Wednesday 2nd April – St.Petersburg

It is now17:01 Volgograd time on Monday 7^th April. I am sitting alone in my hotel room at the Hampton by Hilton Profsoyuznaya, which is a very pleasant establishment, not far from the mighty Volga river. Two hours ago I waved good-bye to Iraida, who was setting off from Volgograd Railway Station, on the first stage of her journey back to Krasnoyarsk, in Siberia. An 18 hour train journey to Moscow, followed by a 5 hour flight to her home city. Since last Thursday morning we have rarely been apart, and it was a very emotional parting at the railway station. Lots of things have happened since our first real meeting last Thursday morning, and I really don’t know what I would have done without her. So, before continuing with the blogging of those events, I just want to say a very big, public thank you to her.

  

Моя дорогая Ираида, я хочу сказать большое Tам спасибо - ты был моим ангелом-хранителем. Без тебя я не знаю, что бы я сделал. Большое спасибо.

Now you may remember that last Wednesday afternoon my flight from London Heathrow to St. Petersburg had gone very well, that I had almost literally bumped into Bruno Pelletier in the baggage retrieval area, had been met by Alena and Tatanie, and had made it as far as the Moskovskaya Metro Station at Ploschad Vosstaniya. The first planned activity was to find  a mobile phone shop, so that I could buy a SIM card for use in Russia, with Alena’s help.  Just opposite the Metro Station, and almost next to the hotel was a Megafon shop,  Megafon being one of the major telephony companies in Russia. We waited till the green man lit up and crossed the busy road – a countdown of seconds remaining was very helpful, and quite lengthy.  I think it was about 25 seconds in which one had to cross the road or risk being being mowed down by on-rushing traffic.

Once in the phone shop, Alena explained what I wanted and a very helpful young man gave her a lengthy explanation of the possible deals. These she relayed to me and we made a choice – a SIM that would allow me access to text and phone calls throughout Russia. This was useful, because some SIM cards work only in a restricted number of cities here. The very reasonable price was agreed and I handed over cash and my passport, (the passport being obligatory for foreign visitors.)  At the time I did not realise it, but this was to become a very significant few moment. He took my passport from me, handed a small piece of paper from it and I put it into my pocket, and then added to that pocket the receipt and agreement for the SIM card. I will be testing you on this later. The young man, Alexei, I think his name was, then checked that the phone was working. It was, so Alena and I left the shop and walked the few yard to the Octiabrskaya Hotel, a very large building which takes up an enormous amount of space on the corner of Ligovsky Prospect and the Ploschad. Some of the ground floor area is taken up by shops and cafes.

( I’ve just remembered that this notebook does not allow me to add accents to words, so please excuse any which are missing.)

We made our way to the main entrance with its massive doors and struggled through them. To open the door requires a push or pull of Herculaean order, but we managed, and climbed the marble steps into a very grand reception area. I think the hotel must have major internal reconstruction since my last visit in 1966, because I did not really recognise it at all. We trundled my luggage over to the reception desk and I introduced myself, handed over the passport for registration, checked in and paid for the one night stay in advance. This was another significant moment, another moment of unrecognised significance.

Ooh, this is very mysterious, isn’t it? All this significant stuff going unrecognised! I’m not certain I can take this building tension brought about my missing moments of significance. This is clearly building up to something.

A not too inaccurate reading of the situation. The building (in a dramatic sense, rather than bricks and mortar) tension. 

But since the significance of the moment had been missed, I simply spent half an hour chatting with Alyona, before she went to spend a couple of hours with a fellow brunette who was staying in the same hotel, and I went up to my room (3063) on the 3^rd floor. It was a pleasant enough twin-bedded room with all of the normal facilities, and I settled in, did necessary ablutions and shaves and things and watched a bit of Russian TV until 20.00. Actually, I think it was a French news channel. I say think because, although it was in the French language, it could have been Belgian or Swiss TV. Anyway that’s absolutely irrelevant, and certainly not significant.

At about 20.00, my “Russian” phone rang and it was Alena, letting me know that she was waiting for me down in the lobby. She had very kindly agreed to accompany me for a meal, my invitation  being offered as a way of saying thank you for bringing me safely to the hotel. She had also done some research and found a bar-restaurant, SPB, not far away, just off Nevsky Prospect, which had a good range of beers. It was quite cold as we walked the ten minutes to SPB, with a strong wind blowing down the wide boulevards. It seemed to me quite a dry wind, the temperature of +2C not being too unpleasant.

We were guided through a fairly smoke-filled area into a non-smoking section of the bar at the rear. We took our seats in a booth and began to peruse the menu.

We took a long time to peruse the menu, because Alena patiently waited whilst I tried to read it, and then she translated words I didn’t know.

That would be the majority of words then?

Perhaps. We also spent some time on the beer menu. There were quite a large number of beers on draught – local and international. I settled for a pleasant wheat beer brewed in St.Petersburg, and Alena had a smaller glass of Fuller’s “London Pride”. Both were in good nick, and I seem to remember that I had a second. For food Alena chose a salad, and I had a pork shashlik with a side portion of chips. Very pleasant.

Alena Semenstova

Isn’t she though?

I was referring to the meal and beer, but yes, she is a delightful young lady, who is currently studying  at the University of St.Petersburg. She is also the vice-president of the St.Petersburg branch of the Bruno Pelletier Fan Club, and should really have been preparing stuff for the next day. We finished our meal, and our beers – Alena seemed to enjoy her first English beer – and then fought our way through the clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke to the fresh air outside.

By this time it must have been about 22.00, and the temperature had dropped a bit further =- so it really was fresh air. I escorted Alena back to the Moskovskaya Metro station so she could make her way back home, a journey of about an hour. We parted, and before returning to Octobriaskaya I decided to take some photos of the square, I did so, and was just turning to move towards the hotel when I was approached by two middle-aged ladies. I use the word ‘ladies’ loosely, if you get my meaning.

The next section has a health warning, and is not to be read by anyone under the age of 18.

