Week 8: Revolución Interior (Or, The Time I Unknowingly Joined an International Improvisation Festival)
Greetings, readers! Five weeks have passed since my last post, and I apologize for the inconsistency. A few weeks were full of school, and a few weeks were so mundane that I didn't feel I had much to share. This week's blog was supposed to be about how my honeymoon period is over and things are finally settling down.....then the week lost all consistency. I'd like to tell you about it.
This chunky collage is a pretty good summary of the past month. But then...
Wednesday: Un día normal
Wednesday night, Irene and I go to an improv show, part of Córdoba's first ever improv festival, Revolución Interior. It's pretty nifty. The show is Improlucha, a cage-match improv battle between two teams of two improv actors. Actors from Chile, Colombia, México, and Argentina duke it out (with, you know, costumes and body language and rapid fire Spanish humor), and the audience votes for the winner.
It 's my first Spanish live comedy experience (and my second public Spanish media exposure, the first being Oz the Great and Powerful in theater with Spanish dubs), and I'm glad Irene came with me to explain all the jokes that whizzed past my ears. All in all, it's a fantastic show, and I'm glad I got to go and support a friend, Gustavo, who represents Team Argentina.
It 's my first Spanish live comedy experience (and my second public Spanish media exposure, the first being Oz the Great and Powerful in theater with Spanish dubs), and I'm glad Irene came with me to explain all the jokes that whizzed past my ears. All in all, it's a fantastic show, and I'm glad I got to go and support a friend, Gustavo, who represents Team Argentina.
Thursday: El comienzo de las locuras
Thursday finds me in my only class from 9-11 am. Afterward, due to an impressive combination of tiredness, moving to a new home (no room for that backstory), moving away from Irene, and caffeine deprivation leaves me homesick and mopey. I'm having one of those rare "Ally, what the hell are you doing in Córdoba?" moments; they don't happen often, but when they do, they come out of nowhere like a sucker punch to the self-confidence gland.
I do the only sensible thing a homesick girl can do in her 8th week abroad: I talk with the other Wartburg girls and buy an impressive amount of ice cream. After the girls go back to the uni for their afternoon class, I walk through Nueva Córdoba, still feeling a little amiss. My new home is about an hour's walk away from school, so if I walk home at 2 pm, I'd be home alone of the rest of the day...not a tempting option. Instead, I text Gustavo, my improv actor friend, and ask if we can meet up for a few minutes.
I guess it's important to mention at this point that Gustavo is the head coordinator for the festival, the international festival, the first ever international teatro improv festival in Córdoba. I know he's super-busy, so I ask for five minutes of his time, just to see a familiar face. We meet at the hostel where all the actors are staying, and after a good pep talk, Gustavo has to jump to his next offically stressful administrative duty.
Then he asks me if I'll go with him and two other performers to a theater workshop and take photos. No big deal. Without knowing what I'm getting myself into, I say yes.
Quite suddenly, I'm in a taxi with Gustavo, a Colombian from Improlucha the night before, and Gustavo's Argentine improv partner. We go to the theater workshop at a private arts college close to the university. The Colombian, Juan, hands me a large, fancy Nikon camera, tells me to point and shoot, and leaves me to my new role as publicist/photographer. Students come, Gus and company instruct, games are played, and I snap photos.
I do the only sensible thing a homesick girl can do in her 8th week abroad: I talk with the other Wartburg girls and buy an impressive amount of ice cream. After the girls go back to the uni for their afternoon class, I walk through Nueva Córdoba, still feeling a little amiss. My new home is about an hour's walk away from school, so if I walk home at 2 pm, I'd be home alone of the rest of the day...not a tempting option. Instead, I text Gustavo, my improv actor friend, and ask if we can meet up for a few minutes.
I guess it's important to mention at this point that Gustavo is the head coordinator for the festival, the international festival, the first ever international teatro improv festival in Córdoba. I know he's super-busy, so I ask for five minutes of his time, just to see a familiar face. We meet at the hostel where all the actors are staying, and after a good pep talk, Gustavo has to jump to his next offically stressful administrative duty.
Then he asks me if I'll go with him and two other performers to a theater workshop and take photos. No big deal. Without knowing what I'm getting myself into, I say yes.
