Tour Whore, May 20, 2012

Having It All

A guide to holding on to the creature comforts

by Cameryn Moore

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about the little creature comforts of my home turf, stuff that I was going to miss when I went out on tour. I re-read that piece now and I feel like a whiny little baby. I bet you were thinking that, too. It’s okay. You can say it. Or I can say it for you. Suck It Up, Cameryn! That’s Showbiz! That’s Being an Adult! That’s What You Get for Thinking that Solo Performance Art Is Where It’s At! You Can’t Have It All!

But…

Yes, I can. And I do.

Maybe not all of everything. I definitely can’t have a thriving 25-stop tour every year AND a three-season raised vegetable garden (my primary partner doesn’t pull weeds). I don’t see me maintaining a deeply personal relationship with a coffee shop, when that coffee shop may change every two to four weeks. But after I was done wallowing in my latest bout of “oh god I’m hitting the road again” angst, I realized that many of the things I enjoy running across while touring are a little bit of domesticity on a smaller scale, in a more discrete amount. These are things unique to my billet or neighborhood or foster city that I fall in love with quickly and look forward to when I come through again next fall, next spring, next year:

Regional food. I ask people what to try, what to look for, and if they can’t name something truly local, or a genuine legendary local eatery, I… have less respect for the region, I do. It doesn’t have to be a specific dish, like Montreal’s poutine (hello, delicious poutine, I am coming to eat you in two weeks). Maybe it’s the hotdog joint half a block away from my LA venue last year, where the line went around the block, and B-list celebrities vied for the chance to create a hotdog with their name on it. Or when I drove through British Columbia last year, I saw it at the first gas station I stopped at, a fruit stand with all of the stone fruits in the world: cherries, peaches, plums, nectarines. And they were all good.

The main arteries. It takes a few days driving back and forth from my billet to the Fringe, but eventually things start snapping into place. There is nothing that makes me feel more at home than being able to navigate that one simple route without the aid of the GPS. I like putting pegs in my little mental grid. Everyone has one, that mental map of Places I Know.  Mine gets bigger and bigger each year; it gets filled in a little more, and that makes me feel really fucking competent. 

Local newspapers. Got some time to kill before tech, let’s pick up a stack of the local papers. You what? $1.25? For this flimsy rag?! Psht. … Okay. (Not like I’m ever going to do anything with those Canadian dimes and nickels anyway.) … Whoa, what an asshole columnist! … Hey, I haven’t seen that comic strip in ages! … Oh, look, Rob Brezsny! … Hahahah, police incident reports, where do they get this shit… Huh, I wonder if they included my show in the calendar… nnnnnno. Fuckers. Oh, wait! Yes! And a photo, yess! … (You never know what you might find. Last year, a prominent conservative columnist in the Calgary main daily wrote an editorial piece denouncing the reclamative use of the word “slut”, four days before slut (r)evolution opened at the Calgary Fringe. I wrote a rebuttal that was published the day before my opening.)

Bilingual packaging. When I re-enter the States with a half-full bottle of sunscreen that has all FRENCHIE stuff all over the label… I feel so cosmopolitan. I’m a dork, what can I say?

Parking secrets. Every city has them, the unmarked curbs or the seriously cheap all-day lots or the little streets just outside the downtown meter zone. The longer I’m in a city, the more I’ll find. If I’m lucky, someone will tell me about them. But even a normal amount of attention while driving through a new downtown area will yield a few winners, and I pay a lot of attention. Because no way in hell will I be sucked into that tourist trap of a parking garage again, Toronto…

Outdoor living. None of the places I rented over the last eight years in Boston had outdoor living space, like a private porch or a livable yard. Not one of them. This is why, when I billet with people, I particularly enjoy those places that involve outdoorness in some way. From the unbeatable patio-yard-grill trio of my Montreal billet of 2010 and 2011 (I will miss you this year, Paul!) to the hot tub-and-deck decadence of Calgary last year, nothing beats coming home from the Fringe grind at night, sitting outside with some white wine in a plastic souvenir cup, and listening to the traffic while watching the stars 

It’s not normalcy I crave, it’s KNOWING, knowing that I can take care of my own, that I can find the information or my brand of eye makeup remover, that I can get to where I need to go and find a place to rest. This is domesticity for me, serial short-term domesticity, walking a tenuous rope strung tight between “what city am I in again?” and “yes, I can find good coffee here”, a delicate edge that I ride as I roll through on the main strip (click, there’s another piece in the grid), the sunset turning the skyscrapers tangerine red and the dust golden yellow. 

I recognize those colors everywhere, the colors that say, “Day is done, and I’m coming home.”

Cameryn Moore will be at the Montreal Fringe June 15-23, at Zoofest and at the Winnipeg Fringe July 19-29

camerynmoore.com