Variations on “Is That a Violin????”
by Lara St John
I have noticed, whilst travelling a few million miles hauling a violin, that carrying an oddly shaped case gives random folks a queer impetus to talk to you about what might be inside it.
Some people love to talk about what they do. I, however, to strangers, do not. Once I tell folks my profession, I often get asked about my day job. Also, a large number of people have a grandchild/godson/cousin who plays the violin/guitar/etc., and while I think it’s terrific that their relative is getting a musical education, I don’t necessarily want to hear all about it in an airport.
Others will tell you about themselves … how they took lessons for years. Inevitably and puzzlingly they will also impress upon you just how very bad they were. I once had a conversation with Josh Bell about this, and he is still perplexed when, after concerts, someone always tells him that they played violin once, “but not as good as you”. It made me wonder if people tell Michael Phelps about their waterwings or Annie Liebowitz about their Viewmasters. I have a hard time imagining meeting Nadia Comeneci and regaling her with stories of my cartwheel attempts as a kid, but somehow music seems to be a medium where failure can be a source of pride.
Over the years, I have experimented in how to avoid the situation entirely. At one point I thought the trick might be to look unapproachable, and asked an art student to paint something reptilian and badass on my case. It turned out like this:
It worked, in a way, since people stopped asking me about the contents. Instead, the question was usually: “Whoa, did you do that yourself, like, when you were, like, totally baked?” which is, admittedly, more interesting, but hardly conducive to my intended aloofness.
So I got a new case, and started working on zingy one-liners instead. Here’s a good one for the South, parts of the Midwest, and Texas:
“Is that a violin?”
“No, it’s a special case for my yoga mats.”
Folks will then think they know you to be a crystal-deodorant-wearing om-chanting vegan who doesn’t slap mosquitos …
… and they will depart quickly. Do not try this one in California.
You can also do a question-answer, like this:
“What’s in the case?”
“What’s in your suitcase?”
This one can go over less than successfully.
When I’m exhausted and jetlagged, and someone chortles (in an airport!!), the perennial favorite, “Is that a machine gun?? Huh huh huh,” and ignoring doesn’t work, I have taken to politely saying, with no hint of an accent: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak English.” Works every time.
My latest big hit:
“Is that a violin?”
“Nope, it’s cues”
“What?”
“Pool cues”
“Oh!” as they scurry away.
This one works because you are suddenly seen as a pool shark, and pool sharks have a certain reputation, which, should one’s progeny be emulating, one probably wouldn’t want to talk about.
Whereas folks tend to think of violinists like this:
Interestingly, this all seems to apply mostly to the good old US of A. Canadians tend to have so much respect for personal space (which includes property) that even if they wonder, they don’t ask. I might hazard a guess that, in Europe, they know what it is, so have no need to ask.
You may wonder why this is a pet peeve of string players, but think about it. If you are a vet, you don’t carry around a horse-shaped medical bag, scientists tend to leave their beakers at home, and mimes most likely talk to gate agents. Very few jobs are immediately apparent to assumption, require insane amounts of travel and have the added disadvantage of not being taken very seriously in some parts of the world. That adds up to a craving for anonymity, which, until someone invents a fold-up violin that fits into a briefcase, we won’t enjoy.
At least violinists are spared the size-related jokes that cellists have to deal with: “You taking that to the morgue?” “You got a body in there?” “That a sarcophagus?”
Sigh.
Filed under: Uncategorized
SALOME RAP An overture, by Lara
Intro. Direct Quote from Oscar Wilde;
Iokanaan says: “Behold! The time has come! That which I foretold has come to pass! The day I spake of is at hand”.
RAP
Back in the days of the holy Bible
A princess there lived who loved a disciple
Her crib was the palace where he was imprisoned. cuz
his words and prophecies were often mis–in–
terpreted by those who hadn’t heard of the Messiah
F*%k, when you holla the Romans crucify ya.
