I was recognized in the supermarket. I was standing next to a shelf of tea. A girl I’d spotted in another part of the store turned to me and asked, “Are you Hilary Hahn?” Well, yes. I was sure I’d seen her before, had met her somewhere, but she didn’t have the same impression. I have a strange sense for who I’ve met and who I haven’t. I tend to clearly recognize people I have never encountered. That aside, I wonder if musicians have a certain look to them, so that we can somehow identify one another without even thinking about it.

At any rate, it was a funny encounter. We somehow wound up talking about junk food and TV shows. She wanted to make sure that I was letting my hair down from time to time.

Dear Readers,

Here I am again, in an airport, on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me, my back leaning against the back of someone else’s seat. Not the most comfortable setup, but the only one with a power outlet close to the gate. I’m not sure whether my flight is delayed or not. I heard some announcement about my destination area experiencing air traffic complications. I don’t know what that means. Or rather, I know that it means that I should be close to the gate in case any more information is announced. I hope no one bumps my power cord out of the metal column from which it’s precariously dangling. It’s already fallen out twice on its own.

How do I sum up my trip to South America? I’m not sure I can. It is all a bit mysterious to me, since I touched down in the Northern Hemisphere only an hour ago.

Here’s what I remember at this moment:

We – Valentina and I – started the tour in Brazil. I loved Brazil. The first concert was in São Paulo, a sprawling, immense city that looked at least the size of five Manhattans. I have never seen so many tall buildings stretch so far. That being my first ever South American city, it took me a couple of days – the amount of time we spent there – to get my bearings. It felt different from what I’m used to but not shocking. The diversity of the population made an impression almost immediately. São Paulo also had terrific architecture mixed in among the more typical structures one would expect of a modern city. The contemporary art museum was particularly noteworthy.

Next, we proceeded to Rio de Janeiro. Out of all of the cities that we visited on this tour, I probably went around Rio the most extensively. I saw the magnificent, sweeping, panoramic views from the famous Christ statue, checked out the local dance scene, and took a sunny walk on the beach. There, I saw lots of skimpy bathing suits. It’s funny, from what I had heard of the beach culture there, I had expected everyone in Rio to have perfect bodies, but despite their revealing suits, most did not. I hadn’t brought a swimsuit, and I wasn’t about to buy a Rio one, so I kept my sundress on.

A quick note about packing: I was very tired when I packed for this tour and wanted to keep my luggage down to one suitcase. So, I packed for summer and left out my swim gear (no logic there). As it turned out, South America was in the middle of winter, and there were wonderful pools in every hotel.

Next, we hit Uruguay. Rather, we crept in and crept out. We were in Montevideo for a very short period of time. It looked like a pretty city, but the timing of our activities was such that we stayed indoors. I do remember an excellent meal with a great night view out the window. I also recall a driver who took to trying to flatter us on the long drive from the airport to the hotel; Valentina told me stories the whole way so that he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

Then we went to Buenos Aires. That was such a European-style place; while sitting in a lobby and gazing out at the street, I noticed that, at least in that neighborhood, I could not tell that I was in South America. Not from the people, not from the buildings, not from the dogs running around in the park – believe it or not, on this trip, some dogs looked more South American to me than others, but that probably had more to do with my perspective than with the canines’ characteristics. In fact, all through the city on our concert day, with its pleasant fall weather and clean air, I noticed an uncanny similarity to Madison, Wisconsin. The city looked nothing like Madison, and no one was walking around in school-spirit sweatshirts, but the light seemed to come from exactly the same direction and the air smelled identical to Madison’s.

In general, Buenos Aires reminded me of a combination of cities from other continents. The wide streets put me in mind of D.C., the buildings looked Parisian, the people seemed rather Spanish, and tourists from all countries walked up and down the main avenue, which is apparently the widest in the world. (The median strip was nearly as wide as a park, which might or might not count as a bit of a cheat towards the avenue’s claim to fame.)

In Buenos Aires, we performed in a synagogue. The compound was walled with metal gates and fronted with a guard’s booth. Another guard operated the door. It was sad that such precautions were necessary. The garden was beautiful and peaceful, and the walls of the hall had windows that looked out on slivers of foliage, which were illuminated at night.

A note about the venues: we played in many different types of halls in South America. An Italian-style opera house. The synagogue. Big halls and small halls. Acoustically dead halls and live halls. A round hall. A wide hall. A deep hall. Modern. Old. It seems that the main halls in many of the cities we were visiting were under construction, all of them conspicuously closed during important anniversary years.

Next came Lima. I clearly remember a market, the hotel, a metal crafts exhibit, the delicious local food, and the people – they look distinctive. After the European appearance of Buenos Aires, this was a change. After the concert we did a signing, as always, and the younger audience members were so anxious for us to appear that they started chanting our names.

