Category Archives: Travel

Stories of a Life | Redux |
A Mexican Adventure

February 17, 2024Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, Travel, VanRamblingsbenjamin hill, cathy, Guadalajara, krla, La Peñita, louis riel house, mexicali, mexico, simon fraser universityRaymond Tomlin

Simon Fraser University in the 1970s

I loved university. In the 1970s, I loved attending classes at Simon Fraser University, talking hours on end with classmates sharing obscure insights into arcane literature, or why anarchism is the most humanist political philosophy, or spending hours in the library, or finding some quiet corner to type out the dozens of essays that were due each semester.

I was so curious about the world around me, so committed to learning everything I could on any given subject presented to me by my various approachable and erudite professors and radicalized teaching assistants, in the books I was reading or from folks in the pub at whatever stage of their university career, who over a beer would good-naturedly engage with me in philosophical arguments, whatever the topic of the moment.

Louis Riel House family student residence at Simon Fraser University on Burnaby Mountain, circa 1972

Attending classes and living at Louis Riel House — sometimes not leaving Burnaby Mountain for months on end — attending Simon Fraser University was for me the happiest and most rewarding time of my life.

Not so much for Cathy, my long-suffering wife.

Cathy made no secret of the fact that she wanted to get away, to explore new lands, to be adventurous and anonymous thousands of miles away.

In February 1972, I was enrolled in my 5th consecutive semester at SFU, having identified my areas of interest for my studies — political science, sociology and anthropology, part of SFU’s radical PSA department — as well as English literature.

Much to my astonishment, I was achieving straight A’s in school, my grade point average past my first year 4.0, and in this fifth semester I was on a roll, most of my course work completed by early February, as I prepared to ready myself with the reward of five more A’s, bursaries and scholarships, and further down the academic road enrollment in a Master’s programme.

Arriving home mid-afternoon Tuesday, February 8th, 1972, opening the door and walking into our student apartment, Cathy standing in the living room, rather than approaching me to give me a kiss, she stood stock still, looking down, then looking up and directly at me, and said,

“We’re leaving for Mexico next Monday, for two months.

Get your head around it.”

Cathy and I traveling along the Oregon coast, headed to California, and then Mexico

I knew there was no arguing with her about her dictum. Cathy had sacrificed so much for me that it was quite clear: it was her turn now.

The next Monday morning we jumped into our 1970 Datsun 510 — a wedding gift from her mother. Hours later we found ourselves barrelling down the coast of Oregon heading towards Los Angeles, where arrangements had been made to stay with our friend, Bachi — with whom I had attended almost all my classes my first four semesters, and who was my best friend, Manuel Vittorio Esquivel, handsome, swarthy, adventuresome, and the best friend anyone could wish for.

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While in Los Angeles, Cathy and I listened to KRLA, southern California’s rock ‘n roll giant

Cathy didn’t like driving, so I drove the entire 1500 miles (I love driving!) to our L.A. destination, arriving two days after we’d left our Burnaby Mountain home, as we found our way to the Chicano area of Los Angeles, a Latino and Latina East L.A. of boom boxes and low-riders, a vibrant Mexican community with which we fell in love, as we did Bachi’s mother’s cooking — eating mole chicken and lime-cilantro rice for the first time while consuming gallons of fresh-squeezed orange juice available at farmer’s markets in two quart containers, for only a dollar, driving along the freeways in the jasmine-scented night air, KRLA radio at full volume blasting into the warm night air, free and in love, and enjoying the time of our young lives.

The sunny open air shopping mall located in wealthy, beach-fronted Santa Monica

All was not perfect, though.

One afternoon while awaiting dinner and sitting in the living room, Bachi’s 18-year-old sister, Maria — one of the most beautiful and self-possessed young women I’d ever met, who was enrolled in her second semester at a nearby college, and who worked as a sales clerk at a department store in a mall in the wealthy Santa Monica neighbourhood to help pay for her tuition — came home crying, sobbing, inconsolable, wracked with pain, broken and disconsolate, collapsing onto the sofa, curled up into a heaving ball of sobs and pain, bereft of hope, for the moment not of this world, not of any world, alone and withdrawn.

