Bisous de Paris!

Bonjour tous,

Bisous de Paris!

So, Paris. Where to begin?

I loved it, absolutely, wholeheartedly. It was amazing (I may run out of adjectives). It smelled so good, it tasted so good, it sounded so good, looked so good, felt so good. Every sense was richly rewarded just for being there. I so doleful when I left that the only thing I could do to cheer myself up was eat pain au chocolat in the aeroport (where they confiscated my ginormous gift of Nutella) and to speak French on the way home - even to the poor confused looking cashiers in the Abu Dhabi aeroport.

From the departure moment, when I discovered I wouldn't have travel-sickness on the flight, I really enjoyed the trip. Etihad Airways are actually fantastic, and even though the travel time from departure to destination was about 20 hours, it ended up being quite manageable. Nerves only rejoined the party in Paris when the person who was supposed to meet me was running late. Anyway, he looked quite flustered when he arrived so I forgave him instantly (and also he spoke to me in French, which makes everything forgiveable--as soon as shop assistants revert to English with the students, they became unpopular in our books).

So my first thoughts on Paris were the best, because once you came inwards from the Périphique (the road that encircles Paris) everything looks exactly as you expect it too--which was fantastic as I'd forgotten to lower my expectations to prevent disappointment. There were bistrots on every street and all of them frequented, nothing like the dregs of customers that barely keep the cafés in Hilton alive. The little bakeries--patisseries et boulangeries du coin--gave off such smells and served hot fresh croissants, pain au chocolat, macaroons, pain noir and baguettes every day but Sundays, and there were bookshops as common as tobacconists which thrilled me so much. When I first went in I nearly burst into appreciative tears for the little shop stuffed with stationery, postcards, Asterix, Tintin, and just about every French classic, translated English classic and many current bestsellers too, like Les Jeux de la Faim, Eragon and Temptation (French title for Twilight--can you believe it!) My luggage returned far heavier for carrying an unabridged Notre Dame de Paris, Harry Potter et l'école des Sorciers (whose names are sometimes changed :) Le Petit Prince and even Le Fantôme de l'Opéra (but that I bought at the Opéra Garnier itself). (Can't believe I just said that).

We stayed at this pretty little historic school called Eugène Napoléon III. The story goes that Napoleon was going to give his wife Eugene an extravagant diamond necklace as a gift, but she requested instead that the money be given to establish a school for poor girls, and so this school was built--in the shape of a diamond/a necklace. From this side, it seems an insane chance that I had to go over, but from there, you see a well-established institute whose dorms and teachers would otherwise lie dormant during the summer, so they've put together these courses for French students. For example, there was another group (mainly Germans) whose parents had sent them for another course running at the same time as ours. So I think the various French embassies just put out various competitions (some won for photography, or creative writing or even singing) and sponsored the winners on this course.

The itinery was straightforward: we have class from 9-12 everyday which was basically an art discussion. Quel rêve--discussing French artists and masterpieces in French in Paris. I felt absolutely giddy with the glee of it. Afterwards there was lunch and we went sightseeing. We had our guide, André, who was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about everything. He also had a great sense of humour, and was willing to enhance our experience in any way we could. Actually we all grew quite attached to him. He told us we were one of the best groups he's ever had the pleasure of leading (and when I joked that he probably said that to everyone, he was adamant that it was true and told us of some other groups and their boredom) (how?!). There were actually a few tears when we had to say goodbye. And he seemed to share my lack of appreciation for modern art and we were both completely enchanted by the same places--l'Opéra Garnier, the Louvre and Versailles.

There is simply too much to be condensed into a reasonable e-mail (even my long ones) [yes, I have dared to post my newsletter as a blog, again!], so I will try to be brief, and only deal with my favourites. Having done Classical Art history, and being absolutely fascinated with the architecture and the history of the 18th century, and seeing all of it in real life, I must admit that the Modern art museums we visited (Maison Rouge, Palais Tokyo and Georges Pompidou) couldn't inspire my interest beyond a mere flicker, especially once we'd seen the former. From day one, in the Louvre (it seems bizarre now, but we couldn't believe that on that day one could simply take the metro to the Louvre--the mind reels), I developed a very superior disdain for tourists. As a French speaker and educated on the culture and art of Paris--even if only seeing it then for the first time--I could somehow find a reason to hold myself in higher esteem than the hordes of sweaty, T-shirted foreigners swinging their cameras, ipads and cellphones high above their heads to take a picture of the Mona Lisa. It felt so soulless. People only appreciated her, and the Eiffel Tower, for their being the emblematic souvenirs to say "I was there." It was so crowded that it was a relief to leave. And there were so many things to see that we just bypassed--I kept spotting things as we hurried after our museum tour-guide and exclaiming to myself in wonder, I studied that. The Nike of Samathrace, for instance, was one beauty that even herds of shouting bodies couldn't diminish. There was so little time. So many places I just wanted absolute silence so I could sit and drink in the atmosphere, imagine those tall stone halls emptied of bustling, and just imagine instead the soft swish of some courtier's dress. It was simply incredible.

