On losing someone from a distance

In loving memory of Nan Speirs: April 10th, 1920 - March 2nd, 2014

I spent the weekend frantically completing MA applications.  On Friday, I sat in front of my laptop for 14 hours and on Saturday, I ran around collecting letters of reference and desperately trying to find anywhere open on a weekend to print my forms, finally resorting to my boyfriend's kind offer to take me to his office and use a printer there.  I hand delivered one application on the day it was due and submitted the other online just one day in advance of the deadline.  I went to an incredibly powerful and upsetting show on Saturday night.  I had to be at work in Zone 4 of northwest London for an 8 a.m. start on Sunday.

That night, I crawled into bed at with my laptop at 7pm.  I was exhausted.  Monday was going to be a big day: I was hopping on the Eurostar to Paris for the night to see a cast & crew screening of a film that I am in.  I was terrified and exhilarated.  I just wanted to watch Battlestar Gallactica until I drifted off into the sweet embrace of slumber.

At 8:30pm, as I fought with my eyelids to finish one more episode, I missed a call from my mom.  My phone was on silent, and I picked it up too late.  I knew instantly why she was calling.  I rang her back, just as she called me again.  Crossed lines, straight to voicemail, finally I picked her up on call-waiting.  I was right.  She was calling to tell me my grandmother had died.

She said sorry for waking me, that she didn't think I'd be asleep and she didn't want to tell me over email.  I said it was okay, I was unusually exhausted, and that I thought that was why she was calling. We agreed to speak again soon.

I hung up and said to my boyfriend, "My gran died".  He responded with sympathy, asked me if I was okay.  I felt no sadness and turned to finish the episode that had been interrupted by the news.

I woke up Monday morning and immediately reminded myself that my grandmother was dead.  I felt bleary and drained, despite about 10 hours of sleep.  I did not feel sad.

I went and did my normal cleaning shift at the yoga studio where I work in exchange for classes.  As I rerolled mats and refolded blankets, my mind wandered.  How do I begin to miss someone I do not see everyday; someone I have not even been able to speak to on the phone since I last saw her because she didn't have the energy or capacity to remember who I was; someone who I've only seen in person once a year, at most, for the past five?

I picked up the two trolleys of towels from the laundrette and rolled them back to the studio before walking home.  I showered, packed my bag, and headed for the train station.

I arrived in Paris at 5pm, which I had forgotten is the worst possible time to find food in France.  Every restaurant in existence seems to shut at 3 and re-open at 7.  I found a natural food store, bought a spelt and tofu salad, a plunked myself on the ground outside the Centre Pompidou to eat.

I was nervous about seeing the cast and crew again.  My French was rusty.  I rehearsed little things to say about what I've been up to in the last year: "I've done the odd day of filming," and "I've started doing improv again," and "I've written a short film that we're shooting in April."

I finished up, binned my rubbish and hoisted my laptop and overnight bags back over their respective shoulders.  I made my way to the venue way too early, and after being sure I knew where it was, wandered in search of a cafe.  Within several paces of the cinema, I caught the face of the director's wife through the window and saw that there were several members of the cast, crew and their families inside.

I joined them, hugged everyone, used up my three prepared phrases, and then slipped into crippling social anxiety mode.  I knew some of these people well, but the presence of strangers that everyone else seemed to know and people that I recognised but whose names I had never learned on top of my brain trying desperately to keep up with my ears left me paralysed.

I sat mute at the table between a set dresser who I sort of knew and a three-year old child, feeling I had a better chance of communicating on a relatable level with the kid.

When my female friend and castmate arrived at the last minute, I rushed to greet her and glue myself to her effervescent side.  We embraced -- she hugged everyone in turn -- and she asked me how I was.  She said I seemed tired or upset.  I said it was just the language, and we joined the others who were now making their way to the cinema.

The film was beautiful.  As my first scene opened on the screen, my heart was making a mean effort to knock down the walls of my ribcage and make its escape, but I relaxed and stopped watching for my mistakes.  I'm so proud to be a part of it.

We all went to a bar afterwards to celebrate.  My friend once again remarked that I seemed upset and asked what I thought of the film.  I said, no, that I was just tired, that the film was incredible, as was she.

I wanted to say, "My grandmother died."  I couldn't remember how to say she had died versus that she was dead, or if there was even a difference.  That -- along with the sudden and acute knowledge that uttering those words out loud at that moment would undoubtedly trigger a tempest of uncontrollable weeping -- kept me smiling unconvincingly and nibbling on chips.

I persuaded myself that it was just the language that was putting my brain in a twist and the exhaustion of a full week that was slowing me down physically.  I socialised for a while longer, said my goodbyes, and took the Métro south to friend's flat, where we stayed up until 2 hashing out details of our film shoot scheduled for the beginning of April.

Tuesday morning, we were up at 8:30 and off to a cafe to finalise scheduling and book train tickets over strong espresso and pastries.  I headed back to London in the afternoon and straight to my evening improv class.

Almost first thing, the teacher told us how weird the other classes had been that week.  We were all in our final session before our show on Sunday, but he couldn't chalk it entirely up to nerves.  There was something in the air, he said.  Sure enough, our Harolds were good, but full of unusual mistakes we had never made before.

During notes after our first attempt, something -- I really don't remember what -- set me off, and I was struck by a hysterical fit of laughter.  I could not stop.  I could only grow louder, redder and less able to breathe.  My teacher asked if I was okay.  I apologised through my intensifying cackle.  He said it was okay, that everyone gets the giggles sometimes.  When tears started streaming down my face, I realised that if I didn't calm myself, I would momentarily be wailing wildly with grief.  I breathed deeply.  I finished class. I went out with everyone afterwards and had a nice time.  That small outburst had stirred something in me.  I felt lighter and more present.

On Wednesday morning, I went to my weekly therapy session.  I spent the better part of the session speed-explaining my week.  I said the words, "My grandmother died," out loud.  I cried.  I'm crying now.

In the same 48-hour period as seeing myself on the big screen for the first time, I lost the woman who so enthusiastically supported my aspirations and desperately wished for my success.

My gran and I shared many of the same interests.  She was a great lover of theatre and television and did some amateur acting of her own in her youth.  She loved the French language.  She had a wicked sense of humour, which she retained until she wasn't doing much but sleeping all day.  When I last saw her in November, she didn't recognise me for about five minutes, but when she did, she immediately laughed at herself for not knowing who I was.  She was a master of sardonic tones and pulled faces.

If she had not been born in Glasgow in the interim of two world wars; if she had not had to leave school like all girls and most boys of her social class to become a working member of the family; if she had not been expected to marry and bear children as her sole occupation; if she had been of a different time, my gran might have lived a life not so unlike mine.  She was an extraordinary woman.

This is how I begin to miss her.

Everything in America comes with cheese

... even, sometimes, when you explicitly ask if that thing has anything else on or with it, besides the listed ingredients.  Apparently, cheese is not a thing, it is a given.

I went home for Thanksgiving this year.  It was beautiful and frantic and jam-packed with people-seeing and food-eating, as well as boyfriend-introducing (mine; everyone else has husbands, come on!), and it was also my first time back in the States as a vegan.

(By the way, I'm going to breeze right past my normal paragraph of the flaky, manifold reasons I haven't written in so long, so feel free to insert your favorite excuses here!)

As I mentioned in a previous post, I gave up dairy completely about a year and a half ago, and I gave up all the other animal-y stuff earlier this year... minus a brief lapse when I was filming in Algeria and newly vegan and bad at planning.  Okay, and before that when I started dating my boyfriend and to trick him into eventually becoming vegan with me, I ate some burgers in his presence.  That's a lie.  Having never been a big meat eater, I suddenly had a couple of burger cravings when I gave it all up.  So yeah, I ate one or two.  Not in one sitting.  But not anymore!  And now he -- who used to routinely eat several chicken breasts and a steak in a single 12-hour period -- is vegetarian and mostly vegan too. And we say "Ugh, gross," together when we see commercials featuring meat counters and Christmas roasts.  Awwww!

Due to my awesome planning and/or impromtu, jet-lagged cook-a-thon, Thanksgiving was the least challenging food day of my trip home.  I made this beauty (click pic below for amazing PPK recipe), as well as a gluten-free nut roast, sweet potato bread, coconut pie, pumpkin pie, and non-butter versions of the usual TG staples: stuffing and mashed potatoes.

Seitan Roast Stuffed With Shiitakes and Leeks, pic by Isa Chandra

Am I bragging?  A little bit.  I made a lot of delicious food.  (I could not have done any of it without Isa Chandra, whose website I plugged above, and whose new book we just bought.  You should too.) When it came to grotesque overeating, including feelings of ecstasy (so much food!), panic (oh god, so much food!), desperation (must... eat... all... the food...), and finally overwhelming lethargy and immobility (whyyyyyyyyyyy), I was not going to be excluded.  I had to make sure there was enough to share, but also to ensure my eventual surrender to the couch.

