Lots of catching up to do.

I left off writing a few weeks ago in the middle of the visit of my Dad and Jane. Shortly after my last post, it was Mother's Day, Dad and I, all the moms in the building (Dorothea, Alex's mum Steph, and Jane), along with little Rebecca and Sophia, headed into depths of the Black Forest, to the Belchen, which is the second-highest mountain but with the most spectacular views. I'd been there with my mom once a few years before and while we could see out in one direction, the other was a great swathe of mysterious cloud. Time to go back.

The public transit system is phenomenal: we rode the train to the end of the line in Zell, then after 7 minutes the bus to just off the beaten track, then after 11 minutes another bus right to the cable-car station and a cable car to the restaurant near the top for Mother's day lunch. This time the walk around and up onto the summit was crystal clear.

Cable Car Ride to the Top

The Black Forest

Jane, Black Forest and France in the distance

The next day we headed to a mountain not actually very much higher, but stunningly spectacular as it's bordered by the Lake of Lucerne and the Alps. In fact, the Rigi was known for its spectacular views in the 19th century, enough that when Queen Victoria came to visit Switzerland, she was carried up on a chair by four burly men. Again, this visit was prompted by a failed earlier one, when I took Dad to see the Alps with a day trip to Luzern in 2005 and the fog was so think we couldn't see a thing. We were luckier this time.

The Rigi also the site of Europe's first cog-rail, which until last year wasn't covered by a Swiss day card, but as it was now we took our day cards and took the train to Luzern, the boat to Vitznau, the cog all the way up the Rigi.

Our Ferry's Sister Ship

Olde-Timer Cog Rail

Dad and Me atop the Rigi

Alpine Flowers and Peaks

Lake Luzern and Pilatus

Typical Swiss

Journey Back

After a wander around the city walls of Luzern we headed back home exhausted.

After a few necessary days off, on Thursday we all hopped on the train and headed to Venice. After a spectacular trip through the Alps we wound up in Milan, where we ate proper pizza and headed into town with a few hours to spare. I've been to Milan a few times for work but have seen relatively little of it. We looked at a bit of the map with some green, and thinking that sitting in a park could be quite nice, headed there on the subway. When we emerged, there was not just a park but the whole Castle Sforzesco lay before us.

Dad and Jane stunned at interior courtyard

After exploring the castle, we took a short walk past some very temping gelato stands and pompous 19th-century architecture to the cathedral of Milan. The last time I was there they were cleaning it, and it was impressive to see it in its glimmering whiteness. The space inside, with its incredible and the incredible masses of stone, was awe-inspiring indeed.

Cathedral of Milan

FInally after walking past a proper park with statues, grottos, fountains, and a cute brown rat, we headed of to the Most Serene Republic.

The Cute Brown Rat

From the front door of our alberghio some locals had stuck a poster outside their window reminding the rest of us of the pace of life on that pedestrian island.

(Click to Enlarge)

The view out the back window was also a good reminder of why it's called the Most Serene Republic:


We left our bags and headed off to find supper, and my love of seafood kicked in instantly: squid cooked in it's own ink for me, please!

The next day was mostly wandering around: a most excellent activity in Venice even if one does feel like a rat in a maze at times (good times to sit in a Piazza with a macchiatone or a gelato instead, I say). Fortunately there are lots of signs to the Rialto bridge and to San Marco - the only question is which one to follow?

Our first stop was Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, a magnificent medieval church and the burial place of Claudio Monteverdi. I found myself, looking down at his rose-strewn grave, getting unexpectedly emotional. Dear old Monteverdi! Without him, where would I be? I probably wouldn't be a professional sackbut player (would such a job even exist?), and surely wouldn't have met many of the wonderful friends I have now through playing the music of Monteverdi and the people surrounding him. Gosh.

Continuing our musical pilgrimage, we visited the Accademia del San Rocco, where Giovanni Gabrieli played the organ when he wasn't over at San Marco.