At the Musée d'Orsay, I stared at Olympia, finally able to see the brushstrokes and smooth oil paint that made that porcelain tone of her skin, and the dust collecting in Van Gogh's generous globs of colour. I saw the lights of Paris twinkle as twilight faded from the 2nd floor of the Eiffel Tower and the bright lights that made it twinkle (clignotte) every hour after darkness had fallen. In the Opéra, I must confess I wandered around torn between a pensive awe, a furious hunger to open my mouth in the greatest music I could think of, and a passionate frenzy to see, absorb, hear and experience everything there was in the building, from the dollops of sandstone ballustrading on the grand staircase, to the filligree details of every ornate carving, every painted cupid on the ceiling, every chandelier of candles. Leaving would have been too soon, no matter how much time I had in there. We walked along the Seine, and found the famously fantastic bookshop Shakespeare and Company (which I now realize has featured in many, if not every one, of my favourite films) and artisan ice creams (Bertillone's) thanks to Noam, our friend from Israel. We saw the views of Paris from Les Galeries Lafayette, and walked the cobbles of Montmartre, between Moulin Rouge and Moulin de la Gallette, between crêpe-vendors, tourist shops, large paintings of Paris and windows surrounded by stones and ivy, or filled with small gold carousels.

In Sacre Coeur I must admit, I was actually upset by the commercialisation. At the door, there are marshals to insist on the taking off of hats, silence and the interdiction of photos, and yet inside, there are vending machines for souvenir coins and the candles are one sale for 2 or 10 euro. The paganism of the place disgusted and depressed me that I couldn't bear to stay inside at all. Praise God for that experience though, because by the time I got to Notre Dame, I was prepared for it. On Sunday night, we went to the cinéma en plein air, where they broadcasted on a huge screen in front of a grassy square (in front of Invalides) a 1960s French musical (Les Demoiselles de Roqueford), where I was most delighted with the surprise appearance of Gene Kelly. We lounged on the grass, sipping wine and eating raspberries and chocolate, until midnight, and wandered to the Champs Elysées to find the metro. We walked through scenes from the movie Amélie, like the St Martin canal (where she skipped stones), the café where she worked, and saw Edith Piaf, Antoine St-Exupéry and Oscar Wilde's grave in person (anyone remember that scene from Paris, Je T'Aime? There is now two barricades preventing film enthusiasts from kissing it).

Versailles was another place of magic for me. On a hot day, the tourists in the morning (by Saturday, our classes were ended so we spent entire days sight-seeing) were insufferable, especially as the crowds added to the heat. Much to my surprise, despite earlier declarations of disgust for the intricacy and opulence of the chambers, each room had its own awe-inspiring presence. And the statues! Planted like confetti in every alcove, every 10 metres, and in the gardens, each as marvelous as the next. Heavy fabrics, leather boots, curly hair, brocades, beards, papers and lace, all perfectly and deftly immortalised in stone--stone!

And then there were the gardens; great colossal oak avenues, neat, swirling, geometric shrubbery, a fountain of tiny white flowers and cascades of colour. Mazes, columnades, gold statues in musical fountains, there was no end to the wonders there. During the summer they do a program where they play chamber music in the gardens and on your map, you're given the names of the scores for each garden. In the more famous fountains the waters are programmed to dance to the operas and the waltzes. It was breathtaking. And it closed at 5:30. With at least 4 more daylight hours, it seemed pure selfishness. We wandered down avenues, past the boating in the Grand Canal and ice cream stalls sweetly hidden in the trees and mazes, and walked all the way to Grand Trianon and Petit Trianon "cottage palaces" if such a name could exist, for Marie Antionette when the terrific grandeur of Versailles was too much. And the we just had time to find the entrance to her Hamlet--where she used to play at being a milkmaid (!), and the prettiest, quaintest countryside life I've ever seen--and to discover we didn't have the time or the tickets to go in before we had to rejoin the rest of the group. That evening after supper, some friends and went to go and visit Notre Dame and sat watching it light up as the twilight came on, and then the firedancers came out and performed at its feet.

