Hi all.

So there wasn’t a post on Friday because we spent a good majority of day traveling. For obvious reasons, I don’t like to outline for the Internet exactly when we’re going to be away from home and for how long. This is why I didn’t say a whole lot about it ahead of time.

I also want to sheepishly mention at the outset that there are a lot of people in our little town who were hit way harder by the floods than we were. So I apologize if Thursday’s post was overly maudlin.
I mean, our problems are unique, many, and varied…but our home is dry, it’s still in one piece, and we’re all safe.

A little perspective is important.

Particularly because we were able to galivant away from out flood-ravaged town, all the way to Saratoga Springs on Friday morning to catch a summer performance of the New York City Ballet doing Swan Lake and Stars & Stripes.

And I’m happy to say our drive there was relatively uneventful. As I mentioned on Thursday, Daphne was without her talker for the weekend since she’d broken it the day before. An unfortunate side effect of this was that she was also without the ability to play her own music. Thus, “Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift blasted on the car stereo, on repeat, for 2 of the 3.5 hours of the trip.

But! It made her happy, so it was totally worth it.

We kept on cruisin’ (can’t stop won’t stop groovin’) until we arrived safely, and sufficiently shaken, to the Gideon Putnam Hotel.

I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of pictures of the room itself, because bags, snacks, drinks, clothes, and toiletries were strewn everywhere within seconds of opening the door. As such, it wasn’t ever exactly photo-worthy.

It was still pretty early when we arrived (our ballet tickets weren’t until 7:30pm) so we headed down to grab a bite to eat at the hotel’s dining room. Unfortunately we were informed by the hostess that they weren’t actually open for another hour. A manager happened by and interrupted her to say that, as long as we wanted something relatively simple, she’d talk to the chef and see what he might be able to do for us.

So we sat down on the patio…

And asked our server for “two orders of french fries and whatever salad the chef is willing to make for us.” And such milquetoast ordering prompted a stern visit to the table from the chef himself.

“You’re the salad n’ french fry people? The waitress is too embarrassed to come back out here, but you gotta tell me what kind of salad you want. Saying ‘the whatever salad’ doesn’t work.”

Jen and I performed an improvisational “Uhh, Hmm, Erm…” duet, mostly because we hadn’t seen any menus up to that point, and he helpfully offered, “Okay, Caesars? Will Caesar salads work?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Fine. Three Caesar salads and two fries for the kid. Comin’ up.”

I’m very much a fan of the attitude of most chefs, by the way, and this gentleman was no exception. They’re up-front, matter of fact people. Easy to ire if the protocols of efficiency aren’t followed, and they generally have zero time for peoples’ time-wasting, even if decorously polite, BS.

His food was quite good too. Although I will say that the vast array of seasonings on the potato chips pictured below were…an acquired taste. Fortunately you’ll have countless opportunities to revisit said taste through the post-gastronomic spicy burbles they elicit for hours after eating them.

Once done, Jen and I headed up to our room to get ready for the show whilst Grammy shuttled off with Daphne and began what was a lengthy arts and crafts agenda.

Meanwhile, a quick change later and Jen and I were ready to head out.

The hotel was a short but lovely walk from the SPAC, and we had a chance to amble along some beautiful scenery along the way.

Once at the Performing Arts Center, Jen and I had about an hour to relax with a glass of wine and just talk.

You know, talk? Like adults do?
I mean, without concern that your conversation will result in a third party shrieking, breaking things, and/or micturating puddles upon your floor and furniture. (Particularly on the rugs. Which really tied the room together, dude.)

It was lovely.

A short time later, happy xylophone bongs echoed across the courtyard, signaling that it was time for us all to head to our seats. After a few embarrassing moments trying to decipher the non-sequential numerical seating system that the SPAC utilizes, we found our seats.

And also found a man was sitting in one of them.

I helpfully showed him our ticket. He in turn helpfully pulled out his phone and illustrated that he had indeed purchased the exact same one. (It’s also worth noting that he did not find my suggestion that I should simply sit in his lap to be amusing in the slightest.)

So at first we tried the path of least resistance and just shuffled down one chair. It was 5 minutes to curtain, after all, so surely everyone would be in their seats by now…right?

Wrong.

Not a minute later a family of five wandered up and alternated between looking down at the row letter, then to their tickets, then flashing worried glances at Jen & me. They flagged down an elderly usher who quickly headed over to deal with us. I tried to explain the situation, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Yeah, I’ll deal with you in a second. But first you need to move so these people can sit down.”
“Uh. But… Okay. Sure thing.”

Once the family was seated the usher leaned down into a little CB that was clipped to her lapel and began to surreptitiously call for backup, all while glowering at us, these two dangerous-looking ballet seat claim jumpers.

Instantly, another woman arrived on the scene who, judging by the wide berth and deferentially averted gazes as she strode up, was The Person in Charge. We showed her our tickets. She walked over and demanded to see the duplicate ticket from the guy who was in “our” seat. Then shook her head and growled, “There’s a goddamn school here tonight. Screwing up everything. You two, come with me.”

She said this with such unquestionable authority that our legs reflexively moved us in tow before we’d formulated the conscious decision to ask them to do so. She led us to an oversized white bin and began to rummage around, pushing things dismissively to one side and another, until she found a small white envelope. She thumbed through its contents for a moment and then handed us two tickets.

“Here. Section N. Other side of the theater. Enjoy the show. Good luck. Now go.”

Jen was much happier with these as she had a better view of the stage, one unobstructed by the back of a tall guy’s head that was right in front of our “assigned” seats.

Obviously I don’t have any pictures of the performance itself, since blinding dancers with a camera flash mid-saut de basque is an empirically bad idea. But I’ll let you in on a weird secret.
I found the noise that the dancers’ enormous ballet slippers made whilst jumping and flitting around on the stage to be…strangely soothing. Akin to putting Scotch tape, sticky-side out, on your fingers and then softly drumming them on a table. It was a really nice, relaxing sound.

And, most importantly, Jen seemed to really enjoy the show. And we got to cross “See the NYCB” off of her bucket list, which is always a good thing.

Okay, that’s all the time I have today.

Tune in tomorrow when we’ll discuss the rest of the trip/weekend…

j.s.