I sang that song at least twenty times in the car this weekend, on the way to see my grandpa in the hospital and back home again.
It was such a funny feeling to leave San Francisco, as I so rarely even drive anymore, and even more rarely leave the city limits. I just don't.
I felt like I was leaving Brigadoon. For a long time, San Francisco has been more than just a place to live, it's been my everything--the source of my living and my pleasures. I have not wanted to leave it except for my travel daydreams.
So being in the car, with real warm sun shining on me through the sunroof, both windows down, lots of empty highway around me (I was on 280, not 101), that was an odd sensation.
I liked catching the sight of my hair in the rear-view mirror, being whipped around by the wind. I sang Blondie's Greatest Hits, and a little bit from Revolver. But I had all this pent-up-ness inside of me. Part of me felt like it was going to explode and the other part was full of dreading. The closer I got to my destination, the more I could feel it building up.
And then I played Let It Be for the first time and burst out crying. It was instantaneous. I like that song a lot, but for some reason it never hit me until that moment what a song could mean. How a song could comfort you--like a person, almost.
It's probably not a really great idea to cry in the car while you're going down the freeway at speed, but if you're going to cry anyway and there's no stopping you, you might as well listen to this song.
When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Mary comes to me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness She is standing right in front of me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
And when the broken hearted people Living in the world agree, There will be an answer, let it be. For though they may be parted there is Still a chance that they will see There will be an answer, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Yeah There will be an answer, let it be.
And when the night is cloudy, There is still a light that shines on me, Shine on until tomorrow, let it be. I wake up to the sound of music Mother Mary comes to me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be. There will be an answer, let it be. Let it be, let it be, Whisper words of wisdom, let it be
“I think people who can truly live a life in music are telling the world, 'You can have my love, you can have my smiles. Forget the bad parts, you don't need them. Just take the music, the goodness, because it's the very best, and it's the part I give.' ”-- George Harrison
I remember where I was when I heard that John Lennon was shot. It was in the evening and I was watching Hill Street Blues. The program was interrupted to broadcast the news, and I told my mom, who was in the den, talking on the phone.
I don't remember where I was when I heard that George Harrison had died, but I do remember how instantly my eyes filled with tears and how terribly sad I felt.
I was never old enough to be influenced by the Beatles when they were together, and when George released his first solo album, All Things Must Pass, I was only three. But for some reason, I always loved George, even before I knew anything about him.
As a person I was drawn to him, and as a musician, I appreciated him in all of his incarnations, from the "quiet" Beatle to his Dark Horse days, to the Traveling Wilburys.
I don't know what it is about some people that draws us in, makes us feel like we can instantly relate to them, (maybe we see something of ourselves in them?) or how we can feel attached to people we will never really know, but that's how it is sometimes.
What I love about this video (besides the song) is that it's pure and simple. It makes you remember the days when music came on actual records.
I am a little late in mentioning this because officially it started yesterday, but this happens to be International Flirting Week. (It started yesterday, February 11, and goes through February 17.)
Not that I resemble any sort of expert on the matter (in fact, I am probably pretty mediocre if not downright clueless on the subject), but it dawns on me that as a nation, Americans are not in the forefront of the art and/or science of flirting. I wonder if it is a byproduct of our country's Puritan roots and industrious nature, or if we have too many microclimates that do not encourage enough outdoor lounging and siestas. Or that people are overly afraid of sexual harrassment litigation.
I know there might be pockets of flirtation in this country, but they probably exist in geographical locations where there is an influx of residents from Latin countries. There are many countries where International Flirting Week exists in the hearts and minds of people every day of the year (to very loosely quote Charles Dickens here--but he was talking about the Spirit of Christmas). Those countries do not need an International Flirting Week. But I don't think just a week would help us change our ways here.
I was actually going to tie this subject into tango in some way, but it seems to me that is not the direction I wanted to take. Tango is a serious passion for me, and for many, many others, and so the subject of flirtation doesn't jive with what my tango is for me. In fact, it plays into the common misconception that tango is all about sex.
But I didn't want to give up on the idea of International Flirting Week because it's not often that a topic like that comes your way. So instead I think I will reminisce about a favorite flirtation, which also will incorporate my newest goal of working a Beatles song into my post. If any of you care to expand on the topic of flirtation and tango, be my guest. The [dance] floor is yours.