And then there was Notre Dame. Inspiring horror, mystery, awe, magic and romance in my child's imagination since the release of the Disney film, there is still something of magic that mingles in the air around the cathedral. Despite the disappointment I suffered when I was eight years old and saw it for the first time, and was bitterly surprised by its tinyness in comparison to the film, there is still room for wonder as you sit in the square and stare up to the majestic heights of its bell towers. A colossal Gothic structure almost 100 years in the building, it is said, rising from the dark ages of medieval history, she reigns over the other buildings, populated with hundreds upon thousands of saints, angels and gargoyles, siphoning aqueducts down the slopes of her roof, past the great rose windows, and ending in a fountain of stone and glass behind, in a garden of trees and flowers. Unfortunately, most of the great bells are no longer in existence, and the one great one left--the Emmanuel Bell--is only rung on special occasions. I found it on youtube once. By the measure of great, resonating, rich sound there was in the square that morning, imagine the strength needed to work them. Having read the original classic, I am still captured by the eternal question of who rang the bells. Reading Victor Hugo is like reading a story and a history, and when he comes to describe Notre Dame, it is with such poetry, such detail and such care, it is mesmerising. I was desperate to see every detail, every corner, every view he described.

Inside, there is a silence of reverence. There is the beatific sound of hushed movement whispering off the walls. Once during a mass service, the bishop sang the prayers, and the tones fell from deep inside the stone as his congregation sang it softly back to him. The great black and white flagstones, giant arches of stone, galleries, windows and vaulted ceilings were just exactly what the Disney film had taught me to love and remember (although on a far smaller scale), and its height gave, even the daylight, a sort of reverent shadow from any glaring light. It was a gentle, humble majesty, and the halls were submerged in mystery--I could have stayed there for hours and never known the difference.

Unfortunately though, there was no time to go up to the bell towers, something I really regret.

I must stop now, before I bore you, but hopefully that will satisfy (or drown) any curiousity you may have had about my trip. Needless to say it was utterly fantastic and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I met some fantastic people from Belgium, Venezuela, Russia, Bosnia, Cape Verde, Benin, Mexico, Montenegro, Thailand, Japan and Israel and do keep in touch with the close friends on facebook. I had a long conversation with Liesl the other night, in French, over skype, because we missed it so much. Another fantastic thing was my friend Teen, after I casually invited her to tea under the Eiffel Tower, actually came from Denmark and stayed in a youth hostel in Paris for a couple of the days I was there.

So now, the travel bug has not only bitten, it has CHOMPED, and sunk its teeth in properly.

We'll have to see what the Lord holds for next year. God willing, some more.

Love you all tons. Send news.

God bless,

Bisous!

The Ultimate Wish for my life....

I had a revelation today. I was sitting in on the Post-Modern (Gender, Narratives, Culture) English lecture today and the lecturer asked, nearing the end of the class, that we would each write a few lines, beginning with “I have a dream that I” as a sort of ice-breaker and get-to-know-you exercise. I was exposed as an in-looker when my turn came but was meant to read mine anyway.

I thought it would be a noncommittal answer in which I impressed her with my talent and aspirations, but it ended up being quite personal, specifically mentioning God (as it was a good platform, especially in this class). It was something about wanting to have contentment and even if my wildest dreams came to nothing, that I could daily find cause for gratitude, make a difference in the lives of those around me, provide as happy an environment as my parents provided for me and fulfil God’s calling in my life as he would wish, which the lecturer deemed “Lovely. Quite moving, in fact.” This was a step away from her usual enthusiastic “Well good luck with those aspirations,” and I was proud to be thus distinguished, but it made me think a little more about it.

I came to the conclusion that the God I serve is a good God and there is no way he will not fulfil this dream of mine. Accustomed to dismissing all my plans for the future as dreams, and wild ones at that, it was astounding to me to discover that my ultimate aspiration is contentment, by my definition, a cause for daily gratitude—in its most modest form. And it fascinated me that after all this time, my dream is actually quite humble, and God will ensure that if I have the heart for gratitude, he is of such a nature that there is no way I could escape  thankfulness I have, just under his supervision.

