Snow? In New York? In August? YES!
But I'm getting ahead of myself, so I'll start at the beginning. We took the N train into Manhattan and got off at Union Square. When we emerged from the station, this is what we saw:
Holy Crap! It's still a couple of days before the convention begins and already the cops are chomping at the bit. Those little white loops attached to their belts? Plastic handcuffs. I wonder if they have an arrest quota? Don't worry, I am a peaceful protester, but judging from this display of force, you never know what will happen.
But back to the meat of this post. Snow. In Manhattan. In August. We had a lovely meal at an Italian restaurant on Park Avenue South. Great service & delicious food & a window seat on the New York streetscape. I felt I'd really arrived in The City. After dinner, we headed for the theater, which was just two blocks away. Good planning, Timothy.
The lobby was full of Russian ex-pats, here to support one of their own. Everywhere you turned you heard Russian spoken. The show was, how can I say this, AWESOME. And very familiar. Existential Clowning. Like Waiting for Godot, but without words, and with amazing technical effects. Timothy says, "It's like they're having conversations with your visceral self." And they involve the audience in the spectacle - by coming out into the audience, by throwing huge balls ito the audience, and then blasting us with a snowstorm of astonishing magnitude. Everyone's hands came up involuntarily as the horizontal assault blew past and then stayed up - as if to feel the atmosphere. The last twenty minutes were the snowstorm: huge beach balls bouncing around the audience, confetti snow coming from every direction (including audience members throwing it back on stage), sheer spectacle. This kind of theater appeals to that vulnerable center of all of us. Did Timothy and I like it? YES.
This is the type of work I used to do as a clown fully realized. After the show ended the clowns came out and sat on the edge of the stage, wordlessly interacting with the audience.
Others approached Slava, to get his autograph on their program. I handed him mine, which was full of "snow" I wanted to take home with me. He opened it curiously, shrugged, picked up a pinch of snow from the floor, added to my collection, and signed the program. I shook his hand.
It took us a while to leave. We were drinking in the spectacle. Could have stayed until the theater was entirely empty. When we did exit the theater, the cops were still in forcer at Union Square. Also a contingent of skate boarders ("skaters" in West Coast parlance).
We entered the subway, trailing snow...
and headed back to Timothy's apartment, where we both fell into exhausted sleep. After all, we'd been through a snowstorm. In Manhattan. In August. And it wasn't just all a dream.
We have evidence: