Is housesitting for you?

Leon, our charming host in France.

Following a recent housesit in France, I have had a number of queries from curious friends and family for more information about how housesitting works. I hope this post will answer a lot of questions and give you a sense of whether you might like to try it.

Mark and I began housesitting about three years ago. I had bumped into housesitting sites on the Web and thought it an interesting idea.

In the typical housesit, no money changes hands. The sitter lives in the host’s home for free while the host is away and performs certain duties without pay. Those duties may include pet care, plant or lawn care, pool maintenance, etc. The sitter is also expected to keep the house tidy and clean to the standards of the host. There are variations on this model e.g., I’ve seen ads where the host expected the sitter to pay for utilities during their sit, or where the sitter was asked to look after an AirBnB suite, but these are not common. Sometimes the host will allow the sitter to use their car. Out of five sits that we’ve done, two gave us the keys to their car.

So that’s it in a nutshell: free accommodations for the sitter and free house/pet sitting for the host.

Sit periods can range from a couple of days to a year. There are sits available in major cities like Bangkok, London, and Los Angeles as well as in very rural settings. They are in sprawling farms and in tiny apartments.

To find a sit, you might want to belong to a housesit website, which will list available sits as well as available housesitters (should you be a homeowner seeking a sitter). I’ve dealt with three sites: nomador.com, trustedhousesitters.com, and housecarers.com, but I’m sure there are many others out there. Nomador (about $90 per year, with a free trial option) has a lot of sits in French-speaking countries plus other countries. Trustedhousesitters ($130 annual fee) I haven’t accessed for a long time, so I’m not sure whether they specialize in certain areas. Housecarers (US$50 per year) is the one I’ve used the most and the one where I’m still a member. It has a lot of sits in Australia, but also worldwide. You can browse all of these sites without becoming a member so you can get an idea of the kind of sits available, but if you want to apply for a sit, then you need to become a member.

Once you are a member of a site, here are some tips for getting the housesits you want:

  • Develop a good resume. Do a couple of sits so that you can advertise experience. You can do sits closer to home in order to gain this experience. Our first house sit was on Mayne Island.
  • Get references. Remember, from the host’s point of view, this is all about trust, so you need to do everything you can to gain their trust. Start with personal references and an RCMP background check (currently $25) then add references from hosts as you accumulate experience.
  • Be diligent about checking the site. An interesting offer will attract a number of applications quickly, so if you don’t see it for several days, you may have already lost out.
  • Be flexible and ready to commit when you see something you like. In the case of France, we had just returned from a trip to Panama and had already committed to a sit in Nanaimo over Christmas. I knew we had open time from mid-January to end of Feb, but I wasn’t seriously searching for a sit and I actually never considered France. However, when the French sit popped up and the time frame was ideal, I did some quick research on the area and thought, Wow, this would be a great place to spend several weeks. I also checked flight prices (terrible) and considered the ongoing general strike in France before applying. The point is, from first seeing the ad to applying was only a few hours, and there were already several other applications.
  • Keep your online profile up to date. Add photos. Mention previous sits and locations. After your initial contact message, your profile is your best chance to impress hosts with your reliability, personality, and character, so make it good.
  • Have a backup plan. We have not had any problems (crossed fingers) but I have read stories about hosts (and sitters) cancelling at the last minute, so I’m sure it happens. Since you’ve already made various arrangements—booked flights maybe, rented a car, taken time off work—what are you going to do? Cancel the whole thing and pay the penalties? Or go ahead and make other arrangements for accommodations? Either way it’s going to cost you more money than you planned, so it’s best to consider this in advance.

Housesitting has been a great experience for us. We’ve really enjoyed spending time in places we wouldn’t necessarily have visited otherwise and having a “home” rather than a hotel to relax in. We’ve also loved spending time with the pets we’ve met and getting to know our hosts.

If you think this might be something you’d like to try, do your research. Visit the sites I’ve listed and look for others to find the one that best suits your own needs. Read through their rules and browse the available sits before becoming a member. It’s a different way to travel but it might just be right for you!

Willkommen/Bienvenu/Welcome

The next time you travel to an international destination, wouldn’t it be fun to meet a local who could speak your language and would take you on a themed walking tour, telling you all about their beloved home town?

When I stumbled upon the International Greeters Association website during our recent trip to France, I immediately loved the idea. When I found out the service is free, I loved it even more.

The first chapter of what would become IGA was founded in New York in 1992 by Lynn Brook. According to Big Apple Greeter: “On her extensive travels around the world, Lynn realized that almost everyone she met wanted to visit New York City, but some were a little intimidated. She wanted the world to know New York City as she did: a great big small town with diverse neighborhoods, mom-and-pop stores, fun places to dine, and friendly residents who go out of their way to help a visitor feel welcome.”

The concept was a resounding success and the organization now covers 123 destinations, with over 3500 greeters.

The IGA has the following core values:

1) Greeters are volunteers.

2) Greeters welcome individuals and may serve small groups of up to six people.

3) Meeting a Greeter is free of charge.*

4) All visitors and volunteers are welcomed without discrimination.

5) Greeter organizations support sustainable tourism. Programs respect natural and man-made environments, bringing both cultural and economic enrichment to local communities. Programs aim for a lasting positive image of each destination.

6) Greeter organizations create a mutually enriching opportunity for cultural exchange; create links between people in creating a better world.

I connected through the Loire Valley Greeters site, where they feature hosts from six Loire cities, including Amboise, where we were staying. I was also able to specify my language of choice (English, because I’m an ignorant North American monolinguist) and a theme (history). Other themes included literature, architecture, local products, nature, and shopping. Once all those filters were applied, the site offered me several greeter options. I picked a friendly face and sent through my request for a date/time.

I quickly received a confirmation and a contact for our greeter, Charles.

