Once I get settled into a city, it can be hard to leave–even for a visit. I attribute it to Torontonian syndrome. This means paying lip service when friends suggest you visit them in Ottawa or Kitchener, but secretly loathing the idea of taking a Greyhound out there. Those who live downtown [...]]]>

Once I get settled into a city, it can be hard to leave–even for a visit. I attribute it to Torontonian syndrome. This means paying lip service when friends suggest you visit them in Ottawa or Kitchener, but secretly loathing the idea of taking a Greyhound out there. Those who live downtown are even worse and balk at the idea of going up to the suburbs. Somehow this complex has dogged me during my stints living in the Netherlands and Taiwan. I’m always torn between discovering the rest of the country or getting to know your city better. But this weekend, for the first time since arriving in France, I traveled outside of the Alsace region. I took two high-speed trains across France all the way to Rennes. Of course it would take a music festival to get me out west and the Transmusicales Festival, or Les Trans, was a good enough reason for me.

When I decided to do this program, for the longest time, I was convinced I was going to go to Nantes. I had met a few Nantais during my travels and was charmed by their friendliness and impossibly cute French accents in English. My logic was that if they sounded like that in English, if I learned French in Nantes, maybe I would sound like them. In the end, I ranked the Strasbourg academy as my number one choice, instead of Nantes. Since then there has always been a little pang of longing for what could have been if I had chosen to live in the Bretagne region instead of the Alsace. (I know Nantes is technically no longer a part of Bretagne, but I’m talking historically/culturally.)

Even though the festival was in Rennes, I figured this was my chance to see Celtic-influenced French culture (as opposed to the brand of German-influenced French culture over here.) I never cease to be amused by the pride the French have for their home region (or their disdain for Paris.) The Alsatians tell me their region isn’t French at all and the Bretons were only too eager to tell me the same thing. One of my students told me how in “Little Brittany,” they eat crepes and wash it down with cider. Oh cider, I thought, how very English. In the Alsace, you will never hear the words choucroute or bretzel without the words “regional specialty” attached to them. I know these things as sauerkraut and pretzels (or bretzen, since I learned the German word first.) It’s funny how at least these regional specialties are just things that, from a foreigner’s perspective, come from other countries.

I was surprised to see quite a few half-timbered style houses in Rennes, since I thought they were characteristically Alsatian. The ones in Rennes looked more rickety and purposely historic, while Alsatian ones are painted pleasant pastel colours and look like they come out of fairy tales. While I thought living in one of these houses in 2009 is quaint (Sélestat has its share), it’s nothing compared to the stone houses and medieval villages in Bretagne. I took a little excursion to Dinan and it blew my mind that medieval castle is only minutes away from the downtown. I know it’s all perfectly normal to the French, but the North American suburbanite in me is still amazed at the idea of growing up with among this kind of scenery.

The vibe from Rennes itself was the opposite of old age. I knew it had a reputation as a student city but was surprised by the extent of it. I had inklings that Strasbourg felt was a bit stuffy, but going to Rennes confirmed it. Rennes is an anomaly (like the university towns Kingston or London in Ontario) in France because of the disproportionate number of students. The youth is visibly and immediately apparent in the students littering the streets. Even the clothing stores were more interesting to me than the ones in Strasboug. The city also has a surplus of is police presence. Around downtown, especially at night, I saw on average seven carloads of police wearing special protective gear while patrolling. My friend told me these were normal patrols there to control drunken students when they spill out onto the street after last call. Since this was during Les Trans (which brings in its share of drunken tourists) it was only natural that they beef up the force.

The festival itself had a fantastic atmosphere. It was held at Parc Expo, a collection of airport hangars just outside the city. Each had its own line-up and one hangar was a dedicated bar, lounge and water bar. The tarmac was consistently full of people smoking or getting some fresh air after dancing–though these might be the same thing for the French.

I came to Les Trans was to see Fever Ray. This tour was billed as the group’s first and only tour and Rennes was the second-to-last show. Since I’ve never seen The Knife (and probably never will since they refuse to tour again), seeing Fever Ray was the next best thing. I was so close to the stage I could smell the incense, but not close enough to get a good look at Karin Dreijer, the singer of both bands. The Knife are known for their stage fright and standoffish ways and seeing Fever Ray confirmed this. Dreijer was positioned half way back on the stage, clad in full on black-and-white face makeup and a witch-like robe. The antique lamps surrounding her and her equally spookily-dressed bandmates flashed while smoke swirled around stage. It was dark, slightly unnerving and great.

