Born again

I was born again yesterday -- by accident: I shimmied into a 19th century irrigation tower and discovered some strategically placed “artwork” within.

I photographed Frenchman’s Tower on Friday for a Town Crier article about an effort to update an outdated list of historic Los Altos Hills sites. The list, for example, lays claim to this stately tower, but it’s actually located in Palo Alto along Old Page Mill Road.

Circa 1875, a French refugee named Peter Coutts constructed his two-story brick tower to serve as water storage for cattle. There’s no door, and the gothic windows have long been bricked over, presumably to keep vandals out. The only way inside is by squirming through a tiny hole a particularly obstinate vandal busted into the backside, and doing so requires first lowering onto one’s hands and knees and then “diving in” head first or blindly backing in legs first. I chose the latter.

Looking up inside the tower

The tower’s roof, if there had ever been one, is missing and only rafters remained, so the inside is surprisingly light and airy. While visitors have scratched their initials and names into every brick within reach on the outside, those that ventured inside proved even bolder when obscured from view, and they have graced the interior bricks with spray-painted scrawls of names (“Peasey?”), dates, and yes, depictions of the miracle of life. Broken glass and trash litter the floor. Something unseen smells suspiciously like excrement.

I’ve always been attracted to romantic hideaways. As a kid, I accosted many an unfamiliar wardrobe in the hopes of discovering a portal into a fantasy world of fauns and talking beavers. And 12-year-old me once prided herself on transforming a neighbor’s firewood lean-to into a royal court for King Henry, Queen Jessie, Princess Violet and Prince Benny, titles and names my sister and our friends christened ourselves with. So it was with some satisfaction that I surveyed the interior of Frenchman’s Tower, my personal fortress for the 20 minutes it took me to photograph the sad, spray-painted bricks and stark shadows cast from the sun-lit rafters. Finally, I surrendered my imaginary crown and crawled back out (or in?) to await the bicyclist or casual hiker who would lend some element of action to my exterior shots.

Within 10 minutes, a minivan pulled up and parked beside the tower. A father-like figure and two teen girls alighted. I squeezed my shutter as they rounded my fortress and disappeared from sight, presumably to be born again too.

Additional Reading:

• "The legend of Frenchman's Tower," Union-Democrat newspaper, Sept. 13, 1951
• Frenchman's Tower Wikipedia page
• Los Altos Hills General Plan, Appendix A: Inventory of Historic Sites and Structures

"American Beauty," revisited

I’d like to issue a journalistic retraction 17 years after the offending publication: No, “American Beauty” is not “garbage-worthy,” as 16-year-old Me so boldly proclaimed in the Feb. 11, 2000, edition of “The Sting.”

Adult Me re-watched 2000’s Best Picture winner Friday night, the first time since viewing it in the theater. And I laughed. I marveled at the performances, particularly those of Kevin Spacey and Annette Bening as they each inched hilariously closer to insanity. Yep, 34-year-old Sam Mendes deserved that Best Director Oscar, and his film earned its Best Picture award. But I don’t need to remind you how good this movie is. I think the rest of the world knows.

Through the space-time continuum vortex, however, my 16-year-old self read my new assessment with gritted teeth. She, apparently, was not a fan of the film and wrote a scathing review entitled “American Beauty exposes the ‘ugly American'” for Roswell High School’s newspaper (Note: this was the same edition of “The Sting” that praised Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman for their “strong, loving relationship” and suggested teen singles spend Valentine’s Day belting out “I Will Survive” at karaoke bars.).

“Trash. That’s a good word to describe it,” 16-year-old Me wrote in the review. (I imagine myself spitting as I read this). “What a shame that you can have a great cast in a movie, add a little pornography, some profanity, leave out the morality, and be left with a two-hour film that you wasted $7.50 of your own good money on.”

Ha! Just $7.50 for a movie ticket? Can you believe it? What’s even more amusing is that chump change wasn’t even my own “good money” because my dad took me to see the film.