Special thanks to my dad for stocking his kitchen with vegan goodies and fully turning it over to me for two days of prep, my mom for hosting an awesome Thanksgiving meal (traditional jigsaw puzzle included), and my sister for only getting a little bit cranky with me right at the end of a three-hour stretch of sharing my mom's kitchen whilst I did my "last minute" prep, which ended up being a lot more comprehensive than expected and very much in her way.

Thanksgiving was a success!  I had leftovers for almost a week; the boyfriend, having arrived the night before, survived the firestorm that was meeting lots of strangers and being force-fed portions even larger than the already extra-large American standard on 8 hours of jet lag; we completed not one but two 500-piece jigsaw puzzles.  Nobody was mean or weird about the vegan thing.

I guess if I had spent the entirety of my vacation cooking for myself, I wouldn't have run into any problems, but I took a couple of days out of the kitchen when we went up to Seattle to visit friends.  (I was not in any way confined to or trapped in the kitchen, I just really like cooking.  It makes me feel in control.  That's normal, right?)

Becoming a vegan in London was pretty easy.  I had already overcome the cheese cravings (cheese is addictive, no joke), and that was by biggest hurdle.  Some cupboard staples were pesky to find at first, but once I found which stores stocked them, I was set.  The rest was mostly reading the ingredients listed on the back of food every time, deciding I probably shouldn't be buying things with so many ingredients anyway, and obsessively schooling myself in the art of baking without eggs.

I've always assumed, nay, gloated that America (at least in the big, lefty cities) is a good five to ten years ahead of the UK when it comes to the availability of organic/gf/vegan foods.  All that bragging came to bite me in the ass.

Before hitting Seattle or even the suburban town I grew up in, I experienced one of the worst vegan food deserts I've experienced yet: the airport.  Specifically, the Vancouver airport.  Vancouver!  Canada!  Isn't it supposed to be a bastion of liberalism and the promise of what American could be if only it tried?  The only suitable food I could find on my 4-hour layover was a pack of potato chips and a container of pre-chopped carrots, celery, cauliflower and broccoli, sans the ranch dip it was accompanied by.  From Cinnabon/Burger King.  Airports are the worst. 

I expected more from Seattle.  I understand that most restaurants are not vegan (though we did go to a particularly delicious one with my step-bro and his hubby called Plum Bistro), but I guess I thought I wouldn't have to do as much explaining and qualifying with my food orders. 

We went out to eat twice with the friends we were staying with: once for breakfast (favourite meal) and once for a late afternoon session of drinks and Dominion-indoctrination.  Oh my god, have you played Dominion?  You need to. 

I usually specifically ask about dairy, I don't know why I didn't in these cases.  Maybe I was feeling some renewed anxiety about asking lots of "fussy" questions in a different environment.  Damn it, I'm totally becoming English, all reserved and overly apologetic.  In the first instance, I ordered and potato-y, vegatable-y breakfast with a side of black beans.  Exercising caution, I asked if the beans were cooked in anything (i.e. butter), or if they're just plain.  I was assured they were plain.  When they arrived, they were covered in cheese.

Similarly, a platter of pita and dips ordered later in the day for our game marathon -- all non-dairy, based on their menu description -- was delivered with cheese crumbled all over the top.  I sent my orders back rather sheepishly each time, but why?  I had no reason to be embarrassed.  I was going by the information provided, not the secret law of cheese, which is that it is everywhere.  

The ubiquity of dairy aside, going home for Thanksgiving was totally worth it.  It remains my favourite holiday.  I wish it wasn't founded in hypocrisy and offensive cartoons featuring mice pilgrims and mice Native Americans getting along despite their cultural differences.

I'm glad we have it, though.  I'm glad I have a family who celebrates it so openly and generously.  I'm glad my English boyfriend got to experience it for the first time in a real, live, American home.  I'm thankful for Thanksgiving.

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

I blagued my way onto a plane yesterday, and thank god I had no idea at the time.

Monday began like many other days in my recent life: with an early-morning trip to the airport.

(Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining. I am still in awe and disbelief and I am A) shooting a film, and B) being flown back and forth to the location, as well as C) being paid to do my job. When high-intensity moments of stress arise -- and they certainly do, especially for an already highly strung person such as myself -- I remind myself that I am MAKING A FUCKING MOVIE. Pardon my French. It is a foreign film after all.)

I was up at half past four to do my morning pages (I'm finishing up The Artist's Way at the moment and highly recommend it), then I was in the shower and downstairs to make my ritual porridge and soya flat white by 5:15. I was tired after only six hours of sleep, but after the 11-hour coma I had slipped into on Saturday night, I was feeling somewhat rebalanced.

As it turns out -- much as I needed it -- sleeping that excessively leaves me with the same symptoms as a mild stroke. I kid you not: Sunday morning, I was suffering from short-term memory loss; when I sat to write, there was absolutely no connection between the words in my brain and the letters my hand was writing on the page; the right half on my face and one arm went dead. Then I had some coffee, porridge and about three litres if watwr before making a full recovery.

Monday morning I was okay. I had panic-packed (packnicked?) on Saturday afternoon when the film production company had called to say I might be needed a day early, which meant when they ultimately said I'd be flying out Monday as planned, I was pretty much good to go. Last minute items had been added to my bag and my taxi booked the night before, leaving me time in the morning to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and even to prepare a vegan sausage sandwich for the airport. I was free and easy, ready to face the day -- six hours of travel and then straight onto set -- when I suddenly had a funny thought: I had never received the confirmation for my taxi booking.

At a quarter to six, 15 minutes before it was due to arrive, I pulled up my emails and saw that sure enough, my taxi was not booked. In my still slightly delirious, over-slept state of the previous day, I had done everything but click 'confirm' on the final page of the booking. I panicked (theme of the day, as I was soon to find out), ordered a taxi for immediate arrival. As it happened, he arrived five minutes early, as I danced around with my toothbrush frantically working in one hand, my hairdryer blowing away in the other.

A bit of a stressful start, but all in all, I was on my way and in good time, too. As I relaxed into my journey across London's quiet, early-morning streets, I arranged my bags on my lap in the back seat, pulling out my wallet to ready my cab fare... which of course was in my other wallet, in and amongst the seeming post-apocalyptic wreckage on the floor of my bedroom, where I had I left it.

"Oh no, I forgot to put my cash in my bag", I apologised, "can we please stop at a cashpoint?"

The cab driver agreed, for what choice did he have if he wanted to get paid? He pulled into a BP station where I jumped out, only to find that the ATM was mysteriously devoid of any currency. Just my luck (and his). At a rather less convenient junction, I jumped out and ran over the road to a Barclays Bank, where the cash machine was (thankfully) willing to part with £30. I dashed back to the car, and we carried on, narrowly making it to Victoria station in time for my 6:45 Gatwick Express train. I thanked and tipped the driver, procured my receipt, and hustled down to the platform.

I pulled out my notebook as soon as I sat down on the train, and I soon drifted off into my own musings. After about ten minutes had passed, I looked up, realising the train was very much still in the station, and it was very much ten to seven. After very little investigation, I found that in my hurry, I had boarded the 7:00 train by mistake.

It was definitely going to be one of those days.

Despite the morning's misfortunes, I made it to the airport and through security with hours to spare. Good, I thought, I'm here, I'm on my way, and the next thing I'll have to worry about is filming. Wishful thinking, indeed.

On my last two trips to Oran, I flew through Paris, but this time I was flying through Algiers, changing for a domestic Air Algérie flight. I was a little nervous about this connection, but I figured, I've traveled alone before, I'll be fine.

The London flight arrived on time in Algiers, and we disembarked to the only hall: passport control. Signs hanging overhead the long line of people indicated 'exit' and 'baggage reclaim'. Wanting to be sure I was in the right place, although there only seemed to be one way out, I asked a guard if this was the right place for catching connecting flights.

"No", he replied, "if you're catching another flight, you don't want to exit the airport, do you? Wait over there", he said, indicating the wall, "and someone will come and collect you."

"Who?" I asked naively.

"Don't worry. Someone will come. Just wait there."

And so I did.  I waited. And I waited. Okay, so it may have only been about 20 minutes, but in flight-catching time, in navigating an airport in a country in which neither official language is your native tongue time, it felt like hours.

I was growing anxious. The thematic panic was creeping in. I spotted another guard and called him over. When I asked him if I was in the right place to catch my flight to Oran, he responded with a definite no. Perfect. He explained I needed to exit this airport (the international one) via passport control (read, the massive queue that in 20 minutes had progressed approximately three inches) and walk 300m down the way to the national airport to catch my domestic flight.

