There used to be a beautiful building here, but it was ravaged by a fire some years ago. The facade still intact, but the insides crumbled and charred, the building was boarded off and you could only catch a glimpse of it over the top of the scaffolding. For a while, if you paid attention to the local news, you would hear reports of the ongoing discussions between the developer and the municipality; the developer wanting to tear it down, the municipality trying to preserve the heritage structure (so many others like it had disappeared long ago). The conversation about the future of this building seemed locked in a stalemate, the building itself stood silent, partially obscured from passerbys, as if it being out-of-sight would result in its disappearance from our everyday concerns. And then one day, the building was gone. All that remained was a pile of rubble. Perhaps the preservation of this building was too costly for this economic clime. Whatever the reason for its demise, I was saddened by its loss. I was rooting for the building. I wanted it to remain a part of the streetscape, transformed into something new. Who knows what will take its place.

I grew up in a city where the transit fleet had a grand total of three buses. At my young age, rather than applaud that my community had any form of transit at all, instead I found this to be a bit pathetic. I had grown up with rather romantic notions of transit, having watched more than my share of 1940s and 1950s musicals when taking the streetcar, bus, or subway) would feature prominently as the setting where two lovers would meet and then spontaneously burst out into song (Meet Me in St. Louis is an obvious example). Such meetings would not occur if these same two lovers were driving in their single occupant vehicles (unless of course said vehicle were to break down, thus requiring automotive assistance). Anyhow, I continue to hold on to my rather romantic notions of transit, despite having endured (in a number of cities) many a smelly and stuffy bus, navigating backpacks, avoiding ripped seats, trying to tune out and sometimes eavesdropping in on loud and inane conversations, and finally standing and shivering in the cold while waiting for a late train or bus. However, just as often I’ve been able to admire the scenery during long trips (I used to take a particularly scenic route along winding road beside the ocean) or let my thoughts wander idly as I let the train carry me from one destination to another.

So, it’s with a light heart that I eagerly anticipate visiting New York in the next few days to ride on the subway of all subways, to look past any of the dirt and grime and instead live the lyrics of New York, New York. I will be among the people who ride in a hole in the ground.

Even so, energy is still low, as this post is not all that exciting or original. But one has to start again somewhere. And after many months of silence here, something is better than nothing.

Resuming my (once) daily constitutional was like a return of an old friend. I kept to my regular route, crossing the bridge along with the power walkers, joggers and cyclists.

What I did not see were any of the regulars. I know spring won’t have officially arrived until I come across the Roller King, the city’s oldest rollerskater with his matching neon shorts and headband. I wonder where he goes to rollerskate during the winter? Perhaps he put his skates to hibernate like I did this blog.

I left the apartment during the early part of the afternoon, when many people were likely finishing Sunday brunch or waking up from a luxurious extended sleep. On the way back through the park, there were people sitting scattered on the benches.

This particular fellow sat alone, perhaps dreaming of the time when all the snow would be gone and the fitness boot camps would resume on the grass. His spot would surely provide him with prime viewing of all the lunges and knee bends and side stretches. If only that old sports injury didn’t prevent him from joining in, he might be up there too, stretching longer, bending deeper, lunging farther than the rest of them. But then of course, that’s probably how he got injured in the first place. Maybe he should just stick to spectator sports.

I awoke Friday, a bit surprised to find the skies grey and stormy. Had it not been for the outdoor concert the weather would have been almost a welcome reprieve to the recent heat wave. But as my ticket for the evening was for grass seats, away from the protective reaches of the amphitheater, I was not so keen on the weather. The tempestuous skies had been carrying on all afternoon. The wind was buffeting the trees and the rain, although not constant, was intermittent enough to almost be considered as much. I was anxious. My friends who were also attending the concert that evening were anxious. Would the performance be relocated indoors? All trust was put in the hands of the meteorologists, who promised clear skies in the early evening. By four o’clock the organizers announced that the performance would continue as planned, the park it would be.

I arrived at Hawrelak shortly after six, with my camera and lenses neatly tucked away in my bag. The gates had only just been opened and patrons were slowly filing into their seats or finding a dryish spot on the grass.

I tend to pick the grass over the main seating area in the amphitheater, prefering the informality of spreading out a blanket under a tree and being able to stretch out my legs. I also prefer the vantage point of sitting outside of the confines of the seats, at the top of the slope, which gives me the freedom to roam about with my camera, creeping up close to the stage or standing near the back to take in the whole scene.

The program was a short one, only three pieces, Mussorgsky’s A Night on Bare Mountain, Mendelssohn’s “Italian” Symphony, and Gershwin’s Concerto in F featuring Bill Eddins, the ESO’s Music Director, as a guest soloist on piano. I am by no means knowledgeable enough to provide a nuanced review of the music. I always love attending the symphony, but I generally get swept up in the experience of going to the symphony. Perhaps my photographic inclinations are to blame, but for me an evening with the symphony is as much about the music as it is the experience of physically being there. It’s not just what you hear, but also what you see. I wonder if that makes sense. Let me attempt to explain.

The evening’s program seemed suited to the weather. As the symphony began to play A Night on Bare Mountain the air was still damp from the day’s rain. The audience was a bit stiff with cold and it was fitting that Mussorgsky’s piece was played first, with its violent and ominous opening. As the piece progressed the music became gentler, matching the change in the weather, the dampness dissipating as the promises of the meteorologists started to come true. How different the mood in the crowd was when the symphony began to play the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony as the clouds parted and the sun appeared. It was low in the sky and bathed the orchestra in this marvelous golden light. It was one of those delightful moments that you look for at Symphony Under the Sky. It was like a gradual dimming of the house lights, Mother Nature’s house lights that is.

