Magnificence.
Sep. 6th, 2021 03:48 pmGetting to Boston last Thursday is a short story unto itself, and something I'll find a lot funnier in about a month. I'd planned to take the train there and back, but because of the storm, the trains were cancelled. I can understand that, and I'm not angry about it. Upset, yes, because my plans got scuttled, but not angry.
Amtrak not sending out emails or texts or anything as soon as everything got called off, that I'm a little angry about. Because I got to the station about an hour and a half before my train would leave, and saw it'd been cancelled. As was every other train leaving NYC that day.
A little thinking on my feet, a little bit of desperation, and a couple of phone calls to my mother, and I had a Greyhound ticket that'd get me to Boston three hours later than planned.
The humor mostly comes in having wanted to take the bus there and back a couple weeks ago, and having to take the train back down, and this trip being the opposite. Give me a month and I'll find it funny instead of wry.
Give me a month and I'll be able to laugh at it taking us two hours to get out of NYC because of a car accident. But right now, I can still marvel at how by leaving so late, I found out it's dark enough in parts of Connecticut to see the Big Dipper and a handful of other stars from a bus on the highway, and listening to music while seeing the stars and knowing you're on your way, however long it's going to take, is a wonderful method to find some peace with one's situation.
I'd gone to Boston for the FanExpo media convention, and the only reason I had for going was to meet James Marsters. Only a little bit of me was thinking I'd also see some art and the aquarium when I was in the city. Much, much more was thinking I'd get to see him and say hello in person without having to board an airplane to do it.
Friday I managed to say hello to a few other people I knew from elsewhere online, which was helpful to get my bearings in a new, unfamiliar situation. For one, they knew the layout of the place better than I did and could get me to the signature arena right away. There was very little time in between Marsters coming out to the signature table and leaving for a Q&A session; when I got to the table, there wasn't time for him to sign anything for me. I just had time to ask his booth attendant if he accepted gifts, and when I got confirmation he did, handed over what I'd bought for him: a few books from the 33 1/3 series, and some fancy local New York sea salt.
As he left, I shyly said I was the Cameo poetry girl, and he said yes, he'd recognized me.
The Q&A was charming enough, and I asked him if he's used anything he's had to learn for a role in the rest of his life. No, but developing becoming an honest actor has made him into a worse spontaneous liar.
Far more charming than the Q&A was the little acoustic concert a couple hours later. I'd paid extra to attend the sound check, and two things stood out there. One, he made a point to introduce himself to the sound guy, asking his name. Two, after the check and before he left for some backstage work, he asked if there were any questions. So I raised my hand and asked if I could have the setlist. He said sure.
It's that just before he left, he said that there wouldn't be any fighting because Hannah called the setlist.
At no point during the day had I given him my name.
Either he'd looked it up to be sure, or he'd remembered it.
Because I'd gotten in for the sound check, I had a front-row seat; because it was a small room, the sound was good. Because I wore the black dress I wear to most concerts, I was able to spread the skirt taut between my knees and feel the vibrations through the fabric. And because there were photos afterwards, after he put his arm around me and I put my arm around him and we got a picture, I said he could touch my hair if he wanted.
He stroked my braid twice, his eyes wide, "Wow. Wow."
For dinner, I got something from the hotel's in-house restaurant to take back to my room. I'd ordered some wine, and they gave me a single-serving bottle and a fairly fancy glass to drink it out of. I took the glass with me and used it for the rest of my stay, because it held water way better than the plastic cups.
The next morning, I went to the Fine Arts museum and took in the Monet exhibition. That afternoon, I got the setlist signed. Now, this time, there was a little time at the booth for us to talk.
And this time, when I got up to the table, he recognized me and put his hand up on the plexiglass shield, spreading his fingers out.
What could I do but copy the gesture, pressing my hand to his as best I could with the barrier between us. He signed the setlist, and said he hadn't been able to look at me while playing the night before because he knew me and would have wanted to see my reactions.
Then I went off on my way to wait for the photo op that'd be coming soon.