We finally started following the signs to the major tourist attractions now:

After a delicious lunch of Cicchetti - little nibbly things - we headed of to San Marco. It won't ever be ho-hum to visit San Marco, it's impossible not to get excited imagining the people who went to work there every day, and the sounds it was filled with for the first time. It's also incredibly sobering to hear what they're up to now though, since the second Vatican council. A friend of mine visited San Marco and the chapel choir was singing Kumbaya. Ow. They were singing that in Milan Cathedral the day before so I quite believe it. I didn't want to take any pictures of San Marco then - there were far too many people - but here's one of the palace balcony next door. Did trombonists ever get to play from there?


Having had enough of enclosed spaces, we took a walk by the Adriatic in the direction of the Giardini Publicci, where the tourist population thinned out refreshingly. To head back, we bought a vaporetto ticket and rode it from end to end on the Gran Canal - an excellent view of the city.

Increasing Residentiality far from Piazza San Marco

Waiting for the Bus?

A Gondoliera

We didn't want to head back into the maze so I went to the nearest - well-camouflaged - supermarket and bought some prosciutto, melon, stuffed peppers, buffalo mozzarella, a hard cheese, some bread, and some salad and some seafood salad and we feasted in the breakfast room instead.

The next morning I woke up early in order to see Venice without the tourists and to take a good picture of San Marco. It was a completely new vibe: in stark juxtaposition to the confused, map-obscured vibe of day, everyone out in the streets and on the canals was a) on their way somewhere and b) knew how to get there. I headed back to the Piazza San Marco, which except from a few people dotting it here and there, was empty, open, and grander than ever before, the domes of San Marco angelically backlit by the rising sun.


I kept wandering for a while, coming back through a district that you don't pass through just going to the Rialto and San Marco, and saw again another side of Venice. I also visited the grave of Giovanni Gabrieli, and paid my respects.

Giovanni Gabrieli's Grave

Rice? Very Jolly anyhow...

Entrance to the Gran Canal

Walking your dog alla Veneziana

After picking up Dad and Jane from the hotel, we had a low-octane wander, passing by the music museum before heading to the train station via a flea market - something I absolutely didn't expect to find in Venice. Dad got a lovely leather bag and Jane got an old, brass wind-up travel alarm clock - the perfect thing since her new plastic one had died. We also passed an unusual vegetable market:


The train ride back was more atmospheric than spectacular as the Alps were shrouded in mist and clouds.

Our last few days in Basel we explored the botanical gardens, stopping by the mill museum and seasonally visiting just in time to catch the end of the Rhododendrons.

Wild Bee Hive

Non-wild bee hive, apartments no. 1-8 - apparently
the bees aren't completely illiterate!

There was less than a week between Dad & Jane's visit and heading off to Canada myself, a week earmarked for hyperproductivity: house-hunting, and the performance of a Mozart mass and vespers, for which I got to play the bass part. I do love playing basslines - from there it's possible to drive the dynamics and phrasing of the whole section in a way that seems much less pushy as when done from the top. Also that week Helen and I headed out after the rain and got some (very clean) Elderflowers from which we made cordial.




My week in Montreal feels utterly surreal now. I managed to sign a lease just two days after I landed, giving me a bit more time to be social, but most of the time I just spent wandering about the Plateau or the Jean-Talon market pondering the impending move back. It's still just as terrifying as it is exciting, but so many things are I suppose.


Though I'd booked the flight to go househunting, in my mind the trip was more and more about weighing up past and future, and of course Bruce was always in my thoughts. I was grateful indeed, while I was there, for having people around who knew him. I optimistically stopped by his house on Friday morning to say hello to Susie, but she was off in France, until Wednesday I was told. I was leaving on Tuesday. Hum.

The morning of my flight I was out of sorts, so much so that after a failed attempt to put the cat outside, during which it bolted through the house with it's leash on and got quite scared at getting it caught and being pulled to a halt, I left the door to the balcony open briefly. Did the cat leave? I couldn't find it, or hear it, anywhere in the basement where it had been the minute before so I assumed the worse and spent the morning looking for it. It's not an outside cat, yet. Finally I decided I had to pack, and upon putting my bags in the basement, heard his bell in the corner - whew.

When it was time to leave the airport bus dropped us off at arrivals. I was deliberating whether to go up to departures and check in right away, or take advantage of free bench space and free wifi and make a phone call to Germany which was rather urgent given the time difference. The bus had been stuck in traffic and was late anyway. But I sat down to make the call. In the middle of it, who should walk by fresh off a plane from France but... Susie.

After an awkward minute of "danke, ja bis dann, ja kein problem, ich freue mich auch - TSCHUUSSSSS" as I wound up what felt like the least significant conversation I've ever had, I felt like the luckiest person in the world to be able to stand and talk to Susie then and there, to hear some more stories about Bruce's time in hospital, and about some of the projects to be completed in his memory (see Brandenburgs 7-12 here).

I landed in Basel Wednesday and had a brief nap before heading to a Mozart Requiem rehearsal - Barmy, yes, but I wanted as much time as possible in Montreal. And why should I have come back a day early for a rehearsal where I was forced to write "No Text" about the Dies Irae, really? In the end, we are following the choir's text accents, just playing louder, which seems to be what the conductor wanted anyway.

Now I've got the heebeejeebees about playing Tuba Mirum again tonight - I suppose if I ever have to play tenor on a Mozart Requiem and I don't get them, I'll know it's time to retire.

This post is in memory of Bruce Haynes, a friend and mentor who died on May 17th here in Montreal.

I wrote most of this a week ago, but decided to wait until I was in Montreal again before posting it. Part of me wanted to communicate right away, and part of me felt that I should, but I was reminded of old emails apologizing to Bruce for tardiness in getting back to him with my side of various conversations about music, and I treasure a reply from him saying it's ok: "I've made damn sure I
won't myself feel hurried in writing this..."

So I've taken my time, and in a way the act of taking extra time and care seems like a better tribute than the writing of any clunky words that I could come up with. Since a first attempt at writing, a page has been created on Facebook where people have posted all sorts of lovely remembrances, showing facets of Bruce which are delightfully new to me. He had almost completely stopped playing the oboe by the time I started to get to know him, so to hear of stories of him as a performer is dear indeed. It's good to know that my desire to set down my own stories isn't an isolated thing, but fits into a kind of community of people from all over the world who are eager to remember.

I recently re-read an email that I wrote in 2008, describing sitting in Susie and Bruce's kitchen. I think it's safe to say that it's my favourite room in the world. It's beautiful for one, with a great wooden counter, shelves covered with motley teacups, and a pinboard full of family photos (is it made of wine corks?). As if to nourish the creativity and the exchange of ideas that it has always hosted, there always seems to be a freshly baked creation of Susie's to munch on. In fact, the first time I went to visit during my trip to Canada last autumn, I called from the rain after a rehearsal and Bruce and Susie picked up at the same time - as soon as I'd said hello, Susie put down the phone and there were tasty gingerbread creations just being pulled from the oven by the time Gawain and I arrived. This kitchen is a vortex for early music: festivals, concerts, recordings and books get planned, and many people meet there for the first time; others get to know each other. As I write, the memories of conversations with Bruce come back - authenticity in performance (Bruce introduced me to the ideas of Diderot on whether sincerity is required in acting), and disagreements about subtlety versus the exaggeration of gestures in recordings (there's a stereo under the shelf with the sugar to help us illustrate our points). One day during the germination of The End of Early Music, we disagreed about whether modern musicians should write in period style. We were both vehement and it lasted for seven delightful hours. We had to order a pizza and open a bottle of wine and no, even then we never quite agreed, but it was a delicious disagreement. Sometimes we also talked about non-musical things: Bruce showed me that one can judge a good potter by their ability to craft a spout that doesn't drip, for instance, and just last autumn we bemoaned together that someone had respectably cleaned the many dried and twisted strands of spaghetti off the walls of the kitchen where they had been thrown many times over the years to be tested for doneness - if it sticks, it's done.

