travel

Oscar Wilde and I in Leadville, Colorado

IMG_0483Between classes in Salt Lake City and Denver, Colorado as part of our ballet master class tour, my partner and I decided to take a small side trip through Leadville, Colorado, which looms large in Wilde mythology. In all honesty, I decided to take the small side trip and my partner had little choice as I make the travel plans and do the driving. We did not, however, have the kind of schedule that allowed me to leisurely stroll and imagine the places Wilde must have walked. I did, however, make time to snap a picture outside the Tabor Opera House where Wilde famously lectured.

IMG_0495The main drag of Leadville appears not to have changed much since 1882, with the exception of replacing silver mining with tourism as its industry. Even so, I found it hard to call up and image of Oscar Wilde on the street. It is hard to imagine much of anything at 10,000 feet above sea level. My dancer friend seems to suffer more from altitude than I do for whatever reason, and his kindly disguised discomfort was foremost on my mind.

IMG_0478At its peak on the road up the mountain we reached 13,297 feet. You go over this peak and then head down a bit to reach Leadville. This altitude overlooked some sort of ghost town, an industrial building of some sort with abandoned dwellings around it. I assume this was related to mining. We didn’t delve, but wondered at a pair of young bicycle riders who turned wheelies while waiting for their friend. Our bodies felt heavy and we could not imagine biking up the mountain, much less having extra energy to burn off.

The 1997 film Wilde opened not in London but in Leadville. It is always depicted as a rough and tumble working town. The juxtaposition of the famous aesthete with the cowboy movie set sparks the imagination. Leadville historians describe the Tabor Opera House and their town at the height of the silver boom a bit differently.

“By 1879, Leadville boasted the biggest opera house west of the Mississippi, thanks to Horace Tabor’s wealth. The venue attracted national and international performers, actors and orators, along with Leadville’s new rich in attendance. And while there were some “cheap seats” in the upper balcony, most miners and other hard-working types found their musical satisfaction in one of the many dance hall saloons,” wrote Kathy Bedell in Leadville Today.

Or, as Michele Mendelssohn put it in Making Oscar Wilde, “Leadville had a clutch of genteel folk who wanted to show that their town could lay claim to being just as refined and courteous as any other.”

Of course, the courteous and genteel folk do not make for sensational copy, and the papers of the day were more interested in the possibility that Oscar Wilde might be murdered and that he said he’d bought a gun.

I was interested to read in Michele Mendelssohn’s Making Oscar Wilde that the poet suffered from altitude sickness.

Located more than 10,000 feet above sea level, Leadville is the highest city in the United States, and sits at about half the altitude of Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa.

This is how people like me get their tourist information: biographies of Oscar Wilde.

Standing outside the Tabor Opera House, my partner’s first thought was that it would be hard for an opera singer to sing in this town. (He once had the experience of dancing in Quito, Ecuador, 2 miles above sea level, and having his backstage supplemental oxygen stop working.)

Although we had arrived just in time to make the last Tabor Opera House tour, I knew I could not impose it on my dizzy, tired traveling companion. We went back to the hotel where my partner tried gamely to be a good sport about my bringing him all the way up this mountain to look at an old theater. Although I tried not to show it, he knew I was disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm for Leadville. He offered to stop on the way out of town the next day and snap a couple more pictures before getting the hell out of Dodge.

IMG_0497…I started writing this travelogue the day after we descended from Leadville. I think I intended to write something about Wilde’s famous report that he saw a sign in the saloon in Leadville saying “Don’t shoot the pianist. He is doing his best.” It is interesting that in Mendelssohn’s book, the line after the passage on Leadville reads “While in the United States, he had planned to write another book of poems but quickly discovered that his hectic schedule made that impossible.”

 

 

 

 

IMG_0491I never finished this article. The hectic schedule of touring, and a new city every day, got in the way. It is possible to write on the road. In fact, parts of Oscar’s Ghost were written that way. It is not ideal, and from what I know of Oscar, he was happy to take advantage of any excuse not to write.

I would like to have experienced more of Leadville, and I could have embellished the moment to make it seem more colorful than it was. As it is, I think Leadville could be worth visiting, if you have a bit of time to enjoy it, and you’re not too prone to altitude sickness.