It is remarkably relieving that even in the interim period between jobs and while I’m unsure of the direction my life is taking, that God will grant this desire of my heart—and that he is doing so already, without, and more especially, despite my best efforts to attain it in my own way.

It’s not a feeling of having the pressure taken off, it’s like there never was any. I just feel profoundly grateful that I have this guarantee of his goodness under his grace, thankful that I cannot escape this gratitude. And herein,  at the tender age of twenty, still a directionless student, God has already granted me goal I thought would be the short-lived peak of the prime of my youth and career, with the promise of a lifetime supply.

“I have a dream that I find contentment in my life. I hope to find a job/career/family situation in which I am happy and find cause daily for gratitude. If I never accomplish my wildest dreams of art, linguistics, music, fame, authoring world famous books and travelling all around the globe, I dream that I may make a difference in the lives of those around me, and produce an environment as happy as the one my parents provided for me. I want to feel I’m doing God’s calling as he would want me to.”

Of Merlin and Romantics

Our Romantics lecturer, I’m convinced, is a descendent of Merlin. He has a vague, wafty look about his appearance that makes me think of wizards for some reason: not quite attached to the world we live in. And then there is his beard (which looks more like curly fuzz sparsely attached to a sticky substance on his face), the archaic language he uses and these strange long-sleeved kaftan-type thingys he wears over his trousers, rounded off with unconventional pairs of strops or crocs that cements the idea in my mind.

But he nevertheless fascinated me: here was someone who would not be easily boxed. I was dying to try and capture him, and this is what I wrote about him one particularly dreary lecture: He was a man uncomfortable in his position as a lecturer, as an indoors man who believes himself to be in love with nature will seem at a loss or completely out of place in a garden. He knew what he was talking about, but it was delivered in an uncertain way, as would one’s speech to a mirror be if they were to speak 45 minutes on a prescribed criteria. He floated gently between standing and sitting on his desk, asking rhetorical questions, and accepted class participation or the lack of it, like waves accept the rain and with no more ado. At most, he’d ask a question (always seeming expectant of reaction) but will wait a beat or two, perhaps with a soft, monosyllabic laugh (“heh”) and continue.

Work is a fickle thing. Especially when given by this character. There are so many times I approach it was a dead-pan attitude, or dread, and sometimes it will surprise me and I find myself enjoying it, (although, as is with life, most of the time, I don’t).

My Romantics English course is like this. We have a lecturer whom we cannot truly comprehend for most of his lectures, as he is fond of the high-fluted philosophic language that has been outdated by almost two centuries. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it isn’t his language at all. His classes are presented like an essay, and here the term doesn’t simply signify that they have a beginning, a body and a conclusion. He prepares his classes, from what can be seen, in essay format, with the correct structure and so on, and apart from giveaway terms such as “but I’ll speak more on that later,” and “to conclude” there is also the dead giveaway of the blue lever-arch folder he brings to class and reads from. He literally reads from this essay of prepared teaching. I suppose this convenient for him because most of his lecture is a mélange of the 18^th century writings themselves which he has re-ordered in his essay to present to us. Another inconvenience avoided: when speaking aloud, he doesn’t have to reference. Although his referencing would be useful, because once challenged, he can’t remember where it is, or can’t find it. And had he referenced, several hours of my research in the library would have spared because had I known going in, that all the relevant passages in the books he’d recommended had been read aloud to us in lectures, I wouldn’t have bothered finding the source of them myself.

This leaves a bit of a sour taste of disappointment in one’s mouth, especially as this was the course I was most looking forward to, and expecting the most from. However, I found in reading the texts he’d directed us to for researching, that instead of being flustered at all the convoluted syntax to make space for the tedious philosophic musings, I had grasped it (albeit in a rudimentary way) already in lectures. So on coming to the original text, not only did the ponderings on the poetry make perfect sense to me, I was also convinced of their argument, and carried off on a stream of deliciously verbose verbiage. More pleasant (and surprising!) was the interruption of my own thoughts, adding uniquely relevant thoughts to the discussions I was reading, and my own interpretations. So even when I disagreed (I am passionately against reading too much into poetry, or anything that will not stand up to it) I found it amusing to form my own arguments in supporting my views, although they probably would hold their own in any strictly academic writing. One doesn’t believe in art for art’s sake when being ‘academic.’