Watered by the Jordan, the gardens were stunning
Coulda given Babylon a run for the money
The desert sun made life post-gloaming,
everyone awake all night, roaming,
Hoping to make it through another dawn
Cause lives back then were not worth a song.
our heroine about to get an opportunity,
to half her uncle’s kingdom, or to set her love free
Her situation became a death-knell, cuz there
Ain’t no U turns on this highway to hell
This ain’t just a tale, of unrequited love,
But history, augury, and doom from above.
CHORUS
There will be revolution at the
Point of no return, no solution when the
Rubicon is crossed, at what a cost
(Alea iacta est), execution
Salome the princess was very agile
Heredity provided some feminine wile
Helen of Troy and all her thousand sails
could not stack up to these seven veils
She never did have no trouble with da guys but
the moment they met, she only had eyes…
For John, the Baptist, the prophet, the saint
Our main man, a model of restraint
In all things sexual, comestible and funny
which comes from eating only locusts and honey
He looked like a freak, but she dug him all the same
The trouble began when he cursed her mother’s name…
CHORUS
There will be revolution at the
Point of no return, no solution when the
Rubicon is crossed, at what a cost
(Alea iacta est), execution
Herodias the Queen was one bad mother
She had her husband iced, to marry his brother
No longer in her prime, she made da switch,
Once she was a ho, now she just a bitch
Sweet example of how extreme vanity
Leads in a generation to insanity
Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Judea, was
A glutton and a drunk, but at least he had flair
If tales be believed, he was something of a lecher
who’d love to do his niece, if only he could catch her
Booze, tunes and orgies made him delirious
Debauchery ruled in the reign of Tiberius
So roll back the clock to 27 AD
The darkness before the dawn of Christianity
We walk through the valley of the shadow of death
In the time of the Romans and the dude from Nazareth
Here comes the story of the love child
Of Strauss, Herodias and Oscar Wilde
CHORUS X 2
OUTRO:
Direct quote from Oscar Wilde;
Herod says, fearfully: “Put out the torches! Hide the moon! ………..Hide the stars……..”
Exeunt
Filed under: Travel Tricks | Tags: backpack straps, gangplank, hiding violin for plane, violin how to, violin travel, violin travel and plane
Are you like me? Do you constantly get told by snippety airline employees: “Ma’am, you’ll have to check that”. Yes? Well here are a few ways to get around the tribulations of Travel With Violin Case.
It is of utmost importance to have a case with backpack straps. If you are a rather tall and unthin* person like me, you should be able to hide it easily by having the violin down your back so no one sees it.
Yes, there is a violin in this picture
Be sure to have your straps lengthened so the case is below your shoulders!
Don't do this
If you are small and/or slender, try to wear a bulky kind of outfit, so it goes unnoticed
Do this, even if it looks a bit funko.
In either case, be sure to keep your eyes and front turned towards the employee at all times – never show them your back, or side
This scary situation might occur if violin case is spotted.
and smile heaps!!!
Always face forward
Now go
. You will find that the ticket taker will turn her or his attention towards the next passenger quickly. As soon as this happens, turn, and stride meaningfully (don’t run) down the gangplank - You’re nearly there!
Now, as you enter the cabin, the flight attendant will look at your ticket again (ostensibly because you are too stupid to be on the correct flight). Same as before! Smile! Ask her how she is!.
Smile, and face forward till last minute
Turn at the last minute and walk as fast as possible down the aisle. If she says something, pretend you don’t hear and keep going. Other passengers will come in behind, and hide you from view. This should get you to your seat! (Ideally, you will have pre-boarded -but more on that later). If you are first to your row, put your violin in the overhead and plop down. Anything else – under the seat – don’t make trouble by shoving a big coat up there or similar.
Normally from here on in it’s smooth sailing – but sometimes you get an irate passenger who wants to stow his giant overstuffed rollaboard above (this happens more and more, as airlines are charging for baggage). He might huff and puff, complain and swear, and then you should explain to him that if he puts his rollaboard sideways, it will fit. If there are two of them, they will both fit sideways, with your violin in the back. If they continue complaining, you can sweetly point out that each overhead compartment fits three rollerboards wheels first, and yours fits a violin and two rollaboards sideways (please see excellently drawn diagram), so, what is the (optional expletive here - although it won’t help you, it does feel cathartic) difference?
excellent diagram
(I don’t recommend asking, in a very loud voice, if the passengers failed at building blocks in kindergarten, or have ever heard of tessellation. Trust me).
