The Pastie Chronicles

My 2014 International Burlesque Tour

What I like to call, “The Best Worst decision of my Life”

(originally made in July 2014)

I’m in the airport on a 6-hour layover, so I thought I’d make the best of it by updating my blog. Something I haven’t done in months. I am currently processing through the many emotions of the past 8 weeks abroad; also something I haven’t done in months. Jet-setting around Europe on a premier Burlesque tour doesn’t really allow you the time to be emotional- it actually gives you a weird emotion-less tunnel vision; some people call this repression. Those people have never been a dancer/performer on an International Burlesque tour that visited 5 countries in 4 weeks. So they can suck it. Keep reading for more of an awesome misadventure told in retrospect… still here, okay.

I’ve been shuffling around so much that I kind of turned on this *healthy repression to deal with the daily struggle of massive European culture clash, being misunderstood/misunderstanding everyone I interact with, and not knowing where hell I am/going. Basically, I have spent the last 2 months being a big hot mess and I have just barely found the time to adequately process all the good, bad, and just plain shitty things that came to pass this summer- mainly to keep from exploding. Sitting around and settling back into familiarity, now I feel flooded with these crazy/amazing/terrifying emotions. So a girl’s got to compensate. I’ll start my catharsis by giving a brief overview.

Pre-Tour: The past 2 months have been an absolute blur. I graduated with my BA in French in May after a semester full of change. 3 days after the graduation ceremony (and 2 days after a terrible experience with every top-shelf liquor ending up inside of me, then inside of my bathroom sink), I left for Europe on a Burlesque tour that I had been planning with two other Texan performers for the past 5 months. Without even a full week to bask in the afterglow of post-grad status (partying like no other and having no responsibility), I jumped headfirst into this experience. And landed on my ass. I know it seems so glamorous. Like ‘the opportunity of a lifetime’, right? Well, it was. Let me remind you, a lifetime is happy, joyous, and awe-inspiring. But it is also tiring, frustrating, and unfair at times.

The Highs: Our first stop was Basel, Switzerland where we were warmly welcomed by a lovely couple of ex-pat American producers who treated us like motherloving royalty. We had our own atelier (fabulous studio apartment) that belonged to the show’s club owner for 5 days and explored the Rhine and several small sights there. The show was great, as it was the full production for our rootin’ tootin’ western-themed tour.

"The Wild West Undressed" Burlesque show in Basel, Switzerland

Performers: L-R, Frostine Shake, Elle Du Jour, Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx

Photo: Steve Vonlanthen Photography

Performer: Elle Du Jour (Me)

Photo: Thierry Burden

Performers: Elle Du Jour & Frostine Shake

Photo: Thierry Burden

Posing with some fans after the show

Cast-members: Elle Du Jour (me, far left) , Havana Hurricane, Frostine Shake, O De Mon Cherie, and Tracy Gender

Photo: Thierry Burden

What our gracious producer, Auntie Sam, had for the Texas gals.

Backstage prep for the performers.

Photo: Thierry Burden

Headliners: Frostine Shake, Elle Du Jour ( Me) , Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx

Fun backstage with our fabulous cast & producer, Auntie Sam

Instagram: the_elledujour

Our next stop was London, where we had a much less glamorous, but still very much appreciated free stay with a friend of one performer. We had the most time here, and also the most performances- everyone had solos in different portions of the 15-day London festival. Some of the best and worst parts of the getaway took place in London.
London was awesome because I snagged a spot in a great festival featuring some of the most breath-taking burlesque & variety acts I have ever seen. The producers of LBF were extremely approachable and some of the most down to earth people I've met in this business- very hard to find. It was also the only place I had enough time to truly sight-see and bond with our host and the girls. We did a guerilla burlesque photo shoot on the streets of London. I saw a fabulous and inspiring one-woman cabaret. I also got to explore London a bit with a resident ex-pat- seeing all of the touristy things without spending the money. However, exchange rates are a bitch. London turned out to be the most expensive portion of our trip thanks to the US dollar being worth about half a British pound as well as traveling expenses to other tour destinations. But hey, at least I stayed long enough to iron out the kinks in my British accent, Eh? Damn- that’s Canadian. I’ll get it right one day.

Elle Du Jour ( Me) performing at the 2014 International London Burlesque Festival

Photo: ISO400PHOTO

The girls and I having a ball backstage at Madame Jojo's after LBF 2014.

(Me) Elle Du Jour, Honey Cocoa Bordeauxx, and Frostine Shake

The lows: Our next stop was for two to Berlin, Germany. We started the trip off on the wrong foot by arriving late for our 2-hour shuttle to the airport- in god only knows where south of London. Why none of the airports in London are actually IN London, I still can’t figure out. We decided to check our itinerary while on the shuttle to BFE. And behold! Not only would we miss our boarding time for the flight because of a time mix-up (damn military time!), but we would miss our flight entirely. Because we were on a shuttle going to a completely different airport. Fuck.