Though there were a few moments before he left for the photos when there wasn't a line, and I asked if it was okay to talk a couple minutes. He said yes, so we talked about Monet and the Impressionist movement. I said the impressive painting I saw at the exhibition was probably the one of his wife in a kimono because of how overwhelming it was, and we agreed he did wonderful things with water and leaves.
Then he went to freshen up and I went into another line.
For the photo op, I'd worn a white cherry-print dress and hung a novelty key tied to a green ribbon to one of the dress' buttons. Cherries for Buffy Summers, and the green key for Dawn Summers: the most subtle cosplay I could pull off. I'd also worn my long leather coat for Spike, and when I got there, was glad I had a long-sleeved coat at the ideal weight and thickness to keep me comfortable in a sometimes-chilly convention center. I didn't wear the coat for the photo. I also didn't wear my hair in a braid or a bun. I let it down for the photo itself, largely to show it off, and partly because I thought it'd look good.
He leaned an arm against the plexiglass barrier. I crossed my arms and leaned against it, so it sort of looked like he was leaning against me. He put on a cool Spike face. I just smiled.
I waited in line for him to sign that one, too, and then left, tossing out a goodbye and a wish for him to sleep well that night, which he seemed to take happily. Then I wandered out into a hallway and sat for a few minutes, trying to center myself. I knew I might've been able to hang around, maybe talk again, but I'd said my goodbye, he was going to meet more people and would appreciate being able to go off by himself sooner rather than later, there wasn't any reason to go back.
I went to my hotel room, changed out of my dress, and ate the dinner of a veggie wrap I'd bought much earlier that day, sitting on the floor by the window, looking out over the people on the street below. It was a brewpub's patio with outdoor dining, tables and benches and chairs, cheerful noise of people in easy conversation. It was the sort of come-down moment I needed. After being surrounded by so many people and so much waiting and a few moments of absolute joy, I needed to know the world was still moving.
Coming back to NYC by train was easy, but it took me most of today to get my feet back under me. I'm still not quite over it.
The whole thing really does feel like how Rita Dove described dancing in "American Smooth" - a reading of which Marsters finished this afternoon, giving me one last little burst of everything.
And now...to wait and see if he ever gets booked at another convention in a city I can get to by train or bus. Because I would so do it again.
Amtrak not sending out emails or texts or anything as soon as everything got called off, that I'm a little angry about. Because I got to the station about an hour and a half before my train would leave, and saw it'd been cancelled. As was every other train leaving NYC that day.
A little thinking on my feet, a little bit of desperation, and a couple of phone calls to my mother, and I had a Greyhound ticket that'd get me to Boston three hours later than planned.
The humor mostly comes in having wanted to take the bus there and back a couple weeks ago, and having to take the train back down, and this trip being the opposite. Give me a month and I'll find it funny instead of wry.
Give me a month and I'll be able to laugh at it taking us two hours to get out of NYC because of a car accident. But right now, I can still marvel at how by leaving so late, I found out it's dark enough in parts of Connecticut to see the Big Dipper and a handful of other stars from a bus on the highway, and listening to music while seeing the stars and knowing you're on your way, however long it's going to take, is a wonderful method to find some peace with one's situation.
I'd gone to Boston for the FanExpo media convention, and the only reason I had for going was to meet James Marsters. Only a little bit of me was thinking I'd also see some art and the aquarium when I was in the city. Much, much more was thinking I'd get to see him and say hello in person without having to board an airplane to do it.
Friday I managed to say hello to a few other people I knew from elsewhere online, which was helpful to get my bearings in a new, unfamiliar situation. For one, they knew the layout of the place better than I did and could get me to the signature arena right away. There was very little time in between Marsters coming out to the signature table and leaving for a Q&A session; when I got to the table, there wasn't time for him to sign anything for me. I just had time to ask his booth attendant if he accepted gifts, and when I got confirmation he did, handed over what I'd bought for him: a few books from the 33 1/3 series, and some fancy local New York sea salt.
As he left, I shyly said I was the Cameo poetry girl, and he said yes, he'd recognized me.