A lot of this hinges on pre-boarding. So, how do you pre-board?
Good question. The easiest is: fly piles and upgrade yourself a lot. Another is: fly piles and have a gold airline card that allows you to pre-board. I realize these are not everyone’s options. If you haven’t either, always book yourself near the back of the plane – almost every airline boards from the rear, and even if you’re boarding a little late for the rear, you can , as a last resort, stick your fiddle in an emptier, more frontwards compartment as you pass…..but that’s kind of a drippy thing to do, so try to spy out what you’re in for up ahead – above you is always best.
In a small plane – they make everyone gate-check their rollaboards – don’t worry – if it’s a Dash-8 or bigger, your fiddle will fit! Plus, you have no competition – just don’t let them see it, and you’ll be fine.
Seaplanes don’t go above the danger zone, and the hold is in the cabin with you – ask them to be real gentle and they will, in Western Canada anyway….
Nearly Worst Case Scenario
(I have actually done this a lot). If it is on an airline that you; don’t often fly/ think plane might be small or full/ you really have got to get there; do the broken leg. Go to the gate, and tell them that you’ve recently had your cast removed, and you don’t need a wheelchair ‘anymore’, but you need a little extra time to board. Be sure to limp (always the same leg, mind!), and try to look a little bit world weary, tired and sad.
.
In this case, do not forget the above advice – never turn your back! They’ll even try to wrench a violin off someone with a nearly broken leg.
{This works best on inter-USA flights)*.
Another Nearly Worst Case:
They might come around the lounge and look for large items and try to force you to gate-check your instrument. Explain a little – if they get nasty, don’t fuss! – but as you are going down the gangway, simply tear the tag off before you come to the gate check bag collector, and voila! You and precious fiddle get on the plane.
Super Incredibly Worst Case Scenario (if there is truly no overhead space).
Stand up at the front of the plane, declaim who you are, what you do, and explain the value of what you have with you (if it’s less than a million, say it’s a million) (if it’s a violin made last year, say it ain’t – pick a year between 1690 and 1820 – Italy is a good default country of origin) and that you cannot take this flight if your violin is not in the overhead for insurance reasons . Explain that it’ll probably be a extra hour or two delay as they locate your suitcase to remove it from the plane (say this if you have checked bags OR NOT! Most airlines don’t bother, but it is a security issue so they can’t gainsay you). Ask passengers if any amongst them might deign to gate-check a suitcase, so the plane will take off as scheduled. This works EVERY TIME!!!….. but it’s really a last resort because it makes you feel like a complete schmuck. (I’ve done it three times – all with late connecting flights where I was the last one on).
Still, no matter where or when your instrument is from – it’s far more valuable than those other folks’ clothes and deodorant and toothbrush. Don’t be ashamed – be forceful….and resourceful! And polite, till you fight. And when you fight, make sense. Tears are not good (yes, crap! gah! I’ve done that too…), but what really works is logic.
Good luck! And try to avoid US Airways, Delta, Southwest, and SAS.
If you can’t, try these ideas!! and be economical. Never pull out the worst case scenario unless you have exhausted every other means.
Lara, 2011
* – I have coined that.
* – I don’t know why, but travelling within the USA with a violin is more nightmarish than other countries. However, they feel sorry for you and your leg much more easily than elsewhere. I guess that makes it even.
Special thanks to Eduard Laurel and Mara Gerety for their invaluable assistance and participation in the instructive photography.
Filed under: 100 Days of Hell
A HUNDRED DAYS OF HELL
Ten bits of advice (kind of) when ending nicotine addiction.
NO PUNCHES PULLED
If you are a real addict, like me, it’ll be 100 Days of Hell. So be it. And if you aren’t ready, just don’t do it!
SOLITUDE
Although help will come from unlooked-for places, it’s best to assume you will face this alone. Likely, most of your friends and family do not understand addiction. And, here is one of the more interesting things I learned: even if you know some ex-addicts, they are almost always not helpful. I don’t know why that is, unless it be that at the beginning, the most difficult time, we are the most likely to relapse, and people just can’t be bothered. It’s pretty hard to take, but you heard it here.