My second favourite room in the world is probably Bruce's office. It's right above Susie's music room, where I heard Ste-Colombe performed for the first time, where we rehearsed much of Orfeo in 2007, where I evesdropped on David Greenberg, David McGuinness and others in the middle of creating the CD La Mer Jolie while I worked quietly in the corner in 2004. So as you can perhaps imagine, Bruce's office just above is a vast space - very warm, but vast enough that there's space to pace and move about, and room to step back a bit from even very complicated ideas. We talked about Vicentino last I was there, and about the affects of Bach Cantata movements. Bruce had gone through each cantata and assigned to each movement what he thought the affect was, refining his own list of affects in baroque music in the process. We talked about timing in music, too, and listened in fascination to a recording of romantic violinists playing Bach with no pause for breath whatsoever.

Last week I wrote a paragraph about how how Bruce, in the course of all these talks about music, communicated an open, welcoming and humble (or humbling) outlook: a willingness to take the time to listen to others, but also the discipline to take time to dedicate to his work despite everything going on around him (which was sometimes a lot), and an understanding of how crucial it was for himself to give his love of learning warm, vast and well-nurtured spaces to grow in. Being around all this changed me as a person and I very much hope that his memory will continue to do so. But while writing it is one thing, I cheeringly just realized this second that in the apartment for which I signed a lease here in Montreal on Thursday, the kitchen and the office are the biggest and most welcoming spaces.

Another thing about Bruce that I'll treasure is his passion for questions. I remember when I was 17 and my boyfriend was 19 and had gone off to college, he told me when he came back that he had grown up somewhat and found me much younger than he had before. I asked him how things change when you become a proper adult, and he replied that you ask fewer questions. Ah. Our relationship didn't last much longer after that, needless to say, but still, a part of me always wondered if actually I wasn't really growing up properly, since I was still always full of questions. In Bruce I suppose I found a kind of co-conspirator in refusing to give up this youthful trait, and yet as someone far more centered and settled than I was, he was also proof that actually a love of questions over answers (c.f. The End of Early Music) has nothing to do with how grownup you are. Nor does optimism for that matter. And so I was pleased when I learned the two stories of him that came back from the hospital: that the last words of his peaceful departure, surrounded by Susie and his children, were the half-sentence: "I am questioning...", and that and after his second open-heart surgery asked for a desk and a chair to be brought to his hospital so that he could keep going on his latest writing. Thanks, Susie, for this news.

I remember the last time I spoke with him, too. I had already visited him a couple of times when I was in Montreal last, but having to leave a viol for someone in a safe place, I arranged to leave it with Bruce so that I could drop by one more time. We had tea - and cakes of course - and talked for an hour or so, about music but also about life and the new directions mine would take with starting my Ph.D. I was wary that I had felt compelled to go that day, and not knowing when I would be back again, took care to say a proper goodbye when I left.

Yesterday I registered for MedRen 2011, where I'll present my first academic paper in a month's time. I admit that I've been dreading that perhaps a part of me that I don't much like will rise defensively to the surface when people start to ask me to come up with answers to their questions after my talk. This morning, in the midst remembering Bruce, I can't help but be reminded that I can choose whether this moment should feel like the test of my ignorance that I dreaded just last night or if it could be something else. I think in the same circumstance, just like when he was invited to talk about his book in Basel, Bruce would have looked forward to other people's questions more than to talking himself; he would have loved each opportunity to hear of ideas he hadn't thought up on his own and delighted in other people's perspectives. And of course that's the way it should be. Thank you, Bruce, for giving me the chance to get to know you enough to realize this. I look forward to the many such challenges his memory will put before me in the coming years. I'm going to miss him a lot.

