Here are my friends Anne and Ihor in their Toronto home, which over the years has often been my home as well.  Such kindness coming my way.

Tonight we went for dinner to their favourite spot, a simple little diner called Wally’s.  A few days ago the Prime Minister of Canada (Mark Carney) and the Premier of Ontario (Doug Ford) sat in a corner booth, discussing how they’d combat Trump’s tariffs.  Tonight it was just “little old us” enjoying the smiles and kindness of our two servers – Kat from Poland and Galina from Slovakia.  Everybody helped everybody enjoy life.

As Anne drove us through suburban Toronto, familiar names popped up on signs, as in a long ago dream.  Tim Hortons coffee shops, Mark’s Work Wearhouse clothing stores (now called Mark’s), a Home Depot renovation centre, Petro-Canada gas stations, …  Back home amid the history of me.  But actually my true home is Gent.

Yesterday it was me behind the wheel in my Kia rental car, named “Jed” by me.  I was nervous as I left Budget Car Rental: I hadn’t driven in three years, and the twelve-lane 401 Highway gave me pause, but Jed and I did great.  I had fun being proficient with lane changes, and figuring out where to be when for smooth freeway entrances and exits.  “I’m still a good driver!”

I thought it would be easy to shop for my ten new shirts (to replace my ten falling-apart ones).  Just pick a big mall (Yorkdale) and roam the clothing stores for a couple of hours.  Wrong.  In two hours I’d accumulated two shirts that I liked.  And when I tried them on at home, the sleeves were too long!  As they say in baseball, I was batting zero.

Most of the colours I found were muted and boring.  “We basically serve the corporate community.”

Malls.  Too much light.  Too many huge video displays.  Too few vibrant shirt colours.  I loved that the aisles were jammed with people, but that was about it for satisfaction.  After many more hours, I had four cool shirts in my hands, six ordered online (size 16 neck, 33 sleeve) and twelve black underwear briefs.  Plus a consumer headache.

Thank God that my jetlag has been moderate.  Still lots of sleep asks me to join it.  And tomorrow I’m off to a new locale – Richmond Hill – and friends who call that community home.

Goodnight, dear ones

It’s 4:20 am for my friends in Belgium.  It’s far more friendly for my friends in Canada.

An eight-hour flight yesterday from Frankfurt, Germany to Toronto.  Rishi and I laughed a lot and said light and airy things to each other.

And then there was Bob Dylan.  Air Canada offered “A Complete Unknown”, the new movie about a young Dylan breaking into the music scene in New York City.  Oh … I loved it.  The actor playing Bob was brilliant and he sang the classic songs so well.

I was enthralled as I watched people listening to Dylan’s songs for the first time, folks who were stunned by the power of his lyrics.  Songs such as “Blowin’ in the Wind”, “The Times They Are A-Changin'” and “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”.

The most jolting scene was at the Newport Folk Festival of 1965.  Dylan came onstage with a band backing him, and him playing electric guitar.  Sacrilege!  I watched many in the audience booing the musician they had revered, some even throwing food.  The courage of the man!  Turning folk music traditions upside down – and damn the consequences.

There’s a battle outside and it’s ragin’
It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’

Thank you, Air Canada

***

I’m too tired to keep going.  I learned a lot about shirts today, and about rental cars.  To be unfolded tomorrow.

Goodnight, everyone

Just to write those words feels special.  I begin.

And here come the moments:

1.  On the train to Brussels Airport, a giant “GTA” sign flashes by.  It’s graffitied in pink against a brown brick wall.  My head jerks.  I don’t know what the letters mean in Belgium but in Canada they stand for the Greater Toronto Area … about five million people.  And so the question wobbles me: “Where am I?”

2.  Four levels of escalator take us from the train station to “Departures” at the airport.  After each pause, there’s a lineup for setting foot on the moving steps.  I wait for a short Oriental woman, bowing ever so slightly.  She bows deeply.  Contact.

3.  In the Departure lounge called A43, talking to a fellow from Frankfurt, Germany, which is where I’m flying to before winging my way to Toronto.  We talk about Germany and Belgium and Canada.   He seems emotionally “flat” so I made it a goal to have him smile.  I think I said some silly things … which I now can’t remember.  He smiled.

4.  What a cool logo!  So simple, so strong.

5.  I’m trying out a new chair.  I love that it faces out to the wide open spaces.  I hate that it has these huge wings that enclose me, like blinders on a horse, so all I can see is straight ahead.

6.  I’ve always loved the moment of takeoff, such as today.  The plane rolls along to the correct runway.  Engine noise climbs while the beast stays put.

And then … The pilot releases the brakes (or something) and we surge forward.  Oh bliss!  The power.  The speed.  The lift.

