Jarkko Lehmus Diary

Red Tape Diaries

Toothbrush? Check. Wallet? Check. Money among the rubbers? Check. Passport? Check. Let's roll! A short cab ride to the airport, stroll to the check in minding my own business, answer the bordering-on-ridiculous security questions, give my passport to get checked, get told that I can't enter the great US of A. A promising start for a holiday. A few politely furious words and a phone call to the immigration officials at Newark International later I walk through the express check in, greet the security guard who left me waiting in the line for half an hour only to come back to tell me that I couldn't possibly travel with my passport, and make my way to the gate.

So what was that all about? Since 26th of October 2004 the US officials haven't let people in the country without an MRP, a machine-readable passport. Did I know that? No, and I have a strong feeling that I'm not the only one: I was warned to get ready for a four to five hour wait in the immigration on the other side of the pond. Apparently citizens of the countries that are part of the visa waiver program, the VWP, (mostly EU- and Commonwealth countries) are pardoned once and permitted to travel, but they (us... I) need to go through the immigration checks and talk all sorts of rubbish with bored looking officials and, as a cherry on top, get extra security checks in both ends. Oh joy.

Because of putting my national service off for a few years to pursue a career in the wonderful art of dance I was only given passports for a year at a time until I'd done my time for my country. Last summer I was supposed to finally get a ten year passport, but I managed to forget my military passport home in Glasgow; I couldn't prove that I'd served my country so I was given another one year passport. These temporary passports are very suspisious looking, non-laminated, non-machine-readable and sometimes even hand written affairs and at about £40 a pop not exactly cheap either. I think it's time to get a proper passport... and then get stopped next year for not having biometrics on it! What do you want from me? Blood?

After the initial hassle of getting on the plane everything started to run a bit smoother: the wait in the US end was only 15 minutes and my friend Kevin, who was supposed to have been working, was free to pick me up from Penn Station. I was finally in New York! I had a half a mind to drag my tired body to my friend's place and crash, but Kevin had other plans: luggage still in tow he whisked me to Time's Square and then promptly to the Fashion Week tent in Bryant Park on 6th and 42nd to a 'b michael'-show. Guest list, show, free bar. There's nothing like a bit of bubbly in good company to get rid of a post-flight dehydration. So the week was kicked of in style and there was no going back. The Fashion Week, Black History Month, the Chinese New Year, Ossie Davis' funeral, the Metropolitan and Schonberg Museums, Cristo and Jeanne-Claude's 'The Gates'-installation in the Central Park and Kevin's endless list of contacts made sure I never ran out of things, or people, to see or do.

Nice digs, Mr Washington. I stayed next door. Photo by me©

A week, plenty of shoe leather and a lot of money later it was time to say sad farewells and head for home. Despite all the red tape, smog and the disposable nature of the American culture I feel that I've left a part of me somewhere between Harlem and Brooklyn. I guess I have to go back sooner than later to look for it. Love, respect and blessings Kevin, my brother.

Me and my boy Kevin at The Gates. Photo by some stranger. ©

Another Day, Another Dollar

Dame Mouserink and her son have bitten dust and Marie has got her Prince; Herr Drosselmeyer has done his job for the last time for a few years. Another tour of duty is over and tearful eyes and illegitimate children in far-away ports have been left behind; only the memories of sweet perfume and silk lingerie lingers.

'The Nutcracker: Re-visited' was a great success, even greater than the first time around: auditoriums brimming with smiling faces enjoying themselves and us dancers swooping around the stage like there was no tommorrow. Like any 'Director's Cut' or 'Special Edition' this slightly-tweaked-to-keep-it-interesting -version offered more of everything we hold dear, namely sex, lies, violence, magic and romance.

Unfortunately the end of the run also means that a lot of the weird and wonderful visiting artists and old stalwarts are leaving for greener pastures: hubert Essakow is off to join Rambert; Justin Meissner is just, er, off; Little Laura Beth Bailey is heading back to Stoke; Florence Baz is on the open market as well and long serving Andy Ross is hanging up his tights and concentrating in photography. The audition process is in full swing and there are no less than 14 contracts up for grabs. That'll be another big upheaval of the company then. Plenty of fresh faces to be initiated... I'll do my best to keep you up to date of the various comings, goings and going ons. On a brighter note: Paul Liburd was awarded the gong of the best male comtemporary dancer by Critics' Circle. My boy's a bit good at what he does.

The next season is waiting eagerly in the wings already. For me the main event is creating a new piece by Ashley and reviving his '32 Cryptograms'. We'd better be on it for Robert Moran, the composer of the 32's score, is flying over from the US of A to check out the company and scribble some unintelligible notes for the programme. Other pieces pieces on the schedule are Balanchine's 'Four Temperaments', which I'm still not pretty enough to do, and Ashton's 'Facade', of which I know next to nothing about. I plead "guilty" for all the charges of ignorance hurled at me.

We flew back from Belfast this morning and I'm off to New York tomorrow to spend the holiday week, and my hard-earned, in style stomping the streets of Harlem. I've never been to the States before so am looking forward to it. I've also been busy booking my summer holiday in Thailand. Flights and hotels have been pretty cheap for some reason... I'll be spending most of my time in Chiang Mai, Thailand's second-largest city, learning the finer points of thai-massage and -boxing with a little cultural excursion to Bangkok thrown in for good measure. It's a hard life, but somebody's got to live it, eh? My excuse is that I spent so much of my early career as a gun-for-hire, or a loose cannon if you wish, so if I wasn't working I wasn't eating. This world of paid holidays still feels a bit alien to me, but I'm not complaining. When the iron is hot I intend to pound it with all my might and travel as much as possible to open up my little mind.