After 2 hours of hell- calling, messaging, paying a pretty pound- we got another departing flight later that day. Whew. We arrived in Berlin later than expected and were pleasantly surprised by the artist bungalow that we would be staying in with the producer of my friend/fellow performer’s show. I would not be in this show, as I had a different competition to do in Berlin that week.

In a nutshell, my time there was shit. We had no time to explore the city and I honestly didn’t even want to try with such a huge language barrier. ‘They’ say that most Germans speak very good English. Whoever ‘they’ is can shove it right up their expectant little twats (there’s that raunchy British slang I learned!). In my experience, Germans had no time for our English non-sense. They are worse than the French in that aspect. THERE, I said it! No take-backs! We couldn’t coax them into simple conversation with our usual tourist charm because, well, we couldn’t SAY anything. This discomfort was unbearable and honestly I just didn’t get a great vibe from the city of Berlin. I would've been happy to re-visit in order to change this opinion, but what happened next made me re-think my next visit.

This bad vibe turned into complete distaste when I attended the show of my friend in Berlin. It was a freaking fabulous show- nicely staged and coordinated flawlessly. The performers where fantastic and the producer couldn't have been nicer. However, the audience was a mess. The venue was about 100+ people over capacity and ALL of them were smoking. Not most- ALL. Not good for my asthma at all. Oh, and did I mention that most of them were in Blackface? Yes. I was stranded in Germany, alone, in an audience full of Aryan descendants painted in minstrel Blackface and wearing tribal-wear to participate in the night’s “Savage Jungle” theme. I was stunned at all the cultural appropriation I saw; teeth through noses, people imitating monkeys, blond white girls wearing cornrows with black painted skin- not brown, BLACK. And not to mention there was one guy who braved to wear a simple brown-man suit. No accessories- just the suit. To say my black ass was uncomfortable would be the understatement of the century. It was like seeing Julian Hough’s brain farts of a ‘maybe’ outfit before she decided on that fateful ‘crazy eyes’ get-up… amplified by 10 million because I was the only person of color- excuse me, REAL color- in the bar. I digress.

I made the mistake of thinking a drink would calm my mounting nerves. I had half of one drink on an empty stomach and got completely annihilated by wooziness because of the thick air in the venue. I had to leave what was the only perk of my trip - a fabulous show with nothing but talented performers- early in order to keep from vomiting, or punching the next rude German who nudged me without apology right in their black-painted nose. I don’t know what happened to me exactly that night, but I woke up with a black tongue. Yes, I said a Black Tongue. My tongue was covered in a black furry film that I had to scrape off with my toothbrush. I felt like a biblical plague had descended upon me for having such a terrible (but completely entitled) attitude. I Web MD’d it, and it was only an infection due to smoke exposure. How reassuring.

The Lower Lows: My distaste for Berlin was pushed to the limit when I had to do my own show- a ‘competition’ ( Pah!) , which was a complete and total disaster. Unprofessional people were running rampant for a production that was uncontrolled, disorganized, and just plain terrible. Sorry, not sorry-bitches. To point out some of the worst parts, we had no backstage area for 21 performers, not so much as a spare bag of nuts for the 10 hours we were there, and an audience that left halfway through the 4 & a half hour fiasco to catch their trains home. If the lack of amenities weren’t enough, the talent level was a sham. I only know this because the producer TOLD me backstage that “ Over half of the performers [were] amateurs” with a laugh. That, and I saw a rhythm-less Russian girl lip-sync to “Burlesque” by Christina Aguilera. The entire song. At a burlesque competition. All while not taking anything off. The misconception that that movie still produces about our work is astounding. It gets worse.

The venue owner/resident dealer offered me cocaine after my performance (which, call me green, but I had never seen before). He was cutting it with a razor blade on a credit card, which showed my naïve ass that all the movies are indeed true. Considering that I had just gotten buck-ass naked and was now alone with this man and the bar tender in a large coat closet (our changing area) trying to hustle back into my skivvies, I tried the most non-confrontational approach.
“Yuwannago?” He slurred. His dopey eyes were bloodshot as he opened the large cabinet the 2 were concealing to reveal stacks of this business.* WARNING: This type of thing DOES NOT HAPPEN at burlesque shows. At least not EVER at the shows I participate in. But this is Europe, people. C’mon.
I kindly refused the man's offer with a “No, thank you.” and scurried passed him through the door the 2 men were blocking. My parents would applaud this moment for so many reasons. Last- but not least- on my way out of this hell, a drunk male producer tried to stick his tongue down my throat as a German goodbye. Berlin was so good to me.