I only planned on going to the festival for one day but I unexpectedly came into a ticket the night after, the techno night. Commanding most, if not all the of the hype, was Mr Oizo–best known in North America for the music video for Flat Beat. I was most excited to see the French reception for their homeboy. The first half-hour was great but it really petered out by the end. Significant numbers of the crowd were leaving and those who stayed was just because it was, well, Oizo. I was pleased that he played the Justice remix of “Blood On Our Hands” by Death From Above 1979. At times it felt like he was falling back on the popularity of other bands to keep the crowd interested. How else do you explain playing two Daft Punk songs in one set? The most memorable part of the set was a sample of a robot voice gleefully declaring to the crowd that “Nous avons le grippe A” (We have the H1N1 flu) and “Nous allons tous mourir à Rennes” (We are all going to die in Rennes.) A cheap trick for sure, but it worked. To paraphrase Morrissey, if ten-tonne truck crashes into us, to die in Rennes, well..it might be a better way to go than in Strasbourg.

I’m standing in a retirement home somewhere in northern, rural Taiwan next to a Taiwanese grandma. I met her while hitchhiking at a cemetery and now she’s showing me her family members, clad in full-dynasty wear, in a 150-year-old photograph. A lot of the time here in Taiwan, I wonder if my [...]]]>

I’m standing in a retirement home somewhere in northern, rural Taiwan next to a Taiwanese grandma. I met her while hitchhiking at a cemetery and now she’s showing me her family members, clad in full-dynasty wear, in a 150-year-old photograph. A lot of the time here in Taiwan, I wonder if my day can get any stranger or more random. And the answer is always: yes it can. There is actually a very logical explanation for all of this.

It all started two months ago during my trip to Green Island. While my friends and I were at the hot spring, a group of old women were singing a song in Mandarin. I instantly recognized it but knew neither the song or artist. Too shy and my Mandarin too shameful at the time to ask them what they were singing, I wrote it off as a pleasant memory and mystery. Fast-forward to last month when I went to karaoke (or KTV as it’s called here) with my friend Channing, her classmates and a few locals. After a few “gang bei”s, a request/challenge/demand to finish the contents of your cup frequently issued by the Taiwanese, I finally mustered enough courage to hum the tune to a local to find out the name of the song and add it to the playlist.

The song was “The Moon represents my heart” (月亮代表我的心) by Teresa Teng (鄧麗君.) Teng is a legendary Taiwanese pop star and who was popular even in non-Chinese speaking Asia. When she died at 42 from an asthma attack that shocked not only Taiwan but the continent. This song is the kind of song I felt like I have always known and could sing along to despite the fact I couldn’t speak Mandarin until recently. Once I could put a name to the music, the Wikipedia search that followed revealed that her grave was in Chi Pao San, a mountain cemetery, in Jin Shan, a town in Taipei county.  The article said her grave had a large in-ground keyboard that fans could play by stepping on the keys and I decided I had to go.

So Channing and I set out one hot Taiwanese Saturday afternoon to find Teng’s grave. We took the MRT to Danshui, the final stop on the subway’s red line and boarded a bus for Jin Shan. It took us two-and-a-half hours in total to get to Jin Shan, about an hour longer than I was expecting. When we started asking around for directions to Chi Pao San, we were met with of shock and horror. “It’s too far away to walk,” said the woman whose restaurant we ate at. “No buses go up there. You should take a taxi.” Still she pointed us in the direction. We felt anxious and took a stroll through Jin Shan’s night market before deciding what to do. For no good reason I was compelled to buy a bag of lobster chips.

After walking to the edge of the town, we checked with a security guard who reacted the same way and told us it would take another 40 minutes. Despite the discouragement, we pressed onward through the Taiwanese countryside with the sun blaring down at us. The next woman we met told us it would take an hour and a half. The convenience store owner, who sold us a bottle of water further down the road, told us if we would get heat stroke from going. After starting up the mountain we met a man who told us we were on the right track, but it was going to be another hour and a half.

Two hours after leaving the restaurant, we made it to Chi Pao San. Teng’s grave is at the front of the massive mountainside cemetery. As we approached her grave we could hear her music playing. Appropriately enough, the first song we heard was her rendition of “I’m gonna live forever” from Fame.  We were steps away from Teng’s grave a security guard rode up on a scooter and asked if we had walked all the way up. When we confirmed we had walked from Jin Shan, he responded with “pei fu, pei fu” (佩服)–an expression of respect and admiration. We asked if he had any good suggestions on how to get down the mountain that didn’t involve walking. He told us there was an hourly shuttle bus but only for locals. But, he said, if you ask them maybe they’ll let you on.

And so there it was. The in-floor keyboard, a golden statue of Teng, her grave and a small collection of flowers. We had hiked two hours and had reached the promised land. While my mother’s attempt to instill Chinese attitudes and traditions on me has been less than successful, here is the proof it wasn’t completely wasted. You can’t show up to someone’s grave empty handed. You have to bring an offering, usually food. So it only felt right to leave her my lobster chips.