It's been a week of getting enough of Europe - an important step in getting ready to move back to Canada, I think. On Monday at the request of a friend giving a talk on Orlando di Lasso in Canada later this month, I hopped on a train and spent a night in Munich to take some pictures. I visited the Residenz and the Stadtsmuseum, imbibed at a beer garden, perused the Viktualenmarkt and otherwise "did Munich" as you might expect a tourist with a Eurail pass to "do". I was somewhat relieved at how much it felt like other German cities - maybe it really is time to go and see what Canada feels like again.

Up the tower of the Peterskirche,
looking at the New Town Hall

Strawberries and Asparagus are in season

I always used to assume that just because something was cobblestone, it must be very old indeed. My Dad is here visiting this week, and commented on the ancient cobblestone lining the streets of Basel. So I had to take a picture of the construction of this driveway in Munich:

Treading the line between amusing and depressing is this statue of Orlando di Lasso. At first I thought Lasso was more recognized and loved than I'd suspected, now I realize that, unfortunately for him, his bronze happened to be right across the street from the hotel where Michael Jackson stayed whilst in Munich...

Lasso recognized at last

Or not. Ahem.

Speaking of statues, this one is also slightly depressing - now I understand why one puts people on pedestals - she's easily reachable:


Another thing that's given me enough of Europe... After Canada elected a right-wing majority government with less than 40% of the vote, I saw some hope in that at least the UK seemed ready to consider electoral reform which would get rid of First Past the Post and make it impossible for an MP to be elected without at least 50% of people voting for them in some way. This they proposed to do by introducing something called the Alternative Vote (AV): a multiple round system of counting votes (but efficiently only one trip to the polls for voters) so that people's second choice is also considered if the party they voted for places third, fourth, fifth and so on. Opinions have been strong: this was one of the few times that I've seen Facebook used as a forum for intelligent political debate, but I was dismayed to see how many people voted no because they saw AV either as not the best possible system that could be proposed (not enough like proportional representation for some) or because they embraced the army of straw men deployed at them by the No campaigners. Unfortunately for the former especially, I think this referendum will be boiled down by politicians to mean Yes or No: "start the wheels of change or let them rust," and alas, rusting won. After all, the status quo is obviously to the advantage of all those MPs elected by the minority (or perhaps in half-accurate political lingo "the elite" - but the Yes side wasn't PR savvy enough to use that word, alas).

Speaking of PR, I've not linked to David McGuinness's blog in a while, but today I can highly recommend a visit to read up on why musicians should stand up to people who want them to play for less than a proper fee on the theory that it's good for PR.

And speaking of not playing for a proper fee, I finally got word from the gig I'd told off for paying too little that they've replaced me with someone who would play for less - very good of them to tell me themselves at last. Smugly, I've found out that the other gig I've accepted for the same period, with two days' work instead of five, pays only 50 francs less. So there.

There was a moment when I'd questioned the wisdom of talking myself out of a concert this month though, but then the phone rang and I was offered two days of teaching 10-12 year old boys at the Musik-Akademie. I found myself divided while teaching: on the one hand it seemed unfair to ask for musicality when the kids were just at the very beginning of getting around the instrument; on the other hand, music teaching which says that you shouldn't begin to think musically until you've mastered all the right notes in the right order is to blame for such boring grown-up musicians as I've run across in my time. So I made the kids explore different articulations, notions of rhythm and ideas of phrasing, and play a fair bit without notes to read in front of them and we all had a great time.

My Dad and Jane are here visiting this week and next - how lucky for us that our jaunt up to St. Chrishona happened to be right when the cows were out on the hillside feeding and when an alphorn player - quite a good one - was getting some practice in. When we wandered off into the forest it was his continued playing that led us back to the bus stop.


Today we headed off to the Tinguely Museum - he's known for his moving sculptures. Many of his, like this fountain, were very playful, while others had a morbid streak to them.



This is the setup of one of the orchestras for performances of Mauricio Kagel's "Two-Man-Orchestra" piece, setup in the lobby and being performed a few times a week:


I think I would have to be in a very patient mood to listen to two men explore all the sound possibilities of this setup (and the other similar one) over the course of 71 minutes. I'm sure it would be quite good for me.

