Arctic Running and the Metropolitan Opera

Cool title, huh? It's been so long, I needed to come back with a bang. I like the title because those two things sound surprisingly interesting together, even though they have nothing to do with one another. Steve Martin, in a farcical essay on writing entitled "Writing is Easy!", rattles off a list of promising potential book titles that are really just juicy words strung together, my favorite being "Naked Belligerent Panties." I don't think "Arctic Running and the Metropolitan Opera" quite competes, but it has about as much substance. Wait! I can connect the two: they're both new things I've experienced since I last wrote back on election night. Allow me to explain.

I've become an avid runner, but running in the winter was always something I relegated to the treadmill. I'm not a big fan of the machines; I get bored too easily and I don't like the way the track feels on my legs. Running for me is less about the exercise and more about connecting to your surroundings in a unique way. There's something organic and vital about your feet pounding the pavement, or the trail, or the track. There's something about the way the air smells and the way a beautiful sightline can inspire and propel you forward. You get none of this on a treadmill. The only one I could stomach was the treadmill in my mom's basement, which I used quite often last winter, but that's now hundreds of miles away. Last weekend the temperature was freezing, and I wanted to run. Hence, my first experience with arctic running.

I felt so legit. I bought special skin-tight thermal running pants, as well as a hat and a pair of gloves. I looked like I was serious. Running out in the cold was, well, cold, but it wasn't as difficult as I would have imagined. Breathing is one of the hardest adjustments because I had to breathe less through my nose and more through my mouth. It really wasn't that bad. I felt like the single moving, warm-blooded object coursing through a frozen scenery. I felt much more alive by comparison. In retrospect, the experience was not unlike getting my teeth pulled, which, if you didn't already know, was one of the all-time great moments of my life. I enjoyed getting my teeth pulled because I was sitting in the dentist's chair, blood spurting from my mouth, knowing that I should have been in a tremendous amount of pain. The fact that I wasn't in a tremendous amount of pain made it an incredible and enjoyable experience. I knew I should have been freezing my butt off out there, but I was warm and cozy in my running gear, certainly adding to my satisfaction.

Alas, arctic running has not been my only source of recreation. Since you last heard from me, I have made a visit to the Metropolitan Opera House not once, but twice. My roommate Natassia works for the Opera Guild, and she hooked me up with tickets to see The Queen of Spades by Tchaikovsky a few weeks ago and The Damnation of Faust yesterday afternoon. Here is a picture of the Metropolitan Opera House:



The Tchaikovsky show was beautiful, especially the music, but it was 4 hours long. On a Monday night. When I got about 3 hours of sleep the night before. Faust was a spectacle. The set was ultra-modern, with LCD technology that reacted to the movements of the performers. The set could transform seamlessly between night and day, heaven and hell, a grassy field and a lavish home. Not what you come to expect from an opera.

I'm starting to find outlets for all my various interests. I have people with whom I can run, friends who like to see movies, friends who like to go to concerts and talk music, friends who drink wine, friends who drink Guinness. Last night I went to my first improv comedy show in the Big Apple, which ironically starred a bunch of recent Northwestern alumni.

Now, if only I could find someone to stay home, eat banana pancakes, drink hot chocolate, and watch Wall-E with me, I would be set.