Jennifer Carroll is a 21 year old actor and writer. She first began writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos in 2007 when she had the opportunity to share her experiences as a Canadian ambassador for an international conference for women in Dubai. At the beginning of 2008, she moved to Ireland to pursue a career in theatre and film. Far From Home is her monthly account on living and working in Dublin.
Previous
A choir of angels
I have now been sung to by angels. And they were singing for their supper.
Hospitality is neither glamorous nor thankful. It is tolerable, and waitressing is one of the few stereotypes I find myself slotted into as an actress. The hours are as long as the complaining customers are numerous. However, I try to use my interaction with hundreds of individuals each week to build a bank of character traits I can turn to when I finally get to do my real job: the gentle old woman, terrified of inconveniencing a soul; the young, quiet couple so gracefully in love; the commanding storyteller who sits at the head of a large table and captivates every member of his party; the cranky and miserly middle aged woman who seems to miss joy in her life, and always buys the most overpriced red wine on any list. All of these people enrich me with the reality of their character, their ticks and nuances, the smallest truths in themselves. I never tire of developing characters off them, even if those characters are never to leave the four walls of my bedroom.
However, rarely, I am blessed with a table of guests who bring pure joy to my day, sometimes my whole week. They make me thankful to do the job that I do, because I would never have the opportunity to meet these people in any other profession. Four days ago, a table made what is sure to be my whole month. And it only took forty-five Norwegians.
They were an unsuspecting bunch, middle aged, average English (at best), and as I walked them through our Irish beers on draught, they seemed average enough in every way. I dropped down glasses of merlot, pinot grigio and plenty of Guinness without much thought. I took their food order almost on autopilot, nearly forgetting to check if they wanted a rustic selection of breads while they waited for their meal. I was standing at the bar absentmindedly refilling a dozen jugs of water for them, when a sound far from average glided from the restaurant and glistened past my ears; it was choral music in four part harmony, and it was… stunning.
I crept from the bar, not wanting to attract any attention. They were like a herd of deer I was afraid to scare away if I moved to quickly or obviously. The lusciousness of their voices tugged my lips upward into a smile of joy and wonderment, and I must have stood there like a beaming fool for the entire four minutes their song endured. I thought I was hallucinating. Surely forty-five middle aged Norwegians didn't just sit down in my restaurant and break into song. Surely I must be imagining it. But then the conductor raised her glass, to which they all responded in kind and began again. Perfect tone, perfect balance in tenor and bass, and they sang a song so serenely calm I felt I was standing by a glassy lake with wind whispering at me so gently it didn't disturb the perfect water in front of me.
It lifted me. I gathered the other staff on shift and bustled them upstairs and they all crept toward the table with the same caution, not wanting to disturb these beautiful voices. My Norwegian angels punctuated their meal with at least eight choral numbers, each one more emotional, more beautiful, more heart swaying than the last. And as I dropped down Irish coffees in front of them, as if we were dancing a choreographed number with each other, they began to sing to me a familiar lullaby: An Irish Blessing. I stood, hands clasped, eyes gleaming, barely breathing. Just soaking it all in. Their voices gathered and built in emotion, raising my heart up with their crescendo before placing it back gently in my chest as they diminished to near whispers, only to gather courage again to burst forth with another chorus. I couldn't help clapping in gleeful appreciation at the end, for which they applauded me and thanked me for serving them a beautiful meal. What a rare gift.
Their sense of community touched me the most, I think. They were an artistic family, and an artistic family is unlike any other on earth. You entrust that family to take care of the most vulnerable part of yourself, your creative being. And you gather all those creative bits of yourselves together and fashion a piece of art that binds all human souls who hear or see it. You could hear their love for each other in the chorus of every song, in the end of every note, at the pick-up of every upbeat. Their joy for song was so pure and untarnished, and it fed my soul. I'll be nourished for weeks to come, thanks to my Norwegian angels.