Channing and I were tired from the hike and sat down to wait for the 5 p.m. shuttle down to Jin Shan. Half an hour passed by and there was no sign of it. Darkness was approaching and Jin Shan was still two-and-a-half hours away from Taipei. We made the collective decision to solicit fellow visitors for rides down the mountain. Our first attempt was shot down. We tried to explain our situation to a man who was cleaning off his car while his wife sat inside. He said something in Japanese, which I think amounted to “I don’t speak Mandarin.” On our second try we hit gold. We met Lois, a 30-year-old piano and violin teacher, and her grandma, who only spoke Taiwanese. Lois offered to take us down the hill to Jin Shan but, if we wanted, she was going to go to Taipei after dinner and we were free to join her for the meal and the ride back home. We looked at each other, shrugged and were only too happy to accept.

The ride down the mountain took only about 10 minutes and in another 20 we arrived at Bai Sha Wan, a popular beach nearby. We all sat down for dinner at a restaurant that directly overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Grandma was pretty agitated during the meal because, she said, it was getting dark and she was worried about Lois driving back to Taipei. Channing and I tried to pay for dinner knowing the usual Asian money-shoving match would ensue. We lost and ended up going Dutch. After dinner we drove Grandma back to her retirement home that is run by a convent. Six years ago she decided to move because she was tired of cooking and cleaning and here she could go to church every day. She showed us her five copies of the Bible, each in different languages, that she was learning to read. Grandma hated being in pictures and protested each time Lois suggested it. Still, she always obliged and sometimes even pulled out the peace sign. Lois drove us all the way back to the Shida neighbourhood despite that she lives in Xiandian, on the outskirts of Taipei city.

It’s a little sad when the kindness of strangers is so foreign that it’s actually funny. These encounters always become epic-traveling stories that bring out disbelief in other people. In a way I’ve come to expect this kind of random generosity in Taiwan but I always still feel grateful. Maybe this is just how things work in the friendliest country I have ever been to and this is just another day in the life of a Taiwanese. Or maybe Channing and I are a hilarious story for Grandma to tell to her friends at the home. (It was ridiculous watching Lois introduce us to her friend and at the home. while we stood there like the vagabonds we were.) One thing is for sure, I should just ask more often.

Last night I witnessed a comedy, like in three-acts Shakespearean sense. Since I got here there have been posters and pamphlets all over Taipei promoting Canada D’eh. The literature explained it as a celebration of Canadian confederation held on a beach in Danshui on June 27 featuring a performance by Grammy-nominated artist [...]]]>

Last night I witnessed a comedy, like in three-acts Shakespearean sense. Since I got here there have been posters and pamphlets all over Taipei promoting Canada D’eh. The literature explained it as a celebration of Canadian confederation held on a beach in Danshui on June 27 featuring a performance by Grammy-nominated artist Colby O’Donis. There are so many questionable things in that last sentence alone I don’t know where to begin.

The fact that the party was on June 27 and not July 1 was understandable. While Canada Day falls on a Wednesday, a big party night in Taipei, you need a weekend to get people out to a beach party. So my mostly Canadian friends and I piled onto the MRT and took the 40-minute ride to Danshui, the final stop on the red line. From the subway station there were free shuttle buses transporting party-goers to beach. As we walked in, the scene and the extent of ridiculousness began to dawn on me. There was a canopy containing the bar, food vendors, a booth featuring live instruction on how perform CPR and a display of prize-winning agriculture including a very large, very malformed pumpkin. On the beach organizers erected a stage with lit-up maple leaf, around which a procession of fake mounties on real horses trotted around.

Stranger still, most people were walking around in Canadiana wear. Taiwanese, Americans, other random westerners were only too eager to slap maple leaf stickers onto one cheek and wear a McCain temporary tattoo on the other. (Yes the Canadian-processed-food brand McCain, which brought us such delights as Deep’n Delicious cake and Smiles, was a sponsor.)

We arrived around 7 p.m., about mid-way through the 12-hour-long beach party. By that time the tide had gone out and it was too dark to go swimming.  According to signs on the beach, swimming in the dark is a prohibited activity. Still the emcees were made to humourously threaten and plea for anyone in the water to get out. Making sure to repeat this between each performance, the final broadcast informed us that Taipei police would find us and fine us. They weren’t kidding. Authorities had range rovers set up at the edge of the water and were blasting spot lights into the Pacific Ocean.

