J was a dedicated performer with remarkable skills. His physique was lean and elongated, and his movements had an artistic flair that gave him an air of sophistication, reminiscent of a French artist (despite his Kansas roots). He had trained under the renowned Ann Bogart, mastered the Suzuki method, and held a Master’s degree in acting. However, when it came to storytelling, it wasn’t his emotional depth he drew from; it was his physicality that made him a prime candidate for the circus. He took his craft—and himself—very seriously, often broadcasting his opinions with such intensity that they drowned out others, redirecting all attention back to him.
In the circus contract, I held the title of Official Partner, or OP, which simply meant I was J’s girlfriend. OPs had the freedom to do as they pleased. We would be touring six cities—Amsterdam, Barcelona, Vienna, Brussels, Madrid, and London—spending up to eight weeks in each location, with a week off in between to explore as we wished.
Amsterdam
For the initial six weeks, my base was room 518 at the Renaissance Amsterdam Hotel, situated at Kattengat 1 in the Netherlands. J had already been there for a month, and to ease my transition, he promised to set up the Internet and get me a phone card. Unfortunately, he did neither. Jet-lagged and premenstrual, I found myself in tears, and we exchanged worried glances, silently wondering if we were doomed.
The bed was cleverly disguised as a double but was really just two twin mattresses hidden under a dusty bedspread. I napped anyway, and when I awoke, J had left for rehearsal. Feeling somewhat refreshed, I decided to tackle the Dutch transportation system and make my way to the circus tent (known as Le Grand Chapiteau).
Upon arrival at the striking yellow and blue tents, I was wholly unprepared to see J dressed in black and red tights pulled high above his waist, strapped in suspenders, adorned with arm-length gloves, a long black cape, and a red and black jester’s hat. He was frantically searching for a powder puff and makeup remover to fix a mishap with his eyeliner. I struggled to remember anyone’s names, let alone pronounce them, but I did recall two performers with bloodshot eyes—J explained that it was a common occurrence for those who performed on the Chinese Poles, attributed to the speed of spinning. Suddenly, my worries shifted from bloody eyes to concerns about velocity and spinning. At least I now knew which acts involved Chinese Poles.
The family performing as The Adagio Trio was far too serious for my liking. Rumor had it that M, their five-year-old, was conceived to replace D, who was thirteen and too large for the role. I immediately liked C, who resembled a French New Wave movie star straight out of a Godard film. While he was a professional wire walker in regular life, a Russian performer took on that role at the circus, leaving C to play The Child.
After an hour, I left the tent. When J returned from rehearsal and leaned in for a kiss, I noticed remnants of white face makeup clinging to his skin. All desire for him evaporated.
We were invited to a gathering in E and M’s room, filled with acrobats dancing to trance music, drinking, and smoking hash. The Hand-to-Hand duo were awful dancers, the wire walker was a heavy drinker, and O, the Russian trapeze artist, performed back handsprings in a cramped space. Everyone wore metallic, glitzy outfits, resembling toned-down versions of their costumes.
Initially, I felt like I was at a frat party until I realized I was indeed at one. These performers were not the creative artists I had envisioned; they were more like jocks, favoring German techno and multi-level clubs, preferring the Hard Rock Café to anything more unique. Surprisingly, I found myself liking them, though they were nothing like I had expected.
After too many nights spent wedged between the two twin mattresses, J, E, M, and I devised a brilliant plan. First, we indulged in Moroccan hash. Then, we snuck into an empty suite that had a proper double mattress and attempted to remove it from the box spring. We sprinted down the hallway and into the stairwell, but for reasons unknown, we decided to temporarily leave the mattress there. Back in our room, we grabbed the twin mattresses and rushed into the stairwell. However, E heard footsteps approaching, so we abandoned our mattresses and took the elevator to E and M’s room for a glass of wine. J and I eventually retrieved one of the twin mattresses and brought it back to our room, waiting for E and M to deliver the other one, but they never arrived. We searched for them and found them in the empty suite with the other twin mattress, after which J and I realized we were too stoned to pull off the switch.
Living in Europe six months after 9/11, I found that everyone wanted to discuss the tragedy with me. Their approach was oddly starstruck. The fact that J and I had been in New York when it happened made us seem like bizarre celebrities of misfortune—a response that felt equally disconcerting as a woman recoiling upon discovering I was Jewish. It was baffling how my appearance did not give it away, but perhaps it was a testament to how few Jews she had encountered.
We took a week-long trip to Menorca and then moved on to six weeks in Barcelona.
Barcelona
With ten shows a week, I rarely saw J, and my time in Amsterdam had become quite lonely. However, after our week in Menorca (which I deemed the best place on Earth), we arrived in Barcelona, a city of unique architecture and vibrant culture, and I quickly found my rhythm. I developed a love for Antoni Tàpies and Cinzano (white). This city felt like home.
I learned that small discoveries could lead to great victories. Our chair unfolded into a couch! The coffee maker doubled as a stove! Rearranging the furniture worked wonders. Six weeks is a long time to spend in a conference hotel, but I busied myself turning our space into a cozy home. Here’s what I did: drape scarves over tables; cut brown construction paper to cover the unattractive artwork; replace the floral bedspread with something lighter and more appealing; buy a Paul Klee calendar and display the pages; and most importantly, swipe flowers from room service trays until I had a lovely bouquet. Simple but effective.
Friends Matt and Jeni came to visit, and we drank so much that after Matt vomited, I ended up sympathy-vomiting all over my Steve Madden sandals, which I ultimately left at the Badal subway station as we walked back to the hotel barefoot.
Circus politics revolved around who missed jumps or who injured whom during performances. Someone kept untying J’s left shoe during the third act, infuriating him as he sought the culprit, which I already knew was M—who was five and a more skilled contortionist than his parents.
J seemed distant and emotionally unstable; I never knew whom I would wake up next to, and it was unsettling. I adored Europe and wanted to remain there for the year, but my feelings for J were clouded.
Other updates: I sold my first book and purchased my first cell phone. I was taking trampoline lessons with L (an acrobat), began making short films with C, and J even appointed me his fashion advisor. We taught our European friends faux American slang, claiming they were real expressions. For instance, C would greet us with “Dude, where’s my car?” and exclaim, “King Kong these are good!” when he tasted something delicious. I met David Sedaris, binge-watched the first five episodes of “American Survivor,” and, most importantly, learned how to discreetly replace two twin mattresses with one full mattress without being caught.
After a vacation in Croatia, we set up tents in Vienna.
Vienna
After two enjoyable months in Barcelona, it was time to transition to Vienna. J and I took a two-week break in Portugal, where we indulged in inexpensive port, explored vast marble mines, and witnessed a bullfight. I became a vegetarian—again.
Upon checking into our Vienna hotel on the 6th, we woke up the next day and spontaneously decided to visit Prague until dress rehearsal began. We spent two delightful days there, even pretending to adopt a 12-year-old Czech boy named Adam. During my shopping spree, I bought a stunning ring for five dollars, only to later discover I had mistakenly paid over a hundred dollars for it, thinking I was using Kronas instead of Euros. After fruitless searching for the jeweler, I resolved to consider myself a proud supporter of a struggling Czech artisan.
In five months, I had read 24 books. I was beginning to question whether J possessed any emotional depth; he seemed all intellect with no heart. I wasn’t sure if our relationship would last, but I yearned to stay on tour.
Returning to Vienna, I attempted to buy a carrot peeler, only to find it cost $17. The city was filled with the scents of horse manure and Freud, and everything felt overpriced. I found myself spending more time backstage, especially with C, as J and C had grown apart. I sensed C shared my concerns about J’s emotional detachment. Eventually, I established a calming routine backstage. After dinner, performers donned their costumes, and just before showtime, they would inhale a quick cigarette, engage in chess matches, flip through magazines, or watch a clown practice trapeze tricks. Everyone timed their activities to the applause and music, rushing onstage while returning to their previous activities.
Brussels
After two days in Brussels, I found myself surprisingly fond of the city. Contrary to what others had said about boredom, there was so much happening, from music festivals to flea markets and unique thrift shops. Our hotel was in the African district, where the locals felt like my people.
J and I took a trip to Antwerp and loved it, spending the day exploring record stores and toy shops. Our big mistake was attending “Puppetry of the Penis” in Ghent—so bad it was beyond words.
I discovered that pharmacists prescribed medication here! Also, the street-side snails were absolutely delicious. Brussels was a hub of live music, and I found myself spending less time in the circus tents and more time exploring the city. The Gare du Midi flea market became a daily destination.
It seemed I wasn’t alone in my ambivalence toward J; C mentioned that many thought J was pretentious, which oddly comforted me because I had felt the same. Additionally, he mentioned that P might not renew J’s contract for the following year, making J the subject of circus gossip.
With so many French-speaking individuals on tour, I found myself adding “C’est ça,” “Mais oui,” or simply “Bon” to the end of most sentences. This did little to alleviate the scrutiny I faced as an American. We were met with palpable disdain, as even the way I ate, drank, spoke, and dressed seemed to be under a microscope, all tracing back to my American identity.
In summary, joining the circus was not just about the performances; it was an eye-opening journey that intertwined my personal growth with the vibrant tapestry of life on tour. From the challenges of relationships to cultural encounters, each city brought new lessons and experiences, making this adventure unforgettable.
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Keyphrase: circus life experiences
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