! Ah, yes, confess to your wickedness, and ye shall be forgiven, and ye shall get to spend a lifetime in eternity with those who wore crosses around their necks and yet comitted such sins as adultery, jealousy, gluttony, blah blah blah blah blah. But, you only have to confess to your priest. You don't even have to confess to the man you are cheating on, or the mother of the little girl you moslested. But, why were you committing sins or acts of wrongdoing in the first place? The thing is, if, in this mortal life, you're going to wear a cross around your neck and imply that you are holier than I because you believe in a Power of which I am still unsure, you best be practicing what you preach, otherwise, you are a hypocritical fool. And an idiot. Hey, I never profess to be what I am not. I am a self-confessed glutton, and if unashamedly committing (daily) acts of gluttony and being openly unsure of what or who I should believe in assures me a place in Hell, so be it. Anyway, I really don't want to be anywhere near a place where I am surrounded by a bunch of suicide bombers and their 77 virgins. Each. One can only imagine the nightly entertainment.

I should quickly mention that a handful of my closest friends are incredibly religious. Like, still-being-a-virgin-at-30-due-to-not-being-married type of incredibly religious. And they are really some of the purest people that I know. If only every person with strong religious beliefs were as pure. My best friend believes that he may be going to Hell because he is gay. And yet, he is a good person with a good heart. Isn't that what is most important; what he should be judged on in the end?

Speaking of judging, I have recently been attempting to understand politics a little more by reading The Week magazine, which compiles the best articles from all over the world from the previous week. Unfortunately, I'm starting to think that I am missing a few circuits in my brain, because I still have trouble making sense of who is who and what is what and what the friggin problem is with raising taxes on the uber rich. A couple of things I think I understood: the board that decides a woman's right to have an abortion is made up of solely men, and in attempting to provide health insurance that covers contraception from Catholic-affiliated schools, hospitals, and charities, which the Catholic church considers immoral, the government is taking away religious freedom. Am I missing something here? I very well may be; as has already been noted, I may be a few circuits short of a brain that can handle these sorts of arguments. Because, it sounds to me that, as a woman, my choice of whether I keep a baby or not is decided by a bunch of men, and that my Catholic counterparts are encouraged by their church to have unprotected sex (because, let's face it: no ban on contraception is going to stop people from having sex). Having lived in England where the pill is free, I am shocked that this is not the case in the States. It's bad enough that women have to pay for tampons (don't get me started -- we endure a monthly mentruation and HAVE to pay for it??), but pay for birth control? I hear that the morning after pill runs about $50. You think many of the men in that situation offer to help the woman pay for that? I don't. Isn't protecting a woman's health as important as protecting her religious beliefs? I won't even ask about protecting a woman's choice. The thought that it is "protected" by a bunch of dudes who would probably be useless in the delivery room makes me want to vomit.

In the hearts of the right people, religion flourishes beautifully. In the hands of the wrong people, it is suffocating. Society and people change. To attempt to keep people in line with out-of-date beliefs must be a very challenging job, and I don't envy the people that choose to do this job. However, I do resent them, because I think everyone, myself included, deserves the opportunity to make their own choices without fear of being judged. It has been my experience that those who do the preaching and judging are usually the ones who have the darkest secrets. Maybe even the blackest code of ethics.

I haven't made up my mind yet about what I believe in spiritually. And I eat too much. And I use contraception. If this means that I am "doomed" to Hell, despite a daily awareness to be a good person, then I will be driving the bus with (fiery) bells on. Judging by the company, it could turn out to be alot...cooler...down there. Forgive me my sins of bad punning. I just had to.

A Lesson On Ethics In Others

I have always, at the least, held firmly to, and at the most, acted unapologetically for what I believe to be right, even when the majority of my peers and colleagues have either disagreed, been too scared, or, worse, too indifferent to act. Happy is the man, I guess, who stays silent and quietly waits for every event to pass him by so that life can remain placid. Or perhaps it is that same man who blasts his opinions in the safety of his home, but, when given an opportunity to voice them aloud, shys away. I am not that (wo)man. An incident occured at work recently where I spoke out and fought against the majority to do the right thing. By my strength-of-steel moral and ethical standards, I did what was right. The result: I have been blackballed, mocked, and even mildly bullied. I have reflected on the incident for days and though I have tried very hard to understand all points of view, I just cannot make sense of what has happened, or the repercussions.