The performers were a mixed and strange bag. Skareoke delivered what their name promised: wordless ska. Their take on the genre is the elevator muzak of ska with the occasional Kenny G flourish. The second headliner was an excellent local band called Won-Fu (旺福). Xiao Min, male vocalist and lead guitarist, kept saying the most adorable things like “I wrote this song about the famous, my favourite…Jimi Hendrix! This song is called ‘My Name is Jimi Hendrix.’” Their messy/rocky/go-go-60s-girl pop had the entire crowd waving their arms and clapping along with the earnest, unabashed excitement usually reserved for teenage girls and the local Taiwanese.

And then there was Colby O’Donis. My friends and I had no idea so we did some pre-concert research. We were able to piece together that he was the formerly anonymous male who sang the brief solo in Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” and also, apparently, has a solo career. He reminded the audience of this claim to fame by singing tiny bits of the song and then abruptly stopping then bait-and-switching into his own material. After the Gaga reference, the song that got the biggest response was the dance routine he and his overdressed back-up dancers did to the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.” It’s a wonder no one passed out from dancing in their velour sweatsuits in the Taipei heat. After Colby’s departure, a DJ set up and fueled short-lived, albeit, decent beach dance party.

Canada D’eh’s WTF-factor was through the roof. Maybe it’s my Torontonian arrogance but probably the least Canadian thing you can do is celebrate Canada Day. At most you have an impromptu night of drinking with friends because it’s a statutory holiday or go to a free concert if the band is worth seeing. Seeing real Canadians declare their pride was equally funny and weird. But then to see other people pretend to be Canadian even more so. (Since when was Canada cool?) I enjoy and expect these kind of flagrant and gaudy displays of nationalism from other countries but to be the one being celebrated was more confusing than flattering. Three years ago I spent Canada Day in Ottawa, an actual all-out raucous party. People were drinking on public transit (very wild behaviour by Canadian standards), jumping into fountains and puking everywhere. I never thought I’d find a wilder Canada party but here it was, washed up on the beaches of Taiwan.

The reason I went to Norway last week was to write a feature about the Norwegian Opera House. This fjord-inspired building has attracted much fanfare for its remarkable architecture that allows visitors to walk up and all over the roof of white Italian marble. I received a press ticket to see the [...]]]>

The reason I went to Norway last week was to write a feature about the Norwegian Opera House. This fjord-inspired building has attracted much fanfare for its remarkable architecture that allows visitors to walk up and all over the roof of white Italian marble. I received a press ticket to see the Berlin Philharmonic, one of the world’s best orchestras–or so the Internet told me. With a day’s notice to the performance, the first and only thought that raced through my mind was worry about being out of the place at such a high-brow event. All I could do was fuss about cobbling together an outfit out of my backpack of travel wears.

When I arrived, I was surprised to see that the crowd was nowhere as blue-blooded as I anticipated. Yes, the median age jumped by several decades (having worked at a record store I expected this) but it was more like seeing your friend’s Grandma dressed in her sunday best, not feeling inadequate next to Emily Gilmore. There were a remarkable number of people in jeans and sneakers, who didn’t look awkward and weren’t subject to any dirty looks at all. White was the overwhelmingly the wine of choice (to match the building maybe?) and red was all but the pariah’s choice. The theatre critic sitting next to me told me it was an opera thing and that at theatre, red is preferred. My Norwegian friend said it was because of the summery weather and winter saw more consumption of red wine.

As soon as the show started, I became transfixed by the violins. To see all the bows rise and fall in unison and create such a loud, powerful sound without microphones or a sound system was awe-inspiring. Sir Simon Rattle, A-list in the classical celebrity world, conducting with his Einstein-like mane reminded me of that episode of Looney Tunes where Bugs Bunny leads an orchestra through an epic by furiously thrusting his ears. But whatever he did worked. The musicians brought sheet music to life and classical music wasn’t just something I had to spend half an hour a day doing anymore.

If there’s one thing I didn’t learn in the 10 years of piano lessons was how to appreciate classical music. When I started playing at six, I was a few years away from falling headfirst into the world of Hanson and Spice Girls. When I called it quits at 15, it was because I was preoccupied with being “indie” in a town where “indie” means Indian. Classical music was what came out of my Dad’s dusty pile of CDs, a collection that was smaller than my own by the time I was 15. It was the music that my cousins from Vancouver played in competitions that brought them around the world. The first and only time I met them, I was seven and they were staying at our house during a competition. The eldest cousin, who now plays in piano trio in New York City, would practice for hours on the piano my mother saved up to buy me, while I pranced around the living room with a glitter baton in my hand. Playing piano for me was always a perfunctory exercise. It took all the energy I had, or was willing to invest, just to hold down my whole notes and remember to hit the accidentals.

For the first time, I feel like I’m ready to give classical music a chance, as a listener.