The morning after the night before

Day 45: Sunday, April 2

I had nothing to do.

A friend had recommended that I see A Doll’s House, Part 2, so I’d bought a ticket for that, but beyond that, I had nothing.

I woke up fairly late, giving myself enough time to walk up to 45^th Street, but was pretty leisurely otherwise.

To tell the truth, I was a little dubious going into the show. I don’t like the Ibsen original at all (Chekhov once wrote, sarcastically, “Ibsen is, of course, my favorite playwright”) and it all sounded a little, well, pretentious. Even as I thought that, though, I remembered that two of my greatest recent theatrical experiences, Come From Away and Natasha and Pierre, were also things I was dubious about, so as I mentioned weeks ago, I’ve come to distrust my instincts on things like this.

My suspicions were increased when I walked into the theatre, and suspended above the stage was the title of the play, rendered in huge illuminated yellow plastic letters.

I only wish the camera showed how bright those letters are.

As I said on Facebook, "I wonder if this will be post-modern."

Once it started, though, it was marvelous; simultaneously true to the original (it takes place 15 years later) and utterly contemporary in terms of language, performance, and direction. Because it’s got four great roles (three women, one man), it’s going to get done a lot, but I don’t know if any production will measure up to this one. There are so many things in it that are specific to those actors (Laurie Metcalf, Jayne Houdyshell, Chris Cooper, and Condola Rashad) and that director (Sam Gold) that I don’t know how you replicate or better it. It was only 90 minutes, but I could have watched it for at least another hour.

I had expected it to go at least two-and-a-1/2 hours, so I was kind of taken aback when I was out by 3:30. I stopped by the Drama Book Store for a last time, bought some stuff, then walked home to read the paper and get ready for the cast party at Gino’s. I also took advantage of a lovely evening to sit on the deck of our apartment house. We’d been there more than six weeks and I’d never taken the opportunity. Either it was too cold or I was too busy or the timing just wasn’t right. (I have to admit I was out there once early. It was a very, very cold morning, and I went out to “put myself on tape” for a callback for SF Shakespeare. [And, no, I won’t be posting that little epic.] I got the job, but it was cold and not really weather to be sitting out on the deck.)

 Tough life

That party had been a point of contention for weeks. We were originally supposed to do it a couple of weeks ago, but I had a ticket for The New Yorkers. Then I wanted no part of the original menu (eggplant or a pork roast; I hate the former and have stopped eating the latter), so Gino complained about that. Then it was off altogether, then it was on for the afternoon of the 2^nd, then it was on for 7:00, but Brendan and Christina had tickets for a 5:00 show, so it was pushed back to 8:00.

The trip was supposed to take an hour on the subway, so I left here a little before 7:00 with a Trader Joe’s bag full of gift basket snacks, two bottles of champagne, and one bottle each of Calvados and Irish whiskey, caught the L to Eighth Avenue, where I discovered that the A was running way slow (an “incident” downtown). I waited about twenty minutes before a train finally came. I got on and made my way up to Gino’s, which is seemingly in a suburb of Buffalo. I walked through a not-great neighborhood (it was a real taste of the old New York; gentrification hasn’t made it up there yet) and got to his apartment.

Even though the night was pleasantly chilly, the apartment was about 120 degrees, so it was a bit stifling, but the company was more than pleasant and the food (focaccia, meatballs and sausage, salad, and chicken parm) was excellent, so we drank—a lot; all of us—and had a great time saying goodbye, telling a lot—a lot—of stories. We finally left about 12:30, and since neither Beth nor I really wanted to spend another hour on the subway, she called a Lyft. 

The guy was there relatively quickly—within five minutes—but as soon as we got in the car, Sprint’s wifi network went tits up and neither of them could access the app—or anything else. The last time we saw the app, his car was a block away, on his way to get us. Fortunately, I was on AT&T (that’s the first time I’ve said that) and was able to navigate us. The driver was very nice, and as Beth chatted with him (I’ve never used a ride service before, so I was unaware of the protocol), we found out his history (short version, immigrant from West Africa, looking for the American Dream. I sincerely wish him all good luck—especially given the current administration). (Beth found out that the app finally showed him picking us up as of 8:00 am Monday morning, so he was going to get paid).

Thanks to my expert guidance, I got us home quickly, and we both went right to bed. I ended up staying up longer than I should have (we expected a cleaning lady in the morning, but had no idea when to expect her, so I didn’t want to sleep in), but eventually fell asleep in anticipation of my last full day in New York.