there's a long, long trail a' winding...
I'm off to Nottingham to take part in the Sneinton (the part of Nottingham inhabited by the Nottingham correspondent) Arts Trail. As far as I can work out, this is an opportunity to snoop round peoples houses, get slightly drunk, and have a good gossip.
We're going to show our sound/image collage that we made at Columbia Road, and somewhere along the line we'll make bizarre cocktails with the various dubious bottles that we acquired on our journey through Europe.
Oh, and I am going to do an installation using my supply of inflatable Freuds.
Until the other side of the weekend, then.
Back to blighty...
Tonight is the last performance of the show, on this tour at least, it will be going out again in the Autumn to a selection of UK theatres and out into europe again. It is profoundly to be hoped that at some point they will decide that they have actually finished the blasted thing, after eleven weeks of rehearsal (a very, very, long rehearsal period by UK standards), and seven weeks on tour, today is the first working day when I haven't had to go in for rehearsals. Back to the UK tomorrow, with truck unloading and returns all day monday, it will be a relief to have done with it for the time being.
All that remains is the dubious pleasure of the pompidou centre get-out, which involves many labyrinthine corridors and much macho posturing with forklift trucks, trollys, dollys and all manner of wheeled things, and in consequence takes about twice as long as it needs to. When we did the get-in, I was nearly mowed down by a grinning idiot using a pallet truck as a sort of heavy metal skateboard, the corridors are very long and unusually well finished concrete, so you can certainly build up some speed. Now, when I hear the clattering of metal wheels on concrete I have learned to flatten myself against the wall as a precautionary measure.
As I was preparing the truck for loading, I was all alone in the loading area, this is where coaches and so forth are left, having disgorged their cargos upstairs. For some reason a decision had been made to pump music into this cavernous space, presumably to sooth the beating hearts of french coach drivers, this being an arts venue, the muzak was provided by a tasteful french classical music station. So, as I was shuffling stuff around, and wrestling with the bloody bouncy castle, the music echoing round the room was Elgars' 'Pomp and Circumstance March', ending with a rousing chorus of 'Land of Hope and Glory'. Not really what I would have expected, but then Paris is full of contrasts and surprises.
Final note about the pompidou centre, we have all been getting flea bites since working there, I did wonder if the caveman costumes were responsible, but as they are 100% synthetic (albeit very smelly), I have my doubts. The french do take their little dogs everywhere, so maybe that's the reason.
As I walked back to the hotel this morning I was quietly amused by a super cool afro-caribbean dude; tight white t-shirt, dreads and mirror shades, chillin' in a doorway with a spliff. For me, the ensemble was somewhat let down by an unbelievably fluffy white poodle wearing a pink diamante collar, whose lead he was holding with the other hand. You see many incongruous pairings of dogs and owners here, possibly because the french seem either to go for small and fluffy, or big and fierce, with little or nothing in the medium range.
spray it again, sam, spray it.
Another fine piece of stencilled graffitti, this time from East Berlin, near the theatre.
spray it nicely now...
Strangely Paris has been rather short on imaginative spray painting thus far, although when I walked into work this morning a bloke was starting to spray up the entire facade of a building (needless to say, a clothes shop).
Ironically, this rather splendid example was stencilled on the outside of the very fire escape door that enabled me to gain my freedom a couple of days ago.
Spain, no bull...
Travelling up from Lisbon towards France, I was struck by how identifiable the countries are, as you pass through them. Lisbon was in the middle of a Festival (to which we were making a small contribution), and one of the features was the now seemingly inevitable Cow Parade, I have now seen this about five or six times, and I'm beginning to think it might be past its sell by date. However, it is very attractive to see, and some cows work stunningly well. The least effective, in my view, was the bisected cow that stood outside the metro station on Avenida di Liberdad, evidently I wasn't the only one, because someone stole half of it (bewilderingly, the back half).
When you cross Spain, every now and again, the landscape features an enormous billboard bull, dominating the skyline, very macho. So I was very amused to see the spanish response to the cow parade, dotted along the side of the motorway between Valladolid and Burgos (I think), were examples of what I can only described as the Bull Parade. Brightly decorated, as in the female version, but unmistakeably bulls, and in little clusters of three or so, every few miles. Someone in Spain has a sense of humour.
trapped on the 49th floor...
