Four years ago, I left my hometown of Grimsby, Ontario to travel eastward to a province and a city I only stepped in once before: the city of Fredericton, in the province of New Brunswick. This was the place where to I was to begin the greatest adventure of my life. The adventures of being a university student, hoping to cross the stage in four years time with a diploma, a little more knowledge in my head, and a wish to get out in the world of journalism head on. That was the plan at least when I set out four years ago when I arrived at St. Thomas University.

And now, here I am. Only one more month left before until only four more months separates me from finally crossing the stage at St. Thomas’s Spring Convocation. The emotions that are running through my mind are pride, relief, and excitement. But the plan has changed from what I thought the reality was going to be when I started at STU. I am no longer a journalism major, instead I am planning on graduating in May with an Honours in History. I am glad that I realized that I did not find any joy in being a journalist, and opted instead for being a historian. In that respect, I am extremely happy of my decision, even if my mother sometimes does mention that I could have always studied history at home. I counter with the suggestion that I am getting a better education here, that if I want to spend close to $5000 a year for tuition,  I would rather give it to a place that knows who I am. And not a place where you have to struggle to be heard.

Now I am at another precipice. The question: what am I going to do for graduate school? I am pretty certain that I want to do graduate studies, but I just don’t know if I want to do. For the longest time, I had thought of Urban Planning. I get a lot of questions of what that is, why I am thinking of it, and what I could do with it. Certainly I like the idea of transportation planning, as I am a public transit nut (proud trainspotter since 1990!), and honestly think cities will need more transportation planners in the future as suburbia becomes too unbearable and expensive for most working class people. I know personally the endless commutes would drive me up the wall, so I want to be part of the solution in finding a more sustainable transportation solution. But up until a few days ago, I never gave much thought to another possibility.

This encompassing another love of mine: classical music. I’ve probably already explained why I love classical music, but I’ll reiterate. Classical music to me is one of the deepest and most time-honoured traditions of expressing the human spirit. There is very few genres of music I find such deep satisfaction with. Whenever I am having a bad day, I’ll go to my iPod and put on Mahler. Even if I listen to his Sixth or Fifth symphony, I feel as if some power has washed over me and cleansed me of my demons. No other genre of music really does this for me.

Which is why I am giving some serious thought now on going to graduate studies somewhere to focus on connecting classical music to some broader history. I am already doing it to some degree with a seminar paper I will soon be researching on the war experiences of Shostakovich or Ravel and how their music reflects how their country reacted to the war. To some academic historians, cultural history is somewhat wishy-washy. But to me, it could be a wonderful opportunity to finally break into this field and write music histories.

Then there is the part of me who still air conducts in his room, while walking, on the bus, at Starbucks…I just do it wheneverpossible really. In fact, I just did it less than a minute ago to Ravel’s La Valse. Charles Dutoit and the Orchestre Symphonique du Montreal are just brilliant in the interpretation. Anyways, this air conducting habit makes me just yearn a crazy amount to say “Forget history, let’s relearn the flute, get my RCM training, and go back to undergraduate school and get my BA in Music Performance so that I could climb the ropes and become orchestral conductor”.

I’m always nervous when I say that dream out loud because I never really thought I had it in me to adopt the lifestyle or the demands of being an orchestral conductor. Or when I look at the world around me and see how little appreciation people have for the arts now. They are usually the first things that are cut in this ongoing quest to trim down government spending in this economic climate. It’s just sad to me to see it because I grew up lauding the classical programs I heard on the CBC, and I am always willing to go to classical performances with groups of people and not by myself. But still, I would love to see myself on that conductor’s podium with my heart aglow with the beauty of classical music that is sent out into the auditorium toward the audience.

Classical music is my deepest love. Urban planning is my pragmatic solution.

What I decide in the coming months and years will be another one of those “big” decisions that will make my tummy all-flutter until I finally push that hypothetical ”big red button” that decides what my future will dictate. I remain optimistic though that everything will work out in the end…at least I hope it does.

Every year, most often near the end of the concert season, the Toronto Symphony Orchestra adds a series of concerts wrapped into one big festival to be bestowed upon the audience that gathers in Roy Thomson Hall as the professional concert season begins to comes to a close. For example, in 2008.09 they had a festival that celebrated the music of Béla Bartok and Richard Strauss, in 2009.10 the presented all seven of Jean Sibelius’ symphonies, and their now annual Mozart @ (How many years Mozart has been dead for), and New Creations Festival are staples in the orchestra’s season. They offer a chance for Music Director Peter Oundjian and the orchestra to probe these composers with their contemporaries to show the interconnectedness (or not) of their compositions. In 2010.11 the TSO offered in addition to the above mentioned Mozart and New Creations Festivals, a Slavic Celebration in November and a second festival that began on June 1st entitled Rachmaniov and the Impressionists. The TSO has played Rachmaniov’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini with Argentinean pianist Gabriela Montero, a dance suite by Maurice Ravel, and a piano concerto by Nikolai Medtner that dedicated to Rachmaniov himself. But it was the concert program on June 11th in which I finally got an opportunity to hear Rachmaniov’s wonderful Piano Concerto No.3 in D-minor, Op. 30 paired with Claude Debussy’s La Mer and a piece orchestrated by Italian composer Ottorino Respighi based on a etude by Rachmaniov entitled La Mer et les mouettes (The Sea and the Seagulls). Oundijan billed as a performance to set sail with the TSO. And by the time the audience arrived on the other shore, the musical landscape we had indeed sailed over shimmered like the first rays of sun on the sea itself.

Our seaward journey began with one the defining birds that seems to hang a lot of its spare time around the water, hoping to catch a free meal from a passing trawler, the oft described scavengers of the waterfront–the seagull. Oundijian’s introduction to the piece stated that the buildup to the climax was in a way that only Rachmaniov could, and he was right. The second violins begin to create this musical landscape by playing as if they are gently rocking on the sea while a solo clarinet, played impeccably by principal Joaquin Valdepeñas. The swells of the sea begins with a deep brooding brass line which leads to an impassioned climax signalling a change in the seas by the strings. But it does not last long before the violins once again coax us into calm waters once again while the woodwinds trade-off with neat little passages to one another. All in all this seaward journey, noted for its “gloomy…dark-hued orchestration”, was perfect in setting the stage for the larger seaward adventure in Debussy’s impressionistic La Mer.

If Rachmaniov’s piece could be described as “dark-hued”, Debussy’s impressionistic painting of the seas is anything but. The first section, From Dawn Until Noon Upon the Sea plays out exactly like that. The orchestra, with woodwinds and muted trumpet begins the suite with these very ambiguous tones. Once again, each of the woodwinds seem to have a turn open, with shimmering flutes and clarinets echoing back their murmurs. There are ocean swells provided by the brass, which acts as the main crescendo in the piece. Concertmaster Mark Skazinetsky performs some very delicate solos as the orchestra marches on toward a sea that is now surely welcoming the sun’s rays upon the water once again. The first section ends quite beautifully, making me feel as if we are widening our scope from the seaport to look at the broader sea stretched to the horizon line. Part II, entitled Play of the Waves differs from the first section in that it is the most dance like of the three sections, with whirling English horn solos and triangle solos that seem to pepper the seascape. To me, the picture that became engrossed in my head was of this sailing ship catching the wind and sailing merrily along across the sea kissed by rays from the sun. The concluding section of the piece is the Dialogue of the Wind where Debussy uses all the techniques he used in the first two sections to their full potential. With whirling strings, and small brass calls the skies began to darken ever so slightly. And yet, it still maintains very much this grand image of the passivity and the wonder that the sea provides by the end of this piece. All seems to end well in Debussy’s La Mer, and according to the trusted site of Wikipedia, Ukrainian/Soviet pianist Stanoslav Richter called La Mer one of his favourite pieces. Quoted in a book that complied Richter’s notebooks and interviews, he said: “La mer again; shall I ever tire of listening to it, of contemplating it and breathing its atmosphere? And each time is like the first time! An enigma, a miracle of natural reproduction; no, even more than that, sheer magic!” With this review, I could not agree more.

Oddly enough the main solo work on the programme has some connection the sea. Rachamaniov wrote his Piano Concerto No. 3 in D-minor while he was in Russia, but had its première performance in New York City. To practice his new piece, Rachmaniov practiced using a silent keyboard on the ship. Much like his famous C-minor concerto (the No. 2), his Third enjoyed a truimphant première is now regarded as one of the most virtuosic piano concertos in the repertory. Making her TSO début, Chinese pianist Yuja Wang explored this concerto. At the same time rested one of Rachamniov’s claims that he wrote the Third “for elephants”, because of in the words of programme notes writer Kevin Bazzana “massive chords, cascading and leaping octaves, high-speed runs, dense counterpoint, and wide-spaced, busily embellished textures, it does demand a pianist with strength, dexterity, control and stamina–and big hands.” Ms. Wang’s “svelte” image quickly put those requirements to rest with a reading of this concerto that was refreshing and unexpected.

A friend who is pursuing his Bachelor of Music at McGill University a couple of years ago recommended that I listen to the Third, and I have to say that from the opening orchestral melody that is very Russian in nature to the coda at the end of the third movement, the orchestra provided very solid accompaniment to Ms. Wang’s solid piano playing, even if at times I had to strain my ears to hear Ms. Wang over the brass (because my seat was right behind the brass section in the choir loft). In the first cadenza of the concerto, Ms. Wang flew over the piano keys with quite mouse-like reflexes. Another cadenza, only a few moments later, showed the romanticism and a struggle between gloom and hopefulness. During the second movement, not only did Ms. Wang dazzle, but so too did English Horn player Cary Ebli and the entire woodwind section. By the time the concerto reached its conclusion, the audience in Roy Thomson immediately leapt to their feet in appreciation of the very fine performance Ms. Wang gave in another jewel of a concerto by Serge Rachamaniov.

It was the perfect ending to what was a pleasant journey on the sea provided by the Toronto Symphony Orchestra.

When many people hear the word “opera”, immediately images are conjured. They range from the size of the performers to the makeup of the audience to the foreignness of the language might make the entire performance  inaccessible. But these misconceptions could not be farther from the truth. To me, opera is quickly being defined not by these misconceptions but by the raw human emotion that is clearly evident in the music. This is the reason this year I have really expanded my opera intake, by attending performances of seeing operas Live from the Metropolitan Opera with a friend of mine while I was at school in Fredericton. During these wonderful live transmissions I saw John Adams’ Nixon in China and Rossini’s comedic Le Comte Ory.

While seeing these transmissions live was a wonderful experience, there is nothing like experiencing the opera live for yourself. And I had the pleasure of stepping inside the Lincoln Centre in October to see Puccini’s classic romantic opera La Boheme. And so when I back to my home in Ontario, I made a vow to myself and decided I should go to see the Canadian Opera Company’s spring season. After reading rave reviews for the COC’s production of Christoph Willibald Gluck’s Orfeo et Euridice I decided that this opera was the perfect bookend to my year of getting back to the world of opera. Orfeo did not disappoint, and thinking about it again as I write this blog, I think there were three stars that night that made this opera shine: the Four Seasons Centre, the set design by Robert Carsen, and the musicians themselves. This trinity came together to make for an operatic experience I will not soon forget.