On top of all this, it was the only stop where I wouldn’t be paid. After all that bullshit I went through, this just added salt to the wound (more like amputation by now). Let me add that I was completely alone because the other performer had to leave the country early for another show. After getting back to my overpriced hotel room at 4AM (because the production ended at 3:30AM- why???), I didn’t even bother sleeping to avoid missing my train to Amsterdam at 8AM. I got on the train in tears. I was starving, energy-depleted, emotionally scarred from the behavior I saw from people who were supposed to take care of their performers, and I just wanted to go the fuck home. At that point I would’ve given my left ovary to be at home. In my bed. In podunk Denton, Texas. With NOTHING to do. But I had one more stop- Amsterdam.

Me performing in the one & only Amsterdam, Netherlands!

Elle Du Jour

Photo: (C) Shoikan

Photo: Erik Knevelbaard, Burlypics.com

The lowest: Amsterdam was fabulous. It’s a beautiful city with kitschy charm and everyone speaks perfect English. JACKPOT!!!!!! The club we performed in had a great space, ample dressing area, FOOD, and fantastic performers/staff. To top it all off, we had a packed house with a kick-ass positive crowd. I felt invigorated after such a horrible experience in Germany the night before. It was just the pick-me-up I needed before the girls went home to Texas and I went to France to vacation for another month. And then it was ruined.

Outside of the club where we had just performed, 4 very sketchy Dutch men started hitting on us. Being hit on is enough of a drag without it being 4:20AM in Amsterdam running on 4 hours of sleep sprinkled between 3 days. I just knew something was about to go down, so my *rapey- senses told me to stay vigilant.

* I’m trademarking this.

We did our best not to engage their come-ons and incessant questions, but then they started invading our personal space. One started touching the hem on my friend’s dress and another began petting a performer’s hair. The boldest got nose to nose with me. Literally. I draw the line when anyone puts their hands on me or a friend. As soon as I saw the same drunken d-bag push my friend’s forehead, my black girl AWW-HELLLLLL-NAH-o-meter went OFF.

I'd been clutching the pepper spray that I ‘smuggled’ into my carry-on the entire time, hesitating to use it, but this was just too much. I whipped it out and what did they all do? They all laughed at me! Those fuckers! As if I had pulled out a water gun. I shouted that I had pepper spray and that I was going to use it if they kept at it- which they did. The bold one leaned over my hand and said, “Okay, okay… If you’re going to use it, spray me…right here… in my eye (pulling his lower eyelid open and towards the nozzle). C’mon. Do it!” So I did it.

I guess he was shocked because as soon as it hit his smug little face, I watched his eyes go from dazed to fury. I’ve never been more scared in entire my life. He screamed “BITCH!!! ….KJSHAKJH ADKJHDS DOSAJS SCHK!! (Inaudible Ducth cursing- sorry Netherlands). He tried to shake it off.

He then slapped me with his right hand and choked me with his left. This was the most hurt I have ever felt. It hurt in so many different ways other than physical.
I was hurt by how quickly his mood changed; how a man can approach a woman in such a way and react with physical violence when she doesn’t consent to his bidding. Is this fucking 1746?

I was hurt that this man- who would’ve gladly pursued me 5 minutes prior- put his hands on me with intent to harm. I was hurt that society thinks that ‘getting hit on’ is a compliment. I was hurt that we keep breeding this cyclical culture of males who completely overstep their bounds without even knowing our names by brushing off these situations. I was hurt that this is acceptable and that it’s often ‘the girl’s/woman’s fault’ for provoking the male by 'looking' a certain way.

I was hurt the most because NO ONE around was helping us! European passivity takes the cake, man. On-lookers (mainly other MEN) just stood there and watched the brawl. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!?!

Confusion, anger, disgust, and contemplating asexuality all flashed through my head in a second. But mainly, I was terrified. I was reeling with these things as his friends pulled the man off of me. The hoard backed up but didn’t back off. The largest of the men waved his hand in our faces to thwart us away and continued to call me a bitch. Saying, ”Bitch, if you spray me with that. I’ll punch you in the face”. Again, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!?!

So I sprayed him.

He did nothing.

We gathered ourselves enough to run inside and stayed put until the police came. One male officer and one female officer, both stern and tired-looking, approached us minutes later. The female officer asked, “Who had the pepper spray?” I raised my hand like a proud schoolgirl and said, “That was me, I had the pepper spray”. It was downhill from there.

After taking my information and asking for my side of the story, I calmly explained the facts. The men approached us. We did nothing to provoke them. We did not engage until it was necessary to protect ourselves. I was not ashamed of what I did and presented myself as such. The male officer explained in a staunch by-the-book tone, “ While what you say may be true, pepper spray is an illegal weapon here (in the Netherlands) and it is charged on the same level as carrying a gun.”