I sputtered and fumed. I tried to argue with this man; tried to make him undo what the first guard had done; tried at least to convince him to let me join the short queue so I wouldn't miss my flight. He capitulated on the final point.

When I arrived at the passport window, I was greeted with the usual 'What is a nice white girl like you doing in a country like this all by her lonesome?' kind of question. You know, the kind of question they're supposed to ask, only with a dash of surprise and a pinch of sexist condescension. What they actually say is, 'Are you here visiting or working?' But there's a definite accompanying double take and raising of the eyebrows that says the rest.

The funny thing about arriving on an international flight in Oran is that as soon as I say I'm there shooting a film, they say, "Ah oui! El Wahrani!" It's lovely that even border control gets excited about a film being made in their town; that they know exactly which film I mean. (I realise this is because it's the only one, but it still kind if makes me feel like a bug deal.)

When I arrived in Algiers, the men at the window didn't know about the film, but their looks of surprise at my initial appearance turned to glee when I responded that I was there to shoot a film. One of them told me I had the real face of an actress. I can't pretend this didn't improve my mood, even as the perils of potentially missing my flight ran through my head.

We made some jokes about Steven Spielberg (at my expense, not his), they directed me to the national airport whilst making a remark along the lines of "Someday I'll say I knew her when she passed by my window and I stamped her passport", and I was on my way.

I followed and chatted with a lovely Algerian woman who was also on her way to the national side, ensuring at least that I wouldn't get lost. Her conversation, the gentle heat of the sun and the fresh air all had a calming effect. By the time I walked through the doors, passed my bags through the first set of scanners and lifted my arms for the customary pat-down-on-entry, I was practically serene. The fact that there was no queue at the check-in counter seemed like nothing but a much needed good omen.

I approached, handed over my passport, and waited while the woman looked up my reservation.

"Sorry," she said coolly, "there are no more places on this flight".

"What?" At this point I was just as confused as surprised. "What do you mean?" I double-checked the clock. Despite all of my hold-ups, there was still over an hour until take-off. They couldn't have possibly given my seat away. "I have a reservation", I explained.

She shook her head and called to her colleague in Arabic. My brain was having enough of a time wrestling through all of these conversations in French. It panicked (motif!) me slightly not to know what she was saying to him.

He came and took her place at the computer and also began shaking his head. "You don't have a reservation", he said.

"But I do!" I remembered something else. "The company spelled my name wrong when they made the booking. It's Z-A-N but they wrote Z-E-N. Do you see Z-E-N?" 

He continued tapping away at keys and shaking his head.

"I don't understand! It has to be there!"

"How is it spelled?"

"Well really it's Z-A-N, but they put Z-E-N."

Tappity tap tap tap. A pause. A withering look.

"Do you have any baggage to check?"

"No."

Without another word, he printed my boarding pass (Zen...), tucked it into my passport, and handed them both back to me. I thanked him, still unsure of what the problem had been, and scurried through security, practically rejoicing at my second pat-down as it meant I had finally arrived at my gate.

Just as I sat down with a much-needed bottle of water and still an hour to spare, my phone began to ring off the hook. Three of four separate calls to find out where I was: at the airport; no, where exactly I was: at the gate waiting for my second flight; because there was a man there waiting for me, searching for me everywhere in the international arrivals hall, waiting to help me make my flight connection.

"I already did it", I almost laughed. I couldn't help it. It was all so ridiculous. "I already did it all by myself".

"So you're at the gate?" the third production assistant asked me, "you went to the check-in, got your ticket, went through security, and you're there?"

"Yep."

"Well... great. Good. I'll let him know not to look for you".

So there had been someone to collect me after all, but where? At passport control where I had been waiting by the waiting wall? In the throngs of people waiting to greet loved ones? Inside the entrance of the national airport? It didn't matter anymore. All I had left to do was board the plane.

I was at the front if the queue when they announced that boarding had commenced. I was that bloody ready to be on the plane. This, of course, caused a bit of hold up and fuss when I was told again that I didn't have a book.

"Do you have your ticket?" the gate agent asked me.

"That is my ticket", I nearly shouted, flapping at my boarding pass in his hand.

"No, not this. Your booking".

"Yes." I breathed deeply as I pulled up the confirmation on my phone, barely containing my mounting rage. "Here."

He looked it over. "Hmm", and something in Arabic to his colleague. He ripped my ticket. "Okay, I guess. Bon voyage".

Bon voyage, indeed.

It wasn't until I arrived on set in Oran that I found out I really didn't have a booking. In the frenzy of Saturday night, as they attempted to change my flight to Sunday, the production company had cancelled my Monday flight and immediately lost the spot on the small plane. After realising their error, they spent all of Monday morning on the phone with airline officials in Algiers, begging them to let me on the flight.

I was blissfully unaware of these behind-the-scenes machinations. I see this morcel of ignorance as the last in a day-long series of exceptional strokes of luck. Although I felt unjustly wronged by the universe at every juncture of yesterday's journey in real time, I actually did nothing but arrive places ahead of time and catch flights to my intended destination. I even arrived (straight from the airport) ahead of time on set.

My audacity towards the gate agents was rooted in self-righteousness (and perhaps catalysed by exhausted indignation). Had I had any inkling that there was a problem with my booking, I'd probably still be stuck in some part of the (godforsaken) Algiers airport. 

I may be here for the sole purpose of playing someone else in a feature film, but I remain a terrible liar.

You can take the girl out of London...

But she will not leave her tendency towards bêtises behind.

My first day on set, I made a rookie mistake.

When I landed in Oran on Monday, I was understandably exhausted after a full day of travel and at least a full week of anxiety-induced sleep deprivation.  I was nervous still, slightly disoriented, and my brain was already aching from reactivating my three-years-dormant French.  The Arabic drifting through the air all around me, not a word of which I understood, was not helping matters.  I had, however, made it to Algeria, which meant that I probably hadn't dreamt up the feature film I had signed a contract to perform in.  Otherwise what was I doing there?

Strictly speaking, I didn't make the aforementioned mistake my first day on set.  I went straight there from the airport -- only stopping at the hotel to drop off my bags, brush my teeth, and spin into a five-minute panic over the presumed loss of my passport... until I remembered I had just left it at reception -- eager to see the other cast members and have a sneak peak at how things were going, although I wasn't scheduled to shoot until the next day.  Having never performed in a real movie before with real cameras and a real crew, I didn't know quite what to expect, and I wasn't about to make a fool of myself when I first stood in front of all of them.  No, no, I'd much prefer to make a fool of myself before the cameras were ever even rolling.

On that first Monday evening, I was reunited with my onscreen husband, I watched the opening sequence of our wedding run at least a dozen times (very impressed with the extras that ran past time and time again carrying cast-iron tables over their heads), and I met the rest of the cast, those who hadn't made it to our read-through in Paris.  Although offered to be driven straight to the hotel for the evening upon arrival -- which might have been wise considering my state -- I'm glad I decided to familiarise myself with the location, the crew, my fellow actors, and even to take up their invitation for a late dinner.

When my alarm went off at 6 on Tuesday morning, I thought better of the previous night's decision, but by then, it was too late.  I stumbled to my desk to write my morning pages, willed myself into the shower, and made it down to breakfast to discover that bar one, all of my options were dairy-based.

Side note: I don't think I've mentioned it on here, but I gave up dairy completely about a year ago when I realised it was wreaking havoc on my stomach and on my skin.  Did I think I could never give up cheese?  Yes.  But I did it.  And I've lived to tell the tale.  I've also been eating (mostly) vegan since the beginning of the year, but I knew this wouldn't be easy in Oran.  I was right.  That cast dinner on Monday night?  At a fish restaurant.  I'm going to have to plan my food more wisely for my next journey over.

The only option other than (butter-based) pastries and yogurt was this pre-sliced, intentionally stale bread and some "strawberry" jam that appeared to be 72% sugar and 12% colourant.  Yum!  The coffee, at least, was as delicious as it was needed.

At 7:30, our driver arrived to take one other actress and myself to set for hair and makeup.  It was here that I realised my silly error.

Before I get into it, let me lay down my defense.  Whilst on set the day before, I had run into the incomparable hair and makeup artists.  I had mentioned to the hair stylist that I hadn't washed my hair in a couple of days, and I asked whether it would be better to leave it or wash it before the next days filming.  She looked at it (pulled back) and asserted it was better to leave it a little dirty.  

Though I had managed a shower the day of the shoot, I dutifully kept my hair unwashed, despite noticing that is was pretty greasy as I brushed it back into a fresh ponytail.  