Four Seasons Centre (Toronto, ON)

Throughout the past couple of years in Toronto, the city has undergone a transformation of sorts in its cultural sector. New additions to the Royal Ontario Museum, the Art Gallery of Ontario, the Royal Conservatory of Music, and the National Ballet School have all contributed to the arts scene in Toronto in more ways in the past decade than in any other age in the history of the city. The Four Seasons Centre, at the corner of University and Queen Streets, is another jewel in the cultural crown of this city. Whenever I head into the city, I walk past the FSC in awe of the impressive glass façade overlooking the street. I love the way that the building seems to interact with the rest of the street. And I walked up the glass staircase from the City Room up to my seats in Ring 5, I could not help but sigh in awe of the amazing architecture completed by Diamond and Schmitt, and see the obvious connections they cited in building an opera hall that could resemble an opera house from the great European

Interior of the Four Seasons Centre

capitals. And I was further overjoyed the fact that although a few times I had to strain my neck to see the orchestra, I could see the stage. All in all a very wonderful facility!

At promptly 7:30 pm, the house lights dimmed and the opera began! Conductor Harry Bicket led the COC Orchestra in a very thorough and convincing reading of the very Baroque score that Gluck wrote to accompany the opera. The overture was quite enjoyable, as was seeing and hearing associate . Four minutes after this wonderful little overture, the curtain rises to reveal director Robert Carsen’s bleak and unassuming stage. Another popular misconceptio is that opera requires lavish stages to make sure that these performances work. For example when I went to the Met’s production of La Boheme, the audience applauded loudly when the curtain rose at the beginning of the second and third acts, when Franco Zeffirelli’s classic set had its grand reveal. The solitary figure on the stage, Orfeo, sung beautifully by countertenor Robert Zazzo. I have to admit that I am not a huge fan of countertenors, but Zazzo sang wonderfully. In the first act, he portrayed the right amount of grief over the loss of his dear Euridice while the equally impressive COC Chorus tries to console the grief-stricken Orfeo. And so, the opera retains a sombre note until Amor, played in this production by Ambur Braid, intervenes when Orfeo pleads for help from the Gods. She agrees to give Orfeo passage into the underworld to bring back his lovely Euridice if he promises not to look at her in the process. Orfeo agrees and dives into the underworld.

Another starring moment for both the orchestra and chorus was the entry of the Furies (the deities of vengeance who live in the underworld) during Act II. Angry from being disturbed from a living human being, they begin to come after Orfeo. All of the gentle melodies that were present in the overture are now replaced by the sound of chants and anger in ” Chi mai dell’Erebo fra le caligini”. Zazzo as Orfeo calms the savage furies by singing an aria with his harp and they grant him passage to search for Euridice as they have all been loved by someone at some point. In much like the solemn march of the chorus in the first act, the Furies bring Euridice to Orfeo so that they could cross the Elysian Fields and get back to the world of the living.

Here it is where Toronto based soprano Isabel Bayrakdarian as Euridice finally gets a chance to show off her impressive vocal range. At first, Euridice is overjoyed that she is returning to the land of the living, but when Orfeo refuses to look at her she begins to doubt whether he loves her, whether she is beautiful, or whether this is reality. In a matter of moments, Bayrakdarian’s character shifts from joy to confusion to vowing to return to the dead. When Orffeo tries to settler her frantic mind, he turns to look at her. This kills her instantly. Singing about his loss for the second time in the aria “Che farò senza Euridice?”, another appearance of Amor redeems and tempers Orfeo’s willingness to kill himself to join his dead wife, who promises to return Euridice from her death a second time–without any conditions.Together, husband and wife, and the chorus sing of the beauty of love. The final chorus, which continues these words of wisdom from Euridice and the chorus:

Jealousy consumes
and devours,
but faith
restores.

And that suspicion
which torments the heart
at last turns
to delight.

Let Amor triumph,
and all the world
serve the empire
of beauty!

This triumphant ending is definitely one of the best operatic finishes I have ever seen. From death to life, from loneliness to togetherness, from bitterness to delight, these opposites made me happy. And with the trinity that was the set design, the musical landscapes provided by Zazzo, Bayrakdarian, Brand, the COC Orchestra and Chorus, and the Four Seasons Centre itself made for a very interesting and memorable opera.

Opera is a stage for pure human emotion. The COC’s production of Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice did not disappoint.

Robert Carsen as Orfeo (right) leads Isabel Bayrakdarian as Euridice (left) out of Hell

When I was a young lad, Quartetto Gelato’s “Chitarra Romana” was one of the first pieces of classical music that entranced me. Everytime I listened to it, I felt like the oboe, the violin, and accordion had taken me from my home across from Lake Ontario and deposited me in the gypsy lands. There were times when I felt as if someone was guiding and dancing with me in one of those grand old palaces of Europe. Then I realized I was at home. And my brother was just staring at me, shaking his head in apparent displeasure. Even when I pressured him to listen and feel this sensation for himself, he just called my music “boring”. Who really could blame the kid, after all, he was seven. I was fourteen, and really getting into the classical world, feeling these wonderful sensations and moods and loving every moment of it.

This idea of transporting mind and body and soul from one place to another is one that fascinates me to this day. Constantly, whenever I am in a concert venue, I yearn for this feeling in performances. Many ensembles have transported me from a concert venue to the boiling rivers of the Saint-Maurice River in Quebec, a ballroom in Vienna, or even dancing with my beloved underneath a moonlit night to songs by Edith Piaf or Jill Barber. This very notion of music as a transporter has stemmed from my love of this most treasured quartet. They needed to be heard and was determined to finally find a performance of Quartetto Gelato. For many a year they have slipped past me performing in concert venues that were outside my reach because I did not currently hold a licence (I still don’t). When last year the Fredericton Playhouse announced their 2010.11 Concert Seasons, I flipped through their preview book to find to my

complete astonishment that this ensemble of my childhood was coming to Fredericton and I earmarked the date (I hate to admit it, but I almost missed out seeing the ensemble this time around because of the craziness that is university life). I was so glad that I was able to attend this most-excellent performance because I was willing and able to go on a little journey throughout Europe and Latin America, and best of all my ticket was the music itself.