Maria worked in the shoe department at Macy’s. Earlier that afternoon, a wealthy woman in her early 30s had arrived at the shoe department, miserable, abusive, racist, on the attack and demanding service — pointing at Maria — to “that dirty Chicana over there, who oughta be sent back to where she came from, but if she’s gonna be here, she damn well better serve me, and get her ass over here. Now!”

The manager stood nearby, but didn’t come to Maria’s aid, instead directing the abusive woman over to where Maria stood, now quivering, saying to the irate-for-no-good-reason shopper, “Of course, ma’am. Maria is here to serve you. She will find you anything you need. Now hop to it, Maria.”

The situation devolved from there, with Maria finding one pair of shoes after another for this abusive woman, responding to the demands of the woman to …

“Get down on your knees, don’t look at me, put those shoes onto my feet now, don’t look up, and you better be careful when fitting those shoes, or I’ll have your job.”

The woman remained in the shoe department for an hour, loudly and abusively making Maria’s life a hell on earth, before finally leaving the department store harrumphing, having made no purchase. Maria finished her shift, and drove home.

Once home, after her mother intervened, Maria spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, while Bachi, Cathy and I left his home, leaving Maria — whose young life had been a litany of the kind of abuse she had suffered that afternoon — in the care of her mother, as the three of us drove to a nearby drive-in for a burger and fries, staying away until late.

That evening, Cathy and I decided we would leave for Mexico the next day.

After an early breakfast of heuvos rancheros prepared by Bachi’s mom, Maria still in her bedroom, not wishing to join us at the kitchen table, leaving our car in the garage attached to Bachi’s home, Bachi drove us in his own vehicle to the Mexican border, just north of Tijuana.

Cathy had mapped out our journey, which involved us taking a bus to Mexicali, where we would board a train for the 2,000 kilometre journey to Guadalajara.

The above, very much like the train Cathy and I traveled on throughout Mexico

Both Cathy and I, once we’d boarded the train in Mexicali for the first leg of our Mexican adventure — we were planning on staying in Guadalajara for a few days, then planned to make our way over to the west coast, and come back to Guadalajara before heading to Mexico City.

Ours was, though, a largely unplanned adventure, where we both felt secure that we’d meet good folks, and learn something about a country about which knew little — were surprised that there were 20 young Americans traveling in the same car as us, hippies who’d shorn there hair, as I had, in order to get a visa, the men letting their hair and beards grow once we’d made it across the border.

As is almost always the case when traveling in a group — not that any one of us knew one another, or anyone else in our car — one of our 20 ‘fellow travelers’, in this case a gaunt young man with an adventurous spirit who had traveled to Mexico previously, suggested to us all that upon arriving in Guadalajara, we immediately make our way over to La Peñita, along the coast, 72 kilometres north of Puerto Vallarta, where we could stay for a dollar a day, swim, get to know the townspeople, and enjoy ourselves away from the hubbub of Puerto Villarta.

Sounded good to all of us — we now had a destination.

Now, traveling as a financially itinerant train and bus traveler in the 1970s was fraught with adventure. Why fraught?

Well, because revolution was the order of the day, throughout Europe, throughout central and South America, and most certainly in Mexico, where guerilla groups fought with the Mexican army, farmers led by ex-teacher Lucio Cabañas fighting against landholder impunity and oppressive police practices in rural Mexico, the guerillas carrying out ambushes of the army and security forces, and blowing up train tracks throughout northern Mexico — as proved to be the case on the first leg of our collective journey into the heart of Mexico.

Above, a contemporary photo of Benjamin Hill, in the northern Sonora state of Mexico

Upon arriving in Benjamin Hill, in the northern Mexico state of Sonora, approximately 714 kilometres south of Mexicali, the train conductor informed us that there would be a day or two layover in Benjamin Hill, as the tracks 30 kilometres to the south had been blown up by guerillas. When we arrived in Benjamin Hill, midday, the sun was bright, the day sweltering.

We all alighted from the train to take a look around at the dusty little village.

