"There is no geographical solution to an emotional problem," my friend told me as we drove off of the URI campus and headed east toward the towers. "You know who said that," he asked. "Tony Soprano."
I mulled this over, and as it did at first seem profound in a simple and slightly rhyming way, my mind gradually came to reject it. I did support that this bold statement could be true for the brokenhearted. Whether a broken heart resides in the frozen tundra, or basks on under an equatorial sun, it will not be mended based on its longitude and latitude. However, in the past year, I have learned that my emotional problems are, in fact, in direct correlation to my geography...
This very day, I had woken up in my oversized colonial in the suburbs of Narragansett, Rhode Island. While many people (especially middle-aged house wives) would leap out of bed everyday to cook breakfast in my brand-new granite counter-topped kitchen, the quiet drives my mind into a frenzy.
Where my suburban environment induces feeling of boredom and depression, it takes only a drive to Providence to elevate spirits and renew inspirations.
"I need cities," I told my friend.
"They are like drugs," he said. "You keep going back for a fix."
"Well, Tony, I do have a geographical solution to my emotional problem." I said. Ha!"
Tyson grabbed an old record company flyer that was plastered to the floor of my car and wrote down the Tony's saying. Writers always carry pens. Each writer has their own tick - the mid-sentence chew, the finger twirl, and then there's always the nervous tap.
Our Monday evening destination was the Avon Theater on East Providence's Thayer Street. The old single-screen movie theater is just a stone's throw from the coffee snob's haven of Blue State cafe and the Providence youngster's uniform shop - Urban Outfitters.
As we slipped, glided, and slid our way from the car, Rhett Butler, Marilyn Monroe, and a few of their friends gazed down at us in black and white from the brick side of the building. Inside, the price is written in white on a small black sign that sits on the counter. The $9.50 admission did not cause grumbles from patrons, as it does at huge cinema multi-plexes. Perhaps this is because the Avon takes a movie and makes it into a nostalgic viewing experience - complete with old-fashioned tickets (the kind that come in huge rolls and are still used for raffles) and glass coke bottles.
The theater itself boasts red velvet seats, a shade or two brighter than the curtain on the stage. Pre-show piano music invites you to sit down and take in the surrounding conversations. The exquisitely miss-matched couple behind us discussed their favorite Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien novels, girl and boy respectively.
Before the feature began, dancing popcorn cartons appeared on the screen, singing that "the popcorn can't be beat, so let's all go to the lobby to get yourself a treat!" There was a slight shakiness to the picture to remind you that this place does not embrace the modernity of most theaters. We sat back against the plush velvet, and enjoyed The King's Speech. I would go into the wonderfully endearing and inspiring film, but that's for another time...
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