What? Wait- I’m sorry. I come from a state where you can shoot someone for trespassing. So I was almost disturbed to find that is it illegal to carry pepper spray and use it in self-defense in a country where you can legally sell/buy WEED (until 1am). Thrice, I say, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?!?!

The male officer then said that ‘normally’ they’d have to put me in jail. He barked at me without a shred of sympathy, “Find a solution.”

I nearly pissed myself.

What solution did I have? To lie about the factual story I just told? Or simply go to jail in Amsterdam as an American tourist for what’s weighted as a misdemeanor crime? I’ve seen “Brokedown Palace”. I am not cut out for that shit!

What exactly were they going to put me in jail for? Ahh, yes. Defending myself and others against an oncoming sexual assault. I was livid.

As the police contemplated the options amongst themselves in Dutch, all I could do was stand there and imagine what could’ve happened if I hadn’t had the pepper spray in the first place. The thought made me start to tremble and cry. I think this made the police pity me. They let me go under the condition that they confiscate the alleged ‘weapon’ and we all leave the next day. Deal. Excuse me while I pack an extra toothbrush to carve into a shank next time I actually have to defend myself abroad. Thanks 'officers of the law'.

We exited the club and loaded safely into the cab, only after being slurred at by the same gang of unrestrained abusers on our walk out. On the cab ride home, I cracked the silence of ‘What the fuck just happened?’ by breaking down and crying my eyes out. I wasn’t just crying for me, but for everything that led up to that experience. I cried as I thought about all the women who’ve taken or continue to take this abuse and all of those with worse stories to tell. We all linked hands in the backseat and the girls reassured me that I reacted correctly. It was empowering and terrifying, but mostly, it was over.

“I just wanna go home”, I pleaded.

But home was so far away. You see, this was just the beginning of the end for me. I would spend the next month in Normandy, France -where I don’t know a single soul- in order to perfect my French and have time for ‘adventure’. Oh god, how silly that idea was. But that’s another post for another day.

Anyway, the girls and I parted ways that morning and I think we were all relieved that it was over and done with- the tour, the sleepless nights, the foreigners, the traveling, the constant stress, the steadily dwindling bank accounts. It was done, and so were we.

The aftermath: The good, the bad, and the ugly have surmounted to make what was one of the most unforgettable opportunities of my life. I had the chance to perform in great venues, network with like-minded artists, grow tremendously as a performer, but mostly grow as a person. They always call me the ‘baby’ wherever I am in Burlesque because I seem to be the youngest there. But maybe that’s due to my previous attitude of inexperience and naivety.

I’m taking these experiences with a grain of salt (the good and the bad) in order to grow into the woman I now feel closer to becoming (cue Britney Spears’ “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman”). I feel like I’ve aged 5 years in 2 months, but that isn’t a bad thing. This ‘baby’ has grown out of her shell and now I know what I want. Even more so, I know exactly what I don’t want. One of the things I don’t want being to blindly accept another lengthy performance tour ANY time soon.

When I reflect on the highs and lows of this summer, I can’t help but smile about how I’ll look back on all of this ‘one day’ and laugh/cry. Hindsight is 20/20 isn’t it? Once I reach a point where these memories aren’t so visceral, I might tell my grandkids. I’ll make sure to change the cocaine bit to whatever super street drug they have out in 2091. Yes, I will live to be AT LEAST 100 years old.

The summer has been full of tough life lessons. Tough for anyone to ingest, let alone a wide-eyed 22-year-old. I learned lessons about money, friendship, career, boundaries, distance, relationships, and even family. This tour has touched me in ways that will undoubtedly reverberate through my actions from now on. Taking classes at the Studio Harmonic in Paris and being told that I’m a great dancer by resident NYC choreographers has taught me that I’m more capable than I give myself credit for. Being lost in a country where no one speaks English (or gives a shit about you) has taught me to fucking speak up and find a way to deal. Watching the most ridiculous display of 'talent' I've seen put on a stage to date has taught me to do my research- and NEVER EVER perform for free. EVER. I’ve learned so much about myself and about the world that I never would’ve learned otherwise. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

I was relaying my *censored* summer to a nice 17-year-old neighbor on the international flight before I got here. I left out the bits about nudity, hard drugs, and assault though. I didn’t want to scare her. Plus, I didn’t want to spoil any of life’s surprises she might encounter on her own. When I told her about all the places I had performed and what I’d seen, she said in gullible awe, “ Wow, that sounds SO fancy”. Yeah, it was. It was fancy, glamorous, stressful, ridiculous, enlightening, terrifying, awesome, shitty, and covered in glitter. Basically, it’s got the makings of any unforgettable experience. Or a glorious shit cake.

It was and always will be… The Best Worst decision of my Life.

-Arielle/Elle

Ending on a good note. Here are shots from a solo performance I booked in Paris, France with Pretty Propaganda. Enjoy!

Burlesque performer: Elle Du Jour