From Left to Right: Colin Maier (Oboe, English Horn), Elizabeth McLellan (Cello), Peter De Sotto (Violin, Tenor), and Alexander Sevastian (Accordion)

The first stop on this musical journey was La Ville-Lumière. In his introduction to the piece, quartet founder, violinist, and tenor Peter De Sotto transported the audience from a chilly Fredericton evening to a warm Parisian cafe with a waiting quartet of musicians standing by to play for you. The two pieces that they played, “Under Paris Skies” by Kim Gannon and Hubert Giraud, and “La Vie en Rose”, by Edith Piaf both transported us from Fredericton to that Paris cafe. I sat there, completely mesmerized by the image that seemed to be floating in front of me, seeing clearly a bustling crowd, cobblestoned streets, hearing much laughter, and feeling much love in the air. In “La Vie en Rose”, Mr. De Sotto’s impressive vocals brought Piaf’s song to life, and sent me home with this song stuck in my mind. Likewise in the songs “Besame Mucho”, which was composed by Mexican female composer Consuelo Velasquez at only fourteen years old, and the Irish standard folk song “Danny Boy”, Mr. De Sotto’s impressive tenor range brought these two songs to life.

From La Ville-Lumierè, the ensemble took us to the country where schnitzels, beer foam, and many a classical composer have established as their home. This is, of course, is Deutschland, where among the many successful classical composers, Carl Maria von Weber was prominent in the Romantic period composing operas and orchestral works. It was in his “Konzerstuck”, op. 79 that accordionist Alexander Sevastian, a four time accordion champion, was brought to centre stage playing the jovial final movement of the piece in F-major marked Presto giocoso, and that Weber himself wrote this movement contained: “”Happiness without end! The woods and waves sing a song of love, while a thousand voices proclaim its victory”. Mr. Sevastian humorously also told us a story about his wife bring him home some Russian and Ukrainian pirogies and him eating the two bags of pirogies that she brought home to him. The difference being between the two is a matter of what is contained inside, meat in the Russian versus the potato in the Ukrainian. Being of Polish hertiage myself and having consumed many pirogies in my day, I truly appreciated the story.

At the beginning of the second act, oboist Colin Maier was introduced to us as a “freak” by Mr. De Sotto. Why is Mr. Maier a freak? Not only does Mr. Maier play the oboe–a very temperamental instrument when it wants to be–but he is proficient in about fourteen other instruments, but he is a trained acrobat, even appearing briefly in Cirque du Soleil and having an appearance as the “devil violinist” at the 2010 Vancouver Olympics’ Opening Ceremonies. In his featured performance, in the “Oboe Concerto” composed by the Paganini of the oboe, Antonio Pasculli. In this piece, Mr. Maier had to play this showpiece by practising circular breathing, in which the instrumentalist in through the nose while simultaneously blowing out through the mouth using air stored in the cheeks. Not only did Mr. Maier accomplish this, but he showed off his training from Cirque du Soleil by performing a perfect spilt in one section while still maintaining perfect composure playing his instrument. His secret to that trick? Stretchy pants.

Quartetto Gelato's journey to Latin America in their 2009 release

And then suddenly, the quartet packed our bags and brought us to Latin America in promotion of their 2009 CD release, “Musica Latina”. From that moment, the performance hall became as hot and sultry as a warm summer’s day and first movement of their “Suite Latioamericana” by Hilario Duran featured some interesting hand tapping on their instruments and this lilting dance melody that really made me just want to start a huge dance chain. My foot was tapping and my face had a huge smile on it. Another favourite piece from their latest album was “Meditango” which was composed by one of the best known Latin American composers, Astor Piazzolla. I have had the pleasure of hearing Piazzolla in many chamber music concerts throughout the past couple of years, and everytime I hear it I bask in the sunshine that his music imparts on me. In the “Meditango”, the piece begins with a dominant string flourish, with very interesting dynamic contrasts between Mr. De Sotto on violin and Ms. Liza McCellan on the cello, and Mr. Colin Maier on the oboe. There is another moment where Ms. McCellan brings the tempo down to this moment of meditation, to have it picked up by Mr. Sevastian to continue. It is in this section in which the tango disappears and is replaced by this gentle reverie, a meditation that each voice develops and Mr. De Sotto begins to show his virtusotic flair by packing this emotion into the piece that seems to come out of nowhere. The piece ends with a quiet drifting note on the violin that just seems to want to resume the dance. I was absolutely breathless at the end of this piece and it just reaffirmed my love for Astor Piazzolla.

Quartetto Gelato is truly an Canadian classical institution that brings classical music alive through their amazing ability to transport listeners from one side of the world to the other. There was a time that the quartet was in danger of disappearing altogether, after the devasting loss of oboist and English Hornist Cynthia Steljes in 2006 caused by pleural mesothelioma, a rare form of asbestos related lung cancer. Mr. De Sotto’s legacy to his wife was to continue the tradition of Quartetto Gelato through performance. Today, Quartetto Gelato is as strong as ever has been and in its first trip to the Playhouse in over twenty years, displayed virtuosity and spirit in their truly amazing ability to redefine chamber music. It was indeed a concert not to be missed.

To have your own unique Quartetto Gelato experience, please visit their website at www.quartettogelato.ca for details on when they will be at a performance venue near you.

AUR

This is a short story that I have been working on for a while now and finally I have written it. I hope you enjoy and I hope that in the future I will continue to post some of the stories I have worked on here on this blog.

