Perspective from the Tramp December 31, 2013

Daughter Annie and I have just returned from a two-week holiday in New Zealand.  Prior to the winter break for each of the last ten years, I’ve contemplated a trip to New Zealand but never got up the gumption nor committed the sizeable outlay of cash that visiting it requires.  This year, however, inspired by my new freedom and by Annie’s need to escape the trio of cold, dark, and wet that characterize winter in her adopted city of Seattle, I acted.  I bought a pair of Air New Zealand tickets about nine months ago and signed us up for a guided “tramp” on the Milford Track. 

The trip was a success from the start – almost, as our flight to Auckland was cancelled and I scurried to change accommodation and car rental bookings – to finish.  On the North Island, we hiked the Tongariro volcano crossing, a 12-mile romp which included an arduous uphill of 800 meters in steps and stone to about 1900 m altitude; it was the hardest hike I recall doing but the long downhill was sensational.  The second day of the Milford Track had a similar, albeit more gradual, ascent to a summit pass of about half the altitude of Tongariro.  Still, it was not a trivial hike, and we were lucky enough to do it in excellent weather.

The Milford Track was a wake-up call for me.  It seems very unlikely I’ll be fit enough for this kind of hike even ten years from now.  I can already feel my body slowing down, and my fear of falling over and breaking a fragile bone increasing.  Now I know I need to start digging into the bucket list of adventures I’ve been contemplating, especially as Annie has turned into quite a tramper and has thrown a few ideas into the bucket, too.  The Inca trail is my next choice, while Annie is pushing for Mount Kilimanjaro.  Like the alignment of stars or the intersection of sets in a Venn diagram, Annie’s and my interests and abilities have coalesced, and her holiday schedules can be accommodated by my retirement flexibility.  It seems we have developed a new, shared passion and I certainly have sharpened my perspective for how I want to spend some of my dwindling time on this planet.

First Light December 9, 2013

I love waking up just before dawn.  Light drifts in through the uncovered clerestory windows that cap my bedroom’s east-facing wall.  I open my eyes and look for that subtle transition from streetlight to sun, when the room begins to fill with a sense of smoky blue-grey.  Shadow edges against the rising light, which reflects too from my framed photographs’ glasses.  I love thinking about the transition from rods’ function to cones’ as dim light slowly brightens and the colors of my sheets and walls begin to emerge. 

Pogo gently bumps his nose against mine to tell me now is the time to make our move.  Just another minute, Pogo!  Let me savor this one.

The Red Car Redux December 7, 2013

Having recently extolled the virtues of my new red Mini, I must sadly report that the little car has suffered the indignity of being hit and badly hurt by an SUV.  Last night I drove down to the new SF Jazz venue with my friend and neighbor Marty to meet with another friend for dinner followed by the Philharmonia Baroque concert.  We had just slipped into a driver’s side parking space on Oak Street, a one-way thoroughfare, in front of the French and Chinese American Schools, two spaces away from the busy intersection at Franklin Street.  Because we were about 10 minutes early, we remained in the car and chatted when we suddenly felt the rear impact of a large car that thrust us up onto the pavement.  The driver, who also damaged the parked car in front of us, continued through the light and onto Franklin Street, while many pedestrians yelled out and ran after him, but he continued to speed away.  The School guard came out to tell us that the whole episode was caught on tape.  The dark colored SUV had an Idaho license MB1152 and from the detritus it left on the scene we surmised that it was a Nissan.  We were stunned but unhurt.  While we stood in the cold rain, we contacted the police, the tow truck, and the insurance company, and I watched the evening and the next week disappear into dealing with this new and unexpected problem. 

This morning, Marty and I checked in with each other.  We both realized how close we had come to real tragedy.  If Marty had been getting out of the car at that instant, she would have been badly injured or perhaps even killed.  It is a reminder of the fragility of life, that we carry around that vulnerability with us at all times but try not to think about it.  Oddly, it can take a challenging moment like last night’s to wake us up and to remind us to tell our friends and family how much we love them every single day.

The Audition November 26, 2013

For the past five months, I have been living, sleeping, and breathing with one intention: doing a successful audition for a slot as an extra chorister with the San Francisco Opera.  Lessons, coaching, practicing, auditioning, keeping colds and flu at bay – all funneling into that very brief performance of the Jewel Song from Faust on the fifth floor of the opera house on a Tuesday mid-afternoon.  Of course, I was terrified that I would forget a few words or even worse – faint or vomit.  But I didn’t.  At age 60, after a 20-year hiatus from singing, I was able to produce a sound much to my satisfaction, and I was prepared and poised enough to make it through the aria smoothly.  

My nervousness wasn't just about the audition.  Because I decided to chronicle my year of transition in this blog, I felt the weight of boomers everywhere who are also trying to move on to some new challenge.  I really didn't want to disappoint whomever might be reading this (those one or two of you!) with a failure.  

Still, failure, I'm sure, is the result of my effort.  I knew immediately that I would not be offered a slot because they did not ask to hear a second aria (I had prepared S’altro che lagrime from Clemenza di Tito by Mozart).  Moreover, on the way out of the audition, I was handed a one-page summary of information about the Chorus, including the statement that this year very few positions are available in the chorus (italics is theirs). In fact, I learned today that the SF Chronicle critic Josh Kosman recently published an article on the opera chorus, including how tough it is to get a slot in it. “Robertson [the chorus director] hears about 100 to 150 auditions for new members each year - even though, he says, the turnover rate for the orchestra [sic] is only about one singer a year.”  I knew it was tough.  I knew it was nearly impossible.  But if only they knew how much I wanted to sing with them!