I�m a rake, and a rambling boy.
8:41 a.m.
At the airport I bought a humour book which caused me to laugh out loud for much of the trip to T0r0nt0, where we changed planes after a short wait, continuing on to W�peg with a brief stop in Thunder Bay. We were met in W�peg by the shuttle driver, brandishing a sign with our names emblazoned thereon (that�s the first time I�ve been met at an airport in such a fashion), and I was very surprised to also see a couple, a recently-retired history professor and his librarian wife who until just last year lived in our town, picking up their daughter (who apparently had babysat our daughter but I�d forgotten this) and son-in-law who were in town for a family wedding. Canada is a large country, but a small world.
The Bed & Breakfast was gorgeous, an old mansion trimmed all in oak, decorated everywhere with angels and doodads and knicknacks. Our room was the best of all, with a brass bedstead, lace-trimmed duvet and pillow shams and a �bridal veil� decoration above its head. There was an antique mirrored dresser, floor lamp and a beautiful carpet. Shelves contained interesting antiques, including a blue satin hat, a leather suitcase, and a book press, as well as a set of �The New Teachers� and Pupils� Encyclopaedia� published in 1917, the binding all coming apart. There was a sink in our room, but the toilet and shower were down the hall in separate rooms (that always bothers me, not being able to wash my hands immediately after peeing). Everything was lovely. I was able to sit at a wrought iron caf� table with matching chairs in our room taking notes for the express purpose of writing this detailed description later, and Hubby sat at another desk looking at his score.
The whole purpose of this trip was to hear a world premiere of this piece of his (I made a mistake earlier, the reading with I Musici was sponsored by SOCAN, not the CMC), and when we got to the rehearsal, it was obvious that the musicians were in desperate need of a conductor. There are 13 of them, and they pride themselves on not needing one, but in this case, it was a glaring omission. I sat in on some of their rehearsal while Hubby purportedly studied his score in the hallway (when I went out to get him I found him fast asleep on one of the comfy couches), and they were pretty ragged. As soon as he took over the podium, it came together like a jig-saw puzzle with the last pieces being fitted into their holes. So it was decided that he would conduct the premiere.
This was all fine and well, except that Hubby was ill. He�d started getting a sore throat on Wednesday, which culminated in a full-blown cold/flu on Thursday, making ascent and descent in an airplane difficult (I had a pocketful of hard candies which he kept raiding). Looking for a place to eat before the rehearsal consisted of dragging this whining, complaining guy around on the street until we found a taxi (or perhaps it found us) and we dined at a restaurant recommended by some of the musicians. It was a family-run pasta restaurant, the food was absolutely delicious, and the servings were more than generous. That needs to be qualified. When my plate of penne arrived, Hubby remarked that it was as much as or more than I would serve to all four of us at a sitting. Then his arrived and it was the same story. Looking around, I noticed that everyone left there with little packages of leftovers. We were later told that it is a favourite haunt of university students: They would eat there on Monday, and dine on leftovers for the rest of the week. I can well believe it. Unfortunately we weren�t in a position to carry doggy-bags around with us, so three-quarters of Hubby�s and four-fifths of my dinners were wasted.
Breakfast at the B&B was amazing as well. We filled out menu request forms the night before and were served fresh fruit salads and whatever else we had asked for. I could only eat one of my eggs and Hubby only one of his fluffy pancakes. Our fellow pensioner was an old guy, a retired farmer, who was in town because his wife was having micro-surgery to remove a cyst from her spinal column. He was a pleasant person, but one of those whose conversation is quite loud and persistent and pedantic, but at least he knew when to leave.