Finally, we flew to Bogota. I was immediately swept away by that city. Maybe it helped that I felt special right off the bat, with a dual motorcycle-police escort complete with blue lights and occasional toots of the motorcycles’ siren-horns when traffic would slow. But I think I was most struck by the natural beauty of the surroundings. The mountains framing the city were low, lush, dark, and rugged, with misty clouds drifting amongst the trees. The buildings in the old part of town had architecture as if from another time – some Spanish colonial, some Classical, some colorful but aged with character. The central square was paved like something from the middle of an Italian village, anchored by a fountain. This city didn’t look like any other place; it looked like it belonged right where it was. Men in crisp forest-green uniforms with thick white ropes around their shoulders patrolled the streets. Vendors peddled fresh fruit and juice, waffles, and other snacks, from umbrella-shaded carts. A leashed llama wearing a saddle paused at a corner.

I wasn’t quite ready to leave South America this morning, but I had a plane to catch. Now I’m back on home turf, for a few days at least, determined to learn both Brazilian Portuguese and Spanish as linguistic souvenirs. That follows close on the heels of decisions to learn Hungarian, Korean, Russian, Arabic, and written Chinese, in addition to brushing up on my Japanese and French. I may be dreaming. It’s strange to be back. I really took to the culture in South America, and I enjoyed working there. The people were, in every country, very nice and very respectful. I hope to return for another tour someday. I will need an excuse to practice my Portuguese and Spanish, after all.

Yours from the road,
Hilary

Dear Readers,

I am sitting in a European airline lounge. It is ten o’clock on the dot, and the small breakfast buffet offers a full bar. I don’t see anyone drinking yet, though. I wonder why they provide alcohol so early in the morning. Perhaps it is for those who have been up all night, or maybe it helps some people who are afraid of flying. If the latter, then I wonder why they do not also provide a selection of motion-sickness tablets, earplugs, neck pillows, and aspirin.

I am surrounded by men, middle-aged men in lint-free suits with creases straight from the dry cleaner’s. They try to lounge in the roomy armchairs while they balance small plates of food with miniature cups of coffee fitted to matching saucers. They try to lounge, but somehow, they seem displaced, like they’ve been lifted out of official work photos and pasted onto an architect’s computer-realistic background. In my favorite grey sweater, I probably also look like part of a composite, but from a different original image. Some of them are on calls that look important. Their phones are barely visible, cupped protectively between their ears and their palms. Yet I can hear every word. I’m glad to be here, typing. Most of my phone calls happen in hotel rooms, and that means that I can go to a lounge purely for the food and the wall outlet, sit in the first comfortable armchair I see, and write if I feel like it.

Now I’m at the gate. I located another outlet (I ought to buy a new battery for my computer) and am sitting on the very hard floor, propped against a flexible, perforated metal wall. My boots stick out in front of me, soles facing everyone in the area. No one is interested in looking, but if they were, they would see the part of the heels that have been ground down to their structures, where there is no more sole really, just a rough, curved hard bit with holes in it. I have to get those repaired. The last place I went, I was told it would take three days, but I only had two. I try to cross my legs to hide the heels, but that forces the power cable out of the computer.

This area feels privileged, like a library or a bookstore to which you might need a membership. This is the only second-story gate in the terminal. The people are quiet, the colors are muted and pleasant, and a café services us and only us, since it is too far off the beaten path for the standard passerby to notice. My computer finally kicks into Word (I should replace the hard drive). Boarding is called. There’s no time to turn the thing off, not if I want a prime spot in line, with first access to the luggage bin above my assigned seat. I shut it and try to zip my bag quickly, which is difficult with the big sketchbook inside catching at the zipper pull that disintegrated last week (another thing to fix).

But we’re not going straight to the plane, as it turns out. We take a jaunt down two flights of steps to a bus with no power. We sit for a long time. I unzip my bag again and open the computer on my lap, on one leg because a support pole makes it tricky to do otherwise. Two younger men stand nearby. The one facing me is outgoing and self-assured but is dressed in a strange looking suit with no tie. His pink pinstripes are too wide. The pants hang on him like synthetic athletic gear. He looks like he has played a lot of soccer. He’s a little unkempt, with two alarmingly long black whiskers extending from his left nostril. His companion stands less than a foot from me, gripping the handhold above my head. I feel like I’m in a human archway. That is a little weird, but the man doesn’t even seem to notice me until I’ve put away my computer and stood up to exit the bus. Then, he looks surprised. When he shifts his weight, he moves as if he has a water wing clamped around each thigh and a weight belt strapped to his hips.