Following intermission the sky had darkened enough for the enormous amphitheatre tent to be lit up. The blue lights were a little less impressive this year than some of the past year’s displays, but I can understand the desire to try to change the look from previous years. But, I wasn’t impressed. The attempt to recreate the “sky” under the big tent was not successful (however, the lights did look better by Sunday night, as evidenced here in this photograph by my friend Tom).

The final selection of the evening was Gershwin’s Concerto in F. Conductor Bob Bernhardt and the orchestra were joined onstage by the ESO’s Music Director Bill Eddins. I’ve never had the opportunity to see Eddins play piano with the orchestra (although I had heard that when he conducted and played Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue that the performance was phenomenal). My friends and I had selected a spot by the picnic tables near the “tube steak” vendor (Edmonton’s favourite, Fat Franks), so we were too high up on the hill for me to get a good view of Eddins’ hands on the keys (I mean come on, it’s a Gershwin piano concerto, that’s where the show is). But, even when you don’t have a good view of the details on stage, there are still plenty of other things to observe while on the hill.

My experience at the symphony has always been a bit unique, because I am good friends with a few people who work for the ESO. I’ve had some opportunity to see some of the behind-the-scenes goings on. Musicians without their instruments, the company manager rushing about before the show, the new media specialist taking in the show with the rest of the audience. If Symphony Under the Sky had a VIP lounge, I had been granted access, just by nature of association. The little circle of symphonic insiders got a little bit bigger when at some point during the show we were joined by Lucas Waldin, the ESO’s new Resident Conductor. I felt a little bit like Guy Talese, practicing the fine art of hanging out, drinking in the conversation about the symphony from people who were much more knowledgeable than I.

But the beauty of this group (part of the reason why we all hang out) was that the conversation was still accessible. Clearly there was a love for the symphony and the desire to get others to love it too. And when it’s a night at the symphony on a crisp September evening, what is there not to love (other than Eddins’ hockey jersey)?

©Raffaella Loro, 2009. All rights reserved.

The Winspear Centre is an amazing venue, but then so is Mother Nature.

© Raffaella Loro, 2009. All rights reserved.

© Raffaella Loro, 2009. All rights reserved.

Looking down from the second balcony the audience had become a sea of heads. In the dim light of the hall I could make out a suggestion of coloured shirts – certain bright tones stood out from the rest. When the musicians stopped the scene would change to a flutter of hands – and the hall would fill with the sound of applause.

Having started to make a large number of friends at work, most of whom bike, I’m finding it difficult to say no to riding pretty much everyday. So today as I again found myself riding up the road that goes from the end of the city/beginning of the forest on Fromme, I got to thinking – how many days in a row CAN I bike? It seems like most people around here are trying to get in as much as they can these days with all the great weather we’ve been having. Having recently come here from the much colder climate of Edmonton, I’m wondering why people here ride as little as they do. They seem to be as stoked on riding as I am, but maybe they’re just spoiled and don’t realize how lucky they are to be living here.

Since biking and my life seem to be inextricably linked, I don’t think that this challenge will be all that difficult, other than on days where I’m adventuring in the mountains sans bike (i’m still not sure how i’m going to account for those days, or if they’ll have to be gimmes). Regardless, I think that this will be a fun and exciting challenge and will hopefully help me get a little more creative with both my biking and photography. The more I think about it, the more endless the possibilities seem in this city; for skiing, for biking, for photography… everything.

I’m shocked by how awesome it all is, daily.

I noticed that we had reached that time of night where the apartments we were walking past were lit up like living lightboxes. It was just at that moment before the people inside had realized that the lack of light outside had made it possible to see in past the glass of their balcony doors, past the glazing of their energy efficient windows, straight into their homes. It was almost as if every apartment building was a lifesize dollhouse, the kind where you could reach out and open the front panel, exposing all the rooms hidden behind. Sometimes life is like that, it takes on a cinematic quality, your eyes replace the camera and as you pan across the scene, the movie moves with you. But moments like that are fleeting, before you can fully appreciate it you are moving steadfastly towards your destination and you leave that frame behind you.

Nay, I said. Nay.

I will put my infinite knowledge of the inter (and intra) netz to work solving the problem that’s been haunting me since my arrival in this glorious city – although my internets be free, my torrents be not flowing over. Now normally, this is something I would have immediately spent time solving, but as the weather has been ultra delightful since my arrival and the trails a plenty, I’ve been distracted.

Not tonight. No, my friends, not tonight.

I began my quest with an open terminal window in OS X, hoping that by ping’ing a local institute of higher education that I would be given the information for the router that my pipeline to the outside world flows through. Alas, that was not to be. So I sat thinking, trying to remember how I had easily seen the IP address of the routers I’ve connected to in the past.

“A-ha!” I said, “… I love that band.”

System preferences, Airport, Advanced Settings. Of course. Once I had that information, I browsed to the IP address, sure that whoever would leave their wifi completely open and with the original name, would surely not change their password or logon.

Correct. Fate was with me in this endeavor. No gypsy tears would be shed on this night (or at least not so early in the night).

Admin, “”. Advanced settings, Allow All, port 27232, forward to static IP address. Check uTorrent.

No incoming connection allowed. Tears. Gypsy tears.

Back into System Preferences, “Where have my Firewall settings moved to?”, I asked. Security. Of course. What’s this? I can no longer control ports, but have to assume that OS X has the AI to know what ports every app that I allow wants open? For some reason I think that this might be where the problem lies.

Back into Terminal we go – sudo ipfw tcp 27232 to 27232. Port 27232 open. Still nothing in uTorrent. Hmmm. Maybe it just needs to be closed and reopened?

Great success! Green light, 1.1MB/s down and I could care less what the up speed is. 29 albums and 20 minutes later, we’re rockin’ and a rollin’.