And if this course has taught me anything, it has helped me recognize that my own creative philosophy is art for art’s sake.

Thoughts to start the semester

It's All Greek To Me
UKZN has centralised it's timetable. Basically, the people in ivory towers make decisions without consulting the affected peasantry on the ground. The practical upshot of this is that, having been forced into Durban UKZN's timetable, the Pietermaritzburg UKZN must adopt an unfriendly and inconvenient new system wherein class clashes and inconviniences are rife. The more personal practical upshot of this, for me, is Art History clashes with English and something has to give. Long story short, I made a quick descision to sign on to ordinary History instead (the first year module I haven't done yet). That clashed too. I dug out an Art module in second semester, only to discover, yesterday, that it was a practical, meaning a lot of studio time and effort and limited vacancies. So that fell through too. In a panic, I was talking to Tracy, trying to think out my next move. The only other options I could see, seemed to be Zulu and Media, both first-year subjects, throwing my timetable into stretched and agonising days, and containing the dreaded tuts (being extra classes scheduled for more one-on-one work, and usually at obscure times, like late in the afternoons and on Fridays). "I just need to speak to someone who can help," I said to her. The dean is inundated with first years for the first couple of weeks of semester, and at the end of that time, the help she can give you is virtually non-existent. "The lecturers only know about their own subject, the dean's busy. You know, I just need someone who's well-informed about all the subjects I could pick up, and knows me and what I can do, and who takes an interest in me and what I'll enjoy." There was a pause and I said, "I'm describing God, aren't I?" Tracy laughed and replied, "I was going to say that." So I told Him so. Within 10 minutes, God had planted a new plan in my head. A small class presented itself to my mind, one containing a friend (the lack of which was a serious drawback to Media--I'm not keen to be the loner among firsties), one which was small, and when I checked the timetabling--it fit snugly every single day into one of my frees.
Within the next few hours, I was signed into Ancient Greek for beginners. Go figure.
I'd missed the first few lectures, and to anyone who is under the impression I'll be slacking, must be informed that between yesterday and now, I've had to learn a new alphabet (characters (and how to DRAW them!), lower and upper case, not forgetting the names of the letters--no simple ABCs here) three noun genders, the purpose of several accents, macrons and other dohickeys above letters, and very basic nominative and accusative cases, as well as some general vocab.
As life stands now, I'm taking two third-year English (Film and Romantiscism), second-year Spanish and French, and first-year Greek (in a class of three!). Second semester will see me only taking the other two English as necessary for my major, and Spanish, due to the overloading of first semester.
I will not have it said (not until second semester at least) that BA students don't work hard. This semester is going to test my strengths in very real ways, not only tackling half a major, but trying to combat two similar languages while trying to remember their differences, and then added to that, a language that is literally all Greek to me, and then the culmination of major wedding planning and stresses right in the middle. Please pray I don't break down again, and that I cope. Other than this particular minor worry, I think there's a good chance I could enjoy it.

A Cheery Attitude
It's been said that a bad attitude will get you nowhere. I'd like to take that further. Granted, a cheery attitude won't get you any further than a bad attitude (generally). But a cheery attitude can make everything brighter. Take Caitlin Montgomery, for instance, (one third of my Greek class). I don't think I've seen her truly despondent about anything. If something serious has gone downhill--the politics of the country, the administration of varsity--she will make light of the ridiculousness of the whole situation, and probably make you laugh with her. All in all, while stress and concerns have their place in her life, she still faces each day with a certain cheerfulness. It makes everything--especially mad things like taking Ancient Greek as a fifth module--far more pleasant. Not just to bear, but it lifts your mood to the orange happiness of hers.

The Shady, Breezy Walk to CVA
Going back to varsity this year was not, as per usual, a particularly inspiring experience, even if I managed to register in the blistering speed of only two hours. Going back, I feel less myself, a bit like a bee that has spent the whole long, lazy, warm day in the heady fragrances of flowers, and the immesity of freedom and now cannot cope in the hum of activity, the cramped day, and infuriating buzz and noise of the hive. However, some things God has given to me to help. Previously thought as a curse rather than a blessing, the afternoon lectures have a lullaby effect on the hive. The campus buzzing with activity and bursting with students in the morning, as 'Maritzburg warms to its scalding temperature for the day, is cooler, calmer and quieter by the afternoon. No one is competing with their car sound systems (or their racous conversation and laughter) to blast the windows from the surrounding buildings, the students have usually wandered off by then, leaving only the quietly devoted academics and chilled, laid-back scholars. Furthermore appreciation for the deep shade of intertwining trees on the walk to the CVA, combined with a fresh (if still warm) breeze, is managed with far more grace and satisfaction.

