Immigrant Song
Oct. 17th, 2019 08:46 pmIt's been almost a week since we finalized our plans, packed up Eleanor's car, and ventured- out of country, out of state, out of comfort zone- for a whole almost day. The three-plus-a-bit days at work this week since returning have been a mixture of good and weird: I won (at least partially) a case yesterday, found one missing client, made progress on how to deal with another missing one; but also dealt with a clusterfudge of an issue for much of today, plus throughout the week have had all the background-noise distractions of our Presidency collapsing at a breakneck pace.
My only comment on the latter- sing along with this, replacing "mahna-mahna" with "Emol-uments"-
But that's for another time.
I worked briefly Friday morning, mostly on one of the missing client situations, and finally packed it in around lunchtime so we could get to our Airbnb by the 3 p.m. checkin time. The weather was fine, the traffic not too congested either at the border or on the expressways, and other than ignoring Siri's original advice to drive completely around Lake Erie to get to Toronto-
- we took the more direct route, found the place barely two turns off the Gardiner, were parked outside it right by the appointed hour....
and were inside something like half an hour later. My bad; I'd printed the directions to the place (and our reservation for the show that night), but not the Airbnb email with the exact location of the apartment in the unit or how to get inside it. There'd been emails with that, but we were now in the very foreign Land of Rogers, where email access was impossible until you either got on the wifi (hard to do without the password for it inside the house) or bought a data package (nasty business- 60 bucks US for 30 days, no refund or rollover). I went with the latter, and eventually found we were to open the yellow door-
- yes, that one, and then key in a four-digit code on a keypad in the hallway.
It was our first time with this host-free accommodation experience. There have been plenty of traditional hotel and motel rooms over the years, and we (and I in pre-married days) did B&B trips in the US, Canada and the UK- but those were of rooms in lived-in homes with the owner right there.
Jose, our host for this trip, lived just behind the building, but we never actually saw him, nor did we need to once we were inside. For barely more than my cost in late August for a single-bedded studio-size motel room on Long Island, we had essentially an entire apartment to ourselves. Small, but more than we'd need; a full kitchen, television setup-
- complete with a Mister Bean DVD to watch if we chose, full beds at either end of the place and a functional bath featuring perhaps the smallest sink we'd ever encountered, but what were going to be doing? Bobbing for curling stones?
And the art throughout-
As I said, we never met our hosts in person, but I've rarely felt more welcome:)
----
The plan was for Eleanor to get some downtime before the show, and while she tried that, I set out along the commercial strip of West Dundas Street that we were barely a block from. It shows on maps as "Little Portugal," and you can see that heritage in much of the neighbourhood, with the old-school butcher and Brazilian currency exchange place and the all-encompassing general store (armazém geral, more likely), sharing the street with the Not Tragically Hipsters:
Those three were all within about a block of each other; further west toward the concert venue, another mixture: We cut hair, you can smoke weed here, let's get together;)
I walked just far enough to realize the venue was quite a bit further west on Dundas, so I went back for the car and navigated the very different world of Toronto Traffic. Lots more one-way streets, way more buses, the TTC's still-functioning light-rail streetcars, and far more bicyclists than I see around here in a month. I found the club, and found no convenient parking for it-yet. (Signs said we could park right in front, but only after 6.) So I turned onto the first side street, which happened to be the site of the first attempted overnight stay I tried to book; just as nice a neighbourhood, but I'll stick with the one we found next time, thanks:) I walked back to the club, past a cool record shop with actual Homer and Jethro vinyl in the doorway, up to the door of the club, which I found locked, and next to it, this sign:
I had a moment of utter panic. This was Friday night, which in both our country and theirs was October 11th. We were there to see Dar Williams. Had I screwed up the booking and missed her the night before?
Well, no. If you read from bottom to top, you will confirm that the dates are to the right of the artists' names. And that locked door was the emergency exit. The real entry was to the right of the sign, and they were more than happy to confirm our dinner reservation, and make sure that we would have two seats together at the six-top that was all I could book when this show was announced. (They call them "join-up tables," and for most of the evening there were only one or two other people at it with us.)