I won't go into detail about the incident, as I may end up in some officer's detention room should management ever see this. Briefly described, there was an unprovoked physical attack on a friend (Dan from Indiana, who you can read about in the blog entry before this) by another colleague which resulted in my calling security and gathering a couple of people (one being a guest) to make statements on what they had seen. I certainly admit to losing my temper. When Dan, shaking and dazed, approached me to tell me of the attack, I literally saw red, lost my temper, and acted without thinking. I assume that most people reading this, if they were in a similar situation where a friend or family member was hurt, would follow suit. However, according to the majority of my colleagues, I acted wrongly, because my calling security may have resulted in the attacker's loss of his job. Did anyone ask if Dan was okay? Nope. All they were concerned about was whether or not this other man would be fired. People went so far as to say, "Dan is drunk and melodramatic." Fact: Dan was attacked. Whether he was drunk or not has no bearing on this. Fact: Dan was attacked. Physical contact was not a a fictitious event in Dan's supposedly melodramatic mind.

"We are a family, and we have to keep our family together," is what I kept hearing. Firstly, I understand that the word "family" is synonymous for "team," but I resent others telling me who I should be referring to as my "family." I have one amazing family, no more, no less, and they are certainly not on this ship. Secondly, in my real family, no one ever lays a hand on anyone else (apart from when my Mom was raising stubborn twins and had to show us that whining had consequences). Try as I might, I honestly cannot understand how an attack was made, where the man who made the attack has not been questioned by his peers, while these same peers have deemed Dan and I, the ones who reported to security, monsters. I have racked my brain to think whether any man in my life would ever touch someone aggressively, and the answer is, ABSOLUTELY NOT. No friggin' way, man. My best friend, Mark, was assualted on public transport a few years ago, ended up having to have nose surgery, and he was still barely able to lay a finger on anyone, even in self defense. I do believe that Dan's attacker felt remorse, and perhaps it is this remorse which everyone thinks is the reason the incident should be swept under the carpet. Though, I keep wondering how others would have reacted in my position. When I questioned a couple of them, they replied that that they would make light of the situation. My response: too bad for their friends. Friends always support and protect each other, not just when it is convenient.

In the aftermath of the incident, these are phrases that have been said to me, verbatim:

"Everyone hates you."
"You would sabotage my audition."
"You're the reason for the chasm between the cast."
"You think you're so much better than everyone else."
"Every time you say something to someone, you make them feel bad about themself."
"You're the biggest bully in the cast."

I am not making myself out to be the victim, by any means; I would never want to be perceived as a victim. While hearing these verbal attacks shocked me, they did not hurt me, because I know that I am not these things. So, I am not hurt, I am just so incredibly disappointed. At humanity, at my peers, at everyone who never bothered to ask Dan if he was hurt, at everyone who never bothered to question the attacker, at the attacker for letting me and Dan take his fall when we did everything we could to prevent the loss of his job, at the fact that, in doing what I believe in my heart to be the right thing, I have become a person that most of the people I work with hate. I am not looking for sympathy or support, but a way to understand how how HOW something like this has happened in the way that it has. I don't know how long my disappointment in humanity will last. The more time passes, the more disappointed I become. It is a sorry state in society when the majority support wrongdoing.

In hindsight, would I have acted differently? I have asked this of myself alot, and the answer is a stoic, "no." If I could change anything, I would have let Dan's attacker make his apologies before calmly calling security, but I still would have made the same choice. We owe it to ourselves to do the right thing, no matter how negative the consequences. It is a damn shame that doing what is right can have such negative results.

The Boy From Indiana, Or: Just A Small Town Boy

Though I am well travelled within Europe, having spent much time specifically in France, Spain, and Italy, I am far less acquainted with the United States of America. I have lived in Westchester, NY, and, though a ship is currently my home, I pay rent on an apartment in Hoboken, NJ. I have stayed with friends in LA, celebrated many Passovers in Miami, shot a commercial in Baltimore, slept over at a summer camp friend's house in Connecticut, skiied in Vermont, vacationed in Hawaii with my parents, and spent one Christmas with my ex's family in Philly. Most of the people I regularly spend time with are either Long Island Jews, Westchester Jews, or born and bred New York City Jews. With the odd Goyim* from some state not on the East coast or West coast of America. This is vastly different to my social network in London, where I had a couple of handfuls of friends from various parts of Asia, a couple of best friends from Northern Ireland, and a whole bunch of friends from places that sound very English -- Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, and Wimbledon, for instance. And none of them a Jew.