Well not exactly, but…. So one of the ‘ladies’ sidles up to me and whispers something in my ear, naturally in Russian. I didn’t understand a single word. I thought she might be asking for money for a cup of coffee, or something.

Ah, so I’m getting the picture, carry on…

I replied to her that I was very sorry but that could not understand her.

There was a kind of a grunt by way of reply, and then, with the greatest of subtlety she said, “You want sex?”

This came as a bit of a shock, but I retained my sense of propriety and good manners, and said, ”No thank you. I’m a bit too old for that.” Not one to give up too easily the first lady…

It wasn’t, was it?

Wasn’t what?

The First Lady?

Don’t be facetious. Go and stand in the corner!

As I was saying, the first female who had approached me was not about to step back, the second didn’t seem too sure by now. “Age not important,” she said. Now normally I would have agreed with her absolutely, but not in this case, and I raised my hands in a “That’s final” gesture. It was at this point that, by way of making her point, she made a swift grab for the trouser department.  By this time I was more than bemused, and was grateful that female number two pulled her companion away from me and they made their way towards the Metro station. I made my way very swiftly to the hotel, watched some tv and went to sleep!

The photos I took before being so rudely interrupted are below:

Hotel Octiabrskaya, also bearing the legend: Heroic City - Leningrad

 .

The Moscow Station in Ploschad Vosstaniya

En route to St.Petersburg

I am writing this post somewhere above Germany, I think, flying on BA0878 at 27000 feet, en route to St.Petersburg, and writing it with an enormous sense of relief. There were a few minutes yesterday when I thought that the long-awaited trip to Russia was under threat.

There have been a few occasions over the last few weeks when that was the case, wouldn't  you say?

No, not really. I understand your thinking, but no, in my mind there was no real threat for a tourist visiting three amazing cities, meeting friends and watching/listening to music. Yesterday's threat was more to do with administrative errors than international relations. 

The problem came to light when I tried to check-in online for my flight to Heathrow, at 21.30 on Monday evening. Basically, I couldn't  check in. There was a reassuring message from BA to the effect that I shouldn't worry, I could contact someone by telephone, or wait until I arrived at Newcastle Airport, where any problem could surely be sorted.

Reading between the lines, that means start worrying.

My thoughts exactly. So let's  ring the help line........... ah, they all closed at 20.00. But don't  worry, they open again at 06.00. 
So now, not only was I worried about the threat to Sunderland AFC 's existence in the Premiership, after their defeat against West Ham United, but also some problem with my booking for the flights to London and on to St.Petersburg. The former worry would not have kept me awake as it might have done in the past, but the second did. At 06.00 on the dot I telephoned BA. 

The robot informed me that  "we are experiencing  an extremely high number of calls. The current waiting time is.........(slight delay while robot calculates delay) .....30 minutes."

Hmm, I thought, 30 minutes on my mobile phone, calling an 0844 number is going to be expensive. End call, check battery time left on house phone - 3/4 full. Redial.

"We are experiencing an extremely high number of calls. The current waiting time is.........30 minutes."


Nothing if not consistent.

Set phone on speaker and listen to interminable guitar music, ever looping.

You do that, don't  you?

What?

Play interminable guitar music, with the ever looping  backing-track on your amplifier?

Yes, but mine sounds better, and fresher than the BA version, which has probably been playing  since the days of the Wright Brothers. But enough of this digression. This was serious,and my pulse rate was increasing as the minutes hold ticked by. After 20 minutes the guitar music was interrupted by a real human voice. After going through the series of security questions,  I was allowed to explain my difficulty.


"One moment sir, while I check the booking. Please hold, and do not hang up."


I held, and did not hang up. Ten minutes later, I was informed that there was a simple reason that I was unable to check-in: no e-ticket  had been issued, because of an outstanding balance which would have to be settled before it could be issued. The outstanding balance was £195.

It was at this point that I began to turn to jelly, angry jelly - jelly that shakes with anger, probably red jelly.

"What?" I exclaimed loudly.

It's true, he did. I was there, a witness to the outpouring of  a strange mixture of anger, fear, frustration and desperation which brought our hero close to bursting.

Despite all of my protestations, delivered in an ever increasingly emotional outburst, the agent at the other end of the line remained unmoved. "You will need to pay sir, and then you can dispute the matter later. I will connect you to the appropriate  department. Please hold, and do not end the call."
I held, and I did not end the call. Fifteen minutes later I was connected to the appropriate department.

"Now sir, how may I help you today?"

There were a number of responses which seemed eminently suitable, none of which I used or can repeat here. Suffice it it to say that there might have been several Anglo -Saxon expletives included, with the odd reference to bodily orifices.

Oh, go on, let's have one.

No. I explained that I had been informed that there was an outstanding balance to pay.

"Just let me have a look for you sir. Yes, there is an outstanding balance of £57 to pay."

"I'm sorry, did you just say a balance of £57 to pay? I've  just been told that it was £195."

"Ah, that is because you have acquired an avios point within the last year, so you don't need to pay taxes, just a fee of £42 plus a service charge of £15. It appears that the payment did not go through when you made the booking."

At this point the steam was coming out of my ears, but I paid, and a half hour later was able to check in online. You have not heard the last of this British Airways, but I will wait until I am back home before creating waves.

So, now I am flying over Russia, wiith landing scheduled at 15.35, that's  in 25 minutes. The rest of yesterday was  hectic. It was nice to have little chats with Luce and Iraida, and we hope to have Skype  link up later in the week, uniting Luce with her Three Lucequetaires.  :-)

The plane is beginning its descent.  Oh look, Russian clouds look just like ours. And the ground looks the same too. And all of the Russian people sitting round me look quite normal. But they would wouldn't  they - they are. I am so looking forward to this, despite the slightly daunting prospect of immigration and customs controls. After that I'm  hoping that Alena Sementsova will be waiting to guide me to the city centre and my hotel, which incidentally s the same one I stayed in forty eight years ago. I hope they've changed the bed sheets!

Later the same day: they had.