We stand expectantly, facing our plane from behind hinged doors, waiting for the driver to finish gazing pensively at the luggage handler chattering at him so that we can step out. I crane my head to see into the plane, where a flight attendant’s dark-stockinged knees can be seen jutting sideways as she wrenches the handle of the opposite-side cabin door closed. When our side of the bus finally tilts down and the doors buckle open, suddenly, there is a swarm of people. Where did they come from? I elbow my way to the stairs. The plane is tiny – will the violin fit? – but its idling noise sounds like an underwater storm. I could use some earplugs right about now. But alas, all four in my traveling collection are in my other pants in a suitcase underneath the airplane. I have a box of 30 at home, where I never need them.

I sidle up the steps. The ceiling is so low that a pale man in a powder-blue shirt has to duck his buzzed head to find his seat. His is one row ahead of mine. Our shared overhead compartment is open. I hope that he doesn’t fill it before I can get there. When I reach my row, the space is blissfully empty, and once I’ve removed some items from an outer pocket on the violin case, everything fits. Squeezing into my row, and then settling in my seat, I manage to bang my head on three different surfaces. That’s all right. I hit my head on things rather frequently, as I simply forget to think about where I actually am as opposed to where I’m going.

Some battery still remains in the computer. There is no place to plug it in, though, so I write quickly. My power cord broke a couple of days ago. I have a new one now, with a set of outlet attachments. I’ve taken to running my errands on the road. That means that so far, I have collected a chinrest from Germany, a phone from England, an external hard drive from Hungary, and a small cooking device from Holland. Once I get back to the States, it will be strange to use two kinds of wall socket adaptors in my own country, but on the other hand, it could lend me a cosmopolitan air.

The plane takes off. I close my eyes. For a minute at least, I feel like I am in suspension; there is no sensation of motion. The floor is stiller than solid ground. A bell dings, wakes me up. I can pull out the computer again. It still contains a tiny amount of power. I turn my head to the window as I reach under the seat in front of me to open my bag. A mess of white clouds blocks the view.

Yours from the road,
Hilary

On a flight back to the States in June of 2009:

When I arrived in the cabin, my seat neighbor was already settled in. We exchanged nods; he seemed nice enough. Once I was seated, though, he picked up his phone, made a call, and proceeded to complain incessantly and vehemently to the person on the other end of the line, talking about the flight delay, people’s stupidity, and how maddening his coworkers are, and I could hear so much disdain in his voice that I was embarrassed to have to listen. Once off one conversation, he fidgeted agitatedly and swung his legs, looking impatiently at everything around him as if he were the only one who could possibly be having a hard time. And then he’d place another call, opening this one with the same commentary, working himself up all over again. He must have been a genuinely unhappy man. Even later, as he lay in his reclined seat with a blanket pulled up to his chin, his legs wouldn’t stay still. His arms were glued to the armrests, and his eyes roamed the cabin. The edges of his mouth curled down. His nose looked particularly pointy.

When the choice of meals arrived, the flight attendant asked him about a special entree he’d ordered. His response? “Forget the special meal. I didn’t place that order.” When the attendant tried to sort out the confusion, she found that, no, he had in fact ordered a low-salt meal. He nearly threw a fit. “I have been waiting four hours for this flight to take off” – as if the rest of the passengers and the crew were not in the same position – “ and I will not accept that meal. No, no. I WANT the choices on the menu!” The flight attendant, affronted, proceeded to lay down the law in a polite but firm way, explaining why they could not guarantee the availability of what he wanted when they’d provided for something else. In the end, by coincidence, his meal choice wound up being available. He probably thinks he got his way because of his objections and manner, but it was clear to any onlooker that it would have worked out anyway had he been nice.

I left my seat for a little stroll. As soon as I was on my feet, I found myself thinking how impossible it would be to live this lifestyle and work in this way in the arts, and be absolutely miserable, and do good work and continue to be alert to the musical exchange that occurs onstage and with the audience. I couldn’t think of a single traveling performer like this man, and for that I was grateful. Granted, everyone has rough days. But the travelers I’ve talked with in my field tend to be flexible, aware of those around them, appreciative, and perceptive. Classical music is, above all, an artistic environment, and a humbling one at that. I also don’t think anyone like my neighbor would get very far with musical collaborations. It’s a small world.

Dear Readers,

Good heavens. I’m stuck in an airport again. This time I’m in Manchester. My flight is delayed. I was hoping to sleep soon, on the airplane, but instead I’m sitting in a lounge – ok, not too shabby; it has snacks and a power outlet – with my computer, a glass of water, two books to read, and four hours to kill.

Delayed or not, today is a long travel day: Liverpool to Manchester by car, flight to the States, and a car for another couple of hours. Tomorrow, rehearsal begins at 10. I just finished recording the Higdon violin concerto yesterday, so that’s in my fingers and isn’t leaving, and the Higdon is what I’m playing this week as well, so my biggest concern about tomorrow is simply waking up. After rehearsal, I’ll have an interview and a meeting, and then, once my commitments are over for the day, I’m pretty sure the room will begin to spin and I’ll take a nice long nap. If I’m lucky, today, maybe I’ll get a whole row to myself on the plane.

