Halfway Point

Dear Sarah Jane,

I like your angry walrus a great deal. So I sent you a *real* letter about my daytrip to Rhode Island on Sunday… which I guess will probably reach you in about three months. One awesome thing I didn’t mention was the sheer number of crazy old people walking along the beach with metal detectors. Metal detecting seems to be a very popular pursuit in Rhode Island (along with complaining about the postal system ha ha). It cracks me up. I think someone should take the idea to its logical conclusion and dress up in full Jack Sparrow regalia while they shuffle and beep along the beach at dusk. “Argh me hearties! I just found… a nickel. And a lost spanner.”

So as of this week I’m halfway through my time in the States. Isn’t that nuts? It’s been a rose-tinted miasma of stinking hot nights, press releases, marshmallow fluff, reading O Magazine in the laundromat, talking to sweet old Jewish ladies in the box office, cut-grass smell, exposed timber (“ooooh rustic!”), cafeteria food (BBQ Mondays, pizza Thursdays), and editing endless program inserts. This week I get to meet a journalist from Vanity Fair and the almighty chief dance editor from the New York Times. We also have a company currently onsite entirely comprised of seven-foot tall Amazons and Adonis-types, who like to sun themselves on the lawn outside my office window. It’s extremely distracting.

So I need to start thinking about what I do next. Do I want to stay in Canada for a visit, or to live? After September I have two suitcases, no job, and no house. I think I might try and get a short term contract in Canada (maybe another festival) and then see how I feel. Part of me wants to come straight home; there are things and people I miss terribly. One of them is you.

Much love,

Rebecca