Happy May Day everyone!

I have big news: remember November's hair-tearing, neuron dampening, grant-writing saga? Well, a letter from the SSHRC arrived yesterday, a thin little envelope which aroused feelings of trepidation and pre-dismay. I opened it and....they've decided to award me a grant! It's a class B grant - so the pressure is off to mount a baroque opera with the windfall - but means that I don't have to worry about paying my rent for the next four years and that I can plan to take a proper vacations in the summers, both of which will give me many a sound night's sleep. Yipeee!

Previous to finding all this out, I've been a bit of a stressbag this week, so I've done two things to help: Unable to bear the idea of not knowing where I was going to live in Montreal, I got very impatient and bought a flight for the last week of May, where I hope I can find a place for July 1st. Then when I come back mid-summer I can do some nesting... I've also been doing what I ought to have started doing ages ago and have been getting some exercise. As it's mostly descriptions of cardiovascular jaunts which seem to be making it onto my blog, I wouldn't want you to get the idea that this is all I do: I've also put in hours at the Egger workshop this week, paid bills, canceled subscriptions for the move, written and read emails, tidied, cooked, found someone to take over my lease, booked travel for work, practised, and done some article/book/etc. reading for upcoming projects, both audio and academic. It's just that none of them have stories worth telling attached - or not yet anyway.

On Tuesday my neighbour, Alex, rounded up a few friends and we headed off to a Straussi - a restaurant serving only local produce which is only allowed to open during harvesting seasons. This time of year the menu is dedicated mainly to asparagus - something they take very seriously here. The asparagus in question is the posh, white stuff that you get from covering the shoots in soil the moment they show so that they never get the chance to turn green. More expensive and not as tasty, but enjoyable to consume anyway. A bike ride was required to get there and back:

Alex leading us through Lange Erlen

The Tüllinger hill - on which the restaurant sits

View from vinyards near the top

The Straussi

After a few days of admin, I couldn't bear the idea of sitting in front of my computer for the sunniest hours of the day again yesterday, so after meeting Alex to deliver a few forgotten items to his train (which was only stopping for 3 minutes in Basel), I loaded my bike onto another train and headed north into the Black Forest.

While the Black Forest does have thick patches of impenetrable woods, its rolling hills are also covered in meadows and farms. This time of year they're spectacularly covered with little yellow, white, pink and purple flowers. Soon the poppies will be out too...

It was without much hesitation that I only brought a 500 mL bottle of water with me - in my experience, it's quite difficult to get far enough away from civilization for lack of supplies to be a problem, and indeed just as I was on my last sip I ran across this:


The bike ride was not as long as I'd hoped - after a long climb up and cycle around the top of a lush valley, I hit my 1000m mark goal (starting from 394m elevation) and it started to rain. I took shelter in a, well, wooden shelter (how convenient, yey Germany), but then as I set off again it began to pour. I had chosen a steep path to go down too, which my map had said was paved but it obviously hadn't been repaved since long before the map was published in 1999 and was so crumbled that going down on a racing bike was quite tricky. By the time I got to the bottom of the big hill, I was covered in mud and my socks were completely soaked through. I almost kept going along my intended route when I realised I was only going to become miserable, so instead I coasted down to the bottom of the valley to the train in Zell, arriving conveniently a few minutes before it's half-hourly departure. In another half hour I was back in Basel, opening my post with no small delight and getting ready for a hot shower. Not a bad day at all.

Almost at the 1000m mark

The concert tonight went rather well; Good Friday is an exceptionally good day to play the trombone. And yes, I did behave in the trill department - many but all quite tasteful, if I may say. I got the feeling early on of being very concentrated in a way that used to perturb me - I used to confuse it with nerves because it feels very intense. But tonight I held onto it and it made it a very fulfilling concert indeed. Kudos to the first violinist, who played with a lot of fitting 17th-century ornaments and historically informed style, despite steel strings and a tourte bow (and chinrest and shoulder-rest and fine tuners - gosh the modern violin world has made things complicated!!). Wouldn't it have been easier for him with a baroque setup though?