A Short Tale by Adam Ulrich Rinne

Inspired by Diana Krall’s Departure Bay

Quotes from Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing

Streetlight people, living to just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the night…

The lonely sound of a ferry’s horn rang out from somewhere beyond the small bay that welcomed passengers from across the Georgia Strait into the city of Nanaimo. Above the bay a brilliant sunset cast reds, oranges, and even brilliant flashes of purple onto to the cool coastal waters, and a nearby cicada buzzed its summer anthem—the last of the evening. Above the glittering sea, sea birds were crowding around a salmon boat that was arriving into the harbour pulling into the wharf for the local canning operation, while the industrious tugboat was busily going over to the salmon boat to guide it into the harbour. While this human operation continued, between the calm waters of the Pacific, a greater myriad of activity was going on. It pitted the weak and cute against the loyal and strong. There was a cornucopia of life underneath the seas in the great sea forests of British Columbia, and they were hidden far out of sight from the desires and greed of human hearts and minds.

Thank goodness there is some beauty in the world tonight. And thank goodness, it is hidden as well.

The ferry’s horn whistles louder as it finally rounds the shore and enters into Departure Bay, Nanaimo, British Columbia. I gather my thoughts and lean over to pick up my small duffel bag, the only remembrance now of the trip that I took to the island in the first place. As I look back toward the small apartment that overlooks the bay, I feel bitter and depressed that it should have ended there, but to my chagrin my weaknesses took me over, and it ended far away from here. Walking alone on the shore, shoes in my hand, I turn my head to look at a bar that has female and male voices mixed in singing at the top of their lungs could carry them that classic Journey song, Don’t Stop Believin’. Their naïvety, their zest for life made me smile and again made me a little disappointed. Disappointed because I could not be that fun and disappointed because they decided the best thing to do on a Saturday night was to drag themselves out to a bar so they could pass a bottle of Jack around and become so blissfully happy. I knew some would feel happy upon singing while Others—for whatever reasons—might break down and cry.

I turned once again to mark the ferry’s progress, and to my happiness, it was nearing in on the ferry terminal. Its bright deck lights, shimmering on the glass-like waters of the bay were an intoxicating sight. Yet this much I knew. I knew that on board this mighty vessel there were mainlanders who were on board their cars and RVs, readying to make the drive down to Victoria, Shawinigan Lake, or even the Pacific Rim National Park. They were on vacation, ready and able to escape the life that they lead in Vancouver. Readying, perhaps, for a change in the pace of life from the rough and tumble, cat eats mouse, win all or lose all lifestyle of the Greater Vancouver area. They assume that mighty Vancouver Island and the litter of islands known as the Gulf Islands that dot the Georgia Strait offer a sense of peace and relaxation. Most oftentimes they do. But I was filled with those grandiose notions once too. I was filled with desires to find love on the Island.

Now as I look at the ferry before me, and gaze upon the ever darkening sky, I turn to look for the first star of night. No luck yet, I sighed. As I looked back behind me on the shoreline of the Bay, the softly lapping waves caused by the tugboat and salmon boat were erasing the only memory that I had been on the Island. Bitter Defeat.

Some will win, some will lose, some of them will sing the blues…

A month ago, my life was in a sad state of being. Constantly my body and mind were in a struggle between the forces of light and dark in my world. There were pressures to be this or that, dreams that could never be realized because of my position in my life, and people whom had left my own life—despite my own hopes that we would have remained the best of friends for forever and a day. I thought that the more I focussed my attention on the things that I loved—music, travel, history, and nature—the less I would have to focus on the failures, the inattention, and the disappointments that I had faced in my lifetime. And in a city like Vancouver, there were some days that I felt that my future was not strong at all, despite even the fact that I had been vaulted from being an Associate Professor to the Head of the Department of History in only a few short months.

Still I felt lost. No one called on me. I hated my mediocrity of a life. I just wanted to get away from being the person that others dictated that I should be. Should I have done what I loved or should I have gone down a path that others expected me to take. Those were the big questions that dogged me day in and day out. Yet despite the mediocrity I faced in my own life, I found my work to be escape from the loneliness that occupied my condo on the False Creek. It felt difficult for me to go out and send a message to people inviting them along on a social event because I cannot face disappointments when people decide to pull out of the event. I tried to understand that others do have lives and not everyone can make it out every night, but it just seems that I was a kicking bag for people to practice disappointments on. People extracted every bit of happiness from me to the point that I decided that unless I needed it, I would not even go on vacation. Needless to say that bitter decision caused me to suffer more disappointments, and further I sank into a deep hole.

Yet despite my disappointments and angst, I still had an angel who embodied the best of humanity. She rescued me from my dashed hopes and desires and taught me how to dream of a better day. She just evoked the best that the island had to offer to someone whose bitter disappointments outweighed the happiness. She could be a playful otter, a mighty orca, or a mysterious Kermode bear depending on our moods. Yet she had a resolve that was strong as a Douglas fir and a calm that was gracious as the Pacific. Without my dear Rebecca in my life, I thought I would drown. Mind you, I had not seen her since my high school days—Grade 12 prom was the last time I saw her. That was before she was discovered by a man who took her away from me and sent her off to Julliard to study piano. Shortly before I began my third year, I learned that she was to be playing as a featured pianist with the National Arts Centre Orchestra. Naturally, if I could have flown to Ottawa to hear her perform Rachmaniov’s Second Piano Concerto in C-minor, I would have gotten down on bended knee to ask her to take me back. I knew she did not deserve me. Yet we still remained in contact with each other.

It was only a year ago that she wrote to me that she was accepting a position at a newly founded music school in Victoria and was moving to the island. Despite the fact that she was so close to me, I never wanted her to come to see me, I wanted to see her. So the day that I received a letter from her in the middle of a lecture on the history of the Canadian transportation grid, I immediately retreated back from my class to my small office where I delighted in another one of her letters. At the bottom there was a phone number. Delight.

From the moment that I said “Hello, how are you doing?” to the minute I said, “Adieu” I felt like I was in heaven. Not even the letter from the Dean of Faculty could have distracted me. I gave that letter a disgusted look, tossed it in the recycling bin and then strode out of that ivy clad building for the last time. As soon as I got back to the suite at my condo overlooking the False Creek, I just started packing and getting more excited to see my beautiful Rebecca.