7.  On the way to Frankfurt, I talk to Esther, a young woman from Kenya who lives in Belgium.  She’s flying home to see her mom.  We smile a lot … about flying, about family, about what “home” means.  And I asked about her hair.  Esther tells me all about dreadlocks and wigs.  Very cool.

8.  Now I’m sitting aboard Air Canada Flight 843 as we look at what movies are available and await the safety demonstration.  Guess I’ll lose the Internet soon so I’ll call it a day for blogging, even though I’m eight hours away from Canada.  So my title is a misnomer … but I’ll get there.

See you tomorrow

Yes, I think of yesterday, mostly with a smile.  Yes, I usually live in the moments of today.  But there is also tomorrow … when a plane lofts me to Canada.

What is the future of my sixteen days in Toronto and London, Ontario?  There is a framework to it: staying with friends, having lunch with other friends, swooning into concerts at Toronto’s Koerner Hall and London’s Aeolian Hall.  But so much is uncertain.

Tomorrow’s post will be called “Canada: Day One” and eventually there’ll be a “Canada: Day Seventeen”.  In between there’s lots of room for mystery.

Will I fall in love with a Canadian woman who just knows that she wants to live in Gent for the rest of her life?

Will my flight to Toronto somehow set down in Singapore, without my luggage?

Will I sing Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” to friends in the evenings?

Will I sit in Boston Pizza on Toronto’s Front Street, savouring their decadent nachos and a Rickard’s Red beer?  (It’s my favourite Toronto restaurant)

Will I drive a car for the first time in three years, revelling in the fast highways and the quiet side streets?

Will I have conversation after conversation that go straight to our hearts, full of love and possibility?

Will I essentially change my wardrobe into a sea of rich colours?

Will I sit in the quiet of London’s Victoria Park, remembering the splendour of Sunfest and the Home County Folk Festival?

Will I have a window seat from Frankfurt, Germany to Toronto and feel the clouds’ embrace?

Will I return to Belgium?  (The answer is Yes)

***

Off I go

When I was growing up in Toronto, the only time I heard French spoken was in a classroom.  Most French-speaking Canadians live in another province – Québec.

And did I ever hear Dutch spoken?  Maybe on a downtown street as people passed by.  I probably would have said “What’s that?!”  The sharp sounds are worlds away from the flow of French.

And here I am sixty years later, living in Belgium, where the official languages are Dutch, French and German.

Today was my Music Theory class.  It’s naturally taught in Dutch, since Gent sits within Flanders, a predominantly Dutch region.  I passed levels one and two of language training but it’s still largely a mystery to me.  I recognize words but making sense of sentences spoken quickly is beyond me.

After class today, four of us guys lingered.  Jérome was having a problem.  I later found out that his accountant was charging him a lot of money.  Jan and Ben were chiming in with words of wisdom.  I sat there silently.

What unfolded was lovely to behold.  The guys flowed in conversation, mixing in French and English sentences with the Dutch.  It looked effortless for them.  I was in awe.

What a different world it is in Europe, in many ways.  I embrace the new moments.  I embrace my new home.  I am one fortunate human being.

But first … breaking news!

Canada Has Invaded the United States

Can you believe it?  Early this morning, troops poured over the border near Montreal, Toronto, Calgary and Vancouver into the US.  Resistance is minimal.

Apparently Donald Trump has been offered a job serving coffee at a Tim Hortons in Toronto.

***

April Fool’s!

***

Now, about the really exciting news.  On Saturday I’ll be in Canada … and I’m going to buy ten new shirts.

I bet the last time I bought a shirt was ten years ago.  How’s that for longevity?  Clothes just haven’t been important to me.

But now the collars are fraying, the fabric is thinning, and I’m starting to hide my shirts under sweaters.  But guess what?  Here comes spring – too hot for sweaters.  So it’s finally time to act.

I did a Google search for “permanent press shirts in Gent” and came up with approximately nothing.  Now Canada beckons, and Toronto’s huge Yorkdale Mall.  There’ll be all sorts of clothing shops, perma-press shirts of infinite colours and patterns.  And yes, I want colour.  Maybe I’ll buy one shirt for each room in my apartment!  Red, green, blue, yellow, purple  and orange.  Why not?

I love perma-press.  Take them out of the drier when still a bit moist.  Hang them on hangers.  Et voilà!  No wrinkles, no ironing.

I’ve had a ritual this week, celebrating the end of one shirt each day, wearing it for the last time.  All worn out.  Today I’m adorned with a lovely but ancient mauve one.  I used to wear it with a tie at parties and fancy concerts.

