You Can See The Stars

By Beth

My friend Alessandro is visiting the USA for the first time while I am in São Tomé (see included picture; he is on the left). I met Alessandro while living in Portugal. He was an Italian spending his time traveling around Europe and writing romance novels. He lived with a few American friends of mine in a big spacious apartment with no furniture.

Alessandro has a child's face and a small, tight, extremely muscular, body. He is your quintessential Italian stereotype- crazy about women and alive purely to enjoy the world around him and, when possible, the ladies in it. During the year he lived in Portugal, he got a huge tattoo of big black wings spread over his back. It took quite a few sessions and I remember seeing him with bandages over his back more often than not. He speaks very little English, but is one of those people that can amazingly communicate anything he wants using creative combinations of the few words he knows. On his Facebook profile, he has pictures of him having sex. This is Alessandro.

And Alessandro, for years, talked to us of his dream of coming to America, the land of the free. He wanted to see it for himself- the towering skyscrapers of New York, the rich and famous of Hollywood, the rolling plains of Iowa. Then one day he sent me and our American friend Jason, who also lived in DC at the time, a Facebook message. “My friends, I am coming to America! I will be there in April. I am in love to see the land of beauty that is your paradise.” This is a rough and very generous translation from the English that he typed to us.

So, a few months later, in October, we get another Facebook message. “I am coming to America in November! I have bought my tickets!” This is all good and well, except for the fact that I am in São Tomé and Jason is in Brazil doing a semester abroad. So Alessandro is on his own. Which doesn't bother him at all.

A couple of months ago I thought I would be a good non-hostess and check in. See how he was liking the States. What I get is a very romantic and poetic description of the majesty of New York, which Alessandro never wants to leave. He is in love with Greenwich Village. “Have you seen how much stars there are in the sky?” He types.

I laugh to myself. Stars?? In Greenwich Village?? I tell Ned, the American with whom I am living in São Tomé.

“Can you even SEE stars in Greenwich Village?” he asks me. I tell him I don't think so.

But it's such an Alessandro thing to say. In fact, maybe his poetic English has struck again. Countless times I look up into the night sky of a new place and am shocked by the number of stars I see there. It always seems like more than there are at home. In Portugal, São Tomé, the mountains of northern Maine- the stars are always a marvel. And perhaps it is the stars that allow you to experience the sheer awe of being in a new place- whether they're actually visible or not.

And in New York, where you can't see stars at all, maybe it is the Tim O'Brien way of saying that life is beautiful here. That in New York, Alessandro feels as liberated as if he had the whole universe to himself.

Midwest Adventures- A Galaxy Far, Far Away

By Megan It wasn't that long ago, or far, far away at all.  In fact, I simply took the #20 bus to the United Center this past Sunday morning in chilly Chicago.  The choir I have been singing with was invited to sing for the traveling 'Star Wars in Concert' tour that was passing through the city.
The march down the loading ramp almost felt like entering a large space vessel, except there were cello cases lining the hallway.  Twinkies seem alien enough, but were really set out as a snack for the London Royal Philharmonic.
There was a thick sense of nervousness in the ranks as we had had very little time to rehearse the piece, and were not guaranteed a sound check.  To top that all off, the Apollo Chorus is more famous for being Chicago's top volunteer chorus (and the oldest in the country!), and not quite the sort that rock out to John Williams.  Fingers clicked on folders as we stood in line waiting to be lead out to the stage.
Altos checked their lipstick and a few tenors practiced pronouncing the galactic language, as our only other lyrics where  'ah' (one member figured out that it was actually sanskrit for some Gaelic poem about a forest coming alive, or something like that).
Given our obvious celebrity status as the visiting choir, we took every opportunity to enjoy the event- one which I would have never imagined seeing myself.  It was a land where dressing in costume was encouraged; ewoks and wookies were common sites.  I considered sporting a Princess Leia hair-do-think braids and not buns- but decided against it, considering our professional role (sure, that's why... right).

I really hope he gets paid for this

The concert itself was a blast- lasers highlighted the orchestra's peak moments and the matching video calmed even the most fidgety of five-year-olds.  It made for a long day, but there was a good sense of group effort and sheer fun from the hilarity of the general situation.  I really did feel like I had visited another planet, one where practicing Handel's Messiah a cappella was encouraged and not even the Storm Troopers minded.

Fellow choir members enjoy face time with Storm Trooper

P.S.  If you are in Chicago during the holiday season, come hear the Apollo Chorus sing Chicago's Best Messiah on Dec. 12th 3pm, Orchestra Hall or on Dec. 20th 3pm at the Harris Theater.

Nothing and Everything

By Lisa
Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004.  I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day.  I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States.  The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me.  I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning.  I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it.  You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated.  I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job.  I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up.  There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it.  My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned.  I researched cities, National Parks, driving times.  I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through.  In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go.  I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure.  I was nervous.  It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be.  My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents.  “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car.  “Where is there?” I asked.  She shrugged, and waved again.  “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas.  A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank.  I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods.  When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car.  I turned the key in the ignition.  I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut.  This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York.  I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania.  I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume.  I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania.  I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers.  And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened.  I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful.  I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner.  The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery.  On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step.  Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.