NY: DAY 3
Today begins with some considerable frustration. Erica pointed out on Monday that, since they have wireless high speed internet, I should feel free to get on line. Trouble is, I can't seem to connect. "This is the reason I bought you and brought you," I hiss at the laptop. "Wireless ready. Out of the box. That's what it says in the instructions!" Of course, if I'd actually read the instructions, I would also have known there was a very simple way of getting it working...
I tell David. Now David's sole purpose in life appears to be to make things work. His permanent expression is one of benign concern, as if he were saying, "everything ok with you? Anything I can help with?" He takes the laptop from me and piles in to menus and sub-menus, searching for the solution to the conundrum. Eventually, he ends up in places I know for sure will not provide the answer. "It's supposed to be wireless ready, out of the box!" I joke, trying to shame the machine into a sudden change of mind.
David leaves for work, and I call PC World in the UK from the land line here, using my chargecard. A cheery voice announces that I'll be charged 39p per minute for this call, exclusive of call charges. Yes, of course, once connected, they keep me on hold as they go off to speak to the 'techies'. "Are you near the machine now? There should be a button on top, near the power switch, with a little wireless symbol on it..." There is. I press it. I'm connected. "Have you found it, Mr Price?" I cut my losses with, "no, I still can't seem to locate it. But I'll have a look round and call you back if I have no luck. Gotta go!" Why couldn't I just admit it?
At BPAC, Rob & I get to work on the letter scene (Act 2, Sc 5). We get to this phrase: "Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh." When Ken delivered this line, he pretended not to understand the word 'slough' and made a laboured joke about trying to pronounce it. In my opinion, it just held up the scene. Malvolio's getting into top gear, here. It comes just a little before: "Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered." My instinct is not to stop for such a gag. Robert wants to keep the gag. I protest that it doesn't add anything to the scene or anyone's understanding of it. Unfortunately, he agrees and, conscious that I'm only taking over the role, I relent and agree to pause on the word, so that Sir Andrew can interject with the right pronunciation. Ho-hum.
After this rehearsal I walk with Rob to the office and, while he goes up to get on with some work, I start walking south. I mean to go into the bank to ask about opening accounts, but it's closed. I continue walking. South Village, SOHO, Tribeca... I pop into pharmacies, looking for electric toothbrushes... and see prices ranging from $40 to $140. I keep walking.
Eventually I get to the World Trade Center site. Throughout my walk I've been disoriented by the absence of the towers, which, formerly, would always have been visible along the whole route of my walk. Arriving alongside the high fence now surrounding area, I hear the American voices of other 'pilgrims', coming for their first look at the scene of the disaster. Nothing at all is left of the debris. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say it was the foundations work at a construction site. But I do know better and my mind tries to fit my memory of the complex into the vast vacancy before me. Boards fixed to the fence tell the story of the events of September 11th 2001 and list the names of the dead. Repairs are nearing completion on a nearby tower. They still haven't begun on another tower, still shrouded in black netting. The densely packed buildings and bustle of the evening rush hour, press right up to the fence. Then beyond, there is only stillness, vacancy, and silence. Like the rest of the city, I now turn my back and walk away.
In Borders bookshop at 100, Broadway, I manage to find a comprehensive street atlas of the city. Its publication predates the disaster on the site, just a few yards away. There, on map 104, the two towers still stand.
I meet Rob at a bar near the office for a drink and end up at his place once again, where Dionne has prepared tacos. We're all exhausted and I have another struggle to stay awake on the subway ride to Astoria.
I tell David. Now David's sole purpose in life appears to be to make things work. His permanent expression is one of benign concern, as if he were saying, "everything ok with you? Anything I can help with?" He takes the laptop from me and piles in to menus and sub-menus, searching for the solution to the conundrum. Eventually, he ends up in places I know for sure will not provide the answer. "It's supposed to be wireless ready, out of the box!" I joke, trying to shame the machine into a sudden change of mind.
David leaves for work, and I call PC World in the UK from the land line here, using my chargecard. A cheery voice announces that I'll be charged 39p per minute for this call, exclusive of call charges. Yes, of course, once connected, they keep me on hold as they go off to speak to the 'techies'. "Are you near the machine now? There should be a button on top, near the power switch, with a little wireless symbol on it..." There is. I press it. I'm connected. "Have you found it, Mr Price?" I cut my losses with, "no, I still can't seem to locate it. But I'll have a look round and call you back if I have no luck. Gotta go!" Why couldn't I just admit it?
At BPAC, Rob & I get to work on the letter scene (Act 2, Sc 5). We get to this phrase: "Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh." When Ken delivered this line, he pretended not to understand the word 'slough' and made a laboured joke about trying to pronounce it. In my opinion, it just held up the scene. Malvolio's getting into top gear, here. It comes just a little before: "Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered." My instinct is not to stop for such a gag. Robert wants to keep the gag. I protest that it doesn't add anything to the scene or anyone's understanding of it. Unfortunately, he agrees and, conscious that I'm only taking over the role, I relent and agree to pause on the word, so that Sir Andrew can interject with the right pronunciation. Ho-hum.
After this rehearsal I walk with Rob to the office and, while he goes up to get on with some work, I start walking south. I mean to go into the bank to ask about opening accounts, but it's closed. I continue walking. South Village, SOHO, Tribeca... I pop into pharmacies, looking for electric toothbrushes... and see prices ranging from $40 to $140. I keep walking.
Eventually I get to the World Trade Center site. Throughout my walk I've been disoriented by the absence of the towers, which, formerly, would always have been visible along the whole route of my walk. Arriving alongside the high fence now surrounding area, I hear the American voices of other 'pilgrims', coming for their first look at the scene of the disaster. Nothing at all is left of the debris. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say it was the foundations work at a construction site. But I do know better and my mind tries to fit my memory of the complex into the vast vacancy before me. Boards fixed to the fence tell the story of the events of September 11th 2001 and list the names of the dead. Repairs are nearing completion on a nearby tower. They still haven't begun on another tower, still shrouded in black netting. The densely packed buildings and bustle of the evening rush hour, press right up to the fence. Then beyond, there is only stillness, vacancy, and silence. Like the rest of the city, I now turn my back and walk away.
In Borders bookshop at 100, Broadway, I manage to find a comprehensive street atlas of the city. Its publication predates the disaster on the site, just a few yards away. There, on map 104, the two towers still stand.
I meet Rob at a bar near the office for a drink and end up at his place once again, where Dionne has prepared tacos. We're all exhausted and I have another struggle to stay awake on the subway ride to Astoria.
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