Everything is Beautiful at the Ballet

The magnificent Grand Pas de Deux. Stunning leaps. Perfect Pirouettes. The San Francisco ballet's presentation of the Nutcracker, everyone's favorite holiday performance, was incredible! Though our seats were in the last row of the uppermost balcony, the grace and grandeur of this ballet was more than visible. My elementary school teachers scheduled viewings of the Nutcracker every year at the Orpheum, but the decadent costumes and opulent scenery of this performance surpassed all that I remembered of the Nutcracker I saw back then. I felt like a child again as the Sugarplum Fairies danced across the stage, and the Snowflakes flurried gracefully against a glittering white backdrop! Every time I see a ballet, I am amazed at the precision and stamina of the dancers, but I was especially impressed by the excellence of Tina Leblanc and Gonzalo Garcia, the dancers featured in the picture to the left (courtesy of www.nutcrackerballet.net). Garcia seemed to glide effortlessly through the air as he performed a series of leaps and spins. Leblanc was equally as talented, and they danced together as though they were one soul. I was moved to tears by the sheer beauty of their last dance, the Grand Pas de Deux, a tango of sorts for the ballet. Their bodies were always in perfect sync, leaning and turning in perfect harmony with the music. Incredible!
As we left the War Memorial Opera House and headed into the cool wet night, the magic of San Francisco replaced the glittering fantasy of the Nutcracker. Men in tuxedos and women in beautiful evening gowns streamed from the opera house and the Louis M. Davies symphony building next door. Taxis picked up theatre goers who were swathed in fur coats, and little girls dressed in white coats and berets. The city lights glowed brightly all around us, and I felt imbued with the magic of the holidays for the first time in years. Everything was made beautiful by the ballet!

Rainy Days and Mondays (or Saturdays)

Today was our first taste of the rainy season in California. I suppose we'll have a wet Christmas rather than a white one! The unexpected dreariness was an appropriate background to the departure of our friends, who are renouncing the traveling lifestyle in favor of a permanent residence. Though we've only known them since August, they were our constant companions and travel guides. Unfortunately, this is the curse and the blessing of a rambling lifestyle - meeting new friends only to have to let them go (at least for the moment). Ted's brother is here with us to celebrate Christmas - a bright spot in this otherwise cloudy day.
Since rainy days provide plenty of time for reading, I was able to finish The Genius Factory by David Plotz, an intriguing book that proves the old adage that truth is stranger than fiction. Plotz attempts to investigate the lives of over 200 children who were born as a result of the Nobel Prize sperm bank, otherwise known as the Repository for Germianl Choice, which was founded by aging millionaire named Robert Graham in 1980. Graham's dream was to produce a race of intelligent children who would be capable of solving the pressing problems of the modern world. Because he believed intelligence was hereditary, he set out to collect the sperm of Nobel prize winners, which he planned to market to Mensa women. Unfortunately for Graham, sperm banks were not taken seriously in his day and most Nobel prize winners were not interested in donating sperm. He scoured medical and law school campuses in hopes of adding more sperm to the fledgling bank. Though the bank eventually succeeded in producing 200 children, it closed in 1999, and never followed up on any of its genius offspring. David Plotz attempts to connect the dots in order to prove once and for all whether or not intelligence is indeed inherited.
Plotz's research uncovers more questions than answers, however, and of course covers the basic argument of nature versus nurture, though in an intriguing and provocative new way. One of the donor children asks himself how much of himself he owes to his donor father and how much he owes to his upbringing. Has school always been easier to him because his father was supposedly a genius, or was it because his mother always enrolled him in enrichment activities? Was Molly a chemistry whiz and dancer because of her father or because her mother adored ballet? In other words, what exactly do we owe to our genes? An intriguing question, as an increasing amount of ailments and afflictions are blamed on our genetic codes. At what point do we take responsibility for our own actions and attributes? Will we soon have a new legal defense that "my genes made me do it"? Will we also then say, "I know it was a brilliant piano recital. Piano playing is in my genes!"?
Perhaps you all can ponder on this connundrum as well, and let me know what you think. I will spend the rest of this rainy day working on my scrapbook and thinking about what I owe to my genes and upbringing, and what I owe to my own determination. Until tomorrow . . .
By: Rebecca
Photo By: Ted (Taken in Big Sur)

Back to Reality (Sort of)

I know. I know. I promised daily blog postings during a giddy pre-vacation moment, and I have yet to deliver. Thank you to all of you faithful readers who called me and asked for a new posting. Here it is at long last.

We returned to sunny California after experiencing a brief taste of Tennessee winter, and were glad to have a few short sleeve days before the cold snap hit here. Even though the weather men here have announced it is VERY cold, it is actually in the high 40s, and feels nothing like the middle of December. Since we have been back, we have been on several hikes, partied in San Francisco, strolled the streets of San Jose, and enjoyed dinner parties with friends old and new. Increasingly our life here sounds like something out of the movies, and I have found it gratifying to take a step back and examine where we have been and where we are planning to go. I offer as an example of my movie star existence the following conversation:

"Guess what?"
"What?"
"Several people from work are planning a trip to Tahoe next month. We're all going to rent a cabin and ski for the week!"
"Tahoe, really?"
"Yes, and my friend said she spent her last travel assignment in Cape Cod. We're thinking of spending the summer there. We'll just rent a beach house and play by the ocean for three months!"
"That would be great!"
"We were thinking of going back to Salt Lake City, but we'd rather go somewhere we haven't been before. My friend says there is nothing better than New England in the summer. What do you think?"

Tahoe? Cape Cod? San Francisco? I feel like an actress on an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous!

As I stood in the middle of the dance floor at a club in San Francisco last Friday night, singing Brown Eyed Girl at the top of my lungs (very off key, I might add), with a girl from New Zealand, a girl from Las Vegas, a girl from Ohio, and a guy from Chicago, I suddenly realized how amazing my life was. I attempted to freeze the moment in my mind - the dim lights, the aging singer and guitar player, all the 20 and 30 somethings singing, "You're my brown eyed girl" while danicng wildly, the few businessmen in suits, a handful of women in evening gowns fresh from the theatre, and me - a girl from Tennessee. The incredible thing was, I fit right in! At that moment, we were the fountain of youth. The immortal symbol of joie de vivre. Even in the midst of war. Even in the midst of economic decline. People from all walks of life and different states and countries found enough hope and joy to sing, "Sha - la - la- la -la- la - la - la -la -" and mean it. And I was right in the middle of it all, just as I always dreamed I would be.

By: Rebecca
Photo By: Ted (Sunset at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park in CA)