We debated whether or not we’d each rent a room in one of the mud shacks off the main street. One of our companions, who had kept a close watch on me since we’d boarded the train in Mexicali, a ‘sexual freedom leaguer’ traveling with her boyfriend, she a stunningly gorgeous young Asian woman, her boyfriend a nerdy-looking, quiet guy, looked at me and looked at Cathy, and then set about to announce to everyone gathered around in the boldest possible fashion …

“I want to fuck him,” then looking at me said, “I want to fuck you. Let’s go find a room in that building over there.”

I looked over at Cathy, who was rolling her eyes, looking heavenward, then looking at me, exclaiming …

“You want to fuck her, go ahead.

I’m not fucking her boyfriend, though.”

Me, I’m not good in situations such as the one I was now being confronted with.

Would I liked to have gone off with this beautiful young woman for a sweaty afternoon of sexual frolic?

Sure — but that would mean leaving Cathy behind, and I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I just said, “You’re invitation is very kind, and I appreciate it, but I’m going to stay with Cathy,” at which statement the young sexual freedom leaguer grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, marching off to rent a room in a sun-baked mud building.

As it happens, the twenty-two of us remained in Benjamin Hill for only about six hours, as the authorities had identified an alternative route to get around the tracks that had been destroyed. By late evening, we were all on our way again, the night chill, Cathy wrapped securely in my arms, under a blanket we’d purchased in town for about three dollars.

Two days later, we arrived in Guadalajara, the twenty-two of us alighting from the train, seeking food and drink. “No water,” our appointed leader told us — “Stay with Coke, you’ll be better off. You can trust it because it’s bottled by Americans under strict standards. Drink the water, or anything washed in local water, and you’re going to find yourself in trouble.”

So, we found a street food cart — all along the way from Mexicali to Guadalajara, we’d fed ourselves from the food carts at stops along our journey south.

We looked for, and found the bus station, all of us purchasing tickets to La Peñita for the five-hour, 262 kilometre pilgrimage to our coastal village destination, arriving around 7pm, night and dark, although the near full moon above shone bright.

Once in La Peñita, we secured our accommodation — spacious houses about 200 yards back from the beachfront water, several of us staying in each of three houses we rented for what would be our one-week stay in the rural village, our new home.

Having left our pack sacks in our new domiciles we all went back into town, where we were accosted by a group of 6, 7, 8 and 9-year-old boys who wanted us to play foosball with them, for a peso a game — if they won, we gave them a peso (equivalent to about one cent), the game free to play.

The first game I played was with one of the 6-year-old boys, who wasn’t tall enough to even see the top of the foosball table. “This is gonna be easy,” I thought to myself, “Poor kid.” I meant to win, and show this boy how it’s done — although I’d never played foosball before. Five minutes in, the game was over, I hadn’t scored once, the boy’s facing beaming, looking up at me saying, “De nuevo, señor, de nuevo.” Over the course of the next hour, I played each of the boys, as did the men in our group, losing each game successively more quickly, as was the case with each of my companions, now 20 pesos poorer than when I’d begun the night, the women standing nearby by shaking their heads, going off to look at the “shops” nearby (stalls, really), the young boys now gleeful.

Our leader, the gaunt young American man, rounded us all up, and said, “Let’s go for a swim,” and we did, some of the women going back to our new homes to find blankets to lay on the sand, but not swim suits, as this was to be a naked swim in the ocean, all twenty-two of us running toward and splashing in the warm, sparking water, the moon above glistening in the purple night sky, the light of the moon reflecting off the gentle waves of the ocean water.

Stories of a Life | Redux | Do You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth?

January 20, 2024fixin to die rag, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, Travel1974, europe, european vacation, spain, trainRaymond Tomlin

In the summer of 1974, Cathy and I travelled to Europe for a three-month European summer vacation, BritRail and Eurail passes in hand, this was going to be a summer vacation to keep in our memory for always.

And so it proved to be …

On another day, in another post evoking memories of our cross-continental European sabbatical, I’ll relate more stories of what occurred that summer.

Only 10 days prior to the event I am about to relate, Cathy and I had arrived in Lisbon, Portugal, alighting from a cruise liner we’d boarded in Southampton, England (passage was only 5£s, much cheaper than now).