When I left New York to work on a ship, I once again became the sole Jew among a huge diversity of colleagues that includes Brits, Aussies, Yankees, Europeans, and Asians. I spend alot of time with an ex-Mormon from Indiana called Dan** who, within the first five minutes of our meeting, told me that he comes from a family of Rednecks. Those were his words, not mine. In all the friendships that I have made, I have never become friends with someone who openly refers to themself as a Redneck, and I don't believe that I have ever met someone from Indiana. (I have met quite a few Mormons, though.) I don't know anything about Indiana, except what I've heard from Dan. He knows alot about corn and how to shuck it. He comes from a family who lives from paycheck to paycheck and has constantly referred to himself as someone who is trying to grow up and out of this world of Rednecks.

I challenged Dan about the use of the term "Redneck." It is a term that, in my interpretation, has negative connotations: no class, bad morals, unintelligent. These are the first things that come to mind when I hear the term, "Redneck." I knew within the first five minutes of meeting Dan that he is none of these. And if he is none of these, I would assume that he was raised by people who are also none of these. "My family is poor," Dan answered when I challenged him. Poverty does not equate to having no class, just as richness does not equate to having class. "There are plenty of people with alot of money with no class," I said to Dan. We discussed this notion, and came to the joint conclusion that Dan's family may not have alot of money, but they are a good family with good values and therefore, they are not Rednecks. As I have come to know Dan more, it is clear that there is much love in his family, and in my unwavering opinion, if you come from a family with strong love, you are already starting out on the right foot to wherever you want to go. Let me be rich in love over having richness in gold any day.

This boy from Indiana, he refers to America as, "THE BEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!" Underneath the joking nature in which he makes this proclamation, there is a strong patriotism. On New Year's Eve, he proudly sang the national anthem acapella in the piano bar onboard. Well, I couldn't wait for Dan, who had never been outside the United States, to experience the Mediterranean. He was not as impressed as I had hoped he'd be, but this may be justified as we didn't get many opportunities to see anything that wasn't a heaving tourist attraction. Every time we had pizza, Dan enjoyed it, but kept saying how much he missed Chicago's deep dish pizza. Every time we went out in port and things were closed, Dan said he missed the ease and accessibility of the American way of life. I personally feel that this accessibility is having severe repercussions on the nation, but that is another discussion altogether. I wish Dan had experienced Europe in its true form, not the form as built by tourism. I wish we could have gone to a small Italian village where no one speaks English and had some homemade focaccia while walking around the local street fair then finish of the day with gelato. Nonetheless, it was fun watching Dan drink a decent cup of coffee! I think the coffee in Europe is the one thing he prefers outside of the States.

Dan and I have both taken to getting regular massages on the ship. Massages are my vice, and I have been having regular massages for years. I would never have expected a self-titled Redneck to also take to this habit. But, Dan did, and when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he said (and this is verbatim): "just a simple hot stone massage." I replied, "WHAT? Did you just hear yourself?! A dude who comes from Indiana, who calls himself a redneck, who lived by poor means, wants 'just a SIMPLE hot stone massage?!'" And we laughed and laughed and laughed, and I was so happy that this small town boy who is trying to make something bigger of his life has been given an opportunity such as this. For Christmas, Dan received a cast iron teaset from his Secret Santa, and I showed him how to steep a perfect pot of oolong tea. As we sat in his cabin sipping oolong, I was proud of Dan, for already being the sort of person he aspires to be, for never shunning his roots, and for serving as a reminder to me that there is always the opportunity to grow, to change, and to learn.

I find it fascinating that an ex-Mormon from Indiana and a Chinese-Jew from London, Singapore, and Westchester can be of such similar ilks. I like to hear of his world, where he would shuck his mom's home grown corn and he likes to hear of my world, where I had learned how to use chopsticks before I had reached double digits in age. We meet somewhere in-between, in a world where we dream just as big as each other. Even though our experiences are vastly different, our dream of making it on Broadway is the same. We are both one step closer, and many cups of European coffee and Taiwanese oolong fuller.