***
It was May. It was Paris.
It was a very rainy early May, where the skies opened more easily to intense and sudden rainshowers than to the more expected blue skies and sun. I had learned my lesson by being caught unawares by two downpours, the kind that produced large, heavy droplets that seemed much bigger than regular American raindrops. These French raindrops got you much wetter much faster.
I started taking my raincoat and umbrella with me, even though I still insisted on wearing a skirt and heels because the attention you get is more positive that way, and since I don't live in Paris, I have to take what I can get while I'm there.
I wore a robin's egg blue raincoat, a cheerful color. I was on my way to the Musée d'Orsay, in the slight hope that I wouldn't have to wait in a very long line to get in. I had just turned the corner onto the Rue de Bac, when I heard a man's voice behind me:
"Vous ressembler de printemps." (You look like Spring.)
He liked my raincoat, I supposed. I turned around to see who was talking to me and found one of those ageless, charming Frenchmen, holding an unopened bottle of wine just purchased at the shop. He had a large husky-shepard-type dog with him.
I thanked him for the compliment in my very broken French (why five years of good grades in French class has completely failed me in conversation is very annoying). He started to speak to me and I had to be honest and tell him I didn't really speak the language, to my dismay. He spoke no English so we tried to have some sort of conversation in French.
By this time, my companion had taken my arm and we continued our walk down the street, where it sprinkled intermittently. He somehow discerned that I was on my way to the museum and he told me he would take me there himself. (Even though I couldn't put together a simple sentence, I still had a reasonable idea of what he was saying to me. I think at one point we also discussed the Pope, but I am not 100% sure on that.)
He asked what my name was, and when I told him, he started singing Hey, Judeto me, en français. (My name isn't Jude, but it's close enough so I got where he was coming from.) Since that was pretty much the only way we could communicate, we finished our walk, arm in arm with the dog trotting back and forth between us, singing Hey, Jude in French and English. (The nah nah nah's are the same in French, fyi.)
We finished the song just as we arrived at the Musée d'Orsay. My guide indicated that he knew a secret side door, where he could convince the guard to let me in so I would not have to wait in the long line (note to future visitors: get your tickets at the ticket office in advance). He confidently strolled up to one of the museum guards and in French, explained that I was the daughter of the President of the United States, and that I should receive special treatment and not have to wait in line. The guard looked at me in bewilderment, I was embarrassed (mostly at being linked in any way to The Shrub) and I'm sure you'll not be surprised that I was not admitted to the museum through the special secret door as the daughter of George Bush.
However, my guide's duty was done; he had brought me to my destination. He firmly kissed me on each cheek, and as he walked away from me, waving, he was still singing Hey, Jude.
So whenever I hear that song, I think of an early morning chanteur who sang me down a rainy morning street in Paris.
The above photo borrowed from a lovely site about vintage hairstyles called The Hair Archives. The youtube clip needs no explanation.
In the spirit of the Grammys honoring the Beatles again (presented by Tom Hanks, no less, so that's really an honor in itself, insert sarcastic tone here), I have decided to name as many of my posts/themes after Beatles' songs whenever possible. (Actually, I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make except I think that giving the Beatles a(nother) Grammy is like deciding to give the Buddha a retroactive Nobel Peace Prize. The Beatles are the greatest band in rock history, so what is a Tom Hanks-presented award going to add? (If we taught Beatles Appreciation 101 in schools and outlawed crummy bands covering their songs, then that would be starting something useful.)
In his own tribute today, the guy with the accordion who plays outside of Mocca on Maiden Lane was doing his version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps, which has to make you laugh a little but he's a cool guy and we always smile at each other, so I didn't giggle. I renamed the song in my head to While My Bandoneon Gently Weeps. I think about George Harrison a lot anyway--he was my favorite--so that was a pleasant reminder.
***
So...back from Seattle. Where to start? I'm still a little tired so maybe a numbered list would be best to keep me from getting too stream-of-consciousness here.
Song Title: Eight Days a Week. You cannot have a vacation combined with tango classes and milongas. You really have to choose one or the other because if you sightsee, then you miss out on classes and getting pretty for milongas, or else you go to classes and dance and then you're too tired to sightsee. Or, I'm totally wrong on that and I just need better time- and foot-management skills.