After a couple of wonderful days in Lisbon, Cathy and I embarked on the first part of our hitchhiking journey throughout every portion of Portugal we could get to, finally traveling along the Algarve before arriving in the south of the country, ready to board a train to Spain. Unfortunately, I developed some intestinal disorder or other, requiring rest and fluids. Once Cathy could see that I was going to be fine, she left the confines of our little pensão to allow me to recover in peace, returning with stories of her having spent a wonderful day at the beach with an enthusiastic retinue of young Portuguese men, who had paid attention to and flirted with her throughout the day. Cathy was in paradisiacal heaven; me, not so much.

Still, I was feeling better, almost recovered from my intestinal malady, and the two of us made a decision to be on our way the next morning.

To say that I was in a bad mood when I got onto the train is to understate the matter. On the way to the station, who should we run into but the very group of amorous men Cathy had spent the previous day with, all of whom were beside themselves that this braless blonde goddess of a woman was leaving their country, as they beseeched her to “Stay, please stay.” Alas, no luck for them; this was my wife, and we were going to be on our way.

Still suffering from the vestiges of both an irritable case of jealousy and a now worsening intestinal disorder, I was in a foul mood once we got onto the train, and as we pulled away from the station, my very loud and ill-tempered mood voiced in intemperate English, those sitting around us thinking that I must be some homem louco, and not wishing in any manner to engage.

A few minutes into my decorous rant, a young woman walked up to me, and asked in the boldest terms possible …

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

“Huh,” I asked?

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? That’s the filthiest mouth I’ve ever heard. You’ve got to teach me how to swear!”

At which point, she sat down across from me, her lithe African American dancer companion moving past me to sit next to her.

“Susan. My name is Susan. This is my friend, Danelle,” she said, pointing in the direction of Danelle. “We’re from New York. We go to school there. Columbia. I’m in English Lit. Danelle’s taking dance — not hard to tell, huh? You two traveling through Europe, are you?” Susan all but shouted. “I come from a large Jewish family. You? We’re traveling through Europe together.”

And thus began a beautiful friendship. Turns out that Susan could swear much better than I could; she needed no instruction from me. Turns out, too, that she had my number, and for all the weeks we traveled together through Europe, Susan had not one kind word for me, as she set about to make my life hell — and I loved every minute of it. Susan became the sister I wished I’d had: profane, self-confident, phenomenally bright and opinionated, her acute dissection of me done lovingly and with care, to this day one of the best, most loving relationships I’ve ever had.

Little known fact about me: I love being called out by bright, emotionally healthy, socially-skilled and whole women.

The summer of 1974, when Cathy became pregnant with Jude, on the right above.

Without the women in my life, Cathy or Megan, my daughter — when Cathy and I separated — Lori, Justine, Alison, Patricia, Julienne or Melissa, each of whom loved me, love me still, and made me a better person, the best parts of me directly attributable to these lovely women, to whom I am so grateful for caring enough about me to make me a better person.

Once Susan and I had settled down — there was an immediate connection between Susan and I, which Cathy took as the beginnings of an affair the two of us would have (as if I would sleep with my sister — Danelle, on the other hand, well … perhaps a story for another day, but nothing really happened, other than the two of us becoming close, different from Susan).

J. D. Salinger's Nine Stories, an anthology of short stories published in April 1953

Danelle saw a ragged copy of J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories peeking out of Cathy’s backpack. “Okay,” she said. “In rounds, let’s each one of us give the title of one of the Salinger short stories,” which we proceeded to do.

Cathy was just now reading Salinger, while I’d read the book while we were still in England, about three weeks earlier.

Cathy started first, For Esmé — with Love and Squalor. Danelle, Teddy. Susan, showing off, came up with A Perfect Day for Bananafish, telling us all, “That story was first published in the January 31, 1948 edition of The New Yorker.” Show off! I was up next, and came up with Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut. Phew — just barely came up with that one! Thank goodness.

Onto the second round: Cathy, Down at the Dinghy; Danelle, Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes; Susan, showing off again, De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period, “turned down by The New Yorker in late 1951, and published by the British Information World Review, early in 1952.”

Me? Struggling yet again, but subject to a momentary epiphany, I blurted out, Just Before the War with the Eskimos. There we were, eight stories down and one to go.

