After a most refreshing dawn swim by mostly naked, mostly quite trashed dancers in a river with a moderately swift current, it was really time to go home and go to bed. Goodbyes were said, last minute attempts to score failed, and I, not wanting to face a 45 minute walk home decided breakfast was in order. Not just any breakfast but chocolate croissants and coffee. It ended up being cold croissants and average coffee at the hauptbahnhoff where I was on the nod like a smacked-up junkie with Tom and Cornelia. Goodbyes were said again, I slept for an hour, had a post-performance I’m-pathetic attack, then dragged my very sorry ass into Tanzhaus and proceeded to level it like a good carpet-bombing of a defenseless city.
It’s possible the time to ask my opinion of two weeks of SiWiC is not when I am hysterical from lack of sleep, still pretty out of it, and certain to confuse honesty with belligerence. It’s possible it was all a set-up and in fact a moment of genius in reality-tv, and everyone present was in on the joke and professional actors. Either way, when I opened my mouth and said, “choreographers should be paid”, all of Zurich trembled like a little dog with it’s head on the chopping block, pinned down by a vast meaty hand, cleaver whisking the air. Smack. A voice in my head with each of those four words uttered wheezed, “you’re. never. going. to. work. in. this. town. again…”. This was nothing a few swiss-triple-air-kisses was going to fix. oops.
Later, before the choreographers dinner which was initially as cheerful as a morgue party, I sat in some park near junkie street doing a fine impersonation of a smacked-out, on-the-nod needle freak, dreaming over and over of running all the sound cues of the show. By the time I made it to dinner, I’d done the whole bloody thing another three times.
Dinner though was a dream, once Nigel awoke, Veronika, Marlee, Fillipe and fashionable-late Martin arrived, and with Denise and Teresa plying us with beer, wine, endless pasta and ice-cream, then coffee, sedating us all lounging on the red velvet sofa. It was a beautiful finish to 17 magical days. As was the orange juice in the love-heart glass bought to me, barely semi-conscious at eight-thirty in the morning along with an invitation to swill vodka in Helsinki …