Airplane lounges are endlessly amusing. The people in them are an odd combination of self-conscious and self-absorbed. They speak on cell phones, in jovial, professional voices, while looking around to see whether anyone is noticing or being disturbed. They read papers and magazines they wouldn’t normally pick up. They peer at the snack bar, at food they wouldn’t normally eat, curious to take advantage of the free goodies but aware that not everyone appreciates the clicking of shoes on the floor or the harsh smashing of plates against utensils. And they watch each other. Not all the time, but sometimes, in small glances, as I do, to see who’s where and what they’re doing through all of this waiting. Most of them are bored but making the most of things.

And then there are the misfits. I am probably one of them, as I always seem to be perceived as a helpless teenager when in transit. A train conductor once spent a full ten minutes interrogating me about bags of Christmas presents for my family, thinking that I had packed all of my possessions and run away from home. More times than I can count, I’ve been directed to the wrong line or the wrong part of an airport or told the most obvious things because people thought that I must be traveling alone for the first time. The only thing I can do about this is to wear my sunglasses. They are magical. No one messes with me when I am wearing my sunglasses.

In fact, there is a man in sunglasses in this lounge as I write. He thinks I can’t see that he’s exhausted out of his mind and staring at me, but because of the direct overhead lighting, I can see behind those lenses. He looks rather young. Oh, hang on now – he’s pulled two chairs together and stretched out to sleep. That’s another group one sees often in lounges: the sleepers. In all different postures, oblivious, heads rolled to contorted positions, mouths hanging open, arms crossed in an effort to keep their jackets closed and passports and boarding passes protected. Every so often, one looks positively angelic, but those are usually not the middle-aged businessmen.

There are the laptop addicts, too. I don’t believe I fall into that category, because I actually enjoy spending entire days away from my computer. I abuse my computer; it’s got all sorts of scratches on the outer shell, and I just noticed that one of the bumper-like pieces is dented. I don’t remember that happening. The power cord is pretty grimy and the screen could use a swipe with a cleaning rag. But that is neither here nor there. We are sitting, three strangers all in a line against the one wall, typing on our rainbow of laptops as if captivated by whimsical toys. None of us looks too committed to the work we may be doing. The two older men’s eyes are blank, but their mouths curl very slightly up into mild smiles as they type.

And then there are the newspaper readers. The people with important-looking watches and khaki pants, soft shined loafers, class rings, and wire-rimmed glasses. The one at the end of this lounge is wearing two watches. I recently saw a publicity photograph of an elderly, stylish musician wearing three watches; that didn’t make much sense either. These newspaper people, though, all sit with a similar leg position: froglike, knees splayed, heels together, toes pointing outwards. They look over their glasses to take stock of headlines or the room, wrinkle their foreheads, claim their space with pointy elbows. This particular one looks like he could drive motorcycles in his spare time.

An old woman just entered with the most adorable wheelchair-bound elderly husband. He looks like an overgrown elf. Everyone on the one side of the room stood up for them, even the sunglasses guy, although he promptly fell asleep again as soon as everyone was settled.

Every so often, there’s the cargo pants type. That used to be me. When I carried my pet mouse Mars on tour with me, I carried him in my pants pocket, so I had to have big pockets. Cargo pants call for their own kinds of outfits. Not all shirts match them. Not all shoes work. You usually need some sort of belt to keep them up. Now that I’m mouse-free, I’ve parted with my travel cargoes. I’m sure that the holdouts have reasons besides pet-carrying for wearing those pants. They are comfortable. And they hold a lot. And when you’re traveling, you have all of these odds and ends that have to go somewhere.

Very, very rarely, I come across a fellow musician in a lounge. Once, it was a little girl with her proportionately sized violin case. Today, it’s a stodgy looking old man with a substantial guitar case. When I saw him checking in, I took one look at the case and assumed that he was going to check the guitar through and that it would not survive the trip. Horrible images of metal bracing puncturing the instrument flashed through my imagination. He also didn’t seem to know its dimensions, as it kept making offended clunking noises every time he banged it into the front of the check-in counter. Now, though, the instrument has a comical importance, with its own seat. Its head towers over everyone else’s. The thing is tall.

Ah, we have a sweatsuit lady. Those aren’t so hard to find. Today’s variation is a head-to-toe pale blue velour with short puffed sleeves.

Now the newspaper reader has left for his flight, and the adorable old man’s wife has brought him tea and a tabloid newspaper, and Susan Boyle’s face is glaring out at me from the enormous cover picture. I’d quite like a hot drink myself. I think I’ll take a break from Susan and go in search of chamomile tea.

Yours from the road,
Hilary

Dear Readers,

My shoe got stuck in a crack in the stage last night. Not for long, not badly stuck, but just long enough that I wondered what would have happened had I not been able to yank myself free in the course of a single stride. A collision? A crash? A comedic moment? I’m not wearing stilettos these days, and for that, especially in sticky moments, I am glad.