An hour later, we were back there together for dinner before the show. You don't go to these for the cuisine- it was exquisitely meh, eh?- but the atmosphere and coming show made up for it. One of the staff sat down with us to explain the history of Hugh's Room- like our own Tralf, which I'd visited and chronicled here last month, this club had a legacy of bringing the cooler, smaller, uniquer acts to town, but couldn't compete with the Big Boys of entertainment for the almighty Loonie and it, like the Tralf, became a non-profit entity to carry on the tradition. Their Wall of Fame was full of many we've seen, or at least loved in recorded form- from Mary Fahl (there next week) to Beth Neilsen Chapman, to these guys, who I've never seen in concert but know from covers they've done:
(Maybe Siri was trying to send us to Ohio in search of these guys;)
We had over an hour until the opener came on, and we'd each brought a book. Eleanor's choice was Linda Ronstadt's autobiography from 2013 (we saw the documentary about her a few weeks ago and have been catching up on her 50 years of musicmaking); I brought the book I first saw at the Mets gathering two Fridays before, about the post-baseball lives of some of my 1969 heroes. Our waiter saw Eleanor's book, and asked her who Linda Ronstadt was. Yes, we were in a music club, with Joni Mitchell and Richie Havens on the wall, and this kid hadn't heard of "You're No Good" or "Living in the USA." (Yes, I know we were in Canada, but come on.) Meanwhile, a guy at the table next to me saw my book, co-written by 1969 Met Art Shamsky. HE knew who Art was, even though (a) the Mets of that era never played in Toronto and (b) I doubt the guy was even close to 50 years old, which would have been required to have seen him play anywhere.
A chapter or two later, the lights dimmed, and Dar's opener came out. We're probably bigger fans of Antje Duvekot than of the headliner, even though we've known of Dar and her music for much longer. We'd seen Antje twice much closer to home- opening for Lucy Kaplansky, and then headlining herself early last year- and her two most recent albums are among our most-played.
She only did maybe six of her songs, including one or two from her earlier album which we did not have- until that night. I picked it up between sets, and she was incredibly gracious and unassuming, signing for everyone (before going back to her table for Dar's performance, one away from our own). I have no idea where the autograph came from- I never even told her my name this time- but I love it:)
She signed it to "Mark." Apparently, he is my good musical twin; a few months back, I picked up a CD from another Buffalo Friends of Folk alum in a used record bin for five bucks, also autographed to someone named Mark. (I may see the singer before another concert tomorrow night, and I'm bringing that CD so he can re-autograph it to us;)
Then Dar came on, Antje joining her on harmony for a couple of songs. We knew most of them, loved all of them. She tells amazing stories of their origins, her own travels and thinking, and joining this sympathetic audience of mostly Canadians, she implored, at one point, Pray for us. (This from a singer who might be best known for a song about pagans;) She caught me expecting the wrong song from her setup a couple of times; talking about her introduction to FM in the 70s/early 80s, and specifically calling out her love of (and the current bad state of) New York's WBAI, I expected "FM Radio" but got "Are You Out There" instead; and "Christians and the Pagans" wasn't the seasonal song I was expecting at the end but rather we got "February."![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
warriorsavant) that Thanksgiving is not as big a deal in Canada as our month-later food-football coma is, which probably explains why
90-plus percent of the US bound traffic had Ontario plates. The lanes were almost all open but moving slowly, particularly when the SUV with rear-window stick figures got to the one we were locked into. That car got a full once, twice, three times a once-over, and they then plopped a cone behind it.
(Sheesh, did it have to be orange?!?)
Eventually, Immigration Man removed it, we showed our documents and empty pockets, I got yelled at because I didn't await his official Okee Dokee before pulling up to the booth, and we were safely back on native soil, just as the groomer called to tell me Pepper's appointment was actually at one, not 1:30.
My bad again. Ultimately, she made it, got groomed, just in time for walkies a day or so later where we passed what I thought was an early 2020 campaign sign:
Then again, maybe it IS a sign for Cheeto: stump grinders are low to the ground, make a lot of noise, and kill living things:P
----
We did a lot of things around the house Sunday, both returned to work Monday, attended our first lecture series event at Kleinhans last night, and I will be checking in with more music over the next several nights. And not a single Emol-u-ment to be found;)
My only comment on the latter- sing along with this, replacing "mahna-mahna" with "Emol-uments"-
But that's for another time.