Between rehearsal and the concert there was time for a walk. There are already pictures of Bremgarten on this blog from when I Fedeli played there back in January, but now in the springtime it's even more beautiful:

The Banks of the Reuss

Not inaccurate depiction of the town

Nate and others on the Riverbank

Terraced garden and cheery houses

Chapel and Rooftops

Closeup of the Chapel Cross

Rooftops

A little bit more on the frottola front: Viva Biancaluna Biffi sings here, accompanying herself - click halfway through and she's playing bowed fidel with lots of gusto. The frottole in question are Marchetto Cara: Nasce la speme mia da un dolce riso (My hope is born from a sweet smile) and Bartolomeo Tromboncino: Ostinato vo’ seguire (Stubbornly I follow you). Enjoy!

A few people have asked now what Motuz Confectus means. Well, it's a pun. Oh well. "Motus confectus" is an early and slightly more noble version of a frottola, which is an early version of the madrigal. The frottola flourished in Italy at the end of the 15th and early 16th centuries. Oh yes, and again briefly in 2009.

It's been 25 and sunny for almost two weeks now, whilst today it snowed in Montreal. I've changed my mind, I'm staying here.

Kidding.

Last weekend I think I finally digested that I'm moving back to Montreal - it's starting to feel exciting and not just an excuse to turn my life completely upside-down. The process of digesting involved a lot of lying about and staring at various white surfaces, alternating with hiding under the covers, until finally on Sunday evening I decided I'd better play a bit of trombone to make sure I was in good shape for my Easter services. Glad I dragged myself out of bed - Good Friday music is especially tiring but especially worth it. Caldara, Draghi and Tuma all worked in Austria at a time when there were virtuosi trombonists about, so there are lots of nice solo bits, and because it's Good Friday it's full of delectable dissonances too. It's all on alto trombone, which in one piece with no rests is particularly taxing, so to celebrate that I'd held onto practice discipline despite all my lying about in a daze the crucial three days before, I threw in a few gratuitous trills. I'll behave more in the concert tomorrow.

Today the flights to Canada this summer, when I'll need to go on an I'm-moving-back admin trip (woohoo) went down, some by 50 francs, and one by 300. Yey! But that one was from Geneva to Toronto via Brussels, leaving so early in the morning I'd have to find a place in Geneva the night before. Airlines, airlines - why do you play with my head so? After deciding that I'd be slightly miffed if no similar prices for a more convenient connection showed up but really extremely disgruntled if one did and I'd already bought this one, I gave it a pass. Besides, my mental health is worth far more than the 80 francs the flight would have really saved me after trains to Geneva and from Toronto are considered.

I've had a pretty relaxed week, finally getting out to enjoy the sunshine on Monday, when I went to Bern to catch up with Alison, who is here for a Feldenkreis course. In the forest along the banks of the Aare we found some Bärlauch, or wild garlic, and collected some leaves. We then bought some walnuts and, with a potato masher, mashed it all up with oil and a bit of salt and had pasta with Bärlauch pesto - yum!

I'm also entering cheesecake experimentation mode - I think my white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake for Caroline's 30th birthday party on Friday (after an excellent concert by the Habsburger Camerata with whom she plays) went down rather well. But today's attempt at tofu-based cheesecake, while no disaster, is really only enjoyable doused with rhubarb compote. Otherwise it still tastes mostly like tofu. Or chalk. Oh well. It's healthy enough that I can eat it for breakfast tomorrow with no guilt whatsoever.

Well, I've just announced it on Facebook, so it's time to announce it here too: I'm moving back to Montreal. In September. To start a Ph.D. at McGill.