CATCH- 22
There is a cycle at first which would make Heller jealous. One wants to end it all in the first few weeks, and looks for high buildings. However, whichever the choice may be to end the crushing depression, obviously you would have a last cigarette first! And then, of course you would no longer want to off yourself. So you get confused. This happens every 20 minutes or so. It’s really quite hilarious when you think about it later.
HINT FOR NON-ADDICTS
If anyone is reading this who has never been addicted to nicotine, the closest I can think of is thirst. Crazy, debilitating thirst when all you can think about is water – cold, flowing, so beautiful! Everything would be fine if you could just have a sip! Think of that magnified ten times and then you will come close to imagining a nicotine addiction. Please try to realize this when your friends are going through it.
FIND ONE FRIEND
My most helpful friend throughout withdrawal was an ex-crack addict. “People are all roaches” he would say – “so we build an exoskeleton of addiction to deal with them”.
He understood the manic depression, the sobbing for no discernible reason, the despair, and he assured me it would end. I clung to that, because I knew he was speaking from the other side. Find one of those friends!
PEOPLE SUCK
What happens is you shed your exoskeleton (of addiction) and grow a real one. It hurts, and everything hits home hard for a while. Some people are not very nice, you find out, or rather, are fairweather acquaintances, but hey! you would have figured that out sooner or later – better sooner..
YOUR REAL FRIENDS kind of SUCK TOO (BUT ONLY FOR A SHORT WHILE)
The heartbreaking ones are the friends who really care about you, and they try so hard and sound so stupid! But it’s not their fault – it’s your skewed perception of them due to withdrawal (mostly). It’s important to remember that these folks are not themselves having a life-changing, sometimes suicidal time. They are just incapable of understanding what you’re going through – it’s not as though you are bleeding on the outside.
DIFFERENT FOLKS
Some people are always your friends and always will be. Some folks try to tell you what to do and are negative. And others tell you that they completely understand your situation because they are, like, so addicted to chocolate!
An Israeli friend of mine said “Wow! Hmm. That’s sort of like telling a Holocaust survivor that you know what they went through because you once played soldier in the backyard”. Well, not quite, obviously, but it surely is pretty dumb to talk chocolate to someone going through withdrawal. Try to refrain from slapping these latter folk.
IT PASSES, REALLY
I thought I would never laugh again and mean it. I thought I would never again love music, or be inspired by anything. The depression is hard and real, but it does pass. All of a sudden, after 100 days or so, the sky is, in fact, bluer. Trust me.
A YEAR AND SOME LATER
Should the subject come up in casual conversation, it annoyingly seems as though many are insistent on saying “Good For You!” in a voice which makes you feel like a poodle who jumps through rings of fire. They mean well, but I find it’s good to back away from these people slowly, smiling and nodding. And then run.
Best is not to bring it up at all. Most people cannot comprehend what it is to have loved and beat an addiction, and they live and react accordingly. We, however, have that extra facet.
I’ll leave it at that.
Meanwhile, I’m going to become a smoker again as soon as I turn 80, when it no longer matters. And until then, I will uphold my vow to never be judgemental – except of people who are judgemental.
Filed under: Essays
After a week or so in Europe this past April of 2008, I finally got up the nerve to check my mailbox. As a rule, I hate checking snail mail because it’s just so boooooring – no one ever writes a nice letter or card anymore. So after a few days of mail procrastination, amongst all the bills, I found a big red Jury Duty summons – for the Very Next Day – ulp. I got it deferred, naturally, but it got me thinking. Everyone gets these. I think they could give a tad more than 10 days’ notice for folks who travel a lot. One more day and I would have been in some sort of major horrible trouble, likely as not.
So this July, I made a new foray down to the courthouses, expecting some sort of exciting Law & Order-type experience. I was disappointed to pass the Jack McCoy building and discover that it was not the address on my ballot. Somehow I had entertained all these visions of myself walking down those stairs in some sort of spiffy suit, hounded by reporters, repeating “no comment” in manner of Angie Harmon or someone equally glamourous.
