Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
On Sunday, I was still trying to climb out of the fog of exhaustion that was clouding my thoughts. Having concluded a series of night shoots at 3 AM in Montreal, I finally made it to bed at around 4:15. I then awakened at 9 AM on the same day in order to pack and head to the airport. At my asking I was on a Delta flight which had a layover in Detroit. Yes, there are many direct flights on Air Canada and such, but Delta is MY airline, the one I always choose to fly, so the extra two hours of travel time would have to be endured.
On Sunday I decided to head to my sisters’ house. I missed them and was craving a dip. They have recently completed the installation of a gorgeous swimming pool. (It was a true feat of endurance, which tried their patience and frayed their nerves for the better part of a year, but both would say it was worth all the trouble, time and treasure required.) I thought the exercise might help me to get a good night’s rest. I have trouble sleeping when I am overtired, too stimulated or too raggedy or what have you, so this was my solution. I looked forward to writing the following day in order to stay on our summer schedule of every other Tuesday.
The first thing to put the kibosh on this plan was the discovery, upon being greeted by the girls, that the day was, in fact, Monday. I had lost Sunday altogether, with no idea where it went. After a delightful swim, I dried off and headed in to change. My sister was re-wrapping herself in a towel on her way back to the pool. I was chilled by the blast of air inside her well-cooled home, so I stopped her.
“Lolo, can I borrow that towel? I am freezing and I don’t know what I did with mine.”
“You can have this if you want it, but yours is on your head, sis.”
I reached up and sure enough, there was my towel, on my head. I was losing track of more than just days. Whole objects were disappearing into the haze. I dried off and changed into street clothes, then polished off a small dish of potato salad, the latter a ritual offering from Laura. She knows that I love the stuff and would never think to buy it. I determined that I could go home and write for a few hours and still possibly get the piece to Eric to edit, then Rebecca to polish and format, and lastly to Tucker to record the audio.
I was resolved to get to work, but the swim had done the trick and I was drowsy as all get-out, so I decided to indulge in a wee nap. I emerged from a coma-like state three hours later, having forgotten to set an alarm. By then, there was a host of other things that needed doing. A grocery run, because I was desperate to eat my own food again. My pal Caroline, who was with me on this last project, got a kick out of my attempts to fashion meals on a hot-plate-ish thingy with a teeny fridge and a microwave—the only cooking equipment available. I managed to make veggies and GF pasta with burst tomatoes and a few other things, but mostly I had lived on cheese and grapes.
The first thing I made when I got back was scallops with caramelized lemon sauce, mashed potatoes, and green beans sautéed crisp. Heaven. Home.
Then it was time for a good long walk with my sweet pup. Fairness, my new rescue dog, has come to understand the word “work.” I had taken him on two days before I started a movie in May. I have been blessed to be absent due to work quite frequently since we became a team. When I left for Canada, I explained over and over again:
“I have to go to work, but I will be back. You are my dog, and you will always be safe. I will be back. I promise.”
He understands. Work is not exactly his favorite word, but he knows what it means and seems to accept that it’s got to be done.
He loves his pet sitter but is not confused about who he belongs to. The first night of my return, he snuggled up close and lay his head on my shoulder. He has been through a lot and knows how to adapt.
I had one more plan, and that was to get up at 6:30 AM on Tuesday and start to hammer out a draft. I woke up at 8:45 with the puppy asleep in my lap. I had set the alarm for 6:30 PM Clearly, I needed a bit more recovery time.
Funny how different it is that at my age I still find myself with plenty of energy going in to every day , but I tire more easily by the end of one and feel it more deeply. At 65, I think I finally know what the term “bone tired” means, or at least how it feels.
Today is Wednesday. I am not in fine fettle yet, but I have mostly returned to form.
Working in Montreal was eye-opening for me in more ways than one. Firstly, it is a lovely city made up of a preponderance of beautiful old buildings and homes, many draped in lush greenery, so there is a lot to see. There are several sprawling outdoor markets with picture-perfect produce, and a host of good restaurants which we regrettably did not have time to try. I did find a gluten-free bakery and indulged in the best croissant I’ve ever had, wheat or no.