The stylist began to pull pins out of my hair as I sat down, and I removed my hair tie.  Her face dropped and her eyes widened.  "Oh no", she shook her head, "Oh no no no, I cannot do anything with this".  My eyes widened.  I too thought, Oh no.  "Far too much grease.  Far too much grease", she scolded, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

I had the overwhelming sensation that I had ruined everything five minutes after arriving.  Why hadn't I just washed it when I myself saw how greasy it was that morning?  I will never know.  I am proud to say I did not cry.

As I have spent a fair amount of time around French people before, I know they can have a slight tendency to exaggerate, and I kept that in mind as I apologised profusely (although I also dropped in the fact that she had told me not to wash my hair the day before).  She continued to say things like, "Far too much grease, far too much oil.  What are we going to do?  I can't do anything with this.  Impossible.  Impossible".  There must be a solution, I thought to myself.

And of course, there was.  "We'll have to wash it", she concluded finally, digging a bottle of shampoo out of her bag of tricks.  "Of course it won't be easy", she continued, "This is Algeria.  There's no hot water on tap".

"That's fine with me!" I assured her.

The house was similar in style to the one I had stayed in years earlier during my study abroad in Cameroon.  With tiled floors and walls that the residents swept daily, an outdoor balcony area, and a Turkish toilet upstairs (the kind with two raised rectangles suggesting where your feet should be planted and a funnel-style slant into a hole just behind them) it brought me right back to the days I had spent drinking beers on the porch in the afternoon Yaoundé sun, punctuated by freezing cold showers to wash away the perma-layer of sweat.

The hair stylist, of course, did not know this and was very concerned about pouring cold water from a basin over my head in the downstairs bathroom.  As I bent over the sink and rubbed the shampoo into the front of my hair, I laughed and told her it really was fine.

Her concern at the state of my hair had rapidly changed to concern at the circumstances that I was having to endure.  "Can you imagine?" she clucked, "Cold water when  you are used to..."

Of course she had (has) no idea what I'm used to.  She probably didn't know that this was my first feature film and that as an actor, I've put myself into much weirder/less comfortable situations for much less reward.  A little cold water wasn't going to get me down. 

One day of filming done, one lesson learned.  I will be making the trip four more times, and I'm sure there will be many more gaffs to follow.  At least next time I'll arrive on set with clean hair. 

Don't quit your day jobs

OR My week in review.

Although the U.K. general treats the un- and under-employed (including many artists) better than the U.S., my visa-holding status precludes me from receiving any government assistance or benefits.  Boringly, this means I work a lot, earn not-so-much, don't get any government monies, and without "concessions" (benefits) status, I miss out on lots of discounts (on gym memberships, theatre tickets, etc.).  That's right: I'm poor, and because I don't qualify for benefits, I have to pay more for things!

The upside to this situation is that I work a lot of ridiculous jobs to make ends meet.  I mean, I try to see it as an upside.  It's a pretty even trade off of all self respect for a few nuggets of comic gold. I actually have a (very exciting) well-paid ACTING job on the horizon, but in the meantime, I must keep plugging away.

This is what my schedule looked like this week:

Monday
JOB TITLE: Corporate Hospitality Assistant
UNIFORM: Black, long-sleeved, button-up shirt, black trousers, black leather shoes
JOB DESCRIPTION: Set up conference rooms with tea, coffee and biscuits.  Clear said conference rooms.  Prepare and serve sandwich lunches.  Drink lots of free coffee.

Tuesday
JOB TITLE: Costume Waitress
UNIFORM: Silver lamé catsuit, silver face paint, purple wig
JOB DESCRIPTION: Do the same waitressing as everyone else, only in a silver catsuit and purple wig.

Wednesday
JOB TITLE: Football Club Hospitality Hostess
UNIFORM: Tailored red dress with matching jacket, black court shoes
JOB DESCRIPTION: Greet guests in club level dining area, check tickets against list, make sure everyone gets a laniard, food and lots of beers.  Escort guest to boxes for football match, chat with everyone, make sure everyone has a good time and lots of beers.

Thursday
JOB TITLE: Cover drama teacher
UNIFORM: Whatever the fuck I want
JOB DESCRIPTION: Teach four teenagers something about acting.

Friday
JOB TITLE: In-store promoter
UNIFORM: Black suit, flouncy purple scarf, branded badge
JOB DESCRIPTION: Bother women in the vitamin aisle.  Imply that they are probably old and wish  to look younger.  Tout the benefits of a skin nutrition supplement.  Try not to gouge own eyes out with pen.

I was dreading the week.  I am really tired of working in catering.  Every time I have to pull on my black uniform and apron and polish up my service smile, I die a little inside.  It feels like a massive step backwards.  So yeah, I wasn't thrilled to be doing two waiting jobs.

Monday went shockingly well.  I turned up to do a day of hospitality at an office I worked at regularly about a year ago.  I was not thrilled for a number of reasons, the first of which was the aforementioned backward progression.  Secondly, the boss is a big racist.  Much of my time working there was spent subtly trying to dispute her generalisations without compromising my shitty but much-needed source of income.

For Example:

RACIST BOSS: She's very hard-working.  But that's Indians for you.

ME: Mmmhmm.

RB: Don't you think? They're very hard-working.

ME: Um, yes, some of them are, but I would not say that about all Indian people.  But yes.  She is very hard-working.

And then the same again for laziness, trustworthiness (or lack thereof), etc.  Charming, right?  I know.

Then there was the time when I was bullied mercilessly by another agency co-worker for no reason that I could ascertain and was essentially told (by the same boss) that she was a good worker and that I should therefore grin and bear it, at least until they could find someone else.  This was a woman who blanked me when I said Good morning, shushed me and said, "Shut up, you're too loud", when I'd ask a work-related questions, and humiliated me in front of guests by leaving me without assistance in service and then loudly accusing me of doing nothing.  I survived two brutal days of this before vowing never to work there again.

When I did return, it was to a change in middle management (I didn't even mention how the former floor supervisors used to bicker and try to get me to take sides).  I was told by the big boss that my bully had been in the UK on a false passport and was consequently deported, "Typical Indian!"  I did not receive an apology for having withstood workplace harassment.  Nor for having poor management excused with a racist remark.

But, January is a quiet month in the events biz, and needs must, so I plastered on my finest grin and decided to make the best of it.

And, whadayaknow?  The big boss was in the office all day instead of the kitchen.  There were several events going on throughout the day, and (as I could do the job blindfolded underwater), I was left to look after the conference rooms all by my beautiful, peaceful, zen-like lonesome.  I had some lovely chat with the (film-loving) manager, and I got the job done.  Bam!  Monday done.

I was expecting Tuesday to be ridiculous and slightly humiliating.  I was not really being paid enough to wear a skin-tight getup while everyone else wore normal catering gear, but again, needs must.

After having my makeup done in a baby changing station, I went to collect my costume and wig.  The  package featured a buxom blonde woman, seductively unzipping her catsuit.  On me, the size small costume was simultaneously too loose and too short.  The stirrup feet gave the baggy zip-up catsuit a comically taught effect.  I did not look sexy.  I looked like a five-year old in a onesie, post-growth–spurt.

The management also found it pretty funny (which was fine by me), and gave me an apron to complete my "future waitress" look, but more practically to give me my waist back.

I was fine with rocking a goofy look.  In fact, I'm much more comfortable playing goofy robot than sexy waitress, and I was only attracting the strangest looks until the BUTLERS IN THE BUFF arrived.

Yep, it's exactly what it sounds like.  Until instructed that they would be required to wear trousers for this event, they were sporting only bow-ties, collars, cufflinks (didn't know before you could get them as separates), and napkin-sized, front-covering-only aprons.  I did not gawk at their bare bottoms.  Much.  Not as much as most of my colleagues.

Naked waiters!  Sexy onesie robots!  I was allowed to change for the last hour and help with the heavy lifting in the back.  I was grateful.  Tuesday done!

I'm actually loving working at the football club.  Because it's actually a regular gig for me, I see a lot of the same guests, people remember and ask for me, and this week I got moved to the boxes, which meant I actually got to work during (not just before) the match.  I looked after a fabulously friendly group of guests, and I got to watch a good bit of the game, and I met some football Legends.

Thursday was even better.  I was really nervous, as I'm used to teaching little little kids, and teenagers kind of scare the bejesus out of me.  I also hadn't had to make up any kind of a lesson plan in over two years.  The regular teacher gave me free reign to try out my improv workshop ideas (the ones I've been sitting on forever).  This was spectacular in terms of forward progression and doing the kind of work I want to do, but forward progression is also terrifying.

I had nothing to be worried about.  The potential for apathy was diminished by the fact that those kids wanted to be there.  It was a one-hour private class, and I could have taught them for three.  They were game for what I brought and smart as shit.  I want more of it.