Several common concert hall features make it clear that most venues were not designed by women. One is the aforementioned width of the cracks between joints of the stage (ideal for swallowing heels). Another is the location of certain structural gaps and hidden vents in the stage, which can emit strong breezes that inflate skirts like balloons. Also, nearly every time I try to do my makeup or hair backstage, it is difficult to make use of the mirror – either it is held at a distance by a table or sink, or the lighting is unfavorable, or the mirror tops out beneath my shoulders.

But I’m not complaining. The venues are truly wonderful here in the world of classical music. The audience sits in comfortable seats in a setting designed for acoustic performance, the floors are clean, the temperature is regulated, the dressing rooms are decently sized, the deadbolts work, and the staff is helpful. There is room to practice. There are electrical outlets in the walls and private bathrooms for the performers. Concert halls are very nice places to go to work.

Often, especially in Europe, the halls are located in the center of town, surrounded by restaurants, plazas, and stores. This is the case in Eindhoven, in the Netherlands, where I played last night. The concert hall is connected to a small mall, next to a main square, and at night, when it is time for the locals to party, they gather in the neighboring bars and restaurants and stroll down the surrounding streets with their friends, speaking, shouting, laughing, or singing. I certainly noticed this last night, the eve of Queen’s Day, the celebration of the Queen’s birthday (which, as I understand it, is in January).

The crowd reminded me of one that has just been let out of a stadium after an exciting game. The hubbub and waves of people had a momentum all their own. A couple of very enthusiastic men stopped to have a loud, jovial, inebriated conversation with my taciturn, disengaged, sober taxi driver. Tall women careened down the sidewalk. Scents – fried food, perfumes, beer breath – hovered in the air. People talked over each other and over music pounding from oversized speakers somewhere in the near distance. And apparently, the party had only just begun.

Every week I travel, there’s at least one thing that mystifies me. Yesterday, it was a tendency to turn everyday acquisitions into gifts: in a well stocked but normal kitchen store, for example, people were buying everything from whisks to potholders and water filters, with every single purchase being, at the request of the customer, gift wrapped. I bought a very ordinary small travel appliance myself. The clerk asked if it was a gift, and I had the impression she expected me to say yes. But why? Do people give each other presents for Queen’s Day? Do they send kitchen knickknacks to the Queen? Or is it a general thing: do the Dutch believe it’s bad luck to buy their own kitchen supplies? Do they do their Christmas shopping in the middle of the fourth week of April? Or does everyone get married in May? I may never know.

I was in Eindhoven to start a tour with the Budapest Festival Orchestra and conductor Ivan Fisher. I’m excited about this tour. For one thing, the BFO and Ivan were the first people I ever worked with outside of the United States; they invited me to Budapest when I was thirteen, to play the Bernstein Serenade in an American music festival. I remember the chocolate pudding I was treated to during a rehearsal break, the process of an orchestra learning such an unusual and complex piece (one step: Ivan saw my gigantic metronome lying idle on a seat during rehearsal and plugged it into a set of speakers!), the audience’s thrilled reaction to the work, the beautiful concert hall in the Liszt Academy, and the cloud of cigarette smoke in every hallway of nearly every building.

Also, a soccer game in the countryside – BFO vs BFO, the concertmaster’s bloody arm, arguments over plays, Ivan in the middle of it with the best of them, and the Romani horse trainer in the background – and afterwards, the most enormous pot of goulash I will ever see, and being amazed that people actually ate the hunks of animal fat floating in the soup. This time, of course, the context is different. We are, for the touring portion of this engagement, out of their hometown, I’m more than twice the age I was when we met, and we’re playing a Mozart concerto. It’s been a long time since we all worked together. There are some new faces in the orchestra. But still, it feels familiar.

I’m also glad to be playing Mozart again. You might recall that I made a Mozart sonata recording a few years back and performed Mozart’s Concerto #3 for the Pope’s birthday. I’ve found that every time I play even a phrase by Mozart, it makes me actively happy. This is difficult to explain, because – considering that, no matter what the repertoire, I love performing, I’m pretty much always happy onstage, and music in general resonates positively with me – this particular Mozart feeling is more of a nuance than a novelty. I should also note that, contrary to the composer’s popular reputation, much of Mozart’s music has a dark undercurrent, and the themes are not always upbeat.

At any rate, I’m not sure why this occurs, but it seems infallible. That’s what made those sonata recording sessions some of the most enjoyable I’ve experienced, and that’s what makes performances of Mozart so energizing for me. It’s wonderfully fun. And at this time in the concert season, when I’ve been on the road for a while and juggling so much repertoire, as I complete many of the projects and performances that were ahead of me, I feel like this music lifts a weight off of my shoulders. Ivan, too, is great to work with; the way his approach meshes with mine onstage is so natural in this repertoire that he might have a window into my brain.

