p(REVIEW) week

What do you get when you mix 380 motivated, caffeinated, over achievers with an infinite matrix of classes, auditions, shows, talks, and callbacks?

The short answer is preview week, but the lived experience encompasses so much more than the packed schedule outlines. Although only in serious action since Friday, we the student body have already celebrated countless triumphs, tested the limits of our endurance, comforted one another through audition related heartbreak, and exalted in sweaty, fatigue sweetened slumbers.  

Whereas some students’ first ADF milestones were discovering their names on a cast lists, mine was a little more mundane, worthy of a pat on the back and perhaps a participation award. I successfully managed to drive one of the festival vans to and from the airport without killing anyone. TWICE.

One of our first active dorm counselor responsibilities entailed ensuring that our charges arrived at Duke safely from the airport. Before student check in, the 14 of us were presented with schedule outlining our rescue missions. Myself and a fellow counselor geared up for the task at hand and strode fearlessly towards the resting vehicles one of which we would need to wrangle in order to transport three students and their belongings. Exchanging sidelong glances, we telepathically encouraged the other person to surrender and take charge of taming the creature. When mental manipulation failed, we tried the innocent sounding "So, who wants to drive the van?” route with an equally non-committal “It doesn’t matter” in response. Loosely translated- "Shit, I really don't want to drive this thing and I'm hoping you'll just do it". No one budged.


Keys in hand, we approached the beasts, each named after a member of Destiny’s Child. We were assigned to Kelly. Upon opening her doors and testing out the driver’s side, we discovered that the pedals were a bit too far from the seat for my shorter cohort to drive. It was my time to shine. I placed my coffee mug in the cup holder and turned the key. Kelly cranked into action. She was surprisingly easy to maneuver. Despite her powerful air conditioning and bumpin’ stereo, I'm sad to report she was still no Beyoncé. Sorry Kelly. 

Let me introduce you to Kelly

Our adventure took us to Raleigh Durham International Airport, home of cheap parking, in search of under 18s and international students. We honed in on our targets with little difficulty but encountered our second challenge of the day in the form of a language barrier. Our new friend spoke limited English and only communication I could offer in return were the Spanish equivalents of:

hello,

goodbye,

thank you,

you're welcome,

1-25

I love you,

library,

bathroom,

and

contemporary dance


Fortunately, the desire to communicate itself got us surprisingly far. By the end of the car ride, I had added caliente, frio, verano invierno to my vocabulary. I am pleased to announce that with my new found knowledge, I am able to relay important messages like "I love hot summer!" and "Goodbye winter, hello contemporary dance!", in Spanish to any one who will listen. The tremendous diversity of the student body has proven to be one of my favorite aspects of summer dance study. I remember standing in a circle at Bates Dance Festival last year realizing that in order to have an adequate conversation, with the people in that group, would need to be fluent in five different languages.

The following morning, once assured that no one had been lost in transit, we paraded in a sea of baggy shirts and backpacks to orientation where the faculty intended us to spend 3 hours listening to important information about the festival. While the attempt was valiant, many of us missed a significant portion of the material, choosing instead to utilize our time mapping out efficient escape routes from the lecture hall. Immediately following orientation, we would have our first opportunity to dance. All 380 of us were hungry for one of 40 coveted spots at the barre in Jackie Villamil’s master class. I tried lying to myself, deciding it was no big deal whether or not I was one of the 40 and that competition was unnecessary. Fyi, I am a terrible liar. As the meetings wore on, I capitalized on breaks as a means to establish myself as sentry of the left door. Having secured a spot, I waited, water bottle in hand, backpack already slung over my shoulders. Tension built as the other students inched closer to the door.

And then the floodgates opened.

Picture the herd of wildebeests that trample Mufasa at the beginning of the Lion King and you’ll have a scaled down image of the 2015 ADF Ballet Stampede. I felt confident as I rushed out the door, wind in my hair and plies on my mind. From the corner of my eye, I watched my partner in crime from the van excursion carve a short cut under a bush through a patch of mulch. As I approached the halfway mark, my shoes began slipping about, causing my pace to slow and other runners to begin passing me. Unfortunately, I had committed a rookie error and worn flip flops to the road race. Naturally, I did as any calm, non-competitive human should- took my shoes off and sprinted faster. Turning my final corner, I watched as the elite runners crossed the threshold of the Ark, the East Campus beacon with floor to ceiling windows marking our finish line. Pulling out my identification card in exchange for a neon orange ticket, I ran my last 400 yards and triumphantly claimed my spot at the barre.
 


With the lovely Jackie Villamil

Mission accomplished!

Jackie, one of ADF’s 2015 Balasaraswati/Joy Ann Dewey Beinecke Endowed Chair for Distinguished Teaching recipients, graciously led us through a glorious hour and a half of contemporary ballet technique. Upon completion, sweaty and euphoric, we exhaled and strode into the sunshine, preparing ourselves for the goliath task of completing the following 4.5 days without burning out.