The Pompidou Centre is, as you might imagine, very Gallic. We all carry special cards which you have to wave at little sensors in order, amongst other things, to use the gents toilet. My little card does not permit me to visit my truck, although mercifully I do have toilet privileges. The theatre is in the basement, at level -1, and to get in, you have to enter through the stage door at level 3, walk through the exhibition spaces (where you rejoin the public, who don't have little cards or the long walk up and round), and down a couple of flights of stairs before you enter smartcard land again. There are many lifts, each one with an initial letter for ease of identification, ours is lift T, for theatre perhaps?
When I left for lunch today, I couldn't remember what floor the street level exit is, and because this is a punter free zone there is no helpful information. I opted for level 1, because I thought this might be logical, but no, my lift didn't go to level 1. A couple of interesting trips to levels 6 and 4 later, and I was beginning to get bored, so in the spirit of research I thought I'd go to level 2 and walk down. Big mistake, level 2 turned out to be an unfinished bit of outside, not uninteresting, but not helpful. Also, there were no buttons to call the lift, so I was stuck. After a brief moment to curse the architect and all his first-borne children, I realised that the fire escape was still an option. So I descended, metal gates locking behind me en route, thankfully the gates at the bottom worked, or I might be there still.
On a different note, the french commemorate road accident victims in a bizarre but quite effective way. I have only seen these on Routes Nationales; what they do is place a four foot high black cutout of a person with a red lightning flash through its head; on the site of the accident. When there have been several fatalities you get a morose little cluster. I have a picture, but left the technology for extracting it from my phone in London, I will upload it on my return.
bonsoir, je suis arrive a paris.
Hooray, my truck is safely in the bowels of the Pompidou centre, the peripherique was less vile and unpleasant than the last time I used it, and in short: I am here. I have a room in an apparthotel, so I have a cooker and a fridge, I am within 5 mins of the venue so things are looking up. Tomorrow I propose to cook my first meal for six weeks, I will report at greater length after then...
I have already found a chinese supermarket, so I have bok choi, chilli and soya sauce, noodles etc, etc. Having read Anansi Boys in one sitting last night in Niort, I also have a Lime, and a spare in case someone else needs it.
the leaving of lisbon
Oh well, another day, another festival. We've done our four shows in two different and very contrasting venues, and tomorrow/this morning we head for Paris and the misery of the Pompidou Centre. Lisbon is a great city, and if they weren't gripped by football fever it would be an even better place. It's hard to be grumpy about the enthusiasm, but football just does nothing for me. Mad 25 metre high saints' statues being carted around, wonky trams, and little custard tarts all press my buzzer, but the glorious game, bah, humbug...
NORMAL LACK OF SERVICE WILL BE RESUMED IN ANOTHER COUNTRY.
sardines etc...
I couldn't visit Lisbon without purchasing some fish, obviously fresh fish and ten days in a truck isn't going to be a practical proposition. Fortunately Conserveira de Lisboa came to my aid, this is a very old fashioned establishment, when I first visited last week with the Nottingham correspondent, the proprietors' mother was pasting labels onto the tins by hand. They have a bewildering and colourful display of tins in the window, with all types of fish canned. I purchased anchovies, tuna and of course sardines, as well as some olive oil. My pile of cans was then carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied up with red string, before the parcel was placed into a bag and handed over.
I also purchased on the Nottingham correspondents behalf, a monstrous and extremely cheap ceramic bowl in the Mercado Ribeiro, a plain earthenware exterior apart from an incised line, and the inside with a green glaze. This purchase caused no little consternation at the till, as it became abundantly clear that they had nothing large enough to put it in, nor did they have any string. Eventually a compromise was reached with lashings of parcel tape, cardboard and a bin bag. I have left this at the theatre, with the faint hope that the cleaners won't be tempted to throw it out.
The other thing we noticed a lot of was very inventive stencilled and sprayed graffitti, we are contemplating a new blog to record this very transient art form, but in the mean time here are some fine examples from here in Lisbon:
fleas...
Regular visitors to this blog will realise that I have a great liking for markets, and try to find the local version whenever I can. Lisbon isn't noted for its markets but we did find the one for local produce, which was terrific, lots of warty lemons and named varieties of orange. The fish too were excellent, with that clean eye and silvery skin that says it hasn't been dead for very long. Sadly there wasn't much we could buy that would survive a truck journey, so I had to restrict myself to piri piri sauce and festival flowers.
It is the festival of St.Antonio, and in one of the squares there was a 25 metre high turret, which is carried around the town on the backs of many brawny men, including a mariachi band, and many small persons. Outside the hotel the Avenida di Liberdad is being prepared for a weekend of competitive marching, thankfully I will be working up to midnight.