One further note about Mozart 5: when I first met Ivan, when I was 12, after a rehearsal of his with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, this is the piece that I played. He sang along onstage, illustrating the orchestral line, and I was grateful that he took the time to interact with me and give me some advice.

Now I’m in Antwerp. I was surprised how short a trip it was from Eindhoven. After all of the traveling I’ve done, I am still astounded when two sizeable cities in two separate countries are only an hour’s drive from each other.

Yours from the road,
Hilary

Dear Readers,

Greetings from Japan! I think a plague may have hit Mibu – in our concert tonight, when I looked out at the hall, at least a third of the audience was wearing medical face masks. I’m not sure whether or not everyone wearing a mask was ill, but the overall visual effect was somewhat alarming. During one of the pieces in the second half of the recital, someone slowly opened a Velcro clasp and pulled out a bag of Kleenex, proceeding to gingerly blow his or her nose in between suppressed coughs. I didn’t see that happen, of course, but every step of the procedure was audible onstage.

Two nights ago, we heard something else, something that we still haven’t been able to define: an owl-like ascending exhalation at the end of a sonata, unlike anything Valentina or I had ever heard before. We’re not sure if it was from an animal or a satisfied person or an unsatisfied person. In the previous concert, a man was snoring at the very end of the most bombastic Ives movement – he must have had a tough day, or maybe the piece knocked him out.

Otherwise, the audiences have been pretty normal for Japan: attentive, interested, staying till the end of the program – all things that I don’t take for granted. When I played my first concert of this tour, with Josh Ritter in his Japanese debut, the concertgoers were terrific, giving him all their concentration and showing genuine enthusiasm between songs. He had a great time, and so did I, and I think it may have been our best shared show ever. Now, with Valentina, we’ve been getting a wonderful response from the hall, from cheers and whoops to long rounds of applause. All audience members have been model listeners. Thank you, Japan!

We’ve played a lot of recitals on this tour. Every day has been either a concert or a travel day, and many have been both. Right now, I’m racing my computer battery, which seems to have decided that holding power is too difficult a task. It’s nighttime, and we’re traveling in a large taxi from Mibu to Tokyo – we being Valentina, I, my assistant, someone from my Japanese management, and a translator, because no activity here would be complete without a small crowd; there’s always company, always someone making sure everything goes smoothly. I’m a little hungry, so as soon as the computer dies, I’ll pull out some snacks I’ve been saving up. Oh, wait a minute; the driver says we’re pulling into a rest stop soon! So, change of plans: I’ll get to see what that’s like, stretch my legs, wander the aisles of the gift shop, try to figure out what all of the nicely wrapped foods are, inspect the plastic entrees in the restaurant booths, and maybe buy something to drink for the rest of the ride. It looks like we’re going up the ramp right now, actually, so I have to sign off. In a couple of hours, we’ll be in Tokyo, then after one more concert, I’ll leave for Paris.

Hilary

Dear Readers,

I have a sneaking suspicion that one day I will fall off of a stage. I don’t know where or when, or what the circumstances might be, but I find it difficult to believe that I will make it to old age without once losing my footing and plummeting into the audience. This doesn’t worry me. It simply seems an inevitable experience. I have already come close.

There was the time when I skated across not one but two freshly waxed landings in new shoes during curtain calls in full view of a gasping German audience. I have tripped on concert gowns onstage more times than I can count. Throughout the years, my heels have caught in small floor gaps as I’ve performed – at least ten times while playing, and probably five in mid-stride. Once, blinded by a spotlight, I marched straight into a velvet drape. The floor space I’m frequently given to tread on- and off-stage is no more than 12″ wide, on slick surfaces with a full dress obstructing my view.

Last week in San Francisco, I was sure my time had arrived. The orchestra risers left just enough room to walk safely, barring any mishaps, but that – shall we call it – catwalk was divided right down the middle by a structural crevice running only a few inches from the yawning, dark abyss in which the audience was seated. Miraculously, I managed to keep my feet where they were supposed to be. But such miracles aren’t available every week.

The stage was the only thing scary about San Francisco. The SFSO was really fun to work with, open and engaged through rehearsals and concerts; James Gaffigan, the conductor, was a great colleague; and I had a very enjoyable Thanksgiving and birthday in the Bay Area, with a road trip to a beach in the morning and a Chinese feast for dinner. Earlier in the week, I joined a couple of friends – Hauschka and Tom Brosseau – on their show at the Hotel Utah as a surprise guest. I met up with my uncle and aunt another evening, and I saw my cousin at one of the concerts. I also got to catch up with some old friends in the orchestra and went on a hike.

