Jul 24, 2009 20:07
Tomorrow I'm going to see Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson oh boy it's Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan and I'm going to see them tomorrow and they're going to be here tomorrow and I'm going to see them and my brother is seeing them as I type. I am a little excited.
Yesterday, at work, I got to do an incredible, unheard of thing. I got to interpret history! This is how it happened: I was in front of the silversmith's shop, and it was too crowded inside to cram another tourist inside, but they were sure gonna try it anyway, bless their hearts, so I had to beat them back from the door lest the floor cave in. So I'm surrounded by a crowd of tourists and it quickly becomes clear they expect me to be in character (which is not in my job description). I think, well, I could just tell them that I'm a third-person interpreter and then stand here awkwardly trying to avoid meeting anyone's eyes while still giving off the impression of being polite, or I could just go with it and see where I end up. I plunked myself down on the railing of the silversmith's stoop, and one dude said, "That's not very ladylike," and I replied, "No, it wasn't, sir, but when was the last time you saw a lady wearing a brown linen apron?" And then I went on for a while about aprons (which are my favorite article of clothing to interpret), about how lace aprons are the most useless things in the world and so on. I'm not very good at ad-libbing, so there were a lot of "uh"s and "um"s, and I couldn't think of any better situation in life than the unmarried daughter of a small planter, but that's actually pretty much who I'd probably be if I lived in the eighteenth century anyway. I told them that I worked for Mr. Craig (the silversmith) and I was bringing custom into his shop (this one's a bit of a stretch--I don't really know if people would have done such a thing in eighteenth-century Williamsburg, but it's the best reason I can think of to explain to people expecting an in-character interpretation why I sit outside the shop all day), and from there I went into the fact that women are capable and allowed to go into any trade, but are better suited for some (such as mantua-making) than others (such as blacksmithing), but I never learned a trade; I stayed at home and worked on the farm, and it's a bit late for it now as girls usually start apprenticeships around age twelve, but I make some money from this job for Mr. Craig; and from there I went into the fact that since I was a femme sole (single woman), I could keep the money I made, but if I was a femme covert (married), all my money would go to my husband unless contracts to the contrary had been signed preceding the marriage, which didn't happen very often, especially not among my sort; that kind of thing was for the wealthy, who had inheritances to worry about. Then I let them go into the silversmith's shop cause it was empty by then. It was all terribly exciting, even despite the one asshole who interrupted me in the middle of my beautiful and informative first-person interpretation to ask me where the nearest fast-food joint was. Such is life at Colonial Williamsburg.
Did I mention that I am going to see Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson play tomorrow? Also, the fellow is coming to town to see the show. Rocky as things are right now, it'll be good to see him. He makes me smile. I will be on my guard...but smiling.
Speaking of shows, Live Nation is a twat. Where Ticketmaster told me precisely what I'd end up paying right there on the website--sixty-eight dollars, plus eleven fifty service charge--Live Nation doesn't tell you about their extra fees until, surprise! You're paying them. I'm going to see Depeche Mode play in DC next week, a Live Nation event. Lawn tickets are thirty dollars. Then they tack on a twelve dollar "ticket fee," a six dollar parking fee, and a two fifty service charge. My seventy-dollar ticket cost me eighty; my thirty-dollar ticket cost me fifty. What the fuck, Live Nation?
Anyhow, I'm bushed, and I have a big day tomorrow for which I ought to rest up. In the words of the great Mohandas Gandhi, peace out, bitches.
-Aryn