Friday I wanted to gouge my eyes out with a pen.  I resisted.

Could I work a 9 to 5 job and have more financial security/less day-to-day insanity?  Yes.  Would I be bored shitless?  Yes.

I'll take the occasional catsuit over a desk job any day.

SOB: Part Two

In the months leading up to and following my sister's marriage, I — as sister of the bride and maid of honour — learned absolutely nothing about planning weddings, bachelorette parties or showers.  I haven't even showered today.  I thank my loving, understanding sister for the kindness of limiting my responsibilities.  I do know if you want a kick-ass wedding, you should totally give her a call.

The day of Mara's wedding, I woke up grumpy.  I had managed to go for a run the morning before, but on the day itself, jet-lag was exacting its cruel, delayed revenge and getting the better of me.

Funny story, actually: I went for a run the day before my sister's wedding — the day of the rehearsal — at our local track.  I felt pretty darn good about myself.  I'm on vacation, I thought,  and I'm doing exercise.  It was a Friday morning, and no one else was at the track, save one blonde woman who had entered the park on the other side.  She was running towards me, and I didn't clock her until she was was about five feet away, at which point I realised that this woman — the one other jogger out on a Friday morning — was my sister.  We laughed and shook our heads as we recognised one another.

This is the kind of person my sister is: she gets up early the day before her wedding — the day she has to bring together a large number of people for a rehearsal and a meal, deal with any last minute disasters with poise and panache — to make sure she has time to exercise.  So, as it turns out, is her (then) fiancé, who rocked up sweaty a few minutes later from wherever he had been exercising.  No wonder they threw a kick-ass wedding.

But I digress.  I woke up grumpy the day of my sister's wedding.  I was jet-lagged, yes, but I was also reverting to thoughts and habits of adolescence.  The rehearsal lunch had been much more fun that I had anticipated.  I had, admittedly, been dreading the high school reunion aspect of that weekend.  You see, my sister's (now) husband was in my graduating class.  He was a star football player, a good student, well-liked.  He was (at least in my mind) one of the cool kids, and so were most of the guys who comprised his half of the wedding party.

Despite my anxieties, I found that ten years had been plenty long enough to level the playing field.  I don't mean in a Romy-and-Michelle-my-life-is-way-better-than-yours-now-revenge-plot way, because they all had taken interesting paths, too.  It seemed, thankfully, that we had all left high school far behind and had more in common than not.

Although I was getting on swimmingly with the groomsmen, I had a creeping, distinct, and most certainly fabricated and self-perpetuating feeling of outsiderness when it came to the bridal party.  Let me reiterate, THIS WAS COMPLETELY IN MY HEAD.  All of my sister's bridesmaids were lovely, friendly, welcoming and generally the kind of people that I'd expect Mara to hang out with, but their presence made me realise: I don't really hang out with Mara.  She's my sister, I love her, and we've come a long way from the days of psychological torture (her) and physical retaliation (me).  We get along really well, but I felt (in my own overly-anxious, -analytical head) that I couldn't compete.  These people were her best friends.  I was just an accident of parentage.  I had to be there.  She had to ask me to be her maid of honour.  I was family.

Old insecurities were accompanied by new obstacles.  My expired driver's license necessitated a reliance on my parents' transportation and an adherence to their respective schedules that I wasn't loving.  I left the rehearsal lunch with my lovely, kind, wonderful cousin, who gave me a ride home and helped talk me back from the ledge overlooking self-effacing, pity-party land.  At that point, I was dealing with reoccurring and aforementioned (in the previous post) feelings about being some kind of weird, non-marriage–wanting, hometown-leaving pariah (all completely self-inflicted titles).  She talked sense to me.

I only found out later that night (curse you Facebook and your truth-telling photos!) that after we had left, my sister, Ben, and all the rest of the bridal party had carried on revelling together, and even in their imbibed state, had managed to work together to place all the name cards for the next day's reception.  I was livid!  (Privately.)  How could they exclude me so thoughtlessly, I lamented to myself, I'm the maid of honour!

(Maybe because my cousin kindly drove me home when I would have had no other way of getting back across the river to my mom's house, as everyone else in the bridal party was staying in a nearby hotel?)

Oh, the humanity!

So yes, I woke up grumpy.  I felt a little left out.  All the ladies had stayed in a suite together the night before.  I bet they had lots of fun and exciting late-night conversations without me.  Was I invited to sleep on half a couch or one-third of a bed or the floor with the rest of them that night?  Yes.  Did I independently and sensibly decide to sleep in the comfort of an unshared double bed at my mom's house instead?  Yes.  But still.

I decided to shake it off.  This was not about me, I reminded myself, just as I had when I was considering the best punchlines for my non-traditional maid-of-honour toast.  This was Mara's day, and I was just a small part of it.  The most important and helpful thing I could do was behave and butt out.

My step-dad gave me a ride to the hotel in Portland, and we swung by an ATM so I could get some cash for whatever booze/taxi situation was to arise later that night.  I scuttled into the shop, inserted my UK card, entered the pin, and was denied.  Several times.  Idiot.  I completely forgot to tell my bank that I was travelling.  Idiot.

I returned to the car, frustrated, fighting a mounting sensation that the world was against me, but determined not to let it get to me.  My step-dad kindly offered to lend me money, as did my dad over the phone, and all was well again.  I was dropped off outside the Marriott hotel, bridesmaid dress bagged and draped over my arm.

I proceeded to the 16th floor where I knocked on the door with the room number I'd been given.  No response.  That's funny, I thought, but they're probably all just having such a great time that they can't even hear me.  Or they were at breakfast.  One of those.

I called my sister and told her I was at the door.  'That's weird', she said, 'I thought you needed a key card to get to this floor'.

'Nope!' I replied confidently.

'Okay I'm coming', she said, so I hung up.

Still no one at the door.  Hmmm.

I called her back.

Mara: 'Which Marriott are you at?'

Me: 'I don't know, the one I was dropped off at.'

Mara: 'The Waterfront?'

Me (becoming frantic): 'I don't know!  Is there more than one?'

Mara: 'Oh my gaaaahhhd, I wrote City Center in the email.  Why did he take you to the Waterfront one?'

Me (nearing tears): 'I don't know!  Where's the one you're at?  Is it far?'

Mara: 'I don't know.  Can't you get him to drive you here?'

Me (eyes burning, indignation rising): 'No!  He's gone and I don't have his number in this stupid phone!'

Mara: 'Don't panic.  The hair and makeup girls aren't even here yet.  They went to the wrong hotel, too.'

We agreed that I would get there somehow, and that it couldn't be to far, as downtown Portland is fairly small and walkable.

I burst into tears and called my mom.  Yes: 27 years old, wearing shorts, flip-flops, no make-up, and carrying a very fancy dress, I cried for my mommy in an upscale hotel lobby.

She answered the phone with, 'Hello?  Oh no!  I can't believe he took you to the wrong place, but I'm driving so I'm going to have to pass you to your aunt', at which point I tried really hard not to cry over the phone to my aunt, to whom I hadn't spoken since the previous Christmas.

'It's okay,' she assured me, 'Where are you?'

Drawing on my vague recollections of local geography from my high school and college summers of working in Portland, I described my location (I had walked a few blocks from the wrong hotel) and the address my sister had given me of the correct hotel.  At this point, my aunt made the extremely logical suggestion that I go back inside the lobby and ask them for directions to the other hotel, as it was part of the same chain, and they would know how to get there.  She also suggested I take a taxi.  I thanked her, hung up the phone, and did neither of those things.

It wasn't far to walk — maybe 20 minutes — and I was glad for the fresh air and the time to decompress.  I even impressed myself slightly with my memory of street names and landmarks in downtown Portland.  When I finally arrived at the City Center Marriott, I was slightly frazzled, but ready to do whatever was needed to help out.

Mara was composed, drinking gallons of water from a SuperGulp-style cup, and saying, 'Oh my god you guys, I'm freaking out', in an incredibly calm voice.  I delivered Ben's ring to the boys' suite downstairs, made some unwanted suggestions, got told, 'I don't need another mother!', tried not to cry, and drank champagne as it arrived — one bottle at a time — in the room.

(I was sharing the champagne with 8 or 9 other women in the room.  I was not drinking bottles on my own.  I was aware that I still had to stand in front of a crowd of people and speak twice without embarrassing my sister, so I was well-behaved.)

Everyone was having a good time, getting hair and makeup done, discussing the day's schedule, but there was a palpable tension in the air.  Weddings do make people a little bit crazy.  My sister was remarkably calm.  She only nearly lost her shit when Ben almost (or so she thought, actually) saw her in her dress before the ceremony for the second time, but she apologised later.  As this was my first 'behind the scenes' experience, I was struck by my sister's ability to remain calm while trying to act as the organiser and main event in one of the most important experiences of her life thus far.  Considering I nearly broke down over a malfunctioning debit card, a little bit of misdirection, and a hackneyed, sisterly insult, I am not cut out for such serenity under pressure.