Preview week used to be preview weekend but was extended due to the sheer volume of happenings and opportunities available. We have a suggestion box in our student headquarters and I intend to propose that the members of the school office sign and frame the first week’s schedule as a relic of organizational genius. On check in day, we were sorted into 6 groups identified by the colors of the rainbow sans the regularly neglected indigo. Once preview classes began, the groups migrated around campus discovering the locations of various studios and sampling 35-40 minute classes from each of 20 faculty members. We were welcome to both take classes and sit along the outskirts of the studios to observe, the end goal being completely informed decision making on class registration day.

In case 20 mini classes weren’t enough for our eager hearts, festival auditions also occurred during preview week. These included opportunities to participate in repertory projects, new works to be presented in the footprints concert, choreography set by the international choreographers in residence, and professional company apprenticeships. Even with the constraints of my job which excludes me from most auditions, I danced for nearly 20 hours, observed 3 auditions, participated in 2, and watched 2 professional company performances. Based on my calculations, the few, the brave, the walking dead, who attended all of the auditions, call backs, and classes accumulated an additional 12 hours, racking up an impressive total of nearly 32 hours of physically and mentally exhausting work.



Although everyone is tired, the sore muscles and spent minds are no match for the fervor washing through the ever humid summer air. If preview week has taught us anything, it is that we are ready. We are ready to learn, ready to grow, ready to conquer obstacles, and ready to do it together.
 

Back In Action

After a year and a half in hibernation, I've decided it's high time to get this blog back up and running. For anybody who has been waiting around thinking "hmmm, I wonder when Jen will post something groundbreaking and awe inspiring", thank you for your patience. There's a good chance you'll be waiting another 80 years or so before I establish the magical neuronal alignment that will allow me to concoct such a post. If instead you're hoping for comical nuggets and some wanderlust inspired anecdotes, look no further.

Currently, I'm stationed at Duke University preparing for the arrival of 300+ students to kick off the 82nd annual American Dance Festival. As one of 14 dorm counselors, it's my job to help look after and enhance the experience for all of the dancers under 18 (aka make sure they make it through the festival alive). We haven't had much to do so far besides sit in meetings and eat some killer burritos but things should pick up tomorrow. I'm looking forward to my first attempt at maneuvering a 12 passenger van in the morning (pray for me).

The last few days have consisted mostly of driving, singing loudly to the people in passing cars, recording absurd license plates, and making space for mental clearing. If you are ever afforded the opportunity to take a solo road trip please do so. On Sunday morning, armed with my tent, coffee maker, and an endless supply of granola bars, I shoved off for the 800 mile cruise from Boston to Durham. I decided to hug the coast for most of my journey allowing myself to move at a leisurely pace and enjoy some surprisingly open highways. Here are some one word state summaries for your reading pleasure-

Massachusetts: Home
Rhode Island: Quaint
Connecticut: Kaleidoscopic
New York: Busy
New Jersey: ...
Delaware: Peaceful
Maryland: Stunning

I must elaborate momentarily about Connecticut and New Jersey. Traversing CT via 95 was a pleasant surprise for me. Although I have stopped both in some of the affluent beach areas and a few less well tended urban spots, I appreciated observing the overall landscape transitions from the road. When I think about stereotypical Connecticut, the first things that come to mind are J. Crew, pastels, and the Stepford Wives. The actual diversity was refreshing.

New Jersey was another story. Oh New Jersey. For anyone who lives there, I'm sorry. Perhaps I have an unfair bias since I traveled down the turnpike, but the only good thing about Jersey was the overwhelming joy I felt when I finally saw the "Welcome to Delaware" sign. The land ever present concrete and shipping containers makes for a drab setting of depressing neutral colors. Fortunately, the brilliant travelers of the turnpike have managed to combat this, choosing to dress only in neon spandex and sporting spray tans in various hues of orange. Even the service station vendors seemed in on the deleterious effects of spending too much time on the Jersey Turn Pike. In order to boost morale and distract travelers from their plight, they refrained from selling memorabilia sporting anything to do with the state-that-must-not-be-named, opting instead for "I <3 NY" t-shirts even though everyone on that side of the highway was traveling South and had driven well past boarder already. Lesson learned: Avoid the turn pike.

I'm pleased to report that I made it through Jersey unscathed and celebrated my victory by setting up camp along the serene Maryland seashore.

Namaste

Assateague National Seashore is an American gem. Appealing to me particularly for it's beachside camping, the park also boasts some spectacular wildlife including a plethora of wild horses a well as countless options

for biking, hiking, kayaking, and general sunshine enjoyment. Upon arrival, I set up my tent in the sand and decided to utilize my remaining hours of sunlight reading and writing on a beach towel. About 30 minutes after I sank my toes into the sand, a large shadow swept across my book, looking up expecting to see a cloud passing by the sun I was instead confronted by the sight of 5 wild horses absentmindedly munching on the plants around my tent. There are signs all over the park reminding visitors to stay clear of the horses because they are wild and do behave as such. The horses on the other hand are rather dismissive of the humans and are unperturbed by accidental interactions.