But do you think any one of us could come up with the title to the 9th tale in Salinger’s 1953 anthology of short stories? Nope. We thought about it, and thought about it — and nothing, nada, zero, zilch. We racked our brains, and we simply couldn’t come up with the title of the 9th short story.

We sat there, hushed. For the first time in about half an hour, there was silence between us, only the voices of children on the train, and the clickety-clack of the tracks as the train headed relentlessly towards Madrid.

We couldn’t look at one another. We were, as a group, downcast, looking up occasionally at the passing scenery, only furtively glancing at one another, only periodically and with reservation, as Cathy held onto my arm, putting hers in mine.

Danelle looking up, she too wishing for human contact.

Finally, Susan looked up at me, looked directly at me, her eyes steely and hard yet … how do I say it? … full of love and confidence in me, that I somehow would be the one to rescue us from the irresolvable dilemma in which we found ourselves.

Beseechingly, Susan’s stare did not abate …

“The Laughing Man,” I said, “The Laughing Man! The 9th story in Salinger’s anthology is …” and before I could say the words, I was smothered in kisses, Cathy to my left, Susan having placed herself in my lap, kissing my cheeks, my lips, my forehead, and when she found herself unable to catch her breath, Danelle carrying on where Susan had left off, more tender than Susan, loving and appreciative, Cathy now holding me tight, love all around us.

A moment that will live in me always, a gift of the landscape of my life.

Arts Friday | The Undeniably Cinematic Romance of Train Travel

September 2, 2022Arts Friday, Cinema, Travelbefore sunrise, brief encounter, cinema, runaway train, source code, train, unstoppableRaymond Tomlin

[PROGRAMMING NOTE: VanRamblings won’t publish Saturday, Sept. 3rd thru Monday, Sept. 5. We’ll resume regular posting on Tuesday, Sept. 6th].

As a boy growing up in the 1950s and 60s, a part of each summer was given over to train travel with my mother and sister, to the Calgary Stampede, Edmonton’s Klondike Days, to Saskatoon or Regina, or out to Winnipeg.

There was nothing I cherished more than to arise at sunrise, standing between the trains cars, the summer prairie winds blowing across my face, as I gazed upon mile after mile of blonde fields of bluish green or mustard-yellow flowering and deeply scalloped gently rolling hills of oil-rich rapeseed.

All of which is to say, trains hold much for me in the recall of my life.

Cinema and trains go together like no other form of transport. Equal parts romantic and thrilling, they offer a sense of unequaled escapism.

Whether it’s the tearful goodbyes of Casablanca, the secretive affair of Brief Encounter, the epic crash of The Fugitive, the chase scenes of The General, the fateful encounter in Before Sunrise, the comings and goings of trains have been used to give metaphorical dynamism to countless films.

Trains are so popular that entire stories have been set on them.

This is due to the way they are able to keep action moving forward as its characters are forced to occupy the same physical space. From action thrillers to class commentaries to classic whodunnits, here are a few films set on a train that you’ll want to board should you be afforded the opportunity.

The Lady Vanishes (1938)

Perhaps the best of all Alfred Hitchcock’s British films, The Lady Vanishes tells the story of a young woman traveling across Europe who suddenly realizes her elderly traveling companion has disappeared. Containing endless twists as well as a pre-WW2 espionage subplot, The Lady Vanishes offers a delightful concoction that doubles as a study of British mannerisms, and the classic 1930s era of train travel.

The Commuter (2018)

Billed as an actioner, there are surprising depths to Jaume Collet-Serra’s train-based thriller The Commuter, starring Liam Neeson as a former police officer turned insurance agent who has just been laid off from his job, the majority of the film taking place on a Manhattan commute. While the thrills are thrilling and the action sequences accomplished, The Commuter has a socioeconomic depth that makes this Neeson’s most profound action film.

Unstoppable (2010)

As fast, loud, and relentless as the train at the centre of the story, Unstoppable is perfect popcorn entertainment — and proved to be director Tony Scott’s best movie in years, the narrative involving an unmanned runaway train carrying a cargo of toxic chemicals, and an engineer (Denzel Washington) and his conductor (Christ Pine) who find themselves in a race against time.