I worked briefly Friday morning, mostly on one of the missing client situations, and finally packed it in around lunchtime so we could get to our Airbnb by the 3 p.m. checkin time. The weather was fine, the traffic not too congested either at the border or on the expressways, and other than ignoring Siri's original advice to drive completely around Lake Erie to get to Toronto-
- we took the more direct route, found the place barely two turns off the Gardiner, were parked outside it right by the appointed hour....
and were inside something like half an hour later. My bad; I'd printed the directions to the place (and our reservation for the show that night), but not the Airbnb email with the exact location of the apartment in the unit or how to get inside it. There'd been emails with that, but we were now in the very foreign Land of Rogers, where email access was impossible until you either got on the wifi (hard to do without the password for it inside the house) or bought a data package (nasty business- 60 bucks US for 30 days, no refund or rollover). I went with the latter, and eventually found we were to open the yellow door-
- yes, that one, and then key in a four-digit code on a keypad in the hallway.
It was our first time with this host-free accommodation experience. There have been plenty of traditional hotel and motel rooms over the years, and we (and I in pre-married days) did B&B trips in the US, Canada and the UK- but those were of rooms in lived-in homes with the owner right there.
Jose, our host for this trip, lived just behind the building, but we never actually saw him, nor did we need to once we were inside. For barely more than my cost in late August for a single-bedded studio-size motel room on Long Island, we had essentially an entire apartment to ourselves. Small, but more than we'd need; a full kitchen, television setup-
- complete with a Mister Bean DVD to watch if we chose, full beds at either end of the place and a functional bath featuring perhaps the smallest sink we'd ever encountered, but what were going to be doing? Bobbing for curling stones?
And the art throughout-
As I said, we never met our hosts in person, but I've rarely felt more welcome:)
----
The plan was for Eleanor to get some downtime before the show, and while she tried that, I set out along the commercial strip of West Dundas Street that we were barely a block from. It shows on maps as "Little Portugal," and you can see that heritage in much of the neighbourhood, with the old-school butcher and Brazilian currency exchange place and the all-encompassing general store (armazém geral, more likely), sharing the street with the Not Tragically Hipsters:
Those three were all within about a block of each other; further west toward the concert venue, another mixture: We cut hair, you can smoke weed here, let's get together;)
I walked just far enough to realize the venue was quite a bit further west on Dundas, so I went back for the car and navigated the very different world of Toronto Traffic. Lots more one-way streets, way more buses, the TTC's still-functioning light-rail streetcars, and far more bicyclists than I see around here in a month. I found the club, and found no convenient parking for it-yet. (Signs said we could park right in front, but only after 6.) So I turned onto the first side street, which happened to be the site of the first attempted overnight stay I tried to book; just as nice a neighbourhood, but I'll stick with the one we found next time, thanks:) I walked back to the club, past a cool record shop with actual Homer and Jethro vinyl in the doorway, up to the door of the club, which I found locked, and next to it, this sign:
I had a moment of utter panic. This was Friday night, which in both our country and theirs was October 11th. We were there to see Dar Williams. Had I screwed up the booking and missed her the night before?
Well, no. If you read from bottom to top, you will confirm that the dates are to the right of the artists' names. And that locked door was the emergency exit. The real entry was to the right of the sign, and they were more than happy to confirm our dinner reservation, and make sure that we would have two seats together at the six-top that was all I could book when this show was announced. (They call them "join-up tables," and for most of the evening there were only one or two other people at it with us.)
An hour later, we were back there together for dinner before the show. You don't go to these for the cuisine- it was exquisitely meh, eh?- but the atmosphere and coming show made up for it. One of the staff sat down with us to explain the history of Hugh's Room- like our own Tralf, which I'd visited and chronicled here last month, this club had a legacy of bringing the cooler, smaller, uniquer acts to town, but couldn't compete with the Big Boys of entertainment for the almighty Loonie and it, like the Tralf, became a non-profit entity to carry on the tradition. Their Wall of Fame was full of many we've seen, or at least loved in recorded form- from Mary Fahl (there next week) to Beth Neilsen Chapman, to these guys, who I've never seen in concert but know from covers they've done:
(Maybe Siri was trying to send us to Ohio in search of these guys;)
We had over an hour until the opener came on, and we'd each brought a book. Eleanor's choice was Linda Ronstadt's autobiography from 2013 (we saw the documentary about her a few weeks ago and have been catching up on her 50 years of musicmaking); I brought the book I first saw at the Mets gathering two Fridays before, about the post-baseball lives of some of my 1969 heroes. Our waiter saw Eleanor's book, and asked her who Linda Ronstadt was. Yes, we were in a music club, with Joni Mitchell and Richie Havens on the wall, and this kid hadn't heard of "You're No Good" or "Living in the USA." (Yes, I know we were in Canada, but come on.) Meanwhile, a guy at the table next to me saw my book, co-written by 1969 Met Art Shamsky. HE knew who Art was, even though (a) the Mets of that era never played in Toronto and (b) I doubt the guy was even close to 50 years old, which would have been required to have seen him play anywhere.