It was the first time that I had been on a set where the entire team, excepting the American producer (who was a gem), spoke French. Most could communicate in English when needed, but they all defaulted to their native tongue on the job. It was more than a little disorienting. I am accustomed to knowing exactly what is happening next. Did we get that shot? What is the next setup? Is there something I can do to make it easier to capture? I am normally very technical about the job until the moment we roll cameras and then I just let it all go.
The script supervisor was especially frustrating for me. She spoke very softly and wore a mask most of the time. She preferred to remain a good distance away to keep safe, I presume, so she would stand there a good 75 feet away mumbling inaudibly behind her mask and roll her eyes when I could not understand her.
“Ma’am I am sorry, but I have NO idea what you are saying. I cannot hear you. I don’t know what you want.”
She would throw up her hands and reluctantly approach, still mumbling, still masked. I would usually grasp the message after about the third or fourth try, which left both of us exasperated. I once tried to apologize to her at the end of the day.
“I am so sorry. I really have a hard time understanding you. I think maybe your accent is so strong.”
“It’s not my accent. You just do not want to understand,” she replied.
Huh. So, she decided that I just did not want to know what I needed to know about continuity because I am a know-nothing kind of gal? I tried not to let that hurt my feelings because, really, it’s ridiculous, but still … not very nice.
A month of working while words flew by in a language that I have no feel for. At times it felt harsh; the words falling so fast and furiously around me that my mind wanted to shut down, to just be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and familiar.
They were a great group of people, and I loved working with them with that one notable exception, but it really gave me pause.
It made me stop and think about the immigrant experience, something I have never known. How it must feel to risk everything to get to a new country. To find yourself in a place where you hope your family will be safe, your children given a leg up in the world, and not understand a word. To finally get to a new home and find yourself isolated by your inability to communicate. Some folks will try to help you while others will blame you for not understanding. Will resent the intrusion of your differentness.
I was a leading actor in a movie. There were lots of people smoothing the way for me, caring about my well-being, making sure I was fed, housed, and transported. All of that, and still my nervous system felt frayed at times. Can you imagine what it must be like to not be able to count on any of those needs being met? To have to fight your way through unfamiliar systems and, by hell or high-water, find a way to put a roof over your head and feed your kids?
Respect.
BLOWN AWAY.
I have put off calling Spectrum for two days, because the thought of it makes me want to bang my head on the wall. What if I had to do that in French? Somehow explain that the billing is wrong, or the cable is out? The thought of it makes me want to lie down on the floor.
Montreal has many of the problems that our American cities share. Traffic can be hell and parking inside city limits is difficult, the signage so confusing that even native speakers cannot figure out the rules. There are homeless folks, too, and the occasional tent “city” pops up looking wildly out of place amongst the old brick duplex homes. Prices for some goods can be quite high, but they do not rival ours. Gasoline is 1.26 per gallon. That’s a little under a dollar U.S., so they’ve got us over an oil barrel there. (Canada is also a serious contributor to greenhouse gasses through their oil-shale extraction methods) So there is in fact a price to pay. Isn’t there always?
The taxes are crazy high, but the benefits are real and many. Rent control is strictly enforced. Medical insurance is guaranteed to all. The public transit is good, the public schools are great, and college is practically free when compared to American rates. There is a palpable sense of civic duty. Trash, recycling and compost rules are enforced with fines, and I saw a lot of folks get pulled over in their vehicles for what in L.A would be considered a minor infraction. The place is not as strict as, say, Switzerland, where you can be fined for running the vacuum on a Sunday. (Yes, that is a thing). But they have rules, and they expect you to follow them.
There is a spirit of collectivism that is considered suspect by some here at home. It goes against the grain of the great rugged individualism that we have been taught to believe is a winning way to live in the world. But, like it or not, we need each other. We can take many lessons from the folks across the border in both directions. I have made a pledge to really hunker down and become an advanced Spanish speaker, and after last month, what the hell… why not begin French? Life is long, if we are lucky and there is so much to learn.
On we go …
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Whirly Wind