What I loved the most about my sister's wedding was that it was her.  Okay, I'm sure there were some compromises and attempts to please both families, but what she wanted, more than anything, was to throw the best party ever.  And she succeeded.

SOB: Part One

(Sister of the Bride)

I've been trying to finish this post for weeks, but a combination of performing in a show every night of the week, having lots to say, and general laziness have kept me from doing so.  As a result, I have decided to recap the events surrounding my sister's nuptials in instalments.

I give you: PART ONE! (Being Maid of Honour)

So, my sister's married.

Let me not spend too much time saying that it's a little bit weird when one's sibling gets hitched -- let alone one's only sibling, let alone one's younger sister -- because I pretty much always knew Mara would get there way before I did, if I did.  Like, always always.  Pretty much since she was born almost 25 years ago.  Even then.

That said, when I got the text just under a year ago that said 'I'M ENGAGED!! Call me', I did have moment of hysterical, stereotypical, older sister life-choice-questioning.  This was only exacerbated when I went home over Christmas and spent an evening with my sister, her fiancé, my cousin and her husband, in which the entire conversation revolved around weddings and babies, and I thought (for a brief second), What is wrong with me? Why don't I want this? Why am I so weird?  There was no Lamaze breathing involved, but I did feel momentarily like an alien, and my life outside of my home town seemed to exist in another dimension.

Also, in my head, my sister is still this age, so it's hard to think about her doing anything grown up.

(She's the cute one, by the way.  I'm the one with the over-sized, unnecessary glasses that were prescribed by a quack eye doctor who was trying to make a quick buck.  We both, however, suffered the indignity of bowl cuts at the hands of our father.)

But I got over it, got over myself, and tried to be as involved in the conversation and planning as anyone who knows nothing about marriage and only has a vague, vacillating desire to procreate can be.

Before my visit home, when I finally got to talk to her on Skype, Mara asked me to be her maid of honour.  I cried.  Well, I teared up.  For some reason (possibly related to childhood nerdiness insecurities), I did not think that out of my sister's throngs of super cool friends, she would ask me.  Also, I live really far away and was concerned that -- aside from not grasping the concept of 'showers' or 'bachelorette parties' -- I would not be able to lend a hand or plan things very well from that distance.

My sister patiently responded, 'Of course I was going to ask you', and then assured me that I didn't need to do anything but show up.

And so, aside from a brief discussion at Christmastime, I proceeded to forget about the whole thing for the next 10 months.  Yes, I briefly considered joining (though never planning) the bachelorette party, until the other five bridesmaids informed me Mara wanted to go to Vegas.  That option was slightly out of budget/time constraints, plus I'm not much of a Vegas girl anyway.  At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not, having never actually been there.

I heard about the shower, sent some flowers, and also sent in my measurements for a dress.  A week before the wedding, Mara asked me if I wanted to do a reading at the ceremony and a toast at the reception.  I said 'Sure', because talking in front of people is my job.

I arrived the Tuesday night before the wedding completely jet-lagged, but ready to jump in and help with any last minute ribbon-tying or paper-folding, but as ever, Mara didn't want my help.  Or anyone's.  She's pretty self-sufficient, that sister of mine, and like me (I suspect), would rather do something herself than let someone else screw it up.

So all I had to do before the wedding day arrived was practice my reading, and write my toast.  The reading was fine.  I decided not to memorise it, because forgetting the words would be super awkward, so I just familiarised myself with the text, and then moved on to panicking over what I was going to say at the reception without talking for 9 years, forgetting to mention Ben (the groom), or embarrassing my sister or myself.

I laboured over my notebook for days.  What to say without sounding cheesy, or worse, inadvertently envious?  I wanted to joke about our fights and my jealousy when we were kids, but without making it seems like I still secretly resented her (I don't).  I did not want to be that Maid of Honour, the one who gets drunk and says, 'Isn't my sister pretty?', but with an evil glint in her eye.  I wanted to be funny!  I wanted to impress.

But then I remembered that it wasn't about me, and that made things a bit simpler.  This wasn't my wedding day, and it wasn't my stand-up show or my story at a party either.  This was about Mara.  I typed up a page of things I thought it would be nice to say, we did the whole wedding thing (more on that later), and I arrived at the reception, ready (if nervous) to say my piece.

I thought, based on the few 'traditional' weddings I've been to, that the toasts would be done right away.  I was wrong.  My sister and Ben spent an hour taking photos (as scheduled) while the bridal party hid upstairs so we could make a grand entrance together.  That was one extra hour to panic slightly, and not drink too much so as not to become nightmare MOH as described above.

(These photos happened much later in the evening, once I did allow myself to start celebrating.  Heavily.)

Once we did get downstairs, dinner was promptly served.  I expressed my growing concern to my sister, asked her whether or not I should bring up my bit of prompt paper, and once again, she responded patiently and sagely: 'Anne, you know what you want to say, and I know it's going to be fine.  You don't need the paper'.  I felt reassured, but still did not know when these toasts were happening.  I chatted and ate, all the while sure I would be called into action at any moment.  More courses kept arriving.

It felt as if hours were passing.  Mara and Ben had decided to try to get around to greet every one of their 180 guests.  The dinner had finished and the tunes were picking up.  It was the first wedding I'd ever been too where guests started dancing before the bride and groom had their first dance, but no one seemed to mind.

The best man and I were finally called up when I had finally relaxed into conversation and started in on a glass of wine.  Mara and Ben were with us by the DJ's table, and he handed me the mic.  As I do at a stand-up gig, I had a few notes written on my wrist in case I drew a total blank, but I'm pretty sure I got through most of what I wanted to say.  I don't really remember, as it really did happen very quickly, but I was praised later on the brevity of my toast, so I think it was as much reality as my adrenaline-clouded perception.

I saw my sister's face go cold for one second when she thought I was going to say something embarrassing, but I didn't, and she immediately looked relieved.  She hugged me afterwards and said, 'That was really good'.  And it was.  It was all really good.

Coming soon: PART TWO!  All of the other things that a sister's wedding entails. 

The Prodigal Daughter Returns

To Vancouver, Washington.  For her sister's wedding.

(It's probably clear from that Biblical allusion that I know nothing of that particular story other than there was a guy who went away for a while and then came back.)

I am jet-lagged, fog-brained, and completely disorient(at)ed by the oversized roads, attentive sales assistants, and cacophony of American accents.

After 9 hours of plane travel, 3 hours of car travel, and 8 hours of time travel, I arrived at my mom's house last night just in time fall into a 10-hour coma.  I managed to get a Burgerville dinner in there somewhere, making every other harrowing part of the journey worthwhile.

My sister's wedding is on Saturday (more to follow), and I am doing my best to shove 9 month's of maid-of-honour duty into three days.  Today this meant buying shoes, getting a dress fitted, acquiring appropriate undergarments, and offering my time/energy/help to my super organised, slightly stressed-out sister, who promptly turned me down.  All she's asked is that I do a reading at the ceremony.  I'm sure she'll tell me what it is at some point, but doing cold readings is pretty much 97% of my job, so it'll be fine.  Oh, and a toast at the reception, but I'm an improv pro, so that'll all work out, too.  If all I have to do is show up in a dress that fits on the day and speak in front of a large crowd of people, I'd call that my ideal bridesmaid scenario.  If I don't trip or fart on the way up to the podium, nothing more need happen.

(I genuinely have a fear of farting at my sister's wedding that has cropped up in the last week or so. I often perform in front of large groups of people, I have never farted then, and I do not have a general problem with flatulence, so I'm not sure where this fear derives from, other than my certitude that I will do something inadvertent and absurd to ruin the perfection that will be my sister's special day.  But I won't.  I promise.)

It is weird to be home.  It gets weirder the longer I live in London, the more it feels more like home.  Do I really live 5000 miles away?  How was I just there and now I'm here?  Is this delicious boysenberry jam trying to convince me to stay?  Why does everyone hate healthcare so much?  These are the questions that have plagued me for the last 24 hours.

I felt nostalgic driving down the evergreen-rich stretch of I-5 between Seattle and Vancouver, and I love seeing my family, but this place doesn't feel like home anymore.  I guess it hasn't felt like home for a while, but it's a new revelation that somewhere else does.  Maybe it's just a product of living in the same place for more than a year -- which I haven't done since college -- but leaving London showed me just how much I want to stay there.

The Curse of 27

A month and a half ago, I turned 27.