Murder on the Orient Express (1974)

Director Sidney Lumet’s agent called it “the dumb train movie” but the cast — Albert Finney as Hercule Poirot, and suspects including Lauren Bacall, Sean Connery, Martin Balsam, Jacqueline Bissett, John Gielgud, and Ingrid Bergman, who won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress — gives this mystery the feel of a luxurious chocolate-box with few toffees. “Stylistically it had to be gay in spirit, even though it was about a murder,” Lumet said of the film.

Source Code (2011)

Finding the human story amidst the action, director Duncan Jones and a charming Jake Gyllenhaal craft a smart, satisfying sci-fi thriller about decorated soldier Captain Colter Stevens, who wakes up in the body of an unknown man on a commuter train, to discover he’s part of a mission to find a bomber.

Europa (1991)

Director Lars von Trier boxed himself into an expressionistic corner with this hyper-stylized thriller set aboard a German train in 1945. For all its visual razzle-dazzle, this tale of a trainee conductor contending with Nazi terrorists and a collaborationist boss is an oppressively claustrophobic ride. No wonder the lo-fi, wildness of the Dogme 95 revolution was just around the corner.

Before Sunrise (1995)

Richard Linklater’s Before movies span 20 years but it all began unassumingly enough onboard a train from Budapest. Jesse (Ethan Hawke) strikes up a conversation with Céline (Julie Delpy), then persuades her to disembark with him in Vienna to while away the evening and early morning before he catches his flight home to the U.S. Had she not fallen for his charms, audiences would have been deprived of one of films most enchanting trilogies.

Runaway Train (1985)

Jon Voight and Eric Roberts were both Oscar-nominated for playing hard-bitten convicts who steal a locomotive after a prison escape. Directed with an air of existential horror by Andrei Konchalovsky, Runaway Train — based on a 1966 screenplay co-written by Akira Kurosawa — emerged as a first rate genre film, and a hard-boiled action thriller that feels a bit like Speed on a train.

Snowpiercer (2013)

Revolution is in the air in Bong Joon-ho’s post-apocalyptic thriller set on a train that endlessly circles a frozen and inhospitable Earth, carrying the last survivors of humanity — poor folk crammed into squalor at the back, rich ones whooping it up in first class with their own nightclub in front. There was enough fuel in the furnace to keep the idea burning through a Netflix series.

Strangers on a Train (1951)

The murderous “crisscross” trade-off proposed by Robert Walker to Farley Granger in Strangers on a Train may be hatched on a train but it’s telling that the actual climax occurs on an out-of-control carousel — the antithesis of the train, and anathema to any screenwriter, since all it does is go pointlessly round and round.

The General (1926)

Cinema has been coupled to train travel ever since the Lumière brothers screened their 45-second film from 1895 of a train arriving at La Ciotat station. Incredible to think that it was only 30 years later that Buster Keaton set to work on his staggeringly sophisticated silent Civil War action comedy, the story about a doleful train engineer who goes all out to save two objects of his affection — his engine and his sweetheart (Marion Mack).

https://youtu.be/4nj0vEO4Q6s

The Lumière brothers had it right — there is something undeniably cinematic about the locomotive. When it comes to train travel, you never know who might be onboard, and therein lies both its mystery and its thrill.

Stories of a Life | Summer Travels to Nova Scotia, But No More

November 14, 2020Stories of a Life, Travel, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

In the mid-1980s a friend of mine with whom I’d gone to school at Templeton Secondary on Vancouver’s east side, and someone with whom I’d worked in radio — his achievements in radio were far greater than mine — met a woman, fell in love, and in 1988 the two were married, in Nova Scotia, her home since the late 1970s, where she worked as a librarian.
Now, this woman had in the 1960s, while in her teens and early twenties, had a very successful career as a model, and on the advice of her financial advisor invested in property in Nova Scotia — which to this day remains undervalued — and specifically in the community where her parents visited each summer when she was a child, the east coast township of Annapolis Royal, a beautiful waterfront community nestled in the Annapolis Valley.
Both my friend and his new bride — who had moved to British Columbia with her new husband and taken on a job as a librarian in a rural, waterfront community just outside of Metro Vancouver — were people I spoke with regularly and visited often. We were close, and whenever they were in town, we would go for dinner at a comforting restaurant where the food was good, somewhere in the city of Vancouver. For seven years, the two of them were a regular fixture within my social circle, and good friends.
In early March of 1995, when I called over to their home one Wednesday evening, quite surprisingly my friend Corinne did not answer the phone — Donald answered the phone. “Where is Corinne?” I asked. “Oh, she’s at a library Board meeting,” he answered. And so it went, twice a week, every week through near the end of June — Corinne never available, at a meeting or out with friends, or a walk, in town, or otherwise unavailable. Until …
One day in late June, I got a call from Corinne; she was back in Nova Scotia, had returned there from her home in British Columbia, had filed for divorce from Donald, and was as lonely as lonely could be, she told me. “Raymond, come visit me in Annapolis Royal. I miss you, and I need to see you. Come stay with me this summer, and I promise that the two of us will have a good time together, and that you’ll just love Nova Scotia.”