Time
On the subject of the CVA (Centre for Visual Arts lecture hall, where I have my English Film Studies lectures), there is something about that room that is outside the Space-Time continuum. Once in there, already there is something suspicious in that it will be the only room you've entered that day which is cool enough to chill you if you stay long enough. There is no outside light let in, so no sun to mark the passage of time, no clocks, and no outside noise of the exodus of students at the end of lectures every 50 minutes or so. The whole space seems to swallow time. And as you shuffle in the discomfort of the benches, you feel the lecturers have somehow managed to extract you from time. At any rate, their concept of it seems as laid back as if you had been plucked from time and could be replaced there whenever they choose to be done.

Labelling it makes it unoriginal
The sad thing about analysing something I so voluntarily study (being MOVIES!) in my free time seems to sap the moxie from it. Being told that they all were purely narrative, or followed the same pattern of set-up, conflict and resolution, immediately makes one resist it. You plan never to fall into the trap of telling a story like that, and almost subconsciously rebel against all those films and books you've enjoyed: just for being unoriginal. But see here, the problem wouldn't have come without the label. Without the labels, I would be happy in my ignorance concerning all these 'conventions.'
Ha! Now, having said that, the rant above has had the desired psychological effect on my mind: I am consequently determined to be unaffected by these labels, and to enjoy anyway all the previous pleasures of my ignorance.

Contemplation of the consciousness of the human ear
I am beginning to be of the opinion that the human ear is capabale of a vast amount. For example: when someone is drawling on and on about a subject in which you have no great interest and your attention wanders, and then is cut off from all recognisable thought in a dozy daze, you would expect that nothing but a sharp recall--a noise to pierce past the dreaminess and draw your attention--will bring you back. Not so. A lecturer can be dragging on, and even though my attention has been lost for some time, were she suddenly, without changing tone or intonation, to start saying "blah, blah, blah-blah, blah...." I would notice. Why? I have a theory that the human ear, in these cases, works harder than the brain (because the brain has switched off). The ear basically tells the brain that the information it is receiving is useless, (or a least that the brain is in no situation to comprehend it (or be bothered to)) and kindly advises it to turn off, and taking on the responsibility, the ear will listen without letting any of the drivel to reach the brain's conscious notice. It feeds the information in even when the brain is off, but directs it straight to the Junk pile, in the brain's absence (or unconsciousness), waking it only when there is a noticeable change. Indeed. As you can tell, I have been meditating on this theory of non-attentiveness for some time (and mostly in situations where I should have been attentive).

Of Enjoyable Subjects
One more thing to praise God for, is how well He knows me. I'm not talking about the small things--like the silly quirk I've had since I started the BA to one day be able to say I was taking 4 languages at a time--but on the whole. Now, for example, these two English courses. First of all, I am an adamant fan of the Romantic Literary era. Coleridge and Wordsworth, two of the greatest Romantics, are two of my favourite poets of all time, and coincidentally a main focus of this English course of mine. The same can be said for Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, another dear book to me. However much I despise Cathy, I adore Heathcliff, and the heightened Gothic elements prevalent in the story. Then there is this Film course. Even if the labelling has ruined the conventions I've so enjoyed, I am enjoying the ability to view films from the Classic Hollywood epoque, and to savour the story-telling techniques. The prospect of this analysis, of taking the film into one's hands and turning it over to view its intended effect and techniques from all angles seems to me exciting. Added to that is the advantage that when we move on to global cinema I will be refreshing and enjoying the expansion of my French and Spanish horizons with sub-titled films (although I hope not to need the sub-titles).

The Tales of Tannie Tracy and Auntie Amy

The Alfie Boe Conspiracy*

Does anyone know what its like to have a dream? Oh, good, a few hands.* Right. We have too.

It all began on the morning of October 21^st 2011. On the way to the morning’s lectures, we were chatting about our recent discovery of Alfie Boe, Jean Valjean in the 25^th Anniversary Concert of Les Misérables. Both ardent fans, we were enthusiastically conversing about the financially unsupported dream we created and shared, of ditching all university obligations (who needs exams anyway?) and going to see Alfie Boe live, as his performance in Les Misérables was coming swiftly to a close (probably by the end of November).

