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.

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.