Now I’m in Germany for my next performance-and-recording project: a disc of Bach arias (the ones with violin solos) with singers Matthias Goerne and Christine Schaefer. Rehearsals began today, in a 7-hour marathon. I’ve been wanting to do this project for a long time, so it’s wonderfully satisfying that we’re all finally here, in the same city, with the first concert two days away.

Hilary

Dear Readers,

It’s crunch time. Financial instability is beginning to force concert presenters and orchestras to cancel previously solid shows and tours and renegotiate contracts. Smaller organizations are in danger of folding. Friends of mine in arts fields more shaky than classical music have already seen gigs dry up, and others are drawing up backup plans just in case. Everyone is scrambling to preserve what already exists without endangering artists’ livelihoods into the future. However, a lot of groups across the board are going to face difficulties in the coming months.

I’m not trying to sound alarm bells. I know that times are tough, and these things are bound to occur. But I have a suggestion. It’s not much, but why doesn’t everyone who values the arts contribute five dollars to a local arts organization of his or her choice as a holiday gift to the community? Kids, if you can spare even a dollar of your allowance, and grownups, if you can skip a couple of days of coffee, it would make a difference. You don’t have to give to an orchestra or a recital series if something else intrigues you more; public radio, small dance companies, museums, art schools, independent movie theaters, acting troupes, conservatories, and free weekly papers are a few other options. Just be sure that you choose well, put every dollar towards something you feel good about, and check that the organization you pick will apply your donation wisely.

I’ll donate, in my hometown – not because I work in the arts, but because I love the arts. Will you join me by doing the same, in your hometown?

Why is this important? I, for one, don’t wish to go home and find out that my favorite theater company has had to shut its doors, or that a museum couldn’t afford to bring in an exhibit I’d been looking forward to, or that the movie theater I like to sit in all afternoon on a day off, watching foreign movie after indie flick, has been forced to go mainstream to attract large enough audiences to stay open. The arts are a refuge. Who wouldn’t want a good laugh, a little cry, or a deep ponder on a tough day? Given that many tough days lie ahead, I’m guessing that we’ll soon need the arts more than ever – and it’s our job to make sure that they’ll be able to give us the support that we seek.

Hilary

Dear Readers,

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be frugal.

I had great hopes for today. Instead of paying a considerable fee last week to change my departure city from Philadelphia to Newark and going through the hassle of figuring out a new schedule, I decided to take the train to Philadelphia to stick with my original flight itinerary. I thought that a few more hours wouldn’t make much of a difference. And they wouldn’t have, except that once I was actually in Philadelphia, delays made me alter my plans anyway.

Here’s the woeful tale. My flight on Northwest was booked to leave at 1:30. My time in Philadelphia started with a little hitch when I discovered upon arrival that I had arrived an hour earlier than necessary and thus would have 3½ hours to kill before my departure. That was all right – I was looking forward to some lazy down time. Once through the security checkpoint, I spent an hour at the newsstand, reading trashy magazines. I ate the chicken tikka I’d brought with me for lunch (it was delicious). As I bought a bottle of water, the 12:30 flight to Detroit boarded and took off. I thought for a split second that I should perhaps have taken that one instead, but my flight had been listed as on-time and my luggage was already checked, so I couldn’t switch over even if I wanted to. I didn’t mind waiting another hour, though. Even if my 1:30 flight would wind up being a little late, my layover in Detroit was scheduled to last 2 hours – plenty of wiggle room.

Around 12:45, to make sure I was at the right gate, I took a glance at the departures screen. Suddenly, my 1:30 was reading 3:49. Uh-oh. I wouldn’t make my connection! I called my assistant to ask her to call the airline’s hotline and/or my travel agent to explore various solutions. I, meanwhile, went online (I was sitting on the airport floor by this time) and searched Amtrak’s website to see what airports I could make it to by what times, so that we would have more options if need be. My assistant got an airline agent on the hotline and called me back, one phone pressed to each ear. We settled on a new itinerary: fly tomorrow night out of Dulles to Amsterdam, then catch the same flight I had been scheduled to take to Bergen, but one day later. I would spend the night in Baltimore, enjoy a good night’s sleep and some solid meals, and practice both today and tomorrow. None of my Norwegian commitments would be impacted. This was a good solution. I headed down to the Northwest ticket counter to recover my checked bags and rebook my flights.

When I explained the change of plan to the woman at the counter, she looked at me skeptically. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry and refused to return my bags.

“Didn’t you hear your name called at the gate?” she demanded, peevish.
“No,” I replied, “I was there the whole time, but they didn’t call my name.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, if you’d talked to them, you’d know that we rebooked everyone on the Detroit flight on a USAir flight to Amsterdam at 6:30 tonight.”
“Ok, but when does that get me into Amsterdam?”
“8:30 am.”
“Oh. And how do I get to Bergen then? Because I have to get to Bergen eventually, and the agent on the phone said that there were no seats that day on any flights besides the one I was supposed to be on, which I can’t make if I arrive at 8:30.”
“You take the flight you were scheduled to take and keep your current seat.”
“It looks like I’m supposed to be on board at 8:40 in Amsterdam.”
“Oh no, that’s just the boarding time. The flight doesn’t leave until 9:40, so you’d have a full hour and ten minutes to make that connection.”