Whew. While I digest having written that out, a few necessary updates:

My bike is fine thanks to the excellent diagnostic and surgical skills of Nate Wood. Also, it didn't cost me loads, because while I'd ripped the derailer in half (oops) and derailers can get expensive, I bought new tires (I don't have to keep translating into UK do I?), chain, break pads, inner tubes, that bit of frame that I'd bent out of shape, and then the shop, not having the derailer I wanted (I'm not expert, rather it was the "just right" version in Goldilocks pricing), gave me a used one of the same model for free. It's back on the road now although it still needs a few adjustments....

I recently turned down my first gig because it didn't pay enough. What a milestone, do be able to decide not to be exploited. In this case, while for sanity reasons I've decided not to get my knickers in a twist because singers get paid really a lot more than instrumentalists (who are YOU listening to in Tuba Mirum?) I just couldn't handle being paid less than scale fees in order that the singers be paid four times more, so I demanded at least scale. The trombones in Saul are, after all, indispensable. They never wrote back but while going over schedules with another trombonist afterward I discovered I'd been duly replaced. So I get twenty hours of my life back - yey!

Yesterday I finished a project that has been really a lot of fun: playing Renaissance dances for a choreographed dance of 200 schoolchildren. The first rehearsals included the very narcissistic experience of standing in the middle of a circle with 40 of them dancing around me. Last night I got to play pied piper in the parade and then partake in some Alta Capella madness with a great band of cornetto, shawms, percussion and me. I did have issue with some of the 4-part arrangements on offer, as in "I'm not playing that bassline another 80 times" so I wrote my own funked-up versions. We also got some chances to improvise - diminutions of course but also a passamezzo at the end, which was quite fun.

Children of Many Colours

Playing pied piper

Alta Capella

As you can see from the t-shirts and sunshine, spring has sprung here. Last week was t-shirt and BRS weather, this week the trees have breathed a sigh of relief at a bit of rain, and all the greens have become greener. This picture is from two weeks ago already - it was much more leafy yesterday:

Flowers on Forest Floor

This one is more recent, of my herb garden and the cherry tree in the neighbour's yard, still going strong after having exploded in pink last week:


Other work-related events: The same Nate Wood who fixed my bike went head-over-heels off of his last Thursday - ow! He's ok now, nothing broken, but as he sat in hospital waiting to find out how bad it was he called me to possibly replace him that night for Ars Moriendi, a theatre project involving songs and bits from Purcell's Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary. So I very quickly learned the basics of playing Flatt Trumpet - an instrument more or less invented for this funeral as far as I understand, like a trombone but with the slide behind your head. I also memorized the music and learned the blocking for the show - not to say I got good at marching in twos and going up steps while playing but I sort of knew where I was supposed to be and how to get there. Correcting intonation was hilarious because one has to move the slide in the opposite direction, so slightly out of tune notes became hideously out of tune until I'd gotten a bit used to it. I learned a lot, but was relieved that Nate was able to walk and felt well enough by evening.

My parents have taken their cue of my leaving Basel to come visit one last time. When Mom was here last week, we enjoyed the insistent sunshine, taking some sausages and heading out to a park we call innocently the "gorgeous gorge" (but don't google it whatever you do). It's a gorge with caves and a big round table and firepit, and at the top is the magic playground, with the kind of splintery teeter-totters (oh alright, UK: seesaws.) and metal-and-wood merry-go-rounds of the kind that health and safety officials like to ban in favour of McParks years ago. Nostalgia rating: 9/10.

This way!

Swiss Waterfalls

Teeter-Totter!

Merry-go-round, charmingly crooked

The gorgeous gorge

Cherry Blossoms

Bench and Easter Tree

Garden invaded by gnomes

An Easter Tree? Yes, they decorate trees, or at least branches, for Easter here. Tina was quite appalled when, having given me some spare ornaments, I mused on their egg-shape and hung them on my Christmas Tree.

Yesterday was Sophia's fourth birthday. I gave her the purple ukulele. I think I'll buy another one for myself when I go back to Canada - one where the frets can move or be taken off. Apparently she had her first appearance last night, accompanying herself to twinkle twinkle up on her bed in a pink dress while her Kindergarten schoolmates gathered 'round on the floor. I'm sorry to have missed that.