Well, as anyone could have told me, the whole process is pretty femur-crushingly boring, and I ended up spending 2 days in a fluorescent lit, morgue-cold room with a silent cross-section of New York society. On the second day; after finishing my book, watching a zillion episodes of CSI wrapped up in 3 scarves, and in the middle of my 8th magazine, I surfaced a bit, and noticed that at least half of the folks there had no reading material, no iPod, no computer, were aimlessly looking around, and obviously had been doing nothing else the entire time.
I have always been mystified by these folks when I see them on planes or in airports – but I can’t fathom anyone being quite as clueless as I about Jury Duty. Everyone apparently knows that it’s a ‘sit and wait’ situation, and even in my wildest TV show inspired imaginings, I figured there might be some down time, and came ultra prepared with an activity bag full of fun. Why would they show up with nothing, I wondered. Perhaps they were meditating, or had cataracts (possible for a few), did not own a computer or iPod, or maybe were illiterate (but then how would they have read the summons?), or, possibly, I finally had to accept, some folks like to do absolutely nothing but sit around and stare, at nothing. This is about as comprehensible to me as covering oneself in Goober and jumping up and down naked on a harpsichord shouting nonsense.
I must say, though, that we were treated pretty nicely – much better than my other two experiences downtown. A little hint here to anyone who has to do NYC Jury Duty, and can’t take the time to do it – they never check ID! I was astonished. There is an Xray, but not once did I need to pull out my passport. So, in theory, one could just send one’s grandma, if one is busy. I wonder if anyone has ever pulled that off. Also, they have a 13th floor, but not a 12th. Could it be that someone miscounted the popular floor superstition? I have never seen that before, and I meant to ask about it, but was so in haste to take advantage of my newfound jury duty-free life for the next 5 years, and get a hot dog, that I forgot to bother.
Filed under: Essays
After 6 years of immigration ordeals, weird visas, emergency paroles for travel, heaps of money for lawyers, making only 35 percent of whatever concerts I played, and five 10 – hour days in line down at One Federal Plaza, I received my green card, unceremoniously, in the mail, in 1998. Mine was an ‘extraordinary ability’ green card – meaning that I had to prove I must be me to do what I do.
(It sounds better than it is – and if I had to do it again, I’d just marry a friend – which is way easier, I’ve heard).
A green card is basically just as good as being a citizen, so I was quite pleased with my newfound travel and work ease, until, in 2003, an immigration official pointed out that I had been over 5 months out of the US and if I were gone more than 6 months within 12 they would have the right to take my card away. After 5 years of green cardage, one is allowed to apply for citizenship, so I figured I’d better hop along that path.
Should it have been required to give up my Canadian citizenship, I would never have given it a second thought, for the record.
Happily, you can keep both, so I applied, all went swimmingly, and in the summer of 2005 after a test-like interview for which I had studiously memorized 43 presidents (even Coolidge), finally convinced myself that Ben Franklin never was one, and read a few history books, I passed with flying colours and received my 9 AM swearing-in notice. (It turns out they only ask you who the first president was as though you might be eight, or equivalent, dagnabbit).
So I dressed all nicely in a skirt and short-sleeved blouse, and went skipping along down to Pearl Street. For an hour or so, about 400 of us stood around in a hallway, which was sort of normal temperature, probably because there were 400 people in a small space. Then we were all herded into a huge, high ceilinged walnut-paneled courtroom with loads of eagles clutching arrows everywhere, which was quite impressive, except that for some reason there appears to be a law that courtrooms must kept at about 54% Farenheit (12 Celsius) like a sort of meat locker. Which, I suppose, they are.
After about an hour of shivering, the Dutch lady to my right and the Somalian lady to my left decided to get inventive. It turns out, if you huddle up next to each other, and cover yourselves in newspaper, you can actually stay quite warm. This is probably listed somewhere in The New York Judicial System / Inuit Survival Guide, but none of us had read that. We were given 5 minutes each hour to go to the washroom, which of course, for 200-odd ladies in a freezing room, is not enough. We were told that if we left the courtroom, and our name was called, we would be penalized, so everyone started to make friends, to stand up for the other just in case, so we could rush outside when there was no line.