Huh?

I point out, “The thing is, I’d have to go through the passport line and find my gate, and if I were any bit late on arrival, there would be no way to get on that flight.”

Silence.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. That’s a huge airport, and it’s hard to just find where I’m supposed to go. If I missed that one flight… Couldn’t I just take the itinerary I arranged over the phone, leaving out of Dulles tomorrow? Can I get my bags back so I can do that?”

Silence, again.

Trying another tack, still calm: “I mean, do you know the Amsterdam airport?”
“No, I don’t know that airport. An hour and ten minutes should be plenty of time.”
“Well, I just don’t think that’s a good option for me. I really want to retrieve my bags now, book the itinerary for tomorrow, and fly out of Dulles.”
“And they said you can change the whole itinerary? We don’t normally do that,” she stated.
“Yes, the agent on the phone told us that would be fine and that there would be no extra charge.”
“That doesn’t sound right.”

She picked up her phone. While that woman whispered with a superior, I called my assistant back and put her on the case to pin down my itinerary through the hotline. I figured one or the other of us would get this thing worked out, and that then I might have a chance of seeing my bags again.

My assistant got disconnected mid-transaction.

Meanwhile, the ticketing agent was making headway. After another 15 minutes, I found myself booked for Washington-Amsterdam-Bergen. Once we sorted out the luggage descriptions – for some reason, that was difficult – the agent sent a notice out to the baggage handlers. Someone was assigned the task of unloading my bags from the already-loaded airplane and bringing them back to the counter.

All of that sorted out, I realized how tired I was and started to lose concentration. While standing next to a large sign for the women’s restroom, I asked someone where the nearest bathroom was. With my luggage finally in tow, I entered the elevator to baggage claim, where the taxis would be, and forgot to push the button. I couldn’t find my phone when it rang. But I did manage to catch a cab and head back to the train station, to buy a ticket for the next train to Baltimore.

The train I booked myself to board was listed as 15 minutes late, which seemed fine. By the time I called my parents to update them about my travel plans, it was reading 20. Oh no, here we go again, I thought. But the delay ended there. I was so relieved, I ran my suitcase into a woman’s Achilles’ tendon while waiting in line for the escalator down to the track.

Then came the train ride. There was no room for my violin case in the overhead area, so I claimed an empty pair of seats, sitting on one, propping my violin and my carry-on bag on the other. The man in front of me reclined, as if to hem me in. I got a piece of the conductor’s mind when he arrived to collect my ticket. In a deep, preacher-like voice, he scolded me for taking up two seats when I’d only paid for one. As he gained momentum, people turned to stare.

When I squeezed a word in edgewise, he bellowed, “You say you want to buy another ticket?!”
“No, I said I’ll move my things.”
“You do that,” he concluded.

Once he’d walked away, I rearranged my belongings and then glanced at my neighbor across the aisle, hoping for sympathy. He frowned steadily at me, raising one thick eyebrow before returning to his reading.

Around 4:15, my train pulled into the Baltimore station. I wrestled my luggage onto the platform. Just as I had tied my suitcases together, my mom called, so I picked up and let her know that I’d arrived and everything had worked out. As I put my phone away, a police officer in full uniform approached.

“Are you going to board the train, ma’am?”
“No, I just got off it.”
“Which train?”
“That one,” I replied, puzzled, pointing at the train still parked next to me.
“What train was that?” he persisted.
“The one going to DC, I guess.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“My mom called.”
“Ma’am, I need to see your ticket stub.” I looked at him incredulously. “And your ID.”

So I took my violin off my back and opened up my suitcase to find the stub. I produced both pieces of evidence. He inspected them carefully, then handed them back, suddenly amiable, exclaiming, “Have a great day!” I didn’t have the energy to respond.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home. In the pasta aisle, a voice called my name; when I turned around, I saw a pianist I hadn’t crossed paths with for at least a decade. I should have been more outgoing, but in excusing my worn appearance, I came up with a case of bad-travel word vomit, and I think I wound up scaring him off with a mild but bitter tirade of frustrations. It was embarrassing.

Now I’m in my pajamas, sitting on my bed. I’d like to take a nap, but I’m afraid I’d sleep all the way through till morning. In a few minutes, I’ll begin cooking dinner, and then I’ll practice until bedtime. I’m already packed.

Hilary

Evening update: While cooking dinner, I managed to both burn my pasta sauce and explode the macaroni bag all over the floor. I hope that Norway brings better days.