Almost Famous

There’s a little cafe near my house. Stepping into it is like entering a steam room of cigarette smoke, but I visit pretty frequently because of the wifi, and the fact that it’s open until 2ish. Sometimes even later, if the owner and his pals are really into their game of Okey or cards.
I see the occasional woman or young person in there, but it’s basically a place for harmless middle-aged and older men to shoot the breeze and drink tea. (Sometimes beer or rakı.)
To keep them out of my business, I told them I was a Spanish tutor and fitness instructor, both of which are true.
However, it’s getting harder to explain away the false eyelashes on gig nights, and apparently, one of the customers snitched and told the owner he thinks he saw me on TV.
Now that I’m famous, is it okay to start making diva demands? Fresh flowers in my dressing room every night! And banish the singer with the nervous habit of spraying stinky perfume all over her body, clothes, and hair every six minutes. Or I walk!

How I Almost Missed Showtime

In Turkey, I work with a few different talent managers. One evening, one of them called me to find out if I was free for a gig the following Friday at 11:00.

While I do speak Turkish, as most people who speak a foreign language will agree, talking on the phone in a foreign language can still be a challenge. Not to mention, this phone conversation took place while I was backstage at Cirque du Soleil. Needless to say, it was hectic and noisy back there. It is, after all, a circus.

Still, I think I understood about 80% of what the manager explained: that at 11:00 on Friday, I would be picked up from Mecidiyeköy by servis (shuttle bus) for a television appearance. I was to arrive no later than 11:30, but preferably by 11:00, just in case. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything–hair and makeup would be taken care of at the TV station, and payment would be transferred into my account within two weeks. Despite any communication difficulties, one thing was clear: This was a very important gig, and if I were late, the client would be furious.

I did, however, misunderstand one vital detail. I found this out the day of the gig when, while easing my way out of bed, the phone rang. It was the manager.

“Lara, is everything okay? Are you running late?”

“No, I’m fine. . . . What do you mean. . . ?”

Then it dawned on me–THIS WAS A DAYTIME GIG!

I was out of the house and in a taxi–albeit with my hair still in matted mess of frizzy tumbleweeds–in 5 minutes, and I made it to the meeting place just before 11:30. . . AM.

Below is my performance from that day.