*A non-Jew
**Name has been changed to protect privacy

Paradise: Not Just A Daydream

When I decided to sign a contract for Royal Caribbean, I had absolutely no idea that this decision would lead to what has been the stuff that daydreams are made of. You know when you watch a movie, and the setting is so beautiful and the characters have such remarkable experiences, that you never imagine that such a life can exist (the Hawaiian paradise in "50 First Dates," and the resort setting in "Wizards of Waverly Place: The Movie" spring to mind)? I have found that, if you have enough time and money to fund it, this exquisite life does exist. If you don't have the money for travel and accomodation, then working on a ship provides an easy answer: get paid to entertain the guests by night, and by day, use your wages to jump off cliffs in Capri, visit The Vatican in Rome, and swim with dolphins in Mexico (being sure to capture a shot of yourself beveling in each location).

Until visiting the island of Capri, I thought that it was a type of trousers and a Colbie Caillat song, which, having never paid attention to the lyrics, I had no idea was actually about the island. Upon entering Capri, we sat down for a tea and coffee, where the friendly restaurant manager told us that, if we wanted to hire a boat, he would sort it out for us at a "special rate." This rate sounded reasonable, and we took him up on the deal. We spent 3 hours being driven around the island on our own private boat by a local man who, though very quiet, answered all of our stupid tourist questions and spoke of interesting facts and sights. The highlight of the day was having the chance to jump off the cliffs into the sea. I am uncomfortable swimming in the sea for fear of scary marine life, and had to be coaxed out of the boat to swim to the cliffs. Once on the cliffs, there were 3 different heights at which one could jump. I watched a few of my friends jump from the highest point. I opted for jumping from the middle point as a warm-up for the top. After jumping and climbing back onto the cliffs, I looked over the top ledge and tried to convince myself that I could do it, but I was shaking and too afraid and yelled, "what if I have a heart attack on the way down???" My heart was racing so fast, I actually thought that it might stop on the way down. Having swam in the sea was one fear conquered that day, and my nerves got the best of me, so I jumped off from the middle point again, nonetheless happy to have jumped off a cliff in Capri. How many people in the world have had such a chance?

When in Rome, I suppose that one should visit The Vatican and the Sistine Chapel, right? So, we did, and now I can say that I have. Would I ever do this again? Absolutely not. Though not a believer of organised religion, I still fancy myself to be more spiritually inclined that the average-Jane (I mean, having consultations with astrologers and psychics makes me pretty spiritual, right??). However, I found our visit to Vatican City to be absolutely lacking in any spiritual or religious inclination. It cannot be denied that the architecture is astounding. The disappointing fact that all the money spent on the buildings could feed a couple of 3rd world nations did not make it less astounding to me, but it did tarnish my faith in the "faithful." I felt the tourism factor to be as high as in Orlando, creating a further incongruence. This was especially highlighted when we went to see the Sistine Chapel, and waited on line for what felt like over an hour, because as you enter the museum, you are taken into a queue that is not unlike the waiting lines at Disneyworld, and it moves frustratingly slowly while it gets increasingly stuffy. By the time we saw Michelangelo's famous creation, we looked up for 30 seconds, said to each other, "that's it?" and huffed and puffed our way out of the museum. I would choose a day spent in the Louvre over a day spent at Vatican City in a heartbeat. At least we had the opportunity to go, and, for all the exasperation of the day, we still were glad to have witnessed this important slice of history. We then had slices of fresh and delectable pizza along the waterfront.

By the time Liberty of the Seas left the Mediterannean for the Caribbean, it was growing cold and grey, and we were more than ready for the promise of sun and sand. Having been in the Carribbean for two weeks, I proclaim myself as one of the luckiest people in the world. The Caribbean has given us some of the best experiences of our lives. And we didn't even have to pay airfare.