We had all learned the anthem, and were looking forward to singing it in some sort of blaze of New World glory (and had even planned some operatic vibrato on FREEEEE) and cheering afterwards like at an all-American ball game, when four hours later the judge remembered to show up. He muttered some gibberish, we repeated after him (kind of), with our hands up, and then he pounded his gavel and took off. No song. 400 names were read alphabetically (aha! enough time for me to dash out for a quickie!) and we got a piece of paper and that was it.
Now, personally, I didn’t much mind, because I am Canadian and was doing this for convenience; but there were folks there with Stars and Stripes ties, flags, hats, even shoelaces; some older, some obviously finally achieving their American Dream at last with their families waiting outside with confetti and balloons (I kid you not – it was very sweet) and I really thought the INS could, and certainly should have managed a more considerate realization of the pinnacle of some folks’ life ambition.
Filed under: Essays
Way back in the hot summer of 1997, when Giuliani was in his Zero Tolerance phase, and folks were getting arrested for jaywalking, my American friend Louise and Australian friend Alissa and I decided to take an evening stroll, get a refreshing cold brewed beverage at the local deli and sit on the front doorstep of my building watching passers-by.
We were under the impression that if one wanted to drink a beer outside, it was perfectly legal if one kept it in a paper bag. This is true to an extent – (TAKE NOTE!) because police are not allowed to touch your property without a search warrant. However, if two folks come over, ask what you’re drinking, and you jovially say “beer!” and they turn out to be plain-clothed cops, you’ve got a wee problem. We were all legal age, so it could have been worse.
We each got a summons to Night Court, which oddly enough was for 8 AM. None of us wanted any trouble, so we were 15 minutes early, and were made to sleepily stand in line for a couple of hours with some few hundred other sleepy folks. At one point, an extremely pregnant lady tried to sit on the floor, and was barked at to stand back up again. That didn’t go over very well with any of us, but the barker was a 300 pound dude with two huge guns and a scary uniform, so we settled for sympathetic glances her way, and angry muttering. (As Louise has reminded me, the only thing to look at in that hallway was a circular sign with a slash through a drawing of a face in profile with the mouth open and germs coming out, with the words “COVER YOUR COUGHS” printed underneath it).
We were siphoned off into a sort of pew-lined classroom with about 50 other folks – the least offensive offenders, it turned out. There was an Annie Hall look-alike up front and a bailiff with lots of guns and head-hitting sticks on his belt, and I’d like to say whips, but it’s ages ago now and maybe I am dreaming things up.
For some reason, we were the only girls in the room. We sat together, and attendance was called. “Alberto Gonzalez” Annie yelled, and two men stood up so everyone started to giggle. The bailiff hollered at us all to shut up, but when three girlfriends are stuck in a room that is part classroom, part church, and all hilarious situation, the giggles have a way of coming to the fore unstoppably. One by one, the offenses were called. “Urinating In Public” got a few snorts out of us and a stern glance from the bailiff. “Unlawful Camping” seemed sort of funny at the time, and he came over to warn us to shut up. Finally, at “Unlawful Possession of Combustible Gas” when Alissa stage-whispered “what did he do, fart?” we lost it completely. We were screamed at that we would be sent to jail immediately if we couldn’t control ourselves.
Naturally, we could no longer look at each other. After lots of fake (covered, of course) coughing and sneezing, we finally paid our 10 dollars, which seemed a little better than the alternative one day in jail. (Louise recalls: “I was insulted when the judge announced that i was being charged for an illegal open container of ROLLING ROCK… Rolling Rock?!?!!!!! As if!!! it took all of my self-control to not shout, “it was NOT a Rolling Rock, your Honor! I don’t drink that piss-water! I had an Anchor Steam!!!”)
Well, the summons was erased, so we have no criminal records from enjoying ourselves for 5 minutes on a hot summer night.
Alissa later found out that Giuliani had a certain quota of arrests/summons that each officer was required to make each month, and we were caught on the last day. It probably would have been $20 for jaywalking, or, say, two days in jail, so we figured we got off easy.