And thus began, the first of 15 consecutive summer visits I made to Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia and environs, a lovely community, where I met everyone in town, during the summer months becoming something of a fixture in the community, where people pleaded with me to move back east, where I was repeatedly offered the job as general manager of the King’s Theatre, where I could purchase a house on 10 acres for $40,000, where I helped run NDP campaigns on three occasions (and where I met a callow young fellow by the name of Stephen McNeil who, as I predicted when speaking with him, would be Premier of the province one day — a prediction, quite obviously, which came to pass), where I fell in love with the community and all the wonderful people I met over the years, recovering from the hurly burly of my west coast life, over the weeks I spent each summer in the tranquil community on the Annapolis River.

All was well in each of the summers, until 2010, when I travelled back east to Annapolis Royal to celebrate my 60th birthday. Corinne, a decided personality, had over the years become increasingly dissatisfied with her life, both in Annapolis Royal, and with life in general.
As the years passed, she made it clear that my visit was to be shorter, more truncated, no longer than 10 days, after which I must leave. On my birthday in 2010, which we celebrated at a wonderful waterfront restaurant, Corinne insisted I pay for the two of us, a bill which far exceeded $150 — which for me was a lot of money, when added to the now $1000 airfare, my stay in Halifax on the way to Annapolis Royal, and on the way back, and Corinne’s insistence that I pay for all expenses for the two of us during my stay in her home, which was strange given that Corinne owned two large, revenue-generating apartment buildings in town, as well as thriving storefront properties, and her own, nicely-situated waterfront home.
In the summer of 2010, with Stephen McNeil finally having fulfilled his commitment to bring high-speed internet to his rural Annapolis Royal constituency, I also helped Corinne establish a stable Wi-Fi connection, set up her new laptop computer, got her on the world wide web, and placed a couple of thousand mp3s of her favourite music — like me, she’s a big fan of progressive country music — onto her newly acquired computer.
All was right with the world, as four of the nights I was in Annapolis Royal, the two of us were invited out for dinner at the homes of various mutual friends, enjoyed an incredibly bountiful church dinner on the Friday nights, visiting at the farmer’s market on Wednesday & Saturday, where I picked up a handful of hand-sewn wash cloths and nautically-themed cotton coasters, as well as a beautiful and a small, lovingly hand-sewn quilt, paying only $10 for the latter — all of which items I enjoy to this day!

All was well until the Saturday evening, when Corinne and I repaired to the King’s Theatre, to attend a student concert of a choir, musicians, and individual singers hailing from Annapolis Royal, a beautiful night of music and song celebrated with the townspeople, and visitors from across the Maritimes and the U.S. northeast — and me, of course.
On that evening, Corinne was working the front of the house prior to the concert starting, supervising the volunteer staff, making sure tickets were taken, the concession was working well & efficiently, and persons taken to their seats in readiness for the concert that was about to begin. One of the volunteers was a 17-year-old young woman, recently graduated with first class honours from Annapolis Royal Secondary and enrolled for the fall session at Dalhousie University, as becoming as could be, all primly dressed (as Corinne insisted) in a black skirt with a hem no more than two inches above the knee, and a starched white blouse, hair neatly kept, and all freshly scrubbed and presentable, a picture of innocence and sophistication.
As it happens, I first met this young woman when she was just a toddler, when Corinne and I visited at her parent’s home, which we both did each of the 15 years I travelled back east. So, I had watched this young girl grow into a woman of substance and no little élan, the apple of her parent’s eye and I’m sure they thought, a tribute to their superior parenting skills — which is to say, they loved her, brought her up with the values of service to the community, teaching her to express kindness and consideration for all.
Now, I hadn’t noticed it, but Corinne did, and as she was standing next to me, called the young woman over to angrily express her disdain at the …