A trait (flaw?) of mine which my parents have never been able to understand, is how much I adore tackiness. Having opted not to live in the States for many years, they love the grace and charm of Europe. They would happily join my ship on a Mediterranean cruise, but I probably couldn't pay them to take a Caribbean cruise. As for me, the second I saw the port of Belize with all its gaudy, colorful buildings and cheap stalls, my excitement sky rocketed. We decided to take a snorkeling tour, which included a stop at a tiny island called Goff's Caye. During the boat ride to Goff's Caye (named after a British general), we were entertained by a couple of locals who fed us amusing tidbits about Belize (did you know that orange juice can be made of 98% Belize oranges and 2% Florida oranges, and still be marketed as Floridian orange juice?) and flirted with the ladies like dogs in heat. Goff's Caye was simply beautiful, and though there were other people on it, we still felt like we were on our own little private paradise. We spent an hour snorkeling. Unfortunately, the visibility was only about 70%, and we didn't see an abundance of sea life, but I was just grateful that there were no sharks to encounter. I'm suprised that I had as much fun as I did, considering my fear of swimming in the ocean. I'm even looking forward to snorkeling again. After oooohing and aaaaahing at the fish and coral, we went back to Goff's Caye where a man with a single barbeque prepared for us our choice of lobster or chicken. There was also complimentary rum punch flowing, and it was a funny sight watching our guides, who had made sure that we were all safely back on land, now tossing the rum punch back along with shots of the harder stuff.

Next up on our itnerary was the best yet: a day at Chankanaab National Park in Cozumel, Mexico, swimming with dolphins. Within two minutes of arriving at the park, I had a parrot on my head and a gigantic lizard (some sort of dragon??) in my arms. As my friends pulled out their cameras, we were told that it would be $5 per picture. We happily let ourselves be ripped off to document this hilarious encounter. We spent an hour with 2 female dolphins, Alexia, and America (Ryan, my colleague from Indiana, who is constantly proclaiming America as the best country in the world, was ecstatic that he got to kiss America). America's 7 month old calf was being trained in the arena that we were swimming in, so we also got to spend time with the baby, which was a very special treat. As it was the birthday of my colleague, Lucas, our trainer got America and Alexia to sing happy birthday for him, another lovely treat. After saying goodbye to our dolphin friends, we met 3 manatees, who are known as elephants of the sea. They are adorably ugly and gigantic, but the trainer told us that, regardless of their size, manatees are always gentle and never ever threatening. Due to this, they are an endangered species with only about 3000 left in the world. We got to feed one of the manatees, a male named Angel, carrot and papaya. Cue our own lunch time. We found the restaurant, where our waiter said that we could order lunch on the beach. Fantastic! So we ate our lunch in the comfort of big wooden beach chairs under the shade of huge umbrellas made of bark. The beach was nowhere near crowded, and it definitely beat the atmosphere of the over-populated beaches that I have been to in Florida. I took myself exploring and found a "spa," which consisted of an open hut on the edge of a lagoon with 4 massage tables. There are few things I enjoy more than getting a massage, so I treated myself to a 45 minute deep tissue massage. During the massage, I floated away feeling the breeze on my skin and hearing the birds chirping away. It started to rain and the sound of raindrops added to this most magical of experiences. With a couple of hours left before we had to leave, I spent the rest of the day drinking juice out of a coconut and sunbathing. I asked the bar tender to chop the coconut open when I finished the juice so that I could eat the meat, and it was delightful. I didn't want our perfect day at Chankanaab park to end.

Interspersed throughout our Caribbean cruises are port days in Ft. Lauderdale where running errands like depositing money at the bank and picking up bits and bobs at the mall are a real novelty. I cannot believe how good life is right now. Perhaps it is the Universe's gift to me after 2 years of anxiety and struggling in NYC. Would life be this good if I booked a Broadway show? I honestly am not sure how attractive the idea of returning to a city environment sounds right about now. There would be no beaches, no dolphins, no cliffs...

The point is, I am not sure what I want to do after this contract. It has certainly raised alot of questions that I am not yet ready to answer. Having beaches at my fingertips may turn into an addiction. However will I feed that addiction back in New York? Should I move to Hawaii? Spend a year living with my folks in Spain? Sign another ship contract? Return to the city to continue fighting for a place on Broadway? I hold onto the faith that answers will come to me in the way that they have always done: by pursuing the things that make me most happy. I am a most happy (and lucky) daydreamer in paradise.