 

 

Northern Exposure and Nostalgia for Places You’ve Never Been Before

 

 

Yesterday, on our travels, we had the opportunity to stop in Roslyn, WA where the exteriors of the television series Northern Exposure were shot. The famous mural that the moose strolled past in the opening credits is there, as is a preserved KBHR radio set, and The Brick. The facade that served as Dr. Fleischman’s office is now a Northern Exposure-themed gift shop where you can pick up a walking tour map.

The final episode of Northern Exposure wrapped up with Iris Dement’s melancholy “Our Town,” suggesting that the fictional Cicely, Alaska was the real star of the show.

10391758_233868150947_1219663_n Northern Exposure was a fresh new show at a time when I, like the viewpoint character Dr. Fleischman, had moved from a more urban area to a northern town in order to start what I then thought would be my career.

I was the afternoon drive announcer on WKJF FM/AM in Cadillac, MI.

Unlike Dr. Fleishman, who, in spite of himself, became central to a community with its own culture and habits he did not understand, I was mostly isolated. I never found a community outside of work, and the life of a radio announcer mostly consisted of being the only person in a building talking to the air. I watched Northern Exposure every week, and it provided a fictive community.

Cicely, Alaska was not a typical small town. It was a place where the entire community would turn out to witness a philosopher-turned-DJ engage in performance art. Although it was isolated and rural it was diverse, thanks to the Native American population, and a spiritual dimension– a mystic searching for meaning–permeated the place. The drama came from the quest to figure out what it means to be a human being in the world living with other human beings.

While I was playing music programmed by a “clock hour” and index cards (pictured above) and later by computers, Chris in the Morning was playing an ecclectic mix of different genres as his mood and his sermon of the day dictated. It was an ideal of local radio as the voice of the community in all of its human unpredictability.

In the years that have passed all three of the local radio stations that served as the setting of my career have gone out of business. Local radio has been largely homogenized and replaced by huge media companies with nationally syndicated content.

A few years ago I returned to Cadillac, Michigan. I wrote:

Early in my radio career, I lived in Cadillac. (I was the afternoon announcer at the now-defunct WKJF AM/FM, “Your Light Rock, More Music Station.”) Cadillac surrounds a lake, and each shore of the lake has a distinctly different feel. My house was on the non-tourist side. It was then one long highway of mom and pop shops. (An appliance repair shop was one of the prominent businesses.) It seemed to have changed little since the 1950s.

I lived in the town for half a year before I even knew the resort side of the lake, with its hotels and restaurants, was there.

There is a lot to do in Cadillac for the person who enjoys hunting, fishing or snowmobiling. I was more of an indoor girl…

Something has happened to the town-side of Cadillac. Most of the mom and pop operations have closed down and been bought up by chains with their plastic facades and bright colored logos. The 1950s era businesses that remain, which once had an untouched charm, have been made shabby and out of date by the juxtaposition. Cadillac seems somehow both more built up and more run down than I remember.

The radio station building where I once worked remains, although it is a lifeless, automated router for another station. The “Incredible Broadcast Machine”– a decidedly credible Winnebago painted with the station logo– has driven (or been towed) into the sunset. Half of the office space (which was once home to Muzak) has been given over to H&R Block.

A few years after that I revisited my second radio station, WFRA and Mix 99.3 FM (“The best mix of today’s hits and great oldies”) in Franklin, PA.

 

 

That’s me as the midday voice of the station in the early 1990s, and on the right is what the station looked like a couple of years ago. The door with the station logos and the empty rooms may be gone by now leaving no trace of the place.

Last year I learned that the house in a residential neighborhood that housed my last radio station WAGE AM in Leesburg, VA was up for sale. I might have bought it if I’d had the money.

The death of local radio is a metaphor for something larger, the loss of the community voice, the separate, quirky local cultures. As Chris in the Morning put it in this clip “The total blitzkreig towards isolation.”

In the Roslyn gift shop, a friendly woman handed me a map of all of the sites in the town that had been used in the show. On the wall were large photographs of all of the show’s cast. Something about them felt off to me, because it took me back to the fact that what had taken place there had been a television production. But I had not come to see a film set, and that was not what I had been feeling walking down that familiar street.

I came to see a place that I had once belonged, which I thought had vanished like so many other places of my past. In Roslyn, that magical place, and all of its possibilities, re-appeared like Brigadoon.

Cicely, Alaska was fictional and Chris in the Morning and all the others were fictional. They never lived there, and they will always live there.