We spent the morning in our lovely room, I read and Hubby practised conducting, before we were picked up by L. for lunch at The Ginger Cat. When we were at Michigan, L. came to do her Master�s in Musicology the year after I arrived. When you are a stranger in a strange land, or a foreigner in any case, you tend to gravitate towards your compatriots, and we formed a fast friendship with her and her roommate, both W�peggers in the same programme. The roommate is now a big-shot producer with CBC and hosts her own radio show which can be heard late at night when they�re not on strike. The year that we lived in Brand0n, L. accompanied me on piano (she plays viola in this ensemble) in my bid for a certain competition (which it is just as well that I didn�t succeed in as I was eight months� pregnant when the finals were held).
After we ate, she asked me if I would do her a favour: Her husband was taking the bus from W�peg and was scheduled to arrive at 12:55, their rehearsal commencing at 1 p.m. I said, �No problem,� and left L. and Hubby at the music school, driving her blue Ford back through city streets which were starting to come back to me (it was 19 years ago that we moved away from that town) and parked in the bus station lot while I went inside to await the arrival of the 12:55. It was late, not by much though, and I watched the passengers disembark, not seeing L.�s husband. So I enquired at the counter when the next bus arrived (3:30) and made my way back to the parking lot where the car was (gasp!) gone! I asked at the parcel desk if it had been towed (it hadn�t), which left two options: D. had gotten off the bus without my seeing him and taken the car, or it had been stolen. I was somewhat frantic. Luckily I was at a bus station and there were taxis waiting, so I took a cab back to the music school and told L. what had happened. She actually didn�t seem that concerned, but was terribly sorry that I had had to go through this experience. It eventually turned out that her husband had seen the car from the bus window, and had gone directly to it, not going through the station where I was waiting for him, found his key fit the lock, and drove away, totally unaware that his wife had sent an actual body to pick him up who was waiting, liftless and distraught, when she found the car (which I couldn�t even have reported to the police as stolen because I didn�t know the make or licence plate number) was not where she had left it, the only proof that it had even been there L.�s keys in her now sweaty little hand.
When D. arrived at the rehearsal, I told him what had happened, and how worried I had been that I�d lost L.�s car. He said, �Well, you don�t have to worry about it now.� I replied, �No, you should be worrying, because now I have to kill you!�
The concert was excellent. Hubbie�s piece went very well with him at the helm and the audience was extremely appreciative. The rest of the programme was a Vivaldi violin concerto, a Bach double concerto and the Tchaikowsky Souvenir de Florence, all featuring the talents of a violinist who has made an incredible name for himself but whose humble origins go back to this prairie town where he was just an adolescent when we last lived there. The audience was filled with old familiar faces including former colleagues (the parents of said soloist, for example) who are on the verge of retirement and some new, unfamiliar faces, such as the parents of Bruce from writing group. He had phoned them to let them know this world premiere was happening and they shouldn�t miss it, and lo! they introduced themselves to Hubby (he had on a bright red shirt, so was unmistakeable) and he introduced them to me. I was very happy to meet them.
There was a fabulous wine and cheese reception catered by one of the Manit0ba wine producers (they served really, really good wine, which is so unusual for one of these affairs) and afterwards we were whisked away to the house of some friends who continued to f�te us until they took us back to our B&B. Yesterday morning the leader of the chamber ensemble, the principal cellist, came over with his wife, the principal violist, and their two kids and joined us for breakfast (the operation on the older man�s wife was successful and he was going to see if he could take her home that day). There was talk of a commission and of having them come to Bushop�s as artists-in-residence, and other fun things, and then the shuttle arrived and it was time to go.
The rest of the day was spent in travel: two hours on the shuttle, two hours on the first airplane, one hour on the second airplane, two hours driving home from the airport (and that doesn�t include all the waiting time inbetween), and we arrived home around 11 p.m. to two sick kids (I also came down with Hubby�s malaise and am not presently a happy or healthy camper) and a house devoid of groceries and piled high with laundry. Grandpa Mike comes over this afternoon to rehearse our blues repertoire, and I certainly don�t feel like singing. But, in the immortal words of Barnum and Bailey (I�m probably wrong about the source), �The show must go on!�
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