I retired for the evening along with the sun and awoke to the twitters of red winged blackbirds. Since my feet hit the ground before 5:30 AM, I had the privilege of walking the beach as the first tendrils of  sun reached out over the sand. My feet forged the only set of human tracks, a product of the early hour and the off season. After concluding my stroll, I repacked my car and acknowledged the water for a bittersweet farewell. I wish I had a few more days to spend just exploring the park. It is definitely on my list of locations in need of a return trip.


Soon after my departure from the beach, I crossed into Southern territory. Virginia beckoned me with the tantalizing prospect "Virginia is for lovers". I don't know about lovers in terms of ardor, but if you are passionate about firearms, manners, or a well procured caffeinated beverage, you have come to the right place. Around 10:30, I was on a desperate hunt for a coffee fix when I stumbled upon The Book Bin, a local book store/ coffee shop nestled in the middle of a small plaza along Rte. 13. I walked in because of a giant sign declaring "COFFEE, MOCHA, LATTES" etc, but stayed because of the homey atmosphere and genial company, a group of southern ladies who had just endured a Zumba sculpt class together.  I sipped my drink contentedly from the comfort of a well loved couch, grateful for the WiFi and the barista's expertise. They make one mean dirty chai!

Back on the highway, I encountered a small glitch in my plans when something dense flew off the road and dented my windshield. The glass repair shop was in Virginia Beach though so I can't complain too much. In order to reach Virginia Beach, I traversed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge which spans 20 miles and took nearly 4 years to build. On a clear day, the origin of the bay offers spectacular views of the bends in the bridge with countless opportunities to marvel at both the water and the architecture. Taking a pit stop on one of the bridge's central scenic points, I received my first true blast of Southern heat and longed for the time to lounge on the beach and produce some serious melanin. My windshield took priority though so I compromised by delighting in an apple and catching some rays in the repair shop parking lot about two miles past the end of the bridge.


Cute, eh?

With the crack fixed and my second camping location within an hour and a half, I made my last state crossing into North Carolina which I have taken upon myself to dub The Land of Many Turtles. Seriously, I moved 3 of them off the black top in a stretch of road less than a mile. Every time I stopped, a concerned local would follow suit, kindly checking to make sure I was okay so I abandoned my turtle moving venture and instead adopted the more common custom of driving around the shells and leaving the animals to their own devices.

When I finally reached Lake Gaston, I set up the only tent opposite a sea of RVs. After watching another peace inducing sunset and listening to a teenager hopelessly belting an off key version of Beyoncé's Partition to no one in particular, I settled in to my untethered nylon shelter for another restful evening, or so I thought.

 The problems started about an hour after I drifted off. I awoke in the dark to the sound of the tent fly smacking the tent and something synthetic pushing up against my side. The wind had picked up, and violently. Since I stupidly decided to ignore the signs of a storm coming in, mainly a single flash of lightning across the lake, I neglected to both anchor the tent with stakes and place a plastic ground cloth under the tent. I rationed that wind did not necessarily equal a storm and repositioned my self along the now comically concave side of the tent to prevent the poles from dislodging and fell back asleep. Soon afterwards, my campsite was pelted by rain, the percussive nature of which roused me once again. Deciding not to risk damaging any of my supplies should the bottom of the tent soak through, I rearranged, repositioned myself and fell back asleep. I enjoyed a delicious 45 minutes of shut eye before I was startled by a cold splash on my nose. The bottom of the tent held out just fine but the fly had not been as waterproof as I had thought and scattered leaks began cropping up surrounding the tent's apex. I wrinkled my nose and scowled at the ceiling. In response, a particularly sassy droplet splashed into my eye. I sheltered my journal, backpack and clothes to the best of my ability and flipped the position of my face and feet. From then on, my sleeping bag received the brunt of the droplets. By the time the thunder started I was ready to just admit defeat and stay up the rest of the night. However, the tent makers provided me with the boost of comedy I needed to avoid a grumpy sleep deprived morning. When I rolled over, I caught sight of my tent's ironically apt model name, LIGHTNING staring indifferently back at me. As flashes crossed the sky, I began to silently count the number of seconds before the corresponding booms, sliding into unawareness for a final time.

Despite the multiple nocturnal interruptions, I was up again with the birds devising a plan to dry out my waterlogged tent components before making the final push to Durham. With heaps of damp nylon accompanying me in the passenger seat, I moved one or two more turtles off the road (couldn't help myself) before cruising down the last stretch of highway.

Having reached my final destination, I am grateful for this time to reflect back on my road trip. I'm sad to leave behind the wild horses, sea shore, and carefree attitude of life on the road  but excited to start my next month and a half reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, leaving my sweaty mark on the dance floor, and staying far, far away from New Jersey.