The flight landed on time, and after disembarking from the aircraft very quickly I made it through passport and customs controls with equal alacrity. Next came the baggage retrieval area, and who should I virtually bump into but Bruno Pelletier himself. As Luce later commented, "It's a small world." 

Then, after a brief conversation with him, I managed to collect my suitcase and venture into the arrivals area. After a few seconds I saw a young lady heading towards me with a smile on her face. It was Alena (pronounced Alyona), one of Iraida's friends, and an important member of the St.Petersburg Brunettes - Bruno Pelletier's fan club. Not only Alena, but Tatanie, who had just arrived from Paris were there to greet me. There was quite a group of brunettes, not for me you understand.

You wish!

Be quiet! We found our way on to the airport shuttle bus which took us part of the way towards my hotel, and then used the metro which after a change or two brought us to the Moskovskaya station, which is just across the  road from Hotel Octiabrskaya, which in turn is just across another road from Moskovskaya Railway Station. 'Just across the road' is a slightly bad description, since the roads are very wide, possibly six lanes wide, and they are a lot busier than the last time I was here!

More to come!

48 years ago I visited Russia - this week I'm going back!

In March/April 1966 I was fortunate enough to be one of 18 student teachers from the U.K to take part in a cultural visit to Russia, then very much part of the Soviet Union. The month spent in the cities of Leningrad and Moscow was unforgettable. The political atmosphere between the Soviet Union and the West was chilly, the welcome of the Russian people warm. Each day was filled with educational visits, cultural experiences and a little study. Kindergartens, schools, colleges, universities, theatre, ballet, opera, choral concerts, poetry readings, cinema, spectacular ice-skating and circus. It was an exhausting schedule, but through all of it my lasting impression was of the friendliness and generosity of the Russian people with whom we came into contact. There were amazing happenings, like the meeting in the hotel restaurant in Moscow with Yuri Gagarin and what seemed to be the entire group of Russian cosmonauts. It was wonderful to see one of them at the opening ceremony of the recent Winter Olympics in Sochi - the first woman in space, Valentina Tereshkova. There were the low points, like the lethal combination of Soviet cognac with a Soviet champagne chaser (a combination, I found out after the event, known as "The Prince of Darkness" ) which caused all sorts of problems, but allowed me to see more of Moscow that the rest of the group (mainly the inside of dental hospitals! ). And there was the desolation of departure, good-byes to newly made friends - railway platforms awash with tears.

I did make an attempt to return a year later - an unsuccessful attempt, but now, almost exactly forty eight years later, with tourist visa inserted into my passport, I am looking forward to visiting St.Petersburg (Leningrad) and Moscow again. There's a bonus city this time too - the historic city of Volgograd, formerly known as Stalingrad. It will be a much shorter visit this time, only 8 days, but the schedule will be almost as hectic.

I am travelling alone, with all hotel bookings and flights booked independently through the internet - to me that makes it more of an adventure! Having said that, I won't be spending too much time alone when I arrive in Russia. I will be meeting friends for the first time - friends who share my passion for music, and particularly the music of Québec. If you have followed my occasional blog before, you will know that since 2008 I have visited La Belle Province of Québec several times, and because of music have made some wonderful friends there. But the impact of Québecois music has also been felt in Russia, and several artists have achieved a star status there. Among the fans of Luce Dufault, Bruno Pelletier, Daniel Lavoie and several others are two particular young friends with whom I have corresponded and spoken with over the last few years: Daria and Iraida. Both massive fans of Luce Dufault (like me), Daria and Iraida have involved me in activities celebrating each new album, birthdays and Christmas. In turn, I have attempted to collect autographs, posters and anything else I could to send to them. The ultimate dream was to meet them both in Québec, so that, along with our québecoix friends, we could see Luce perform live. It remains the ultimate dream. In the meantime, we, the three Lucequetaires, will meet next week. It promises to be quite an emotional time.

Luce Dufault (far left) with her Lucequetaires: Iraida, Daria and me. Iraida created this montage.

If you would like to follow the adventure, I hope to blog daily, schedule and wi-fi connection allowing. There will be words, pictures and video. It would be nice to know my 'audience' so if you would like to let me know by adding your name to a comment, it would be much appreciated. The journey begins with a flight to Heathrow on Tuesday evening, and then on to St.Petersburg on Wednesday morning.

OMG it's CMG!

You do know that you soon lose the interest of readers if you don't post regularly, don't you?

Well, yes.

And you do realise that you have failed to add a post since last month?  August 31st to be precise.

Yes, but..

It's simply not good enough! Not good enough at all. What have got to say for yourself?

Well, it has been a combination of things, which have erm... combined, combined to make it difficult to write blog postings.

Feeble excuse! More details please.

Well, I'll begin the morning after the night before, you know, the evening at L'ange cornu. I actually woke at 05.00, which somewhat surprised me, since I gad gone for quite a while without sleep. I dozed for a bit and then fell asleep again , waking at about ten thirty.

I'm not sure those are the details  your five readers will be waiting for.

Very well. Here goes. The sun was making an effort to break through a covering of grey  cloud which hung over the city. It was still very warm and humid as I walked down Ste. Famille, crossed Sherbrooke and headed down Jean-Mance to La Place des Arts. I was heading for breakfast/brunch with great expectations of Eggspectations, a restaurant specialising in, ..... altogether now .... egg dishes. I was looking forward to Eggs Benedictine and a glass of fresh fruit juice. Having ordered the meal with fresh fruit as an add-on, I decided to partake of a large glass of pink grapefruit juice, which arrived first. The first sip of juice was an effective jolt to the system, a bit like applying jump-leads to an engine.

Did you say "sip"?  The word sip implies that you imbibed a miniscule amount of grapefruit juice, whereas, if you were to apply your memory more rigorously, you might revise your use of  "sip" to "gulp","mouthful" or in the vernacular of your home region, "a big gob-ful".