“… entirely inappropriate nose ring you are wearing, which I will simply not have. You know the dress code, and have failed to meet that dress code. In consequence, I am suspending your participation as a volunteer, sending you home immediately, with an instruction that you may not return until I have spoken with your parents, and ensured that you have removed that damnable ring from your nose.”

The above said in a bitterly critical voice designed to embarrass this young woman, who by the time Corinne finished was in tears, the front of her blouse soaked, her nose running (I offered her a freshly-pressed cotton handkerchief, which I always have on my person), shaking, inconsolable.
The young woman left the theatre, people now seated, the concert began.
During the concert, I got up from my seat to repair to the lobby, during which time I called the parents of the young woman, both to check on their daughter’s emotional state, and to gain an understanding as to their position on their daughter’s nose ring, as to whether they approved or not.
They told me that although they were not necessarily thrilled with the nose ring, they saw the ring as an acceptable form of rebellion, and respected their daughter’s body autonomy, that as long as she was not engaged in an activity that would bring her harm, the two of them were just fine with her choice, and nothing as inconsequential as a nose ring would interfere with their love for their daughter, or her love for them. That said, it being a small town, neither would speak with Corinne about “the incident.”
Later that evening as we prepared for our overnight slumber, with warming herbal tea in hand, I addressed “the incident”, doing so quietly and respectfully, that had occurred earlier that evening in respect of the young woman and the “inappropriate” nose ring, asking Corinne, perhaps, if there might have been a better venue than the front of a packed house to address her concerns with a young woman she’d known since birth, and who had been brought to tears resultant from Corinne’s “intervention” to protect the heritage of the King’s Theatre.
Corinne was having none of it …

“Julienne came to the theatre dressed inappropriately knowing full well what the terms and conditions that have been set by me respecting matters of dress, she ignored the guidelines respecting her presentation, a slap in the face to me, and to the King’s Theatre. I could care less as to whether she is brought to tears — she ignored the rules, and if she wants to feel sorry for herself by crying, that’s her business not mine.”

No more was said that evening, but that was not the end of the matter.
The next day, I told Corinne that I wished to be heard on the matter of the young woman, and what had occurred the previous evening.

“I feel that what occurred last evening and your interaction with Julienne, Corinne, was entirely inappropriate and uncalled for,” I said. “You have, and had, no right to interfere with the bodily autonomy of Julienne, particularly when the item of her dress that so offended you was a barely perceptible nose ring, a bit of rebellion her parents told me last evening of which they both approve. Whether or not Julienne — appropriately dressed in a black skirt and starched blouse, wearing appropriate footwear, and as presentable as could be, the apple of her parents’ eyes, and a young woman, as you well know, who is celebrated for her many contributions to this community — meets the stringent requirements of a dress code you have established, a set of regulations for volunteers that I would suggest to you have been made by you arbitrarily and, as I understand, unilaterally implemented, to speak to this young woman as you did in a crowded theatre, causing her embarrassment, and for her to break down in tears, causes my heart to break, and offends every notion I possess on how those in our lives, and others, should be treated.”

Corinne did not respond, but simply got up and left the room. Later that day she approached me and said, “I’d like you to leave, first thing tomorrow morning.” Which I did, neither of us conversing again.
Upon arriving back in Vancouver, I received a terse, pointed e-mail from Corinne, which read, “You are no longer welcome in my home. Should I never see you again, it will be too soon. Please stay away from Annapolis Royal; it is my home, not yours.”
And thus my summer forays to Nova Scotia came to a close — although, annually over the December holiday season, I do post to Corinne my favourite progressive country music albums of the year, with a video of a song accompanying why it is I find the country artist to be deserving of both her time and my time, and the music transporting.
In 10 years, Corinne has not responded.