Today's highlight was a visit to the local flea market, imagine a car boot sale spread over several streets and many hills, toss in the smell of street barbecued sardines and you've got a flavour. I bought another hammer; as previous readers may realise, I have a hammer problem, but I couldn't resist a stone masons hammer to add to my collection. I also bought four glasses (see Ill.) for 12 euros, that would have cost a great deal more in the UK. There's a lot to be said for having a truck to cart your stuff in!
Sitting by the road eating barbecued sardines and drinking beer is a very attractive way of life, by the way.
the long and winding road...
It's about 3000km from Vienna to Lisbon, a long way in a 7.5 tonne truck that can't go faster than 70 miles an hour with a following wind. We (the Nottingham correspondant and I) left with our cargo of toot enhanced by many inflatable Sigmund Freud cushions. These items were left on the seats at the Kunstlerhaus for the amusement and entertainment of the audience, I have a mind to create an installation with them when I get back to London. In the immediate short term, we gave ourselves a temporary travelling companion, he made it most of the way across Italy, Spain and into Portugal, before a sudden cross-wind sucked him out of the cab and left him forlornly bouncing down the road, to end up who knows where...
In Vienna we had been evicted from the wide open spaces behind the theatre, and had to park the truck out at the Prater, the fun fair and park celebrated in Carol Reeds film of The Third Man. This survives in a wired world with a combination of psychotic terror based rides, and a number of ancient and rather charming rides that are notable in the film.
The route we took was through Graz, across Italy, France and Spain, stopping in a different country every night. The world of trucking is a different one, the other drivers are timid creatures when separated from their monster wagons, and cluster together for protection and mutual support in the coffee bars that feature in all the petrol stops.
In Italy we stayed overnight in Verona, and once we hit the centre, we were slightly mystified to find the area around the roman theatre was crowded with people and a vast amount of pseudo-egyptian scenery of great vulgarity. Ah, I thought, arena scale Aida, and indeed I was right, although the vast crowd was there to hear Roger Waters play (one time member of Pink Floyd). We sat and ate Pizza, drank slightly fizzy red wine and heard the whole concert, which sounded just like a CD.
When we got through Spain, stopping overnight in Zaragoza, the image that stuck in our minds were the Golden Eagles up in the mountains, and as we got down onto the plains, the vast number of Storks, which nest anywhere they can find. So you see them on all the mobile phone masts, power pylons and any convenient ruin, sometimes double stacked. My efforts to snatch a picture from what passes for a speeding truck were not entirely successful. Our hotel in Zaragoza was eccentric, both a truck stop; with a self-service cafeteria and wall to wall doughnuts, and a three star hotel with a pool and restaurant. We decided to try the restaurant, there was a distinctive tumbleweed feeling when we walked in, and we sat in hushed silence, listening to a tape of some easy-listening show tunes. The waiter turned out to have been one of the somewhat harrassed gents who had been attempting to maintain order in the school dinner like atmosphere of the truckers dining room, and struggled into a jacket and tie in order to inform us that most of the menu was off. As is often the best way, we told him to tell us what we were going to have to eat, and some form of lamb was presented, very good it was too, and the local wine had much to reccommend it.
poo
At the risk of invading Scaryduck's territory*, there is a feature of Viennese life that I haven't encountered anywhere else, and that is in the water closet. At the risk of being indelicate, when you make your deposit, instead of slipping into the water, your doings land on a sort of shelf, presumably for your inspection. When you hit the flush, a vigorous jet of water fires them towards you and down into the drain.
I don't know what this says about the Austrian psyche? I haven't encountered this variety of toilet anywhere else, but it does seem to be ubiquitous around here.
On a different note, the theatre here has a most diverting dog. Called Paprika, she is the most fox like dog I have ever seen, a rich russet red in colour with a very bushy tail to boot. Her favourite toy is an old water bottle, which she will crunch on for a bit, before dropping it on the floor and walking away. If you approach slowly, she will snatch it up, and the whole process is repeated, if however, you grab it quickly or kick it, she goes racing across the floor occasionally making an airborne catch. This is all going on in a working environment, where heavy stuff is being moved around, and bars are being flown, etc. This would never be tolerated in an english theatre, in many ways I think this is a shame, although I can see the point. Touring in Europe is so much more fun than in Britain, the crews are willing, and the equipment is so much better.
*
http://scaryduck.blogspot.com/