Quite suddenly, I'm in a taxi with Gustavo, a Colombian from Improlucha the night before, and Gustavo's Argentine improv partner. We go to the theater workshop at a private arts college close to the university. The Colombian, Juan, hands me a large, fancy Nikon camera, tells me to point and shoot, and leaves me to my new role as publicist/photographer. Students come, Gus and company instruct, games are played, and I snap photos.
After the workshop, Gustavo asks if I can go with him to help with some errands. Again, with nothing better in mind to do, I say yes. Long story short, I spend the rest of Thursday night venue-hopping with Gustavo, doing little tareas to help prepare the two shows planned for the evening.
By the time the night ends, I've met most of the actors I've seen previously in Improlucha and been behind the scenes for the shows, helping out. I don't know how funny or quirky this seems to you, dear reader, but to put things into perspective, here's the conversation I encounter every time I meet an actor or festival worker or patron:
Person: So, you work with Gustavo?
Me: Uh, no.
Person: Oh, you're performing!
Me: Me? No.
Person: ...
Me: I helped out with the workshop earlier, I took some photos.
Person: So you're a photographer?
Me: ...no.
Person: ...what are you doing here?
Me: ...me encontré acá por casualidad. I'm just here to help.
Friday: Las locuras siguen y me convertí en (casi) una cordobesa
I return to the hostel home base Friday afternoon for another day of undetermined festival madness, my only instructions from Gustavo, "Talk to Jill."
Jill, an American improv performer from Minneapolis, arrived Friday morning at 5 am after a two day hold-up in Lima. I find her eating ravioli with the rest of the actors, smiling and nodding at the mix of Spanish and entry-level English spoken to her. She speaks some Spanish and has a lot of gusto, but I thought it might be nice for her to have a fellow estadounidense to help her out with little things. We spend the afternoon together at the hostel, chatting. Then around five, Gustavo appears, asks Jill if she's ready for her interview, turns to me, and says, "You're coming, right? You can translate." ...Why not?
Jill and I follow Gus to Teatro Real, where a group of six teens/adults are waiting for us. We join them, sit cross-legged on the studio floor, and start a Spanish discussion about improv. Gustavo represents Team Festival and does most of the talking, but the students are eager to talk to Jill, too. I get a little practice with translating, and Jill's elated to get to explain improv and why she loves it.
And then Gustavo leaves to take phone calls, leaving Jill and I with six Argentine actors. They turn to Jill expectantly, Jill turns to me, and I whisper to her, "Did you bring any games?" And Jill exclaims, "Games! Juegos! Si!" So we play improv games.
Jill, an American improv performer from Minneapolis, arrived Friday morning at 5 am after a two day hold-up in Lima. I find her eating ravioli with the rest of the actors, smiling and nodding at the mix of Spanish and entry-level English spoken to her. She speaks some Spanish and has a lot of gusto, but I thought it might be nice for her to have a fellow estadounidense to help her out with little things. We spend the afternoon together at the hostel, chatting. Then around five, Gustavo appears, asks Jill if she's ready for her interview, turns to me, and says, "You're coming, right? You can translate." ...Why not?
Jill and I follow Gus to Teatro Real, where a group of six teens/adults are waiting for us. We join them, sit cross-legged on the studio floor, and start a Spanish discussion about improv. Gustavo represents Team Festival and does most of the talking, but the students are eager to talk to Jill, too. I get a little practice with translating, and Jill's elated to get to explain improv and why she loves it.
And then Gustavo leaves to take phone calls, leaving Jill and I with six Argentine actors. They turn to Jill expectantly, Jill turns to me, and I whisper to her, "Did you bring any games?" And Jill exclaims, "Games! Juegos! Si!" So we play improv games.
By the time the workshop ends, everyone is laughing and jumping around and giddy with improv fever. One thing I learn is that improv is universal; there's definitely a language barrier between Jill and the students (and I'm no gold-medal interpreter), but it doesn't matter. Everyone understood the games, and everyone participated. Nothing kills improv like the one person that doesn't want to do something silly, but these students gave it their all. This is their first time with improv...and did I mention that Jill taught the workshop her first day in Córdoba after a two-day headahce in the Peruvian airport?!