Not even the disappointment of being handed your last pay cheque by a renowned university could have thrown a dart through my fragile heart. I was going back to see my beautiful Rebecca on the beautiful Vancouver Island.

That was the only way I could heal.

Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit, He took the midnight train goin’ anywhere…

Within twenty four hours I was on board a ferry that was charging through the waters of the Georgia Strait.

With every passing moment that I was on board this mighty vessel I started to wonder. I wondered whether she had changed from the beauty that I knew in Grade 12? I wondered what she thought of me? Of my suit? Or of my teeth? Was my hair the proper length? Where my teeth the right amount of white? Did my breath stink? Did I make the right decision coming out here and rejecting my university that had welcomed me since the start of my professional career? All of these blazing questions entered my mind during the voyage across the mighty blue strait. Some I knew were trivial, but others were questions I thought would have been best if I just let them resolve themselves on their own. By the time that I caught sight of the Island and the harbour lights that guided the mighty BC Ferries’ vessel into Departure Bay. It is a bay where hopes and desires are expressed, where sticks and stones can be found in endless supply upon the shore.

It seemed as if it was taking forever to finally get into the ferry’s slip. Every moment that I spent onboard that vessel looking down below to the ferry workers preparing for arrival I got more impatient. I was just looking forward to the moment that the captain gave the all clear for passengers to either head for their cars or to disembark the vessel via the bridges that led to the terminal. There was a hug at the other end of that terminal, I knew it. I clutched the bouquet of flowers that were in my hand ever tighter, my hand shaking a bit with the anticipation. Rebecca would be waiting there with no one else. Just that embrace I knew was waiting for me would take me away from this worldly strife and her angelic care would look after me as it gently caressed me.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the ferry pulled into the slip at the ferry terminal in Nanaimo and I crowded down to the bridge to get off the ferry. People were walking too slowly for me that day, taking their sweet time, already feeling and loving the relaxed atmosphere that the island had to offer. I just wanted to get places, I just wanted to see her, and I just did not want to get there last. And finally, I made it past the crowds into the main greeting area of the terminal and there she stood. I waved to her, my face in a wide smile, and she replied with an enthused wave of her own arm. Just as I walked over to her, I suddenly noticed that all was not well in the world of Rebecca.

Standing beside her was a man whose expression was possibly one of the sourest faces that I have ever seen on a man. His sharp features with dark penetrating eyes, wearing a dark suit was lint free with a freshly pressed tie made him an imposing figure. The fact that he was standing so close to Rebecca made me wonder whether he was a politician or a security agent. She was after all, an award-winning pianist. She was important. Nevertheless, unless he reached out to stop me, I had the full intention of running into her arms and embracing my old friend. Even if Rebecca was so important that she could even touch an unworthy plebe for fears that she could catch a miniscule cold that would throw off her whole schedule, I still needed to hold someone in my arms. Oh how sad I saying that.

“Dearest Rebecca, I am so happy to see you again. This visit is going to save me,” I whispered as I embraced her—with nary the slightest of movements from the still unnamed brooding man—with a hug that just flooded me with warm and happiness. When we pulled away, a brilliant smile was my reward.

“Dearest Andrew, I have missed you in my life. Welcome to the Island. A place that I hope offers everything that you lack back home,” she whispered back to me, her emerald eyes sparkling with happiness.

We could have just stood there and stared at each until the ferry terminal closed that day, but the man who had accompanied Rebecca had made his presence known with the clearing of his throat and a stern nod in my general direction as if to say, “Okay, that’s enough. Break it up you two.” We promptly jumped back, Rebecca went back to the man’s side and I just stood there, a great divide between us, with my luggage wondering who the hell could have so much power over my dearest.

“Hello Mr. Cresholme, welcome to Vancouver Island,” he said in a gruff tone while offering a handshake that nearly cut off my own circulation. “Dearest, have you told Mr. Chresholme the news?”

What the hell did he mean by that? Quickly, I looked at my dear Rebecca, whose gaze was turned down to the floor. The man, just turned to gaze down at her and must have decided that it was time to break whatever news it was that Rebecca was concealing from me.

“I feel I have to apologize for not introducing myself yet. My dearest still does not believe that these past two years we have been happily married,” he said with no warmth or pride in his voice. “My name is Mr. Nigel Hampstead. And this is my wife, Mrs. Rebecca Hampstead. Isn’t that right my dear?”

Sadly, again she looked down at the floor tiles and nodded sadly. Mr. Hampstead on the other hand looked like he was successful in dealing me a crushing blow. It was a blow that he was sure to have thought would have made me run over to the ferry attendant and buy a return passage to the mainland.

What a sly fox this fellow is. All I knew is that as I strode out of the ferry terminal and out to the dreary rainy day outside, I was walking with a former love. And I had a found a new enemy, both in terms of this man but also the cold sting of reality. I had come to the Island with grandiose notions that I was going to find love and I was going to be happy for the fist time in what had been a long time. But that was not to be for apparently my dear Rebecca had fallen in love. The ring that I had in my pocket brushed up against my hand and I felt dirty suddenly. I had this wish that as soon as I saw her today I was going to get down on bended knee and ask her in the midst of human activity to marry me. As we walked through the terminal, the joy and happiness that I had when I saw her disappeared in one quick handshake. Just before I left the terminal, I stopped by the garbage can and I dropped the ring into it with a bitter hate growing inside of me for that Mr. Hampstead, who just strode on forward with a pompous air. Rebecca’s head remained earthbound.