You are probably correct. The meal was delicious, and very attractively arranged upon the plate:

When faced with a combination of sweet and savoury items such displayed in the photo, I'm never sure whether to eat the savoury first or second, or simply eat it together. In this instance, I ate the fruit first, and it was truly delicious,

Next came the poached eggs, sitting on toasted half-muffins all covered in a hollandaise sauce dusted with paprika. They were scruly trumptious, oops, truly scrumptious.

Truly scrumptious? Sounds like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or some other children's film starring Dick Van Dyke.

I don't care which film it reminds you of, the meal was truly scrumptious. There was no doubting the scrumptiousness of the meal. One cannot dispute the veracity of the degree of scrumptiousness claimed.

Having scoffed the lot, I paid and left Eggspectations fulfilled. By this time it was about 12.30 and I had to rendezvous with Alexandre, Louise and Annie-Pier Charette at 15.00, outside the Honore Beaugrand Metro station. Alexandre was driving us to St.Jerome, where we were to have a meal and see Christian Marc in concert. I decided to would be downright rude to walk past Benelux Brasserie/Bistro without going in for a small beer, and to see if any of my acquaintances from previous visits were there, either as customers or members of staff. There were neither, so  I had a swift glass of Yakima, and then left, calling in to a Couche-Tarde store for a large container of  water.

Back at the hotel I began to get my necessary supplies ready for the rest of the day. I just need to pop them into my man-bag. Oh dear, I couldn't find it. Not on the sofa. Not on the desk.Not in any drawer. Not in the bathroom. Not in the kitchen. There it was, gone. All I could think of was that I had left it in Eggspectations, or Benelux or Couche-Tarde, so I rapidly retraced my steps, realising that my time was getting shorter and shorter to reach Honore Beaugrand by 15.00. The bag contained a few medical requisites, but in addition a charger for my phone and my tablet computer. I was very worried that anyone who might have taken it could have access to my email etc. First to Eggspectation - nothing, despite a concerted effort by several members of staff, including the young lady who had served me. Next, back up the hill to Benelux: nothing. Lastly to Couche Tard, but no luck there either. A thousand curses, I said.

Or words to that effect.

True. By this time I had to rush back to the hotel, pop my stuff into a plastic shopping bag and rush back down to the Metro station at Place des Arts. I bought a ticket and just missed a train. Tension was mounting, as was my pulse rate. It was almost 14,30, and the journey had been described as taking 30 minutes. It seemed that my trip to Montreal was being dogged by minor disasters. The next Metro train arrived, standing room only, and I boarded it, standing and clinging on to the upright pole to prevent the effects of sudden acceleration and braking upon the human body to take place. On arrival at Honore Beaugrand, the  terminus of the Green Line, I rushed up the stairs, choosing the left exit as described by Louise. There was no-one in sight, well, no-one that I knew. I did notice a pretty, red-haired and petite young lady sitting on a bench.

There's a surprise!

No, behave. I knew from a facebook thumbnail image that Annie-Pier, a friend of Alexandre, had red hair, was pretty and petite (from her description by Louise) and that she would be waiting at the same place. I didn't have the nerve to approach her, just in case it was not Annie-Pier. I wandered round the other side of the metro station and waited for a few minutes. I almost didn't recognise Alexandre when he appeared walking towards  me - the epitome of cool in his shades. After greeting each other, he began to look around for Annie-Pier. I told him that there was somone fitting her description in the Metro station, and then went to climb in the back of the car where Louise was waiting to greet me. After a few second Alexandre appeared with the pretty, red-haired and petite young lady who was no longer sitting on a bench, and who was indeed Annie-Pier Charette.

We then set off for St.Jerome, the regional capital of the Laurentians, which is situated about an hour's drive from Montreal, in a kind of westerly direction. Traffic was fairly horrendous, even at that time of day. Alexandre showed his not inconsiderable driving skills to pick his way through congested roads. En route we listened to some music from South Shields - two albums, one by Jen Stevens, ("How These Things Begin") the other by Tony Bengsston  ("Snake in the Woodpile"), which I had brought for Alexandre. Everyone in the car was very impressed by both.

Eventually we arrived in St.Jerome and found a parking place just 50 metres from Le Tapis Rouge, the venue for the evening's show. Christian Marc Gendron was someone I had not heard of before Louise told me about him and the possibility of getting tickets for his 'souper-spectacle', which provided a meal as well as the show. Prior to leaving England I had checked some videos on YouTube, and was very impressed. Alexandre is part of his entourage, in charge of marketing the merchandise at shows, and so, along with Annie-Pier, he was to join Christian  Marc for a meal and pre-show set-up. Louise and I found a nearby terrace where we could have a drink and watch the world go by until the doors of Le Tapis Rouge (The Red Carpet) opened. The venue was on the first floor (2nd floor if you're not in England), above what looked to be a lively music bar.. We were on a table for six, but for the meal it was just Louise and I. Later we would be joined by Alexandre, Annie-Pier and also by Sylvain's parents, M. and Mme. Légaré. The food was good, well-presented and flavoursome and was washed down by a nice glass of Adam's Ale, in other words, water!

After the meal, and just before everyone else arrived, the musicians began to arrive for final checks, and as he passed our table Christian Marc greeted Louise, who has met before. She introduced him to me ..

Should that not be the other way round? " She introduced you to him," sounds better, more modest.

I guess so. Anyway Christian Marc thanked me for coming to the show, and hoped I would enjoy it. I did. Immensely. Entitled "Rock Crooners" the show proved to be something of a musical journey, beginning in the 50s and moving through the decades. It was full of energy, good music and excellent musicianship. Christian Marc is a superb pianist and guitarist, and matches his instrumental talents with extraordinary vocal capabilities. After the interval he performed solo for a while, presenting a musical history of his career interspersed with songs and snippets of songs. Very cleverly done. 

Here's a video of an earlier performance:

http://youtu.be/F3MDF0ONRgA

He finished with some original songs, performed in French. Very impressive. I liked them so much that I bought them, or at least I bought his new album from Alexandre after the show. In fact I bought three. One for me and two more to be despatched to Krasnoyarsk and Volgograd, to spread the word about CMG in Russia. Christian Marc kindly autographed the CDs and had a little chat before photographs were taken. Sylvain's parents were clearly very proud grandparents and took photos of Alexandre with CMG (sorry about the abbreviation, but it does save a bit of time and he does use it on his t-shirts) .