I turned 26 in a sleep-deprived, elated state whilst performing as part of a Future Cinema event at a party in Cannes.  It was at once the most exhilarating and confusing time of my life to that point.  The intervening year has brought huge changes -- the end of a relationship, a period of couchsurfing, settling into a new home and a new city, finding a job and more jobs, committing myself to my artistic pursuits -- many of which were precipitated by that fateful birthday night on the dance floor of the Stella Artois tent on the Mediterranean coast of France.

I sometimes look back at the previous year of my life and think, 'Shit, some amazing things happened, but I am so glad to be through that.'  I could look at turning 27 simply as a fresh start, another chance to recommit to myself and embrace all of the positive aspects of ageing and getting to know oneself better; but I also get it.  I get why 27 is the year of the curse.  I get why there is a '27 Club'.

Let me just preface the rest of this piece by saying that I am not suicidal, and that I do very much wish to reach my 28th birthday, and many more birthdays to come.  I am a mostly well-adjusted individual who is somewhat blindly groping her way towards the next big changes in her ever-evolving life, and I am scared shitless.

As a child, I imagined my 20s would be full of grown-up life.  I was convinced that 6th-graders were on the verge of adulthood, so imagining a person in his or her 20s as anything other than accomplished and omniscient was beyond my grasp.  Twenty-seven was grown-up, and grown-ups wore suits and and had families and took their kids with them to work so that they could see what they, too, would someday become.  Never mind that my parents were in their late-30s/early-40s when I was tagging along to the classroom and office to learn about their working lives, because to me, 25 and 45 were pretty much the same thing.

Thanks mostly to my (wonderfully supportive, non-granchildren-demanding) mother's insight, I also grew up thinking that 28 was the perfect age to start having kids.  The reasonable aspects of that deadline have begun to fade in the past few years as I realised that traveling the world, postponing career aspirations, and following the wrong men around are all valuable, life-lesson–rich pursuits, but they do not lead to financial stability, personal contentment, strong partnerships, or any of the other prerequisites (of which I was entirely unaware as a child) to starting one's own family.

Twenty-seven is an age where reality comes to a head with expectations.  I suddenly find myself closer to 30 than 20, but only marginally closer to mapping a route to my artistic career goals.  I get it, 27 is scary, even for those 27-clubbers who died in the throes of success and acclaim.  Even when you start to get what you want, knowing how to cope with that reality adjustment is scary.  A taste of success can be thrilling, but it can also spin back into self-doubt.  After all, a one-time success can be just that, and who's to say that the next thing you come up with will be any good?

The pressure of financial independence and worth begins to set in.  At 23 or 24, the temping and food service jobs seem, well, temporary.  At 27, I still have never had a job (that wasn't temporary) with any kind of financial security, let alone benefits.  I have scraped by, borrowed money, and moved to a country where at least access to health care is free and universal.

Instead of a blossoming career that unfolds seamlessly before me, I have the fruits of my own labour.  I suddenly find myself living by clichés and mantras.  'By doing things, things get done'; 'You get out what you put in'; 'Making things happen makes more things happen'. (Okay, that last, less eloquent one is my own, but it's true!)  The walls of my room are plastered with affirmations and reminders: 'Take yourself SERIOUSLY'; 'Stop being so CAREFUL'; 'LOVE and NURTURE yourself'; 'TRUST YOUR TALENT'.  I feel like a nut sometimes, and when I bring a guy home for the first time, I often wonder if I should quickly hide them away and pretend to be more normal and sane and together, but I'm not.  I am 27.  This is what I need right now.

What I have gained at 27 that I lacked at 23 is personal insight and the increasing strength to listen to my own desires.  I was always mistaken for someone older, a fact which led me to believe that I was mature and worldly beyond my years.  In reality, I was just desperate to grow up, to get to that place where I imagined I'd have it all together.  I was mature, but without the life experience to back my old soul.  As I grow older and begin to know more about myself, I only learn how much more I have to learn.  See the way I'm embracing cliché?

Hackney Weekend

Having been slightly disappointed by Lovebox on the previous weekend, I didn't know exactly what to think going into BBC Radio 1's Hackney Weekend on Saturday.  Would I spend another two hours being outraged at the lack of variety of acts and fighting the urge to leave and walk home?  I mean, I like Drum & Bass as much as the next guy, but between the hours of 5 and 7pm, when you aren't on any Class A drugs, and that seems to be ALL that is playing on every single one of the five stages, it's enough to make you want to eat your £50-ticket and storm out.  If the Groove Armada hadn't swept in with one of the most engaging, beautiful, theatrical sets I've ever seen, I think I would have done just that.

But that was Lovebox, and this was Hackney Weekend.  For starters, the tickets for HW had been FREE (and well worth the faff of an endlessly crashing website on the day of release), so if it was terrible, I could just wash my hands of it, nothing lost or gained, and walk out.  That was the contingency plan.

We were warned by email, website, and news coverage to allow two hours to get through the queue.  This seemed outrageous, but we weren't worried about catching the early acts, so we moseyed up about two hours after the 1pm start, drinks in hand, prepared to wait.  I guess if you were trying to get in for half ten when the gates opened, then it might have taken two hours.  We ended up abandoning a Strongbow and half a Crabbies because we couldn't finish them before the bag search.

We were in by 3:30, having breezed through the hyped-up security points.  We arrived at the main stage and caught the end of Rizzle Kicks.

(A brief warning: All of my video footage from this event is pretty shoddy.  The iPhone 3GS does not agree with heavy, resounding bass, so I've done my best to trim and dull the sound, but please forgive the appalling quality.)

I have had a slight crush on these Brighton boys since I first saw this video, but my Brighton-boy date has some personal beef with them involving the ill treatment of a lady friend, so we didn't stick around for long.  I always try to side with the better treatment of ladies.

We did buy a £7 programme so we'd know what was on which of the six stages at any given time, and it was a valuable investment.  We could see right away that we didn't want to see much on the Main Stage until Jay-Z at 9:50pm, so we headed to the In New Music We Trust Stage, which proved to have the best lineup throughout the rest of the day.

After a wander to suss out the food situation, we settled in out of the rain with some terrible fish and chips to wait for the Maccabees.  This ended up being our first happy accident of the day (the waiting, not the fish), as we ended up seeing Rudimental.  The opening -- which I tried (and arguably failed) to capture in the video below -- was incredible.

Yes, I had to mask most of the sound from the above clip, and it's pretty shaky and blurry, but those drummers are wearing rabbit heads, and that's the kind of theatricality that I love.  They proceeded to play a fantastic set, including this song, which has one of my favourite music videos at the moment.  It was amazing.  I can't actually remember whether we saw the Maccabees.

We made another tour of the grounds, and stumbled on Nicki Minaj.  Now, I know that Nicki Minaj is not the most amazing singer, but I am a fan of her cheek (pun intended), and I expected her to put on a good show.  What I saw was not bad, it was just exactly how it sounds on the radio.  Because it was all prerecorded.  

See that woman in clear view singing along to the Nicki Minaj track?  That's what Nicki Minaj was doing.  Singing along (sometimes) to a recording of her singing.  Sometimes she just skipped around the stage, clearly not lip-synching to the track that was playing.  I still sang along to Super Bass, because hey, it's catchy.

We caught Jack White back at the In New Music We Trust Stage (why he was there is a bit confusing) with his all-male band.  We got there early, which meant we were up front with the die-hard fans, so we were in a bit of a jump-or-be-jumped-on situation; I chose jump.  Jack White was incredible, and finished just in time for us to get a drink on the way to the Main Stage for Jay-Z.

Jay-Z was... exactly as amazing as I expected.  He opened with 'Run This Town', and as he stepped out of the darkness onto a smoke-filled stage, who should step out from behind him but Rihanna.  It was an incredible, high-energy opening to a set of greatest hits.  Check it out here (somehow the BBC's footage is slightly better than mine).

This was one of my favourite moments, and also one of the only ungarbled bit of footage I have:

After 'Dirt Off Your Shoulder' and '99 Problems', the unmistakable opening of 'Paper Planes' began playing, and sure enough, there was MIA, guest star number two.  Unfortunately, her mic stopped working halfway through the one song she came to perform, but she managed to grab one off a backup singer (rapper?) and carry-on.  

Jay-Z's set ended around 10:15, but we all knew the license ran until 11, so we eagerly (and at this point, damply) awaited the encore.  Several minutes of theatrical silence from the stage and cheers of 'More!' from the audience followed, and then a gigantic American flag dropped down from the rafters.  It looked like this, only slightly less blurry:

Jay-Z stepped out onto the stage with his signature hoodie pulled low over his face, head bowed towards the audience, back to the American flag, hands clasped in front of him.  Suddenly, and with great flourish, he pulled back his hoodie, raised his head and began-- oh my god it's Kanye!!  It was Kanye West, not Jay-Z.  They pulled the old bait and switch, and they got us all.  

