I learned the value of shooting my shot, speaking my truth, of owning my own story. I bawled like a baby when my new mates were shuttled away to the train station.Īnd as I settled into my aisle seat on the flight home and switched on Viola Davis’ memoir, Finding Me, I finally had a chance to go deep into my thoughts and contemplate the meaning of my being in this space for the past two weeks. I made fast friends with a dance writer from Seattle, swapped war stories of late-night debauchery in Detroit with an arts reporter from Denver, and marveled at the cosmos on the beach with a film critic from New York and an entertainment reporter from Duluth, Minn.

I screamed my ass off in an old-school movie theater during a screening of Jordan Peele’s Nope. We reviewed restaurants in Mystic (sorry, no pizza for us). We witnessed a really bad musical at the Goodspeed Opera House. We piled into vans for an overnight trip to the Berkshires to visit the hallowed grounds for dance theater, Jacob’s Pillow. We spent the bulk of our time there watching workshopped theater productions, one starring a Tony Award-winning actor. I’d been accepted to join an esteemed cohort of 14 fellow culture writers from across the country for the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center’s annual National Critics Institute in Waterford, Connecticut. OK, well, not exactly, but pretty damn close to it. Well, the truth is, I’ve been away at theater camp. I don’t blame you, I’ve missed my weekly dispatches to ustedes! Hola, Tostada Family! Y’all probably been wondering what’s up with Tostada Thursdays these past couple of weeks. Group shot of the 2022 National Critics Institute fellows at Jacob’s Pillow in Becket, Mass., in the Berkshires.

Restaurants near goodspeed opera house