But of course the story can't end there. The workshop ends, the students thank us, and then Gustavo reappears to take Jill to her sound check...because in addition to arriving two days late and teaching a workshop, she has to get ready for her own improv show due to start in about 2 hours. Actors, man. I don't know how they do it.
After seeing Jill's sound check and running around with Gustavo for some more miscellaneous errands, I head home for the night, more than satisfied with Day 2 as assistant/culture guide/walking buddy/translator. By now, I've refined the What are you doing here? conversation down to, "I'm not an actress and I'm not really part of the festival. I'm Gustavo's friend and I'm here to help Jill and do whatever." Everyone seems pretty okay with this.
Sábado: Güia y actriz de improv, nivel básico
Saturday afternoon, I meet Jill at the hostel. She has a few hours to kill before a workshop she wants to attend, so I adopt the role of Cordobesian and take her out to see the sights. We don't have a lot of time, but we make it to the rings at Parque Sarmiento--a perfect photo op and demonstration of Cordoba's uniqueness.
After seeing Sarmiento, we head to the workshop in Luz Urbana, the same building where the English Talk group I go to meets every week. Jill and I arrive about twenty-five minutes early, walk into Luz Urbana, and see Gus giving improv lessons to a few students. We do not see Juan, the Colombian who's giving the workshop. After a frenzied schedule-check, we see that the workshop is listed at a completely different building; my spidey-senses were wrong. My only job for the day is to hang with Jill and make sure she's in the right place at the right time, and I've already managed to fail. Jill and I flag a taxi and make it to the listed venue, only to stand outside, again Juan-less. A man and woman approach us and ask if we're here for the taller, and we tell them we are and that we're not exactly sure what's going on. Suddenly, I remember that I have the phone number of a festival coordinator, so I call him. "¿Estás en Luz Urbana y no hay nadie?" He asks me. "No, we're on Roca, where the sheet says to be," I tell him. "No, el taller está en Luz Urbana," he insists. Cool. Well, at least my sixth sense wasn't out of whack. Jill and I find the two Argentines who were also waiting, I explain what's going on, and thankfully, they offer us a ride back to Luz Urbana. We make it in time for the taller, and the Colombians are excited to see Jill stepping up to the plate and doing a workshop in Spanish.
I sit the first few activities out, but Gustavo pushes me into the mix after the name game icebreakers are over (I am nervous as hell, but thankful that I skipped the name game icebreaker. Those are not my favorite).
The next two hours pass quickly in a rush of lucha libre fighting (an old woman takes me down with impressive timing), swordfighting, yoga, calisthenics, vocal activities, and reflex games. For Jill and I, the taller is also a Spanish lesson, because all the instructions and explanations come delivered en español. One of the last games we play is a cirle-rhythm-say it fast or you're out game that went like this:
The next two hours pass quickly in a rush of lucha libre fighting (an old woman takes me down with impressive timing), swordfighting, yoga, calisthenics, vocal activities, and reflex games. For Jill and I, the taller is also a Spanish lesson, because all the instructions and explanations come delivered en español. One of the last games we play is a cirle-rhythm-say it fast or you're out game that went like this:
Person 1 says a day of the week, a number, and a month.
Person 2 responds with the previous day, number, and month (all within a three-beat count).
Ej:
Persona 1: sábado, el cinco de noviembre.
Persona 2: viernes, el cuatro de octubre.
Easy, right? This is how it goes for a Spanish immersion student who finds herself in an improv workshop por casualidad:
Juan: jueves, el veintiocho de abril.
Ally: *juevesjueves what day comes before* uh miércoles, el veintisiete de--de-- *Diosmio abrilabrilabrilmayo?!no! marzo.
Seriously. I know people who have trouble counting months backward in English, and here I attempt the feat in Spanish. But again, my flukes don't matter; everyone is patient, I play plenty of games that don't demand excessive mental overload, and I laugh, jump around, and sing fearlessly with South Americans. And now I know a few more Spanish theatrical phrases.