I then had my photo taken with CMG, Alexandre and Annie-Pier:

Whilst Alexandre counted the takings from the merchandise stall, and packed away the advertising stands etc, Louise, Annie-Pier and I went downstairs, entering a very loud and lively venue indeed. A guitarist was playing live, with a backing track and a young lady was striding round on the bar counter and tables, belting out rock classics. It was clear that she was in chrge of proceedings, and from time to time dragged others up on to a table top to perform. There was much pelvic thrusting and downing of shots, as well as some pretty good performances, particularly from other members of staff.

 
I do believe that there was an alien woman dancing here - check the photo above!

Maybe they have to pass auditions to get a job there, at the Vieux Shack, which was partially open to the elements. Fortunately, even late in the evening, it was still very warm. We went outside and waited for a while on the pavement outside, along with a lot of other people who were enjoying the ambience of the evening.
Alexandre then joined and we left le Vieux Shack, still jumping, and St.Jerome for the drive back to Montréal, stopping on the way back for an iced cappucino from a Tim Horton's. It was delicious and very refreshing, and I finished it just as we pulled up outside my hotel. Annie-Pier leapt out, and I crawled out of the back seat. Farewells were said, hugs shared and hands shaken, before I climbed the stairs to the 17th floor. Another wonderful evening of music, shared with friends.

Err, just before you finish, would you care to check the accuracy of the last paragraph?

Seems OK to me.

Really? You, and I quote, "climbed the stairs to the 17th floor"? Really?

Well, I climbed the steps into the lobby, and got the lift/elevator/ascenseur to the 17th floor. Don't you allow a bit of poetic licence?

I won't even allow "climbed the steps".

OK I walked up the steps into the lobby, and took the lift to the 17th floor. Satisfied?

Perfectly. Good night.

Going to the devil, but in a nice way!

It was humid, hot and humid. The city was like a sauna, the people were melting. I was sitting on the steps outside 3643 Rue Sainte Famille, watching the world go by. The world moved slowly....

What? This is supposed to be a travel blog not some lurid policier/detective story!

Sorry. I just got carried away with the moment, but it was hot and very humid as I sat outside Trylon Appartment Hotel, waiting for Sylvain to collect me on his way from work. Lots of cars pulled up outside the hotel, as is to be expected, and it's impossible to see who's inside because of the tinted windows and reflections, but after a few minutes I saw a familiar vehicle approaching, pull in and flash its headlights.

Sylvain welcomed me aboard, and we soon were on our way through the increasingly heavy traffic towards Repentigny. We passed several familiar landmarks, including the Olympic Stadium on our way out of the city, and it was possible to recognise some features on the ground that I had noticed as we came in to land at Pierre Trudeau airport. Finally we pulled up outside Sylvain and Louise's house, and I was greeted not only by Louise, but also by Kenzi, the family's canine member.

We intended to head off quite quickly to L'Assomption, but before doing so there was an opportunity to view the evidence of Sylvain's amazing DIY skills. The last time I visited I saw the summer house which he had built in the garden, and this time there was a new extension which is still in the process of completion. Amazing!

There was also time for some running repairs. Those who know me well will be aware of my reliance upon medical adhesive and the consequences of its failure! I shall say no more, apart from the fact that it seemed that the gods were conspiring against me.

Then it was time to drive the few miles to L'Assomption, and to the Bar/Restaurant L'Ange Cornu.

L'Ange Cornu

 For those readers who may be wondering, the direct translation of l'ange cornu, is the angels with horns, and we all know who that is!

No. Who is it?

You know, ... the evil one.

Ah, David Cameron. ( Here readers could insert the name of their most unpopular politician, depending upon where you are in the world.)

No! You know - Lucifer, Satan, The Devil. Oh no I've just mentioned his name three times - he might suddenly appear. No, seems to be OK.
Anyway, that's where we were, at L'Ange Cornu.

 The plan was to have 'souper' and then go into the salle de spectacles which was at the back of the restaurant, in a converted garage. This music venue was partially open to the elements, so we were hoping that it wouldn't rain, as we had noticed the wind increasing a little, and a few clouds rolling in.

We found a table on the terrace at the front of the restaurant, and ordered our food, some water and a beer. Guess who the beer was for!

I suppose that's a rhetorical question?

I suppose that's a rhetorical question?

I ordered a Salade Thon Nicoise, and a St Ambroise Noir beer to accompany it. Now in England, and in fact in France, every Tuna Salad Nicoise I have ever had has been tuna from a tin. 

I obviously don't eat in the right places. 
When my meal arrived it looked like this:

Oh boy, this was a first. It was delicious! The few seconds contact with a grill of some sort had simply seared the outside of the tuna steak, the rest remaining raw. A squeeze of lemon juice. Excellent - I might try this at home!


What about the beer?


That was excellent too. Not real ale in the strictest terms, but very pleasant.


After a little while Louise went to see if she could find our tickets for the show. Luce, or as I always call her when corresponding with Iraida and Daria, notre chère Luce, had very generously provided us with tickets for the show as her guests. Louise returned with the tickets and a young lady who proceeded to stamp a little red devil on the back of our hands. To prove that we had eaten at the bistro, which gave us priority over those who arried for the show only.


So, having waited until the appointed hour, we found our way through the restaurant into the salle de spectacles, and found seats not too far from the stage, about twelve feet away in fact. All the time I was clutching a package wrapped in a tasteful green floral tissue paper. This was a small present for Luce, from her Trois Lucequetaires de Loin. Iraida, my young friend who lives and works in Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, had designed an image which was to be printed on to a T-shirt for Luce, as a delayed birthday present from herself, Daria and me. The postal system between Siberia and Quebec is not very swift, and so it was much easier for Iraida to send the image to me so that I could have it printed on a T-shirt, and actually hand it directly to Luce.


