Week 3 at Edinburgh Fringe

Monday, August 11

Today was my first day off after performing daily since July 30. I crammed my day with shows, literally running from one venue to the next with only 20 minutes between performances. Now here's the deal: Not every play at Edinburgh suits everyone's taste. And not every play is quite yet ready for prime time. And some actors are using Edinburgh to try out material and see what needs to stay and what needs to go.

So today was a mixed bag for me. But it was all worth it when I walked into a disorientingly dark theater, the way-in marked only with arrows taped to the carpet in white reflective tape. The play's title is The Nature of Forgetting. It starts with a young woman sorting through racks and racks of clothes to find a suit jacket and tie for her father, who is sitting in a chair. She put the coat on the end of the rack and tucks a red tie into the right hand pocket and tells her father that his brother and his aged mother are coming over in half an hour with a cake and he should put on the jacket and tie.

That is the extent of the dialogue in the play. Then what happens is the father, debilitated by dementia, tries to find the jacket and comes across other clothes that bring back memories of his life. The play is supported by a stream of music played by an incredible percussionist, a keyboardist and a violinist. The music conveys the tender or searing or happy or confusing memories of the father's life. We get inside his mind to see and hear what he sees and hears, memories that are sad, soft-hearted, funny, heartbreaking. Memories that constitute what remains of his life.

The play was haunting, gorgeous, and true. I was in tears at the end--both for the deep humanity of the play as well as for the fact of it, the fact that a handful of humans put their backs into creating something so complex, beautiful, and deep.

I will never stop saying this: Right now, in our teetering world, art matters deeply. It connects us to our shared humanity like nothing else.

Tuesday, August 12

I really, really want to have a disclaimer sign outside the door of my performance space. that says: If you are scared of having a feeling while watching this show, please don't sit in the front row. Today two men sat in the front row and the moment things got, shall we say, messy, they literally crossed their arms and looked at their crotch. This has happened before. It's always men and it's always the front row. Now, there might be audience members in rows three or five who are doing the same thing, but I can't see them. The front row is exactly eighteen inches from me. I'm having these feelings, too, but I don't have the choice to look at my lap. And I have to force myself not to look at theirs. It's distracting and gives me one more thing to manage when I'm trying to stay inside my body and not inside my head.

So that's the big news for Tuesday.

It was gorgeous today—sunny and an Edinburgh approximation of warm. I went to one of the beautifully designed outdoor spaces, bought a cold beer, sat in a sling chair and spent two hours reading Alan Paton's Cry The Beloved Country.

Then I walked over to Summerhall Theater and sat next to Anita, a woman who grew up in New York City, moved to France in 1968, and has never looked back. She is seventy five years old and just got her certification as a clown after four years of training. We had a terrific conversation and traded our lists of must-see shows.

Meeting people is an integral part of the fun of the festival. It takes so little to spur a conversation.

Wednesday, August 13

Tonight I was ORGANIZED to catch the bus a mere three blocks from Summerhall Arts, where I had just seen a show. I would get there before the bus service switched to half hour departures. I was on the top of my bus game, finally. I arrived several minutes early and waited. Then I waited some more. Of course there is no internet so I couldn't access the "Live Departures" feature on the bus app. Finally, 30 minutes later, here comes the # 29 roaring forward rather speedily toward the bus stop. I stuck my hand out at waist level like I'd learned to do last week. The bus didn't slow. The driver pointed at the bus stop and sped on by. Huh? Then a very kind woman stopped and pointed to a sign on the far end of the bus stop, a sign pointed AWAY from the bus stop, a sign I could not see unless I had approached the bus stop from the opposite direction. "BUS STOP CLOSED." Good lord. Of course, no internet, so I had no way of finding out the now 30-minute departure times, nor the undisclosed bus stops that I couldn't locate because… no internet.

I knew there was a reliable bus stop on Chapel Street, but in what direction was Chapel Street? After the kindness of a few strangers I found Chapel Street, found the bus stop, and waited a long time. I got home 90 minutes later. I would have arranged for an Uber, but… no internet.

My show today was strong and the audience was small and perfect. They were entirely tuned in. I always leave happy.

Thursday, August 14

I don't mean to go on and on about false eyelashes, but I decided this morning that we were breaking up. I might need false eyelashes when I am in a theater space that seats 80 people, but I don't need false eyelashes in this tiny space where the audience is 18" in front of me. And although I have perfected the process, I do always dread the moment when I have to use glue on my eyelid.

I had a wonderful audience today. So much energy coming from them and so much gratitude as they left. One woman who grew up in Fargo, North Dakota and now lives in Edinburgh (a serious upgrade) was there with her mother and we ended up talking for 30 minutes after the show and she couldn't stop crying! She had a story to tell and I felt privileged to hear it.