By now, it's seven o'clock and time to head to the 8 o'clock función, the Mexicans' show at Teatro Real. I head to the theater with Gus, Jill, and the Colombians. While we walk, they ask who I am and why I've been tagging along with the company for the past two days. Finally, I get the chance to explain myself clearly, doing away once and for all with the I am not a performer, instructor, or festival worker, I just kinda wandered into this explanation. I also get to hear the Colombians' stories; how they travel for shows and festivals, the founding of their company Si! Solución Improv, and their impression of Córdoba. They've been in town for six days, and I'm finishing my eighth week. Compared to them, I'm quasi-Cordobesian.
The Mexicans' show is the first time I see long-form, dramatic improv. I've seen my fair share of Whose Line and been to a Second City show in Chicago, so I'm used to short, guffaw-producing scenes, but this show is different. The girls had audience members write words on a chalkboard before the show, and they use those words to create three distinct stories that interweave and join at the end. Their only props are a ladder and two chairs.
From Teatro Real, the group, a mix of Mexicans, Argentines, Colombians and Statesians, walks to Okupas, a resto/bar that's hosting the last festival show of the night--Late Night Show Incredible Mix. It starts around midnight and follows the familiar Whose Line setup.
The Mexicans' show is the first time I see long-form, dramatic improv. I've seen my fair share of Whose Line and been to a Second City show in Chicago, so I'm used to short, guffaw-producing scenes, but this show is different. The girls had audience members write words on a chalkboard before the show, and they use those words to create three distinct stories that interweave and join at the end. Their only props are a ladder and two chairs.
From Teatro Real, the group, a mix of Mexicans, Argentines, Colombians and Statesians, walks to Okupas, a resto/bar that's hosting the last festival show of the night--Late Night Show Incredible Mix. It starts around midnight and follows the familiar Whose Line setup.
Domingo: El fin del finde
Sunday was a day of relaxation after a week of exciting locuras. In all reality, I spent Sunday as a festival patron. Jill and I walked around a pit before the Colombians' show, and then we experienced Ritus, un viaje al más allá.
The show was in the playback style of improv, another first for me. It encompassed drama, comedy, and genuine emotion...I guess that's the best way I can describe it, and you can check to link above to get a better idea. The house was full, the audience was satisfied, and the Colombians delivered an amazing closing show to the festival.
Following the wrap up and tear down, the Colombians, Gustavo, Jill, and I headed back to home base hostel, where we got ready for the long-anticipated fin del festival asado. After a few hours of cooking and grilling and waiting and talking about how hungry we were, everything was prepared. Then I had to go home before I could eat (8 weeks in Córdoba and STILL the asado evades me!), but I know the Colombians and all the workers from the festival had a hard-earned celebration!
Following the wrap up and tear down, the Colombians, Gustavo, Jill, and I headed back to home base hostel, where we got ready for the long-anticipated fin del festival asado. After a few hours of cooking and grilling and waiting and talking about how hungry we were, everything was prepared. Then I had to go home before I could eat (8 weeks in Córdoba and STILL the asado evades me!), but I know the Colombians and all the workers from the festival had a hard-earned celebration!
En resumen:
Before I left Wartburg, I remember my advisor telling me I would have crazy, once-in-a-lifetime adventures. I consider myself adventurous, but I'm also pretty skeptical and not one to hop blindly into endeavors. ...Always listen to your faculty advisors, kids. They know what they're talking about.
My week as an honorary improv assistant was, without a doubt, the most memorable thing that's happened to me throughout these two months in Córdoba. For the first time, I was around people that I knew--lots of people that I knew--lots of native Spanish speakers that I knew--speaking Spanish 24/7. It was 100% language immersion, but I felt comfortable enough to express myself (and sometimes it was necessary that I expressed myself, when interpeting for Jill or helping out the actors).
It was something rare, something incredible, and something muy, muy chevere.
My week as an honorary improv assistant was, without a doubt, the most memorable thing that's happened to me throughout these two months in Córdoba. For the first time, I was around people that I knew--lots of people that I knew--lots of native Spanish speakers that I knew--speaking Spanish 24/7. It was 100% language immersion, but I felt comfortable enough to express myself (and sometimes it was necessary that I expressed myself, when interpeting for Jill or helping out the actors).
It was something rare, something incredible, and something muy, muy chevere.