As I sat down, a lady sitting beside me asked if it was a present for Luce, and I tried to explain to her in French what I have just written in the previous paragraph. "Ah, c'est formidable, si gentil. Bravo monsieur."


After a few minutes longer the house lights went down, and a disembodied voice announced the arrival on stage of Luce and her musicians, Jean Garneau et T-basse. The audience greeted her with applause, hoots and whoops. Iraida and Daria have given Luce the name 'notre magicienne', and as Luce came on stage her magic was clear. The audience love her. Her rapport with those watching is wonderful as is her talent for responding to comments from members of the audience. She has one of the most infectious smiles and laughs you can imagine, and if you tear your eyes away from the stage, and look at the faces of those around you in the audience, you can see that she is working her magic. Smiling faces, smiling eyes, rapt attention - what a gift to be able to share like this!


And the the music began, with songs from her latest album "Du temps pour moi", and between each a little story to share. I had my camera, of course, but I wanted to enjoy the show without peering too much at an LCD screen. At the same time I knew that there were at least two people who would be expecting me to take as many photos as possible, so that they could share in the occasion. So here is one:

And here is one more:

 

As you can see from the second photo, there was a lady in the front row who's head tended to obstruct my view, or at least obstruct my camera's view. Never mind I could still see very well, and hear even better. As I mentioned earlier, Luce is a very good raconteur, and she told us about her early career singing in blues bars and restaurants, about her collaboration with the many writers and composers who have provided her with the wonderful songs which have filled her albums. One name figured large, that of Richard Séguin, a great artist in his own right, who has written songs and collaborated with Luce on many occasions. On the latest album Richard sang with Luce in one such song "Quand nos rêves" . On this occasion T-basse proved to be an able substitute. Richard Séguin also composed the beautiful song Belle-ancolie, one of my absolute favourites, and which tends to bring the occasional petites larmes au coins de mes yeux .

Go on, you can say it in English, I think they will understand.

...brings small tears to the corners of my eyes. I find it a very emotional song. It's just that I so wish it was possible for other people to be there sharing the experience with me, those who for different reasons can't be there. God, those tears are there again... oops.

Ok, I've had a drink (just water), let's continue.

Its a good job you decided to write this post in your hotel room, and not in Benelux, isnt it?

True.

Back to L'Ange Cornu:  during one of her inter-song dialogues, Luce began to talk about her lack of ability with computers, and then about My Space and Facebook, and about friendships made through that media, and about my travels to Québec, my love for quebecoix music, and her friends in Russia. Then having asked me to identify myself in the audience, she dedicated her next song to me, and through me to Daria and Iraida. "You've got a friend."

Oops there he goes again.

I was in a good position to watch Jean "Johnny" Garneau on guitar, and paid special attention when he played on lap-steel guitar. Some of you know of my efforts to learn to play a musical instrument, the instrument having been chosen to suffer  torture at my hands being the lap-steel guitar. I watched especially closely when Johnny played the amazing accompaniment to "Des Milliards des Choses", the first song I ever heard Luce sing, on internet radio, quite a number of years ago. This arrangement is totally different to the original, and is so atmospheric and powerful. I surreptitiously filmed it in 2010, at a concert in St.André-Avelin. If you're interested you can find it here: 

http://youtu.be/6tc4R4xefQc

The show went by so quickly, with standing ovations after almost every song - greeting her greatest hits and others not som familiar, such as a song from her recent tribute to Edith Piaf, in which Luce performed with a choir of, I think, 500 voices. She finished with a stunning performance of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah". Absolutely stunning, "stupéfiante", comme tu as écrit Iraida! I surreptitiously videoed this too, but can't as yet transfer it to my computer in the quality it requires.

And that was it. The show was finished and the room quickly emptied, and we all went home.

No we we didn't.

No we didn't. We waited for a few moments and then Ti-Basse appeared and guided through to the loges, the dressing room, where Luce was waiting to greet us. Big hugs all round!! Then I delivered the present, and Luce asked if he could open it straightaway.

 Of course!

Iraida and Daria - she loved it!

Sorry about the quality of the photo. There's a much better one at the end of this post, but I wanted to include this anyway.

And then was time for a few more photos:

And I forgot these from ealier in the evening:

And then we all went home.

Well almost. I had a little chat with Jean and Ti-Basse about guitars, had another big hug (from Luce), and then with the words "See you next week!" ringing in my ears,  we left, and Sylvain drove me back to the city, dropping me off at the hotel before dreiving back with Louise to Repentigny. What good and kind friends I have met here in Québec!

I've looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down, but mainly down.

It is very strange, isn't it, that when you know you have to be awake in a few hours, it seems impossible to go to sleep, and then that amazing body clock wakes you before the alarm goes. In summary, after writing the previous posting to this humble blog, I had about two and a half hours sleep on top of the covers of my very comfortable bed in my very warm room at the Ibis hotel. I suppose my mind was still reeling from the events of the first day of my epic journey to Montreal.

I think the use of the word «epic» is a bit pretentious.

Knowing what lies ahead, I don't think it is at all pretentious.

Ah …. yes, I know where you're coming from, and where you're going to for that matter. Proceed.

I shall. Breakfast at the Ibis commences at 4.00 am, and it was exactly 03.59 when I trundled my hand-baggage through the reception area into the restaurant. There were a few fellow guests there, including a group of children who were clustered round the hot drinks machine with a lady who seemed to be having some trouble in getting the machine to provide her with the beverage of her choice. As I approached she turned and, in an accent which I guessed to be Russian, asked me if I could help. One of the children simply wanted a mug of hot water, to make some tea. It was one of those slightly embarrassing moments for both parties when I simply pressed the button labelled hot water and the machine instantly began issuing forth with, well, hot water. The lady thanked me, as did the children, and then I was able to get a mug of hot chocolate and a cold croissant, which I managed to consume very quickly, before going outside to wait for the Hoppa bus to Terminal 4. The bus was due at 04.18. I was second in the queue, and was then joined by the eight children and their 'mother', who asked me if this was the right place to catch the 56 bus to Terminal 5. It seemed to me that the children were speaking Russian, and so I asked if that was the case, in Russian. No, they were from Ukraine. One young lady, who I took to be about 11, then asked me if I could speak Russian. “немного “ I replied.