The Q&A was charming enough, and I asked him if he's used anything he's had to learn for a role in the rest of his life. No, but developing becoming an honest actor has made him into a worse spontaneous liar.
Far more charming than the Q&A was the little acoustic concert a couple hours later. I'd paid extra to attend the sound check, and two things stood out there. One, he made a point to introduce himself to the sound guy, asking his name. Two, after the check and before he left for some backstage work, he asked if there were any questions. So I raised my hand and asked if I could have the setlist. He said sure.
It's that just before he left, he said that there wouldn't be any fighting because Hannah called the setlist.
At no point during the day had I given him my name.
Either he'd looked it up to be sure, or he'd remembered it.
Because I'd gotten in for the sound check, I had a front-row seat; because it was a small room, the sound was good. Because I wore the black dress I wear to most concerts, I was able to spread the skirt taut between my knees and feel the vibrations through the fabric. And because there were photos afterwards, after he put his arm around me and I put my arm around him and we got a picture, I said he could touch my hair if he wanted.
He stroked my braid twice, his eyes wide, "Wow. Wow."
For dinner, I got something from the hotel's in-house restaurant to take back to my room. I'd ordered some wine, and they gave me a single-serving bottle and a fairly fancy glass to drink it out of. I took the glass with me and used it for the rest of my stay, because it held water way better than the plastic cups.
The next morning, I went to the Fine Arts museum and took in the Monet exhibition. That afternoon, I got the setlist signed. Now, this time, there was a little time at the booth for us to talk.
And this time, when I got up to the table, he recognized me and put his hand up on the plexiglass shield, spreading his fingers out.
What could I do but copy the gesture, pressing my hand to his as best I could with the barrier between us. He signed the setlist, and said he hadn't been able to look at me while playing the night before because he knew me and would have wanted to see my reactions.
Then I went off on my way to wait for the photo op that'd be coming soon.
Though there were a few moments before he left for the photos when there wasn't a line, and I asked if it was okay to talk a couple minutes. He said yes, so we talked about Monet and the Impressionist movement. I said the impressive painting I saw at the exhibition was probably the one of his wife in a kimono because of how overwhelming it was, and we agreed he did wonderful things with water and leaves.
Then he went to freshen up and I went into another line.
For the photo op, I'd worn a white cherry-print dress and hung a novelty key tied to a green ribbon to one of the dress' buttons. Cherries for Buffy Summers, and the green key for Dawn Summers: the most subtle cosplay I could pull off. I'd also worn my long leather coat for Spike, and when I got there, was glad I had a long-sleeved coat at the ideal weight and thickness to keep me comfortable in a sometimes-chilly convention center. I didn't wear the coat for the photo. I also didn't wear my hair in a braid or a bun. I let it down for the photo itself, largely to show it off, and partly because I thought it'd look good.
He leaned an arm against the plexiglass barrier. I crossed my arms and leaned against it, so it sort of looked like he was leaning against me. He put on a cool Spike face. I just smiled.
I waited in line for him to sign that one, too, and then left, tossing out a goodbye and a wish for him to sleep well that night, which he seemed to take happily. Then I wandered out into a hallway and sat for a few minutes, trying to center myself. I knew I might've been able to hang around, maybe talk again, but I'd said my goodbye, he was going to meet more people and would appreciate being able to go off by himself sooner rather than later, there wasn't any reason to go back.
I went to my hotel room, changed out of my dress, and ate the dinner of a veggie wrap I'd bought much earlier that day, sitting on the floor by the window, looking out over the people on the street below. It was a brewpub's patio with outdoor dining, tables and benches and chairs, cheerful noise of people in easy conversation. It was the sort of come-down moment I needed. After being surrounded by so many people and so much waiting and a few moments of absolute joy, I needed to know the world was still moving.
Coming back to NYC by train was easy, but it took me most of today to get my feet back under me. I'm still not quite over it.
The whole thing really does feel like how Rita Dove described dancing in "American Smooth" - a reading of which Marsters finished this afternoon, giving me one last little burst of everything.
And now...to wait and see if he ever gets booked at another convention in a city I can get to by train or bus. Because I would so do it again.
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