Song Title: Come Together. Seattle seems like a wonderful place and I hardly got to see it, so I guess I'm going back. The city itself, and the surrounding 'burbs, remind me in parts of Marin County, a very cleaned up Santa Cruz and a little SF thrown in the mix. The people are really friendly and there's just a nice vibe in the air. There was also a lot of rain in the air and it was freezing cold, so that's another reason why I didn't get to do a whole lot there. We drove around and I peeked out the window at a lot of great shops, restaurants, etc., all of which would have involved being subjected to the elements. And apparently Seattle is a haven for nature lovers and being outdoors (when the weather permits) as all of the parks and lakes and trees must be wonderful in the sunshine. We did go to Pike's Market (awesome) and I took some pics that I just posted to my flickr account.
Song Title: She Loves You. Or I'm Just Happy to Dance with You. Probably the biggest thrill/enjoyment/happy time I had (which should make this Item 1 and not Item 3 if we were ranking things in this list, which we are not) was to finally meet Elizabeth and the famous Alan, and to dance with Alan and Mr. RealityPivots. I was a little nervous to dance with both of them because it's one thing to read what someone writes and like what they have to say, but it's another thing to be in someone's arms dancing and hope that there's some connection and chemistry there. I'm glad to say that this weekend had some of the loveliest tandas thanks to these two wonderful dancers, and I am very sad that I won't have the opportunity to dance with them often. I also got to sit with Elizabeth and we actually had a chance to talk which, as you know, trying to chat with someone at a milonga can be close to impossible. We sat together and just being in her company was a total pleasure. I'm also grateful that Elizabeth and Alan saw fit to introduce me to some of their friends so I could have some other wonderful leaders to dance with.
Song Title: I Am the Walrus. Taking Ney and Jennifer's class on Friday night was more of the same fun I get down here at home, although I kept ending up rotating to the same two leaders more often than not, so I didn't get to dance with many people even though it was a fairly large class. But the follower's technique workshops on Saturday were intense and I just could not keep up at the end. We had two classes back to back, with only a 10-minute break in between, for a total of almost 4 hours on our feet. We learned all of the things that Jennifer breaks down in her youtube tutorials, but seeing them demonstrated in person and then practicing them over and over again will actually give me a fighting chance at doing embellishments someday. However, most of the embellishments for me are like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time. The faster the embellishments get, the more I can't seem to do them. At the end, the OFF switch I have in my head flips and I literally can't move or think. I was wiped out before the class was over and when we got back to our place, I had to soak my feet in ice water to numb them and take a bunch of Aleve.
Song Title: HELP! Make sure that you don't have an expired driver's license when you get to the security checkpoint at the airport. I'm not going to go into all of the details about that now, but it was a rude surprise to me (obviously I'm letting certain things fall through the cracks these days) and having to get out of the regular passengers' line and get into the special line where the terrorist threat-types get seached and questioned is not the best way to travel. Plus, the young airport security guy called me Ma'am and I hate that. Technically, I guess I am a Ma'am but I don't need to be reminded of it. I am very grateful to The Boy for FedEx-ing me my passport so I only had to go into the Terrorist Line once.
We went to two milongas: Century Ballroom and Dance Underground. Century Ballroom is this magnificent old place, with a huge smooth floor and lots of room for moving fast around the room or taking your time. It's one of those rare venues that makes you want to be on the floor dancing because you know its had thousands of dancers' feet on that floor and you just want to be a part of its history. The Century milonga was very hard to cabaceo, perhaps because it's so large and also for me because I'm a new face and no one seemed willing to take a chance on me, but I wish we had a place like that here in SF. Dance Underground was a cozy, smaller studio with a very friendly feel.
Ney and Jennifer gave a beautiful performance at Century Ballroom and as I watched them dance, I was so grateful that I get to have classes with them fairly often (when they aren't traveling). It's one thing to get used to taking classes with them, and they're so kind and patient and encouraging, but then you see them dance together and you get a little starstruck. You stop yourself and think: "Wow. Those are my teachers."
***
Song Title: With a Little Help From My Friends. Mucho thanks, gratitude and kisses to Ms. Wellspring for arranging everything in Seattle and being my personal concierge and traveling companion, and many thanks to Ms. Ari and Delegate Dan for so generously hosting me and my 500-pound suitcase full of crap I didn't wear.
I sang that song at least twenty times in the car this weekend, on the way to see my grandpa in the hospital and back home again.