And a nice man from today's audience left me a review on my Fringe page, which I also appreciated. He said that Buen Camino was a "carefully crafted performance, full of passion & meaning. Go & be uplifted."

I learned how to smuggle my beer out of the bar at Appleton Tower so that I can drink it while eating my burrito from the food truck while sitting at the purple picnic tables where beer is not allowed. I put it into my Yeti bottle and it's just fine. I'm not loud. I'm not spilling anything. I just want a beer with my burrito. And it's extra clandestine to drink beer out of a straw.

AND I noticed today as I was walking home from my bus stop that people don't honk here—as in NEVER. I know I seem as blind as a person in love, and I'll admit to being in love with this city, but it's true that drivers here don't honk here.

Friday, August 15

I now turn off my phone for most of the day because then it is just a little dead thing I have in my bag, rather than a screaming toddler wanting to be held. I'm more relaxed and far more attentive to what's going on around me. Today's particular joy was watching adults imitate children by trying to conquer the hula hoop. No one did, but everyone had fun, including The Watchers.

I turned my phone on to check messages right before I headed to my venue to set up. There was a message from my producer letting me know that a reviewer would be in the audience. Up goes the heart rate. Then I sat down in a sling chair (they are all over the place here) and did my little breathing exercise. I know that reviewers are just regular old people who come to shows with whatever has happened during their day or week or life and that they have a certain set of qualifications that include education, experience seeing lots of theater, and who knows what else. I also know I can learn a lot from their impression of the show. And yet, there's that heart rate thing.

But I got my heart rate calmed down. I returned to my daily stance of wanting to bypass the mind and enter the heart of every single person in that room. I said my daily prayer of asking for all the men that are afraid of having a feeling to choose the second row—or even further back if today could be a generous day. And I did my show as full-hearted and full-throated as I know how to do it. The good-sized audience was very appreciative and only one person refused to take the "How free are you willing to be?" stickers I hand out at the end of the show (he was probably the reviewer!).

I returned to the sling-back chair, watched the hula hoopers, cracked open The Lord of the Flies at the same time that I cracked open a beer and had a lovely afternoon. Then I headed to Summerhall Arts to watch Because You Never Asked, a very moving dance and spoken word piece using the recorded voice of a Holocaust survivor who had never told his story to his family because they never asked.

Once again, I am in awe of how powerful one hour of unflinching storytelling can move the soul.

Saturday, August 16

Today started out perfectly. I met my friends Chris and Daniel at a nearby restaurant for breakfast. They had taken the train up from Portugal to visit me and a few other friends and to see my show. It was such a treat to have a long breakfast full of conversation and catching up.

Then I had a simply wonderful show. The audience was fantastic and it makes a difference. I feel the energy. On the way out nearly everyone hugged me, crying, thanking me. It's everything I hope this show can do—unearth these feelings in people. When I went downstairs to get my daily beer, four people asked to have their photo taken with me and told me how moved they were by the show. It's the most fulfilling response I could ask for.

Then I went out for a short walk and a long conversation with Chris—about everything, as is our custom, but mostly about art. I spend most of my days alone so this was a delightful interruption.

In the evening I went to a very popular show at a snazzy new theater called The Traverse. The show was titled A Gambler's Guide to Dying. It's a one person show and quite moving. The difficulty for me was that he had a thick Scottish accent and I could only understand about 30% of what he said. Still, I got the gist of the story and was glad to see him play to a full house in that fantastic theater.

I have only nine days and eight performances left before I leave Edinburgh. I can feel the exit ramp coming. I'll make the absolute most of this week. I feel so lucky and so glad to be here.

Sunday, August 17

My audience today was the biggest yet—close to 50 in a room that, although it has 58 chairs, should really seat no more than 35. It was hotter than hell. The audience was magnificent—responsive and tuned in. When they left they were so appreciative, many of them tearful. I was able to have a number of conversations with all sorts of people who experienced the play entirely through their own personal experience, which is the only way to experience this play.

Then I went on a shortish walk with Chris and Daniel, my friends visiting from Portugal, to a lovely, QUIET, little out of the way restaurant where you walked through a passage to get to an inner outdoor courtyard. And it was, let me say it again, QUIET. We were able to have a normal conversation in a normal tone of voice. Who knew? We lingered over appetizers and drinks and chatted about any and all things.

Then I was able to catch the right bus without waiting a half an hour, get off at the right stop despite having no internet service to tell me GET OFF NOW! And believe it or not I am about to go to bed at a little past 9:00. I expect I'll be asleep a tiny little bit more than a little past 9:00. Heaven.