Jay-Z came back out, and the show finished up with several tracks off their collaborative 'Watch the Throne' Album.  At that point, I realised that all of my footage would not only suffer the inadequate technologies of an iPhone camera, but also the constant and uncontrollable movement of my dancing.  Lesson learned: enjoy the concert, don't try to capture it for others on your new toy.  

Other valuable lessons of the day included: even if you're sure it's about to rain and you really want to get some food and find shelter, don't go to the one food stand without a queue, especially for fish and chips; your fish will be microwaved and soggy and your chips will have been refried several times for similar, heat-retaining purposes.  Also, don't buy too much booze for the entrance queue if you're arriving mid-afternoon, and don't panic about the hyperbolised security warnings: I saw everything from bottles of vodka to much harder stuff inside.  I'm pretty sure the guy who checked my ticket was 16.  

Allow me to conclude by saying thank you to the BBC for creating this free event and giving access and priority to local residents.  It was great to be on what now feels like my home turf, enjoying East London in all of its drizzly glory.

New foot!

Nearly six weeks ago, I stupidly and severely burned my left foot.  Today, the bandages finally came off.

It is discoloured and scarred for the moment, but I can't tell you how sexy it looks compared to the mound of exposed flesh/regrowing skin it was a few weeks ago.

I am off to take a shower with both of my legs inside the tub and then go to work.  Life is good.

I am an actor.

I am practicing saying this out loud.  And also writing it in public spaces.

I have always had trouble answering confidently when people ask, "What do you do?"

My hesitation derives from a combination of self-doubt (every artist's personal demon) and the idiotic responses I get from people when I say I'm an actress.

Proof!  Look at me learning lines at the last minute!

Actually, let's start here: gender.  I tend to say I'm an actor.  To me, this is a gender-neutral term (although my friend Ariel did suggest the alternative use of 'actron', and I like that), and it leaves out some of my personal qualms with the diva qualities (personal prejudice) associated with the word 'actress'.

A COMMON SCENARIO:
New Acquaintance: "So, what is it you do?"
Anne: "I'm an actor."
NA: "Don't you mean 'actress'?"

I don't remember getting this particular line so much when I was in the States, so maybe it's a British thing, but I find it infuriating.

To be fair, some of the people who ask me this question do not speak English as a first language, so it could be a sign of a genuine translation problem, especially for those whose native tongues include gendered articles and pronouns.  Nevertheless, if they continue to argue the point after I say, "No, I mean actor.  An actor can be a man or a woman," I generally sigh and walk away.

If we get beyond or bypass this first hiccup in the conversation, what usually follows is this:

NA: "That's great.  Been in anything I would have seen?"

It's probably because I have not been in anything you would have seen that this question perturbs me so (refer to aforementioned self-doubt), but I also find this type of comment naïve and reductive.

It's like when I tell people I do stand-up and they say, "Really?  Tell us a joke."  It's as though, if you told me you were an accountant, I'd say, "Really? File my taxes."  Because being an accountant means that you want to do my accounting.  Right now.  In this environment that is totally inappropriate for crunching numbers.

I also think that if I had been in something you had SEEN, you probably would have SEEN me in it, thus making the question moot.

As a result, when asked this seemingly uncontroversial question, I usually begin with, "Um..."  In that moment of verbal hesitation, I am considering whether I should just lie; whether I should tell this person that I am just a bartender (I am a bartender, so it's not an egregious falsehood), rather than delve into a lengthy explanation of an actor's struggle to be valued and paid as a part of a creative venture.

No more!  I am an actor, and a damned good one at that.  I landed a paid gig at my first London audition.  In the last year I have shot three short films (two of which I wrote or conceptualised), was flown to France to perform at the Cannes Film Festival, worked with two wildly popular and successful interactive theatre companies, and secured two commercial auditions, all without an agent or showreel.  Imagine what I'll do when I get the agent and showreel sorted.

I am an actor.

Wedding season begins

A few weeks ago, I went to my second cousin's wedding.

This is one of two second cousins that I only realised I had a few years ago when we reunited on my mom's recommendation whilst I was living in France.  I knew my mom still had cousins in the UK (my grandparents are Scottish), but I didn't realise there were any kicking around in my generation.

In the strange turn of events that has reversed the immigration of my family to the US (okay, not my whole family, just me, but it has that "full circle" sentiment), I have bonded with these cousins, and when the younger one decided to get hitched, he invited me along.

I didn't know many people at the wedding.  In fact, other than the half-dozen or so people I am directly related to, I only knew one person.  We created the false appearance of being together by arriving together, and I didn't want to cramp his style.

Weddings are obviously — if I understand movies to be an accurate reflection of life — rife with desperate (probably sexy), single women whose desperation and single status are being thrown in their faces by the ONE THING they want MORE THAN ANYTHING: marriage OR, if you get them drunk enough, any single dude in sight.

Anyway, I wanted to let my non-date get on with the mingling, so I had a lot of time for personal reflection.  Here are some things I learned (or was reminded) about myself:

1.  My camera is shit

Or I am a terrible photographer.  Or both!  My digital camera is definitely old, and when I bought it on sale four years ago before moving to France, I didn't know anything about appealing features, other than low price.

In any case, the only photos that turned out from that day were those taken by other people.

The good news is, I now have lots of fun pictures of me with relatives that I don't get to see very often, including one with a my Gran's sister's sister-in-law (you figure it out) whose name is also Anne!

The bad news is that I have no reasonable photos of the actual bride and groom, or of the ceremony itself.  Maybe I should stop taking my camera out of the house, altogether.

2. I am bad at turning off my hospitality-industry self

REALLY bad.  It is a special combination of social awkwardness and control mongering (sprinkled with a pinch of critical nature) that makes a person want to clear away champagne glasses and serve canapés rather than interact with unfamiliar human adults.

This was the first wedding I had attended in a year at which I was not a member of the service staff, and I found myself either gripping my own thigh to prevent myself from removing empty glasses from outdoor ledges, or engaging in conversations with strangers about what the service staff was doing wrong.  Because it's okay to be a dick about service when you're part  of the service industry.  Right?

3. I like holding babies and playing with children

In fact, I like both of those things way more than trying to make small talk with people I will never, ever see again.  (Refer to above feelings about interacting with unfamiliar human adults.)

I really like babies.  You might call it a 'maternal instinct' or my 'biological clock ticking away', but  I have loved babies since I was about 7 and saw myself fit to look after the 'smaller children' at family gatherings.  I was definitely not old enough to bear them, so there.  I get all warm and fuzzy when I see babies and I like to hold them and coo and cradle them back and forth.  (Also, holding a baby means no free hands to obsessively do the waitstaff's job.)  Sue me.

I also have a survival instinct.  I like to hold babies for a little while, and then I like to give them back.

Playing with children is something I probably enjoy more now than when I was a child.  Okay, that can't be true, but I was kind of an anxious nerd of a kid, and so many games seemed to involve a level of athleticism that I did not possess, so — as not to injure my fragile pride — I spent most recesses in the library.  In fact, I think they made a new rule limiting the number of recesses you could spend in the library per week because of me.

Now, though, I love playing with kids.  They are so much easier to win over than adults.  Instead of talking about the weather — and that painful, 12-minute conversation actually did happen — or explaining what it is you do, you can just be silly and make up games like Put Your Foot On a Rock!  Kids love it when you're silly.  Plus, I have become much more athletic in my 20s than I was as a child, and I can set the bar really low with games like the above-mentioned and by competing against a 4-year old.

4. I am softening on this whole marriage/wedding thing


I used to always say having kids was much more important to me than ever getting married.

I'm sure, if pressed, certain friends would recall me declaring, "I'll never get married!" in a highly impassioned manner.

I've definitely said that if I did get married, I would not have a wedding, "because there are better things to spend money on!"  I still think it's silly to spend what some people do on weddings, but I've been to some really special ones of late (discounting the ones I've worked at), and I guess I can kind of see the point.  Love and celebrating with friends and all that.

That's the end of the list but I just want to say one or two more things.


I had a lot of fun at this wedding.  My list makes it seem like all I did was complain to toddlers about the quality of service, but I only did that for a few minutes before I realised I was at the wrong table.

Thanks to the magical social lubricant that is alcohol, I did manage to have ongoing conversations with adults, and I might have even made some witty remarks.  I danced, I mingled, I ate a delicious dinner, and my trusty non-date let me pass out for the entire train journey back to London, ensuring only that I did not carry on sleeping and miss the last tube.

If more of my days were filled with holding babies, drinking pink Prosecco, and sleeping through long public transit journeys, I don't think I'd have much to complain about.