How. Did. You do it?! I asked. We’d been talking about the show since it opened at Joe’s Pub and quickly learned it wouldn’t be easy to get in. It turns out they’d released a new wave of face-value tickets and David, an expert ticket buyer, jumped at the right minute in November. Now we’d wait, watch our ticket email confirmation get buried in 10 months worth of emails, and exclaim it to friends and family, we’re going in the fall!, the fall being forever away. Tides rose and fell, the original cast turned over, we ate a lot of fried chicken.
And finally. Finally, well, finally here is our fall. And the weeks crept in and we counted down and, well.
One day led to another and there we stood, beneath the glowing marquee on 46th street, the one I’d seen in so many Instagram photos with geo tags Hamilton: An American Musical. Richard Rodgers Theatre. I squealed when we marched to the end of the endless line, when we entered the lobby. When the bartender told us it was her first night, I squealed again. “You got a GREAT show.”
And after we took our seats, and the lights dimmed, and the opening chord sung, I gripped David’s leg too hard in excitement. Because it was perfect, and I didn’t have to wait anymore; because it was our turn.
Hamilton was everything I’d hoped. It was incredible. The cast, the set, the music, the story. Brilliant. I laughed and cried, nodded. Gripped David’s leg too hard. Hoped that everyone could see it…and that I could see it all again.
Happy birthday to my Dad, holding a younger version of myself here.
Thinking about life, and people, and “home,” and what that might be—
“The Old Town Museum in Aarhus, Denmark has created a “House of Memories” that’s an exact replica of a 1950s apartment. It’s intended for Alzheimer’s patients, whose memories may be triggered by the sights, sounds and smells from the period, researchers say.”