As we drove from the terminal to their apartment overlooking the harbour of Nanaimo, there was nary a word exchanged between us. As soon as we got to the apartment, it was almost as if Mr. Hampstead decided to put on even more airs and pretend that he was the best person that could have married Rebecca. He boasted about the piano he bought her (a Fazioli imported directly from Italy), the apartment’s location (a grand penthouse suite overlooking the harbour), and all the free swag that he showered upon her. All of it made me a little sick to my stomach. As I stood overlooking the harbour, seeing tug boats and seaplanes bustle about, Rebecca played a mournful Chopin nocturne and I immediately turned to look at her. Tears were pouring out her eyes, and my heart was breaking in half. Mr. Hampstead stood over by her, complimenting on her tone colour and how well she played. It did not me feel more at home, rather I felt like Mr. Hampstead was stifling me. He was there at every moment, every turn, and I hated him more and more for his interjections. Even on walks that Rebecca and I decided to go on, he just had to invite himself along. Suddenly what was only five days on the calendar suddenly seemed to be an eternity.

Halfway through the night on the sixth night, I was aroused from sleep by the sound of a cool feminine voice calling me to arise out of my bed. I was first of all startled because this person really wanted me to be awake and alert. When I finally came to, I realized that it was only Rebecca. Before I could even speak, she put a finger to my lips and I whispered, “Edward, we are going away. Are you ready for an adventure?”

I moved up in bed and nodded in excitement. She smiled. I smiled. Life was getting better. This was a turning point in my trip to the Island and it could not have come at a better time. I was wondering what I was doing here if Mr. Hampstead had decided to be so vehemently opposed to my visit. I wanted to know why he had been so threatened by my appearance on the Island. I needed to know what compelled Rebecca to marry him. But these were all questions I was sure and I knew could not be asked here, not with his presence only a few doors away.

Ten minutes later, we were on the road to a place she had not told me yet. That morning we were greeted by the warmest sunrise that I have ever seen in my lifetime. Too many times in life, you see the sunset as a metaphor for a dying age, the end of a great day, or at least that is what I have felt about sunsets. But this sunrise made me feel for the first time that life was perfect and that this trip had finally turned out for the best. As I turned to smile at my beautiful Rebecca, I realized that maybe it might have been a good idea to have hold onto the ring instead of discarding it when I was full of misery and woe. Maybe this would have been the time to finally ask her to be united with me as one body, instead of two friends who are separated from becoming one because our timing was off.

Half an hour later, Rebecca and I were driving through the wilderness of British Columbia through the Vancouver Island mountain ranges. As we twisted and turned around the stately Douglas firs and mighty coniferous trees of the Island into the heart of wilderness, we remained quiet and contemplative. When we finally broke free of the forests and mountains, we finally broke into brilliant sunshine once again in the village of Tofino. It was a sight to behold. The crashing waves of the Pacific, the sun worshipers were in full force, and the idea that Tofino with Rebecca was not just a side trip from Nanaimo, it was an escape. Thank god for it.

I felt like I was living my life to the fullest with Rebecca by my side and in this beautiful place. The fact that she had been rebellious and bought this cottage without the knowledge of Mr. Hampstead made me fall in love with her some more. She was courageous. She was beautiful. She was intoxicating. And there were many more days that I just fell in love with some more. Together we hiked the rainforests of the Island, we camped in the middle of the greenery one night underneath a plethora of twinkling stars. Some days we just stood and watched the waves crash upon the shore, marvelling at the wideness of the ocean. It was so perfect that we were able to escape together and see these sights together. And every night, we sat by a roaring fire and just listened to her play—she played on a Steinway here—as I wrote my latest ideas for research. As much as I wanted to engage in a lovemaking session with her, I held back because I really thought that it would be best if we still had some propriety toward the other. If I lost her respect then that was it. I could tell that she wanted to as well, but she held back as well. And truth be told, I actually was so glad that she sensed that was how I felt. Words did not need to be expressed.

Then on one morning only a week later, I awoke to hear the sounds of an argument going on in the bedroom beside me. Rebecca was on the phone with someone, and I silently tried to hear what they were arguing about. I knew it was not my business, but I was concerned about her. She wore a pained expression, tears were dripping out of her eyes, and she was yelling. Silently, I decided it was time for me to make an exit and I left silently for a walk along the Pacific deep in thought. When I returned, Rebecca was sitting at the kitchen table deep in thought, coffee losing its warmth. I tried to speak to her, but she got up and left to turn outside instead. For the rest of the day we were two different people, lost in our own thoughts. It made me sad a bit to see that we had come so far only to be silent.

Later that day, we were both on the beach, watching as the last surfers of the day prepared to be successful in riding a wave. While I prattled on about some of my most research on the history of the railway, she just sat there, caressed in my arms with a gaze that seemed to penetrate the cool waters of the Pacific. Then suddenly I felt a finger upon my lips and Rebecca turned to me with those emerald eyes and began to speak.

“Why did you call me and arrange this trip Edward?” softly she whispered.

I stared down at her, the answer I was hoping was clearly reflected in my eyes because I could not find the courage to open my mouth and speak. After a few long moments of crashing waves and cawing seagulls, I whispered, “I lost hope.”

“Lost hope?” she repeated.

“Yes” I looked out to the sea and continued, “I lost hope that my life is going in the right direction. That my decisions that I had made recently were not making me happier, but were just bringing me down.”

“But Edward. What decision made you lose hope so swiftly?”

“The decision I made ten years ago when I let you go out of my life.”

“I never went anywhere.”

“You went to Julliard, did you not?”

“Yes. I left the Island, but I never left you. I was always a firm part of your life through the letters we wrote. Even when I saw you in Ottawa, I knew that you still thought of me as a big part of your own life. And I was touched. I am so incredibly touched that you still remembered me as the person that you first really fell in love with.”

“But you were not by my side. That made me lose hope, Rebecca.”

“Edward. You might have lost hope that we would never be together, but I am going to let you in on a little secret. I never did…”

Once again, Rebecca dived into my soul and looked deep in there, pulling out my beating heart, yet I still felt I needed to ask: “Why did Mr. Hampstead enter the picture?”