A chapter or two later, the lights dimmed, and Dar's opener came out. We're probably bigger fans of Antje Duvekot than of the headliner, even though we've known of Dar and her music for much longer. We'd seen Antje twice much closer to home- opening for Lucy Kaplansky, and then headlining herself early last year- and her two most recent albums are among our most-played.
She only did maybe six of her songs, including one or two from her earlier album which we did not have- until that night. I picked it up between sets, and she was incredibly gracious and unassuming, signing for everyone (before going back to her table for Dar's performance, one away from our own). I have no idea where the autograph came from- I never even told her my name this time- but I love it:)
She signed it to "Mark." Apparently, he is my good musical twin; a few months back, I picked up a CD from another Buffalo Friends of Folk alum in a used record bin for five bucks, also autographed to someone named Mark. (I may see the singer before another concert tomorrow night, and I'm bringing that CD so he can re-autograph it to us;)
Then Dar came on, Antje joining her on harmony for a couple of songs. We knew most of them, loved all of them. She tells amazing stories of their origins, her own travels and thinking, and joining this sympathetic audience of mostly Canadians, she implored, at one point, Pray for us. (This from a singer who might be best known for a song about pagans;) She caught me expecting the wrong song from her setup a couple of times; talking about her introduction to FM in the 70s/early 80s, and specifically calling out her love of (and the current bad state of) New York's WBAI, I expected "FM Radio" but got "Are You Out There" instead; and "Christians and the Pagans" wasn't the seasonal song I was expecting at the end but rather we got "February."
(I found this review of the show we saw, with some much better photos of both performers.)
We did indeed get to park right outside the club, and were at our away-home and asleep in short order. Our only issue with the residence was warmth, as in too much; they had their thermostat code-protected, I imagine to conserve, but in our case we just wanted to turn things down and wound up opening windows with the heat on. Saturday morning, I headed back into the neighbourhood for caffeine and a bit more exploring; the coffee bar shown above was quiet and lovely, with a song on their music system from Andrew Gold, Linda Ronstadt's longtime bandleader who died in 2011. We packed our few things, and made those two turns back to the Gardiner Expressway,....
which was closed for Thanksgiving. We'd never heard of an expressway closed for Thanksgiving before, so we meandered along Lake Shore Boulevard, a much more interesting journey than flying by car dealers and billboards on the Gardiner, and eventually hooked back onto the still-open QEW. I'd stupidly made a grooming appointment for Pepper for 1:30 that afternoon, and while we left in plenty of ordinary time for that, the detour ate at least half an hour, and then the return border trip was promised, in multiple expressway signs, as 30-60 minutes for cars.
I'd been told (thanks,
warriorsavant) that Thanksgiving is not as big a deal in Canada as our month-later food-football coma is, which probably explains why 90-plus percent of the US bound traffic had Ontario plates. The lanes were almost all open but moving slowly, particularly when the SUV with rear-window stick figures got to the one we were locked into. That car got a full once, twice, three times a once-over, and they then plopped a cone behind it.
(Sheesh, did it have to be orange?!?)
Eventually, Immigration Man removed it, we showed our documents and empty pockets, I got yelled at because I didn't await his official Okee Dokee before pulling up to the booth, and we were safely back on native soil, just as the groomer called to tell me Pepper's appointment was actually at one, not 1:30.
My bad again. Ultimately, she made it, got groomed, just in time for walkies a day or so later where we passed what I thought was an early 2020 campaign sign:
Then again, maybe it IS a sign for Cheeto: stump grinders are low to the ground, make a lot of noise, and kill living things:P
----
We did a lot of things around the house Sunday, both returned to work Monday, attended our first lecture series event at Kleinhans last night, and I will be checking in with more music over the next several nights. And not a single Emol-u-ment to be found;)