Homo Sapiens Dramaticus Mobilius

There are some obvious perks to working on the Broadway. It is sweet to get paid to do any combination of acting and singing and dancing. If you like to sleep in and only work a few hours a day, the hours can't be beat. Then there's the free underwear. But for those of us who are based in New York City, the nicest part is being able to go home at the end of the day. It is a feeling of stability that actors rarely get to enjoy. Whenever I've lost perspective, I remind myself what life is like on tour.

I've been on happy tours and angry tours, in the U.S. and abroad, doing good shows and bad, with people whom I've befriended for life and whatever the opposite of that is. The experience of living and working so closely with a huge group of artsy types who are out of their comfort zone is an all-consuming challenge. National Geographic would have a field day charting the various herding instincts, mating habits, alpha male rituals and grooming techniques of the common touring actor, or the homo sapiens dramaticus mobilius.

Oftentimes, going off on tour means leaving loved ones behind, so the initial tendency is to start making friends and fast. This is a mistake. I can't stress this enough. Travel back in time with me for a moment, won't you, to college orientation or the first day of high school or the "get-to-know-me" circle at summer camp. What do all these horrifying memories have in common? Scared, needy people all trying to make a good impression. And what's more dangerous than scared, needy people trying to make a good impression? You guessed it—scared, needy actors trying to make a good impression. They can make you feel like the belle of the ball or tear you apart faster than a school of piranha. Remember that it takes a good month for everybody to start acting like their true selves. You can be best friends with somebody's rehearsal personality only to realize a month later that you are bitter enemies with their real-life personality. If I may generalize, and I think I may, the speed with which you make friends at the beginning of the tour is directly proportional to the awkwardness of the goodbye at the end of the tour.

Touring means traveling and every actor deals with "travel day" in their own particular way. Some revert to childhood habits, clutching stuffed animals and scuffing along drowsily in their pajamas. Some separate themselves from the crowd with a blueish haze of cigarette smoke and a sneer. Yet others giggle and gossip, flitting between cliques like over-caffeinated hummingbirds. You pick whatever gets you through the day without committing murder. Personally, I am a night-owl, prone to motion-sickness and a whisper of agoraphobia. I can think of few things more dispiriting than waking up at dawn and going through airport security trapped amidst a herd of groggy actors and then getting shoved into one of the last four rows of a jumbo-liner. Here is a short list of things that I would actually consider to be a step up: Listening to Lee Greenwood music for 24 hours straight. Retaking the SATs. Burning leeches off delicate parts of my body. Having lunch with Carrot Top. That last one is debatable.

I have a travel day technique that I feel comfortable sharing with you because I am a master and if we ever face each other in the arena, I will win. Once you've arrived at your destination city, you will most likely be bussed from the airport to whatever Spartan living accommodations have been arranged. This is the most important stage in the travel day, the linchpin to whole day's success. As I present to you the following invaluable keys to victory, keep in mind that this is a covert operation—stealth and secrecy are your only friends in this game of every man for himself.

Step 1: Upon arrival at the airport, leave the baggage claim carousel before the bags arrive.
Step 2: Find the chartered bus.
Step 3: Put your carry-on bag in the seat second-closest to the front. The front seat is for the company managers. Though you'll be tempted, never piss off a company manager.
Step 4: Return to the baggage claim and retrieve your luggage.
Step 5: Perhaps the most important step. Patience is key here. Return to the bus and wait by the cargo hold until everyone else has thrown their luggage on. Gently place your bag on last. Wait here until you see the driver close the cargo doors.
Step 6: Ride to the hotel with a barely concealed smirk of self-satisfaction.
Step 7: Upon arrival at the hotel, step off the bus first the company managers will be momentarily distracted by their clipboards, remove your luggage from the cargo hold first, and stride to the check-in counter.
Step 8: Check in first.
Step 9: Proceed to your room in the empty elevator.

That's it. If you haven't quite grasped the beauty of this travel day technique, then proceed to...

Step 10: Go back down to the lobby and witness chaos on a scale you never dreamt possible in a civilized world.

This is enough to get you started. The advanced player can start to rotate in stratagems for acquiring one of the limited number of mini-fridges, calling ahead to book corner rooms on high floors, and bribing their way into the club-level crudite and sparkling water lounge.

Strangely, the very reason you find yourself displaced with this motley crew—puttin' on a show!—tends to take a back seat to far more dire necessities. Where, for example, is the chi-chi mall and where is the low-rent mall? You need to find both. The first is for window shopping for expensive leather fashions that you wouldn't be caught dead in at home but for some reason seem like a no-brainer in Minneapolis. And the second is for all your adult-themed board games and Gumby earrings that you can only find at Spencer Gifts. Lest you think this borders on the depressing, if I hadn't been on tour, I might never have noticed that Spencer Gifts changed their logo in 2002. Of only slightly lesser import is scouting out the restaurants. In modern metropolises the fun here is finding the hidden gems that burst with local flavor and personality. This is a luxury one can't afford in places like downtown Houston, however, where the only restaurant open past 6:00 PM is Wendy's. I have an image burned in my brain of twenty actors sitting under the fluorescent lights, staring straight ahead miserably, and chewing mouthfuls of tepid baked potatoes in perfect unison. The only thing missing is the heavy, shirtless man drumming a tom-tom, chanting, "Chew! Chew!"

The single most unassailable fact of tour life is that no matter where you go, no matter when you're there, no matter what precautions you've taken to steal a moment for yourself, someone from the company will be there too. The sooner you accept this awful truth, the sooner you can deal with it. You can rent a car, drive 45 minutes into the wilderness, hire a local guide to row you in a dinghy to an uncharted island, charter a propeller plane from an unmarked airstrip and strap on a tandem parachute and I guarantee you that when the cabin light turns green and the instructor yells, "Go! Go! Go!" at five thousand feet, the person strapped to your back, grinning and giving you the thumbs up, will be the second violin player from the orchestra or the assistant stage manager. It seems impossible, but the tour gods do have their sense of humor. So when you need ice at four in the morning and you feel certain that you can tip-toe with your little bucket to the end of the hall without incident, just take my word for it... put your pants on.