And there, perhaps, is the root of my myopic disdain: Can you imagine being a teenage girl watching a father do all the things Lester Burnham does and fantasizes about while sitting beside your own father? It was uncomfortable.

“If you decide to go anyway, remember to leave your dad at home,” went my smart-ass punchline. “I should know.”

I don’t remember what my dad said about the film at the time, but I have a feeling he appreciated the story but wished he had read the synopsis before selecting his movie date.

Curious, I texted him today to find out.

“Do you remember taking me to the theater to see ‘American Beauty’ when I was 16?”

“Yes with the rose petals mom would have hated that movie,” he replied.

“Do you remember if you liked it?”

“I liked it because it was something we did together but no it was very creepy.”

He couldn’t hear me but I was laughing from 3,000 miles away.

“You should rewatch it -- with mom. I think you might enjoy it this time. I rewatched it on Friday, and I think I appreciate it now.”

Adult Me rewatched "American Beauty" on Amazon Prime with Matt, who has been a fan since the film’s release.

“That’s probably one of the worst judgments I’ve ever made about a movie -- especially one that won best picture,” I confessed afterward.

“Wait,” Matt said. “What about ‘Shakespeare in Love?’”

I guess this means he’s still angry about that little gem winning Best Picture over “Saving Private Ryan.” He watched the former with his dad, in the theater, when it first premiered in 1998. Is it on Prime? Perhaps he should revisit it.

My shot -- at 'Hamilton'

An audience member sobbed during my viewing of “Hamilton.”

 Although these were sobs spent during a death scene, they cut through the otherwise silent theater with an absurdity that made the rest of us laugh. What a wacko. Get a grip, lady.

I realize now the woman was likely lamenting the price of her ticket; I’ve seen “Hamilton” orchestra seats commanding four figures on resale websites. I’ve noted price gauging amongst neighbors on Nextdoor.

I said as much to my husband while we were stuck in traffic en route to the San Francisco show last week.

“We could have sold them and had dinner at the French Laundry!” Matt said.

Brag backfired.

I’m proud to say I spent just $100 each for our two balcony seats, but it took some maneuvering and goodwill from a kind co-worker. Months before the online box office opened, three of us in the office agreed to stage a concerted assault on the website the second tickets became available; whoever made it into the website’s inner sanctum would purchase six tickets – the limit – and resell them at face value to the other two. I was No. 77,654 in line, but Traci made good on her word. When Eliza managed to secure her own set of six, Traci sold a second pair at cost to my friend, someone she didn’t even know.

I can’t say if “Hamilton” at San Francisco’s Orpheum Theatre is worth four-figures, but a balcony view of Lin-Manuel Miranda's cultural phenomenon is certainly worth $100. Even Matt was singing “You’ll Be Back” for days afterward; we both agreed Rory O’Malley’s King George commanded the most (and well-deserved) laughs, followed by Jordan Donica’s head-jiggling Thomas Jefferson.

If you go, be prepared for snappy choreography, thought-provoking casting (Those slave-owning Founding Fathers! They’re portrayed by black men! Those breakdancing soldiers! They’re female!) and thunderous applause punctuating the conclusion of each scene. There’s sure to be subtle illusions to America’s current political climate (the line, “Immigrants, we get the job done!” garnered perhaps the loudest applause of the night) and you’ll marvel at the strength of Emmy Raver-Lampman’s Angelica Schuyler and hairdo. Undoubtedly, most of your fellow audience members will sing along with the cast, including middle-aged mothers serenading teenage sons during intermission. I confess to assaulting Matt with a few enthusiastic whispered lines from “My Shot” (“I’m not throwing away my shot!”) during that early scene.

“All these theater nerds, they’ve been listening to the soundtrack on repeat for months,” I sniped during intermission.

“Well, you obviously were too.”

Guilty.