Sorry, Kathy. Here’s another entry.

As I may have mentioned, my husband is writing an opera for an organization on Canada’s west coast, a project which should make him rich and famous, or something like that. Because the opera company is paying him big bucks and since they are receiving some of their funding from various grants, he is obligated to attend workshops put on by at least one of these generous donors. He just got back from Banff, where the scenes he has thus far written were sung and played, along with music from operas being written by some of his composer colleagues across our great land.

These workshops take up a lot of time and are really quite unnecessary, at least in Hubby’s case. He has written much vocal music, including a one-hour opera, and is a veteran orchestral composer. While others might benefit from the process--his librettist is getting a lot out of it--he finds it to be a waste of time, time that would be better spent at his desk actually writing music.

The opera company wants to schedule rehearsal time with the musicians who will be playing in the pit. Unfortunately, this coincides with our March break from the university, when we usually go to the Caribbean to frolic in the sun and surf. I decided that if he had to go off to rainy Victoria for March break, I would go by myself somewhere sunny and warm. My son even joked that I should have an affair with a tall, dark European while I was at it.

Now Hubby has rebelled and emailed the opera director, telling him that this meeting with the players is unnecessary, and that he would prefer to have the piano score completed before he starts orchestrating. This means we may get to go to the Caribbean together after all, and I will not go to Crete, or the Azores, or Malta, or wherever I was thinking of running off to. I have mixed feelings about this new possible turn of events. On the one hand, I always enjoy the holidays Hubby and I take in island paradises; on the other, I was looking forward to an adventure without him. I may still get my chance. We shall see.

In answer to some questions I’ve received lately:

Most of the restaurants around here are run by Vietnamese immigrants. They came to Quebec during the “boat people” era because they spoke French, and many of them got jobs as restaurant cooks. Hence the Asian menus at Pizzaville, Village Grec and Capitaine Grec.

No, my brother is not Steven SpieIberg, but when we were visiting my mother, a resident of her building came up to him in the dining room and also told him that he resembled the film director.

Yes, that was a picture of my mother playing piano, and that is her instrument which I had moved last November from her house to the residence. Although her memory is deteriorating rapidly, she still has muscle memory and can still play several pieces when she puts her fingers on the keys. It’s rather fascinating.

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