As long as I'm not trying to ride the pig's wings to instant stardom

As students at that music conservatory that I love to mock, we never talked about its reputation. We all knew about it- we knew it, the faculty knew it, U.S. News and World Report knew it. But we never felt the need to say it aloud. Of course, it could have had something to with having a deep-rooted sense that if you’re not a child prodigy performing at Carnegie Hall, you’re still not good enough. Or the implicit social rule that serious, cynical artists must reject anything so simple as school spirit. But mostly, it was because talking about it would’ve made us the equivalent to the kid in school that is almost cool, but never gets there because she is trying too hard to prove it.

Now that I’ve been in my current program for the summer term and have been through orientation and the first week of the fall semester, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard in the most explicit of terms that we are in the BEST ADVERTISING PROGRAM IN THE COUNTRY. And I’m beginning to have to resist the urge to gasp dramatically each time yet another faculty member says it and say, “What? OMG. I had no. idea. Why didn’t anyone say so?”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m Texan, I’m proud and I will HOOK ‘EM until the day I die. But being proud of your state and your football team is one thing. You know that none of that actually makes you better than anyone else.

And I am remarkably thankful to be in this program and I fully agree that it really is an extremely comprehensive and solid program with relevant classes where people are actually very nice and down-to-earth. I know that they remind us of the reputation over and over again with the hope that it will motivate us to do well. But please. Give us a little credit. I mean, anyone who really does need such educational ego feeding to do well will probably end up as the 55-year-old stuck in a career rut, wondering why the BEST PROGRAM IN THE COUNTRY didn’t catapult him to stardom.

For once, I wish things were a little more like the music conservatory.

Wait, did I really just write that? Was that a pig flying past my window?

Snowflakes that fall on my nose and sunglasses

When I moved to Austin a couple years ago, I swore on my Dirk Nowitzki fathead that I would not change.  I would not become a hippie, an emo, a “cool band” elitist or anyone who throws on a pair of Birkenstocks and exposes her dirty, crusty toenails for all the world to see.  No, the city that keeps it weird WOULD NOT CHANGE a single fake-blonde hair on my head.

Well y’all, I've changed.  No, I haven't cultivated a full head of dreds.  Nor have I replaced all of my Britney Spears tunes with Ghostland ones.  I have changed in an entirely different way.  And I didn’t even know I'd changed until last week, during Dallas’s first “snowfall” of the season.   There I was, driving to work through a flurry of snowflakes and I'll be damned if I didn't SMILE.  Because of the snow.  And then another pig flew past my window.

You see, I am not one of those Texans who is fascinated and delighted with frozen water falling from the sky.  After all,  I was a kindergartener who trudged through a Denver blizzard and a pesky little sister on a sled, pulled by my reluctant brother through white Calgary winters. So up until I was 18, my attitude toward snow was something like an offhanded “meh.”  But then there were the four long years at the music conservatory in one Rochester, NY.  And that is when my attitude changed from “meh” to “Are you there God?  It’s me, the girl from Texas.  JUST KILL ME.”  Ok, it may have had something to do with the fact that Rochester’s skies are especially sunless.  And snow that accumulates into frozen heaps of greasy, gray slush looks way worse under gloomy skies than under the forgiving light of sunshine.  And ok, it probably had a LOT to do with the fact that I started to associate snow with walking through that slush in frumpy down coats and ass-freezing temperatures while my spirit slowly lost all of its breath because I was trying to force it to BE A VIOLINIST AND BE HAPPY ABOUT IT, DAMN IT.

Which is why, for several years, at the very sight of snow, I'd put my hands up in defense and yell, NO I WILL NOT SPEND AN HOUR BY MYSELF IN A TINY PRACTICE ROOM, PERFECTING MY 4-OCTAVE MINOR ARPEGGIOS! And then I'd turn on a sappy love song, curl up with my sunglasses and a pair of strappy sandals and spend the day pining for the sunshine, wondering if I'd feel its heavenly glory ever again.

And how did I get from that to smiles and flying pigs?  Austin, Texas.  The place where five minutes of walking outside in the summertime left me in an ugly, sticky sweat.  The same place where five minutes of walking outside in the dead of winter left me in an ugly, sticky sweat - in the dead of winter, wearing  a short-sleeved T-shirt no less.  The place that is regularly about 10 degrees hotter and 500% more humid than Dallas.  Now I know that 10 degrees sounds like nothing to people who don't live in Texas, Florida, the deep south or any other place that closes down at the drop of a snowflake, but thinks nothing of spending every waking triple-degree summer day frying in the heat. But, trust me, it is different.  So different that even a warm-weather lover like me can start craving cold.  I missed the two times a year I get to drive on ice.  I missed getting to wear my winter sweaters for more than one morning every six weeks.  And I wanted to be able to walk outside in December without wondering if people were staring at the sweaty ring around my neckline or if they were just very fascinated with my remarkably flat chest.

So of course I was happy to see the snow last week.  Because snow, it seems,  no longer means the sun has abandoned me forever, leaving me with only a violin and my Galamian technique book.  No, y'all - it means that I just might get to wear a sweater AND a coat for several days in a row and leave the ugly sweat at the gym where it belongs.

It also means that as I drove through the snow that day, I took a moment to reach out: "Are you there God?  It's me, the girl who kinda likes snow now.  So... can we possibly do something about the flat chest?"


 

London Trip, Thursday 9/29 -- Hello London!!

• Does it really pay to be prepared? When it comes to packing, I've always been more of a happy-go-lucky, throw it all together at the last minute kind of a girl. This time I was highly organized and was almost all packed, 4 days in advance. I'd like to say that it made things much more relaxed and stress-free, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Every night, I'd compare the same list and contents of my bags all over again. I was constantly wondering if I forgot something until the night before I left.
• I think I know what it feels like to be a baby. Either a baby or a pig in a pen, that is... It's been a long time since I've flown a flight that isn't domestic or within the N. American continent. I'm so used to having just the small bag of pretzels, somewhere in the middle of the flight. I took an overnight flight into Gatwick so I tried to spend as much of the nine hours sleeping. But with the two meals, a snack and several beverages services, it was just a constant cycle of sleeping and eating. In London, we tried to stay up for the rest of the day, but eventually succumbed to taking a nap from lunch until dinner. Oink, oink.

A good cab driver is the best tour guide. You get a sense of the real life behind the tourist scene. Cabs in London are so cute (see picture below) and most of the drivers we saw were retired men.

• London living is not for the super claustrophobic. Our hotel (above) was clean and accomadating, but very, very small. It's not in the most posh area, but it is next to Hoxton Square, a hip and funky area where lots of young people congregate in the newly refurbished pubs and restaurants.

• British Terminology:

Toilets = Restrooms

Lifts = Elevators

Having visited the UK before and having read all those British novels, I thought I knew a lot of the terminology, but every day, I still learned more...