Something To Do With My Hands

How did you spend your Thanksgiving?
I spent mine infiltrating the Conservatoire Royal de Mons.

Thursday morning I made the commute to Mons with JJ. We stopped at his office first for coffee and introductions. It reminded me of when I used to go to work with my dad when he worked at Moravian, except it’s in Europe and there’s better coffee. Now, I had originally planned to simply waltz right through the conservatory doors and demand to speak with someone about admissions. Then the possibility arose of the front gate being locked and me needing a appointment. JJ then called the secretary and got a list of professors and secretaries I should speak to. The first on the list was the secretary of the students (or something).
After I left JJ’s office I headed for the Grand Place to pick up my apparently not lost coat, and then continued to the conservatory.

It went like this.
First Line of Defense: French Speaking People and Floor levels

The secretary at the front desk was kind enough to inform me that the office I was looking for was located one the “deuxième étage”. Second floor right? I go up one flight of stairs and there it is right? wrong. What I had forgotten was our second floor is their first floor. minor setback.

Second Line of Defense: Office full of Middle-Aged Women/Disgruntled Admissions Man

Once I found myself in the right place and figured out how to open the most difficult wooden door ever, I entered the admissions office (or something). All the women stopped working, stared, and apparently my reputation precedes me, “oh, you’re the American”. Well…yes. They told me to wait outside the office for the Admissions Man, and then whispered amongst themselves. After a while, I entered the office and showed him the letter JJ had sent to the director. I explained how he had said that maybe we could find a solution for my late entrance. “No”. It’s not possible, it’s too late. He scrawled out the contact info of one of the composition professors and sent me on my way.

Third Line of Defense: The I’ve-been-smoking-for-47-years-this-job-is-ridiculous-curse-these-annoying-artsy-kids Secretary

It wasn’t ending like this.
I stopped at the Mons Tourism office, picked up a map, and made my way across town to the other building of the conservatory. There I met the above mentioned secretary who actually made some phone calls for me. Turns out, though, that neither of the composition professors were there today. She told me I should just call them sometime. yeah, thanks.

Time of Reflection/Excellent Eggplant Sandwich

…that’s it.

Savior in the Form of  a Bald Conductor

I tried calling one of the composition teachers. no dice. “fuck this, I’m going back”
I entered the red gate for the last time that day. This time the front desk secretary was a man. I asked him if any of the professors were in today and free. He said none of the composition teachers were available, but he looked at the rest of my list and, “oh but behind you, that’s Mr. Gazon”. I started to chat with the professor of orchestration (or something) and I explained my sitution.

Me: “I live in Chimay”
Him: “What’s going on in Chimay?”
Us: “…nothing!”

He told me he had a concert in the auditorium in a few minutes. He told me to come watch and then afterwards he would personally take me to speak with the director.
And that is how I ended my day listening to some free Mozart Piano Concertos and Scheduling a meeting with the director of the Conservatoire Royal de Mons. It was also the first time in months I heard someone utter the words “Steve Reich”, “John Adams”, “minimalism”. I wanted to kiss this man. but I didn’t.

In other news, I’m currently living over one of three gay bars in Mons. More on that later…much more.


One response to “Something To Do With My Hands

  1. you are amazing my daughter – great to hear how you are making waves. Can’t wait to hear what happens next.

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