“Ha!”, exclaimed Viktoria, “That's what every one says when you ask them if they can speak Russian - немного !!”

Then began a fascinating conversation in a mixture of Russian and English, which continued as one bus came, and then another, but not the 56, which was going to both Terminals 4 and 5. We spoke about London, New York, Moscow, St. Petersburg, and my meeting with Yuri Gagarin back in 1966. So, the bus was late. It arrived at 04.45, and we all piled on board. As I disembarked, I had to shake several small hands, and as I was leaving them the lady in charge said quietly, “You can look us up on the internet – it's …......Horizons” . I thought she said “Research Horizons”, but my brain was still asleep, so I have forgotten exactly what she said. I just wondered if she was one of those wonderful people who bring children from that radiation blighted area of the Ukraine to spend time in the UK and USA. For me it was a special few minutes.

Well, that's the first hour covered!

OK! On arriving at Terminal 4, I checked in and printed my two boarding passes for the flights to Paris and Montreal. I wandered slowly through the duty free shopping area, pausing only to spray on some Hermes “La Terre” from a sample bottle. Very nice, and free! Next it was a bacon muffin and coffee at Costa before going to wait at the gate for the flight to Paris. Eventually all of the passengers were on board except one who had changed his/her mind about travelling. So, for security reasons that person's baggage had to be identifies and removed. Guess what! That meant that we were delayed. My pulse rate was beginning to increase again..... Eventually we took off and arrived at Paris Charles de Gaulle some 40 minutes later. It was then a case of transferring to another terminal in what a helpful lady charmingly called “Le Petit Train”, a rapid transit system just like the one one at Heathrow. Then came an opportunity to wander through another duty-free shopping area consisting of all the top names in French high fashion, parfumerie and jewellery. Very swish and even more expensive.

While I was standing with the rest of the economy class passengers waiting to board the Boeing 747 Jumbo jet I noted with some jealousy the very small queue for business class and priority passengers, and the seeming random manner in which a member of staff would allow someone from the extremely long queue and allow them to pass through the priority gate – lucky s*ds, I thought. Then for some reason I became a lucky s*d, being ushered straight to the desk for the final boarding card check. Don't you just hate it when a computer beeps loudly and the operator looks closely at the screen? So, on reading the boarding pass, the computer beeped loudly and the Air France lady looked closely at the screen.

 “Ah”, she said, “votre passeport monsieur, s-il vous plait.” She must have discerned the concern on my face. 

“Don't worry, it's just that there's something wrong with the boarding card. I need to enter your passport number again, and there is not a correct seat number here.”

Before I could begin panicking, she said, “There we are, a new boarding card and your seat is 69K. Bon voyage monsieur!”

It seemed like a very long walk to the actual aircraft, but eventually I found myself on board and began walking down through the immense fuselage, looking for seat 69K. I couldn't find it! I would clearly not make a good poker player, because the puzzled expression my face must have been displaying attracted the attention of one of the flight attendants.

 “Can I help you monsieur?”

“Yes please. I cannot find seat 69K.”

A smile crossed the face of the attendant as he replied, 

“Ah, monsieur, 69K is not here, it is upstairs.”

“Upstairs? Upstairs!" 

Of course, this was a 747, and there is an 'upstairs,' a cabin as large as some smaller aircraft. And there were only three seats on each side of the centre aisle, rather than what resembled the rows of seats in a cinema in the main body of the aircraft. And the seats were bigger, and there was more space between each row! Yes, dear readers, I had been upgraded! Not to business class, but to some intermediate class whose name eludes me.

Having settled into my seat, it was just a question of waiting for all of the other passengers to board. And they all did, apart from one, who, it seemed, had decided not to travel.

Hang on! Are you detecting some kind of pattern here?

Yes, it was becoming a recurrent event. Baggage had to be located and removed, and time slots are missed, so take off was LATE!!!! About an hour late. I've often wondered how something as huge as a Boeing 747 manages to lift its weight off the ground, and my curiosity prevailed until it did.

The flight was excellent. Champagne served as an aperitif to a pleasant meal. On board entertainment system provided all manner of diversions – films, music, games and the flight details which I find fascinating. So I watched a bit of a film, played touch-screen Sudoku, Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Hangman. The latter two were made a little more difficult because they were in French. My record winnings in Millionaire were 48000 euros!

There were glimpses of the Channel Islands some 30000 feet below, and then more of the Atlantic, before, some six hours later, Newfoundland appeared below us. The aircraft had made up some time, and so it was just 30 minutes late when we landed in Montreal at12.30. I needed to be ready to leave the hotel just after 15.30 with Sylvain, to head for Repentigny, and then on to L'Assomption for the show at L'Ange Cornu. Immigration control took about 10 minutes. Not bad.

Baggage retrieval was next. I did not retrieve my baggage. After waiting and watching luggage go round and around on the carousel for an hour, it was clear that my suitcase wasn't there. It transpired that it was still in Paris.

Probably living it up in Montmartre, or taking a stroll by the banks of the Seine.

Be quiet!

Forms were filled in. Forms were stamped and returned to the place where you fill forms in. After a couple of swift phone calls to Louise, explaining what was going on, I sped off through customs and caught a taxi into the city. It was warm. No, it was hot, and very humid. The taxi had no air-conditioning other than when the window was open, and it wasn't.

I eventually arrived at the hotel, checked in and asked the staff to expect my suitcase to arrive at some point overnight. I just about had time to wash and change …..

Change? That must have been difficult when all of your clothes were in transit from France.

True. But I had packed a lightweight T-shirt or two in my hand-luggage....., pauses for dramatic effect....., just in case of such an eventuality.