“Nigel was the man who took me to Julliard. He was there from the moments that my career took off. I needed some anchor in my life and he was the man who provided it. I never wanted, nor did I imagine that we would become a married couple, but I have to admit that I lost hope that you were just going to pop the question one day. I had called some of our old friends at Brierwood and found that you had lost contact with them. I wanted you to find me. And when in Ottawa you eventually did, you turned and ran away from me while Nigel that night took advantage of my confusion and asked me to marry him. Believe it or not, my dearest Edward, he did possess some of the vitality and zest for life that you too enjoy at some point in your life. That is why I loved him. Until the time came that we were married and suddenly he became a stony faced music agent and just decided that I was not worth his time anymore. He pursued other artists, leaving me confused and lost. I never felt like I was good enough for him. But I never lost hope that one day you would find me again and everything would be alright again. I even hoped that when you dumped that ring in the garbage that you could have dove back in and loved me again. But frankly Edward, that cannot happen anymore because we are on borrowed time.”

I looked down at her when she said that, but I was filling up with a deep remorse that pained me to think that had I just opened up to her, I might be in a better situation than I was now. Then she said the words that broke my heart: “My dearest Edward. Love me forever. Never lose a vitality and a zest for life that I know you still possess. Dreams will always be realized. Friends will always be there for you—you just have to seek them out. Never feel alone. Never reject love for the sake of rejecting it. You are brilliant. You will always be my one true love. Always remember me. Do you promise all of this to me?”

With tears in my eyes, I whispered as I said, “Dearest Rebecca. You are the reason I love life. You are will always be my first love. I will never lose that vitality of life that you so possess to such a great degree. You will always be in my dreams. And I promise you that I will love you forever. To thee I swear, upon whose heart I will always have. You are my compass, my guide. You will forever guide me to love, to happiness.”

“I shall be yours forever my dearest love Edward,” she whispered as her tears rolled onto my face.

“And you shall receive my rapturous forever love Rebecca,” I swore.

“I am so glad I found you again. I have always known that you will find me again. No one will ever take our love.”

And now the story never ends, it goes on and on and on and on…

As I turned my way onto the deck of the ferry that was berthed in the slip at Departure Bay, there was no Rebecca to see me off as I headed back to the mainland after a vacation that at the time seemed to be fruitful. I sighed as I remembered that night on a beach in Tofino. It is a night that now seems as if it was an eternity away.

It is a night I just wish never happened.

Shortly after that conversation, Rebecca asked me to go back to the cottage to get her camera so we could document our trip out to the village. She told me that she wanted to because we could not see each other again. I sadly obliged and ran back to the cottage, where I realized that Rebecca did not have a camera and she was just fooling around. As I ran back to her on the beach, I saw Rebecca and the tall figure of Mr. Hampstead on the beach together. Mr. Hampstead—that bloody devil—had a revolver that was pointed at Rebecca’s head. He was screaming aloud, and Rebecca was just standing there taking his damn abuse. Why the hell was she not fighting back? Suddenly I could not take it anymore, and I decided to unfreeze myself and run to them so as to save myself over Rebecca. I screamed at him to lower his gun and let her go. Rebecca turned to look at me running toward them, and just frantically screamed at me to go away.

All I heard next was the scream of Rebecca being replaced by the sound of a gun being fired. And then the sound of the waves crashing against the beach. All became silent until suddenly so too did Mr. Hampstead fall onto the beach. When I got to them, it was a grotesque sight. They both lay their, eyes gazing upward, Hampstead laying on top of Rebecca in some of grotesque sexual scene. I knew that could not happen, but still I collapsed right there and then in the sand and wondered whether Hampstead’s gun had one bullet left. Then I looked at her in the sand, eyes gazing skyward and realized that she would want me to live. I blew her one kiss and held her until the police and other emergency vehicles flooded the beach. Above me there was one star, brightly twinkling and I knew it was her gazing down on me.

Damn jealousy.

Her funeral was beautiful, just the perfect testament to how lovely of a person she was. But despite the assurances by Rebecca’s family that I was perfectly fine to sit in the front row, I still felt like I partly led to her death so I sat in the back pew. The RCMP investigated and determined that it was indeed a murder-suicide, and that I was caught up in the middle of a titanic struggle between two people. I needed to quickly make an escape so that I could leave this stupid Island behind where I built my hopes and dreams—like those of so many mainlanders who came before me—only to see them dashed and quartered into little pieces. I needed to get on the first ferry back to the mainland. Again, I felt hopeless as I stared into the dark waters of the Georgia Strait.

Just as I felt myself readying to fling myself off of this vessel of change, my angel came to me again. A twinkling star—the first of the night—was brightly shining above. It reminded me of the promise I made to her on the shores of the Pacific. I got down from the railing and looked at the star above me.

“My dearest Rebecca, queen of the angels and of the stars above. I promise I will keep your words as a living example. My life will turn around for the best, and I will make sure that it does. No longer will I accept that life has to be the way that it is. I have the device and the will to see and make things happen. You have changed me forever my dear. I’ll love you forever,” I said as I gazed out onto the waters, looking back toward the shoreline of the Island.

I came onto Vancouver Island with grandiose ideas. I left with them being crushed. Yet as the ferry pushed closer and closer to the city of Vancouver, I no longer felt like Vancouver Island was a place to feel that my soul was crushed. It is true that while I found my long lost love, reconnected with her, ran away with her, and eventually held her in my arms as she breathed her last breath had been taken from me through the agency of cruel and damned fate, I knew it was maybe for the best. The promise I made to her, of never losing hope again, was one that I was going to carry with me for the rest of my life. This trip to Vancouver Island gave me a new zeal for life.

And I knew that above me, somewhere in the heavens yonder my dearest Rebecca would be guiding me along.

Adam Ulrich Rinne (September 2010)