Amy knew that he had once been a mechanic, and while discussing the fortunate absurdity of an opera-singing mechanic, Tracy imagined how funny it would be if after the show, during a meet and greet session, we were to ask him, after praising his voice and commissioning numerous autographs, to help us start our car.* “Hey sorry, can you please—” “Yeah sure, here’s my autograph.” “—no, I wanted to ask if you could please take a look at my car…”** And then of course, we laughingly suggested how it would be if we asked him to help the car on our home trip from the UK—all the way to Cape Town. “And Alfie, the radio’s broken, so you’ll have to sing.”***

When sobriety returned (it usually takes a little while*) we were once again reduced to wishful sighs, and suppositions of how we would ever raise enough money to pay our way over and see a show, Tracy suggested, “We should go busking! (*) Actually—” with a lot more gusto, she continued, “he should go busking for us!” *** Amidst gales of laughter, we both agreed that this would be the more profitable plan by far. Intrigued, Amy thought we should probably e-mail him. “Imagine how cool it would be if he did!”

We parted for various classes and all through the morning, the plan grew in Amy’s devious little cranium, until when she finally met up with Tracy again before our History tutorial, almost all the wording had been conceived. Tracy of course was game, but still wracked with hilarity that Amy was serious.* Come to that, she was too (serious, and wracked with hilarity*).

While eating Amy’s brain food (the ever present Friday bran muffin*), we searched the internet for an e-mail address most likely to yield pleasing results. This was fairly difficult, jammed in the car—to keep out the wind—eating muffins, laughing*, and using the treacherous search engine of the varsity wireless on Amy’s pet laptop, Petrie. We asked Alfie Boe to bring us over (and decided against breaking into song about Bring us home!**). We admitted the absurdity of our request, making reference to that fact that many more stranger things had happened in history, like Nick Jonas being cast as Marius ** (but decided to leave that out too). Most of the conversations revolved around “how awesome would it be if…” and that phrase seemed to characterise most of our conversation that day.

“How funny would it be,” Tracy suggested in the middle of this, “if he actually did give it to us, and we didn’t get our passports in time?”** The following shrieks of laughter were cut short by the horrific revelation. “Tracy! I don’t have a passport! TRACY! What will we do?!” Come to that, Tracy didn’t have one either. In such times as this, time is only passed by hilarious horror and hysteria, which in turn brought on more hilarity*. We were trapped in a very vicious cycle, at the bottom of which is a sore tummy and sore cheeks. We decided, in case it might bias the recipient of our correspondence, not to include our passport dilemma in the e-mail either.*

Plans were made for ensure the application for new passports as early as next week. As this can take months, we were a little concerned that we wouldn’t arrive in time. But we had to remind ourselves, that it was really absurd that we should planning for our passports on the off-off-off-chance that he’d actually read our request (in time to grant it) and grant it. However, we were not to be hindered by trifles. (Or cakes***).

So, on our way to History, we conjectured that five days would be sufficient to travel there (two days, in case) stay one day (the concert night) and travel back, much to the surprise of our peers** (to whom we told precious little: we agreed to keep this saga, until it became the sort of happy story that sold newspapers worldwide, to ourselves, and possibly Alfie Boe. And possibly his agent, website manager, manager, fan-mail controller, facebook news feed reader, and anyone affiliated to him—maybe we should even look for his wife’s e-mail address?—and everyone we could get to, to get through, to his ear*. So that his voice may reach ours.* Live*).

Our History buddies warned us that we were mad to jet-lag ourselves over exams, but we were responded: “meh—if we’re even here for our exams!” Amy had a new thought: “Hey! We could sleep in the airport! (**) He wouldn’t even have to pay for our hotel for the night, we could just catch an early flight out. A four day trip!”

Still using the varsity cap during the dreary history tut,[*see note about tuts at the end] Amy tried to find dates for the concert. To her horror, dismay and general dejection, it seemed that Les Misérables had already ended! We were too late! Too late, too late! As can be imagined—oh cruel fate!—this put a slight dampener on the plans. And Amy had to find a suitable alternative: but somehow, asking for tickets to the Bring Him Home tour, or failing that a request to Bring Alfie to Our Home (being South Africa), did not have the same sparkle (although it was sparkly* none the less. It had glitter).

