È LEI!

So in the evening of the very same day when I first heard her voice, I met my singer neighbor! Actually, to be precise, that's not true, since it was well past midnight.

I arrived home from the office rather late Sunday night, not because I was working, but because it's more pleasant to work in my comfortable, well-furnished and air-conditioned office than in my muggy, largely furniture-less house filled with cardboard boxes and strewn with the crumpled newspaper that until very recently wrapped my dishes. When I got to my front door, there was a note saying "Greg(?) - Party in Apt 8. Drop by! D—" The question mark after my name indicated that we had only met once in the laundry room, and she wasn't sure of my name.

Sure enough, there was a party downstairs from me, with D— and her friends in the midst of a spirited game of Jenga. D— is an elementary school art teacher. Also there was the neighbor from apartment 2, who works at the wonderfully-named Plain Dealer. We all drank beer.

I stepped outside to do a bad thing. A thing I only do socially, I swear!. And as soon as I stepped outside, a very small woman with her very big boyfriend staggered their way up the walkway. She was barefoot, while he held her shoes. (And they were beautiful shoes—kitten heels in a jewel-tone blue and green brocade.) It became clear in out earliest exchange that she was the singer whom I had first heard about, then heard. She complained about her music theory placement. She explained her fach. She encouraged me to come up an accompany her on the piano sometime. She was very drunk.

She asked for a cigarette. I looked quizzical, her boyfriend frowned. "I haven't touched one of these things in a month! Today was my audition! I can celebrate now!" I had heard her, that morning, doing final preparations for the auditions to cast all the opera productions for the whole term. She had, it seemed, been celebrating all night. She visibly enjoyed the cigarette.

And that melody that sounded so familiar, but I just couldn't place? Somewhere between Britten and Schubert? It was "Trees on the Mountain" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah.

BEFORE AND AFTER

This was my living room at 9:00 am on Thursday.


And this was my living room at 10:00 am on Thursday.



Having professional movers carry boxes off a truck and up the stairs for you really makes the whole process significantly less painful. Now, where is my army of lackeys to unpack the boxes for me?

QUAL VOCE LONTANA?

This morning I started to unpack boxes, and then became discouraged and frustrated, and decided to curl up with the New Yorker and a mug of tea instead. (Speaking of: I am almost out of PG Tips. Where, oh where, in Cleveland can one find more?)

And through the walls floated the voice of my neighbor, the soprano. I've heard of her, but not yet met her; we do not share an entrance. This was the first time I'd heard her sing. She has a very beautiful voice, or at least, a voice that became very beautiful when filtered through a wall or two. I could not tell if she was actually practicing, or just noodling around. Maybe a little of both? It seemed to me she was just vocalizing on "ah," but I'm not quite sure, and I kept hearing snatches of melodies I thought I recognized. Was that Britten? Schubert? Handel? I could never pin any one thing down.

It was like the best performance of Salvatore Sciarrino's "Cantarellando" ever, except better. In "Cantarellando" (which means "Singing to Yourself") a trained operatic singer appears on a stage and sings bits and pieces of whatever pops into her heads while she does something else, like a crossword puzzle, or a flower arrangement, or washing dishes. This morning was like that, except the body of the singer seemed far away, and I was cocooned in my papa-san chair, with a mug of PG Tips reading Acocella on Dante.

And, just then, everything was perfect.

I AM NOT, IN FACT, SKINNY

So, if you have not already clicked the little YouTube clip in the upper right-hand corner if this page, you should. It is funny. At one point, a stranger stops Tina Fey on the street and says "Are you a model? You're so skinny! You should eat something!"

THIS TOTALLY HAPPENED TO ME. For the record, the exact phrase was "Mary Kate Olsen thinks you need to eat a cheeseburger." And it was a co-worker, not stranger. And in his defence, I was wearing my grey flannel suit, which is rather flattering on me, if I do say so myself.

But still. Midwesterners: they are a large people.

MIDWESTERNERS ARE NICE

The stereotype of the "nice" Midwesterner has proven to be true. I have been simply overwhelmed by the offers of assistance, advice, and flat-out charity that I have received, not only from co-workers and colleagues, but from absolute strangers.

The most extreme instance occurred after I'd driven thirty minutes to go to Trader Joe's. (This, incidentally, remains the further I've ventured from my house since arriving.) When I arrived, I discovered a TJ's "Customer Appreciation Day" just getting underway. This involved a free barbecue—not free samples mind you, but full-on heaping plates of food for free. And sno-cones.

So I was already in a good mood before I had even done any shopping. When I was ready to check out, I chose a register at random, and ended up being rung up by a middle-aged woman with loose gray earth-mother hair. Somehow she guessed I was new in town (was it the Marimekko shirt?), and the next thing I knew she was explaining the geography of the area to me, recommending auto mechanics, telling me a more efficient route home, and explaining where the speed traps are on that route. We discovered that I was exactly between the ages of her two children, so she wanted to know about my career prospects, my life history, my family...

It all culminated in her giving me her home phone number, with the understanding that I was to call her whenever I needed help or advice. "Everybody needs a Jewish mother close by," she explained. Perhaps this all sounds rather creepy in the retelling. It seemed utterly sincere at the time. I mean, I'm not actually going to call or anything, but it absolutely made my day at the time. And I'll probably see her again—she works a lot of shifts at TJs ("Always at register #1!"), and I certainly can't get by without my "Greens With Envy" and Portuguese sardines.

When I was ready to leave, she left her register and grabbed a potted plant, a Gerber daisy, and gave it to me. (Some readers may know that I can't keep a plant alive to save my life. It died after about a week.)

WELCOME TO MY BLOG

Once again, I have a blog.

Like the last time I did this, the blog principally serves one and only one purpose: to let my friends know how I'm doing. I'm pathologically incapable of keeping in touch with people once I leave town (I blame my childhood. Seriously.), and keeping the blog updated has the only half-self-serving goal of making me feel less guilty about this.

Unlike that other blog, however, this one has a few more ground rules. There will be no discussion whatsoever of my job. With the kind of job I have now, any indiscretions could have very serious consequences.

So what else is there to talk about, considering my job takes up the vast majority of my time, energy, and thought? The answer, of course, is Cleveland! The Metropolis of the Western Reserve! The Jewel of the Cuyahoga Valley! Home of the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the Cleveland Torso Murderer! And that thing with the river catching on fire happened a long time ago, so stop bringing it up already!

Won't you join me, as I explore all that C-Town has to offer?