Last time

You’ll be happy to know that I land in Toronto on Friday at about 7:45 pm local time (1:45 am Saturday in Belgium).  On Saturday at noon I pick up my rental car.  And 1:00 pm or so will see me walking the expanse of Yorkdale, with all the time in the world to find the ten precious shirts that say “Yes”.

Soon I’ll be a happy wearer

And actually … I’m already happy

Forty-two kilometres … a hero’s journey for women and men.  Five thousand people are putting foot to tarmac as I tap.  One of them is my friend Petra.

I’ve been standing on a grassy knoll, waiting for the moment of yelling “Petra!”  So many souls passed my way.  Searching every female face has been exhausting, especially when a big pack of runners floats by.  But I was not going to miss her!

And then …

Light blue jacket

Big smile turned to me

Waving like crazy

“Petra!”

The photo shows the flow of marathoners coming this way.  There was a dad pushing his little one in a stroller.  An old man wearing a Superman costume.  A young woman limping.  Running clubs with their members all glommed together.

Just like yesterday’s post about all of us being cellists regardless of ability, today all these fine human beings are athletes regardless of speed or even if they finish the race.

On the left side of the photo, the race returns to Sint-Jacob’s Church from the other direction.  You can see a runner in a red t-shirt.  Now there’s a flood of participants just a few metres away.  The crowd are cheering their loved ones.  All is right with the world.

I await Petra

***

Oi!  I miscalculated the time that Petra would come by Sint-Jacob’s again.  I was blissfully tapping out this post.  What I saw as I waited for my dearly departed friend was a continually dancing man on the sidewalk and four young women who cheered every single runner who plodded by.

And … there was a boy, maybe 8-years-old, who held out his hand, hoping for high fives from the athletes.  I bet five hundred of them passed his spot while I watched … and only five gave him their hand.  Before I sought a good spot for watching the speedy Petra, I walked over to the kid and slapped his hand.  Child and dad smiled.

***

I was blessed by the morning hours

And especially by one light blue moment

This morning was the cello concert of about twelve students of Lieven Baert.  There he is on the left, cheering on Hercule and Leonore as they play their duet, accompanied by Frederick on the piano.

I played pretty well.  I was proud of one note.  After a period of “piano” (quiet) tones, and a slight pause, a note was to be played further down the neck of the cello, in a different hand position.  Plus it needed to be “forte” (loud)!

I nailed it!

Sadly there were some other parts of the piece that nailed me, but overall … I done good.  The passion was there, the head was up, no grimaces when the mistakes came … and my smile at the end.

I was the first to perform.  Gudrun, a friend from my Music Theory class, planned on being there but I hadn’t seen her.  And then, in the last few seconds before bow met string, there she was!  Two big smiles.

The cellists were young and old, experienced and less so, accomplished and not so much.  None of that mattered.  We were drawn together by the majesty of the cello.  And the applause was rich for each of us.

Here’s a question:

What was I most proud of during the concert?

I bet it’s not what you expect.  At the end, Lieven thanked us students, Frederick the accompanist, and Vincent, his fellow teacher.  I sat there missing another name.  I stood up.

And congratulations to Lieven, our excellent teacher

Well said and needed, Bruce

We play on …

Yesterday I visited Julie, her son Raphaël, her husband Bart and her mother Annieck in Roborst, Belgium.  It’s only the second time I’ve met her in the same room.  We’re friends on Zoom with the Evolutionary Collective.

At the end of our time together, as Julie was driving me back to the train station, we both realized we hadn’t taken any pictures.  And when I was rushing to the correct train platform, we forgot again! 

Oh well.  What you see here is a photo when Julie and Raphaël visited me last summer.  He was an infant.  Now he’s two.

A true hug with a friend is a glorious thing.  We lingered.  We walked and talked … about her home, her garden and what was moving us in the moment.  It was easy, as all conversations should be.  And I sang her a song.

Julie is a healer through physical touch, a graduate of the Barbara Brennan School of Healing.  I loved sitting with her in the quiet of her healing room.

Julie showed me the wonders of her garden while Raphaël kept pointing to things and saying “Papa”.  So sweet.  There was life everywhere – the fish in the pond, the chickens in the woods, the bees in their hives, the birds in their glory aloft.  Raphaël showed me his little house in the yard.  We all need “our place”.

Bart is a miracle of creation.  He raises bees and joins in the becoming of honey.  He cultivates grape vines.  He raises vegetables from infancy.  He takes clay and a potter’s wheel, and a kiln … and ceramic miracles are revealed.  Plus he teaches his students to do the same.

Annieck just got back from a journey to Spain.  And soon she’ll be setting off again, going with friends to the Galapagos Islands, in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Ecuador.  After her husband died, she keeps being invited by friends to explore faroff corners of the world.

It was all so alive.  And what pulls everyone together is a two-year-old named Raphaël.

Family