On leaving the history department (having learnt very little) we reached the car… and the real fun began. We talked first about life and that junk, our future careers... but who needs it, we’d just be Alfie Boe’s secretaries or the rehearsal audience for his rehearsals.*

We found that Les Misérables was still on! “22^nd of October!” Tracy cried. “That’s like tomorrow!” Amy continued scrolling down*… “oh look, there’s more!” “Tracy! It’s still on!” Rapidly switching to the e-mail draft, we gladly erased the compromised requests and fulfilled our destiny (being to write the e-mail).

“Imagine,” Tracy suggested, “If we got a free t-shirt.” “Yes!” Amy hooted with laughter, “on top of paying for our airfare, our hotel and our tickets how cool would it be to have a t-shirt too!”** “I take a moment for myself, bow down, bow down. Take a Boe.”** ‘Maybe we should just drive there and deliver the mail: ‘Here you go, please send us money because we can’t get there otherwise. Thanks bye.’”**

For some reason, suspecting that good times (which are un-allowable in student life, and are usually crushed by the university’s bad admin*) were afoot, the wireless become unreliably unreliable*. Having finally found an e-mail address suitable, we were eager to send the e-mail, but the connections were not working. Searching frantically for other available connections, Amy discovered the curious presence of ‘Android.’ Could this be the connection that would save the day?

Android*. Android, Android, Android**. He did not comply. We could almost feel him breathing down our necks, behind the car—a giant white robot—who would say in  deep monotone: “DON’T STEAL MY GOOGLE.”*** Alas, he did not comply.

More misery ensued… Petrie. He—he—he was dying. With than 20% battery, our quest was becoming doomed. We had some e-mail addresses. We even had the e-mail. But alas—it was not to be! We… we had… almost failed.

But no! Destiny prevailed! Amy had an idea! A glorious, last resolution! We would ascend again the stairs to the history department, whose connection before had been so been so benevolent, in the hopes of finding a similar stable reward (a.k.a. a connection).

Taking off running****—for 20% is not to be trusted to last for the sending of an e-mail—we abandoned all but the laptop and the car keys (we did lock the car—except one door*—we were in a rush, all right?) and raced to the stairs.

We were laughing too hard to ascend them very quickly. “How funny would it be,” Amy laughed, “if we got the tickets and this story of us running up the stairs made the newspaper?”* We hooted with laughter for some time (consequently stopping our progress temporarily). And Amy corrected, “who needs the tickets, we’ll tell the paper anyway!”**

A single flight later (not to England**, just up the stairs) the e-mail went through. And the whoops of excitement and uncontrollable hilarity echoed up and down the staircase. “Go to ‘Sent Items’!” Tracy cried. “It’ll be there!”***

And so it was.

Finally recovering ourselves, we descended again. “We should write this in a blog!” Amy cried. “And call it the Tales of Tannie Tracy and Auntie Amy!”** “And it’ll be made into a movie, like Julie & Julia!” Tracy cried.*** “And Alfie Boe will watch it!” “We don’t need him to star in it,” Amy suggested. “No,” Tracy agreed, "he’s just the music.” ***

On the drive home, we planned to write up this blog. Tracy commented on Amy’s driving but Amy was swift to defend herself: “I not endangering us today. Not both of us at the same time anyhow! If one of us dies, someone has to be left to go and watch Alfie Boe.”***

Then we thought we might contact Ellen Degeneres, because maybe she’d sponsor us. It’s the sort of random thing she might do.* And she’s funny. She’d appreciate us*. We were going to contact Oprah, but she’s not around anymore. Nevertheless—just in case the Alfie Boe plan didn’t work out (“How funny would it be if we got over Alfie Boe before he sent the tickets?”**) it’d be good to have some untried resources still handy.

And after we typed all this up, Tracy commented, “I laugh he reads this.”*

“Some people don’t know what a tut is, put lesson.” She later suggested.

“Yes, because we need to keep the concerns of our fans at heart.” Amy replied (she tried to say it drily but was laughing too hard). **

“Our sensitivity is what they depend on. (***) We can’t forsake them now.”

“Everything is ‘How funny would it be’, or ‘How awesome would it be’, but it IS funny.” Tracy said.**

[* Whenever you see this sign, we laughed. We do that a lot, on some days.]