In our next posting, read about the trip to Repentigny, the onward journey to L'Assomption, and another wonderful evening in the company of Luce Dufault, her musicians and her very appreciative audience.

Blog! Blogue! Блог! - An unexpected journey!

Well! As I begin this new series of blog postings, it is 21.21BST on 27th August. The only problem is that I am not where I thought I would be at this time. I should be sitting somewhere over the Atlantic, ensconced in Seat 28K (window) gazing out over clouds tinged by the setting sun as the Boeing 767 chases the reddening orb westwards. But no, I'm not. I am sitting propped up in bed in a hotel a very long stone's throw from London's Heathrow Airport. In Room 16 of the Ibis, in fact. Not that there's anything wrong with the Ibis Hotel, I have to say - it's comfortable and clean,and for me, tonight, it's free.

Tell them about the Guinness - that wasn't free!

Oh no! My literary conscience is back again. But he's right, not only was the Guinness I was quaffing at the end of the last sentence not free, it was extortionate! A point of normal Guinness - I'm not sure I wanted to brave the abnormal Guinness - and a small bottle of water cost £6.35!!

Tell them about the free T-shirt!

Ah yes, I am lying on the bed, propped up against two pillows, resplendent in a sparklingly white T-shirt, compliments of British Airways, whilst a small distance away from me lies a complimentary plastic bag, with complimentary shower gel, complimentary tooth-brush, complimentary comb, and complimentary tooth-paste. So free hotel, free dinner ( Caesar Salad starter, followed by traditional English Fish and Chips, except that the Fish and Chips didn't exactly follow, because they came at the same time!), free shuttle bus (which took longer to get from the airport to the hotel than it took to fly 260 miles to that same airport from Newcastle. Flight 40 minutes, bus ride 50 minutes!), free breakfast at 04.00 tomorrow morning and then, yes free shuttle bus to Terminal 4.

If I know British Airways, and they're giving you all these amazing free things, something must have gone wrong today, that linked with the fact that you're sitting half dressed on a bed instead of fully dressed in seat 28K on that Boeing 767 winging its way westward chasing the sun to Montréal.

Very perceptive of you. Family and friends on Facebook will have possibly kept up to date with events as they unfolded at Newcastle International Airport this afternoon. My daughter Julia gave me a lift to the airport, dropping me off at about 14.25, in good time to drop off my baggage and go through security. The flight was due to take off at 15.25, but when I checked in my suitcase, the young lady at the desk informed me that there was a 55 minute delay. She said that if no further delays were incurred, I should have no problem in connecting with the Montreal flight which was due to take off at 18.15, but... if there were, she was sure that something would be done to help me. She must have seen the consternation on my face, as I spluttered, "But, I've got to be there before tomorrow evening ... it's really very important to me..."
"I'm sure it will be fine," she said consolingly.

But it wasn't. The flight was delayed for another 25 minutes, which meant that it would be impossible for me to get through security again (!!???!!!) and to reach the gate before it closed at 17.55. After what seemed an eternity of watching the minutes remaining ticking down, and then sticking on 3 minutes for at least 15 minutes, the overhead screens announced that Flight BA whatever would fly from Gate 3, and that this was the last call for passengers!!! The staff at the boarding check were less than helpful - nothing we can do about it here, unless you want me to cancel your  flight. Absolutely not, my eyes flashed the message, and the young lady stepped back in awe.

No she didn't, and no you didn't - keep a grip!

Well, I wished I had. You know - "By the fiendish power invested in my eyes, I demand that you contact Heathrow immediately and have someone lay prostrate on the ground in front of the nose-wheel of the Montreal-bound Boeing, until I arrive,  to be whisked through security and along walk-ways, down escalators, down more walkways,  by  underground shuttle train, up more escalators and finally entering the aircraft, to be greeted by cheering masses in all classes of seating. The captain would be standing, his cap in hand, and congratulating me on being only 20 minutes late for the flight........

Yeah, right.

So, the flashing eyes not having worked, I was about to try the tearful approach, but the queue behind me was building, and therefore I moved disconsolately on to the aircraft....., as I entered the purser, a very pleasant lady looked at my boarding pass and then at me, with sympathy in her eyes. "We don't think you're going to make your connection, but our staff are doing everything they can to re-arrange your flight for tomorrow. I'm sure you are aware that there is only one flight per day to Montreal."

"TOMORROW! TOMORROW? I need to be there before tomorrow night." I'm not sure how many of those words I spoke out aloud, but regaining my dignity, I gently said, I don't want to hold up all of the people behind me, so I shall find my seat and perhaps you could come and talk to me there?"

"Oh yes, of course sir, I'll do that."

And she did, several times during the 40 minute flight,
finally announcing that 'they' had booked me on a flight tomorrow, with Air Canada, which would arrive in Montreal at 18.00. 

Unfortunately, at 18.00 tomorrow, I am scheduled to be sitting down for supper at L'Ange Cornu at L'Assomption with my good friends Sylvain and Louise, prior to watching Madame Luce Dufault in concert at the same venue. So I told her that was not satisfactory. She advised me to head straight for the connections desk as soon as we landed. We landed at 17.48 - the Montreal flight was still there, but the whisking through the airport wasn't. Sooooo frustrating!

After 15 minutes or so at the Connections desk, the lady there finally announced that they could get me to Montreal for 12.00 noon (Montreal time) tomorrow - Tuesday 28th. It would require me to catch the Air France flight to Paris at 06.40, and then the 10.30 flight from Paris to Montreal. Time zone differences began to get the better of me for a moment, but bearing in mind that Paris is 6 hours ahead of Montreal, it means I'll be leaving Paris at 04.30 Montreal time.
So, having decided to let my suitcase have a little overnight stay in Heathrow, to be hopefully re-united with it in Montreal, I caught the free shuttle bus to the hotel (normal fare £4).

And that's almost where we began....

So, hopefully everything will go well tomorrow, and I will be sitting in L'Ange Cornu tomorrow evening, waiting to see and hear the wonderful Luce and her musicians perform. That will make all of this worthwhile.