Charles was a delight, full of enthusiasm and knowledge about the history of Amboise. He was well prepared for our visit and even carried a binder with visual materials to illustrate some of his stories. Together, we wandered through the old streets, with Charles chatting about specific houses or the general history of the area. We peered into courtyards and poked around in one of the lovely old churches, Église Saint-Denis. We had the opportunity to ask about things that had puzzled us. It was really like a stroll with your favourite teacher.

We were thrilled to discover this organization and to visit with Charles. My only regret is that I didn’t know about it earlier in our trip so that we could have met greeters in some of the other towns we visited.

*I was contacted later by the Amboise group to solicit feedback and to request a donation. I was happy to provide both, but it’s your option whether to donate.

Panama Memories

With our recent three-week trip to Panama still fresh on my mind, I am sorting through some 1,500 photos. The best part about travel photos is that they remind you of moments from your trip that you might otherwise forget, and so I’m recalling the day-by-day highlights (and a few lowlights).

Highlights:

  • Howler monkeys waking us at dawn with their whoops and roars.
  • Plunging into the gorgeous pool at the Gamboa Rainforest Resort after a long, sweaty hike.
  • Watching a stately tall ship sailing up the canal.
  • Awe-inspiring tropical rainstorms that pound the roof and create torrents on the streets.
  • Feeling the whoosh of a hummingbird’s wings as it flies by your ear.
  • Bobbing in the warm waves off your own deserted beach at Playa Blanca.
  • A long, slender, brilliantly green snake visiting us on our hotel balcony at Morillo Beach.
  • Cheering for tiny baby turtles as they struggle across the sand to reach the sea.
  • Ripe papayas, bananas, pineapple, and passionfruit for breakfast.
  • Hiking jungle trails at dawn when everything is still dark and silent and the bugs haven’t yet arrived.
  • Nutella cheesecake and glorious local Kotowa chocolates in Boquete.
  • Seeing the flashes and rumbles of distant thunderstorms in the surrounding hills as you lounge in the mountainside pool at La Brisa del Diablo.
  • Superb dinners at La Brisa prepared by Olga.
  • Stripping down to your underwear to swim in an emerald crystal river because you didn’t bring a swimsuit and it’s so incredibly hot and you can’t resist and there’s no one else there anyway, so why not?
  • Witnessing the life-and-death battle of a hawk and black snake played out just a few feet from the road.
  • Tiny frog on the path, smaller than my pinkie fingernail, and giant cane toads bigger than grapefruits sharing our pool at The Golden Frog Inn.
  • The excited nightwatchman at our inn calling us over to show us a sloth climbing (very slowly) along the power lines.
  • French pastries at the St Honore bakery near Gamboa.
  • Flocks of gregarious and noisy parrots and parakeets congregating at their night roosts each evening.
  • Enjoying the technological majesty of the Panama Canal locks at close quarters.
  • Not stepping on a miniscule snake along the trail, a snake that I first thought was a big worm until it slithered away rapidly in typically snake style.

Lowlights

  • Mosquito bites on top of “chagira” bites on top of other bites. I don’t know what those chagiras are, but despite their size (a pinprick), they bite like horseflies and leave blood, swelling, and maddening itchiness behind. Oh, and did I mention the ticks? Yes, it’s a jungle out there.
  • Traffic around Panama City. Unbelievable. Multiple lines of cars, buses, taxis, trucks, and motorcycles fighting to move forward a few feet. The only guidelines seem to be: try not to hit anything or anyone. Beyond that, anything goes.
  • Potholes. The main roads are mostly good, with just the occasional pit to keep you on your toes, but some of the side roads are more holes than flat surfaces.
  • Losing my monopod. Sigh. In the excitement of trying to photograph a mixed flock of birds, I must have dropped my monopod and forgot to pick it up. It’s probably still lying in the grass at the road side.
  • Mexico City airport security confiscating the tiny Allen wrench from my photography kit. This was a piece of metal about two inches long and half as thick as a pencil. It has passed through many previous security scans without comment. “No pasa,” the guard said sternly. Mark commented later that they were clearly afraid I was going to attempt to disassemble the plane.

In Search of Folk Music: Port Gamble WA

Spanaway Bay performs at the 2019 Port Gamble Maritime Music Festival

Are you familiar with the famous “blanket run” that opens the Vancouver Folk Music Festival each year? When the official gate barriers come down, thousands of crazed music fans race to the main stage area to lay down blankets and claim a prime spot for the evening concert. Within minutes, every patch of grass within a hundred metres of the stage is guarded by tarps, towels, hampers, coolers, sleeping bags, beach chairs. I haven’t yet seen razor wire go up or chained hounds employed, but the possibility exists.

The Port Gamble Maritime Music Festival in Washington State does not have a blanket run. To be honest, it does not have a gate or barriers, because it is free. The festival music starts at noon and when we arrived at 11:55, there were two people in camp chairs lording it over the entire site, a small, grassy hillside tucked between two historic buildings.

We considered our options. The Camp Chair People were clearly canny veterans, having chosen the best spot on a tiny level area halfway up the hill. We had to settle for second-best, about ten metres directly in front of the stage and higher up the hill.

By showtime, another dozen people had added themselves to the throng. At mid-afternoon, I counted about 40 audience members. Passersby, hearing the music, wandered in and stayed. It was, shall we say, an intimate festival.

I loved it.

Historic building beside festival site.

We did not need binoculars to see the performers. We did not need to stand in a half-hour line to use a smelly port-a-potty. When nature called, we ambled across the street (which was inevitably free of traffic) to the post office to use the restroom. If we wanted a hot or cold drink or ice cream, one of the buildings flanking the site sold those things. If further nourishment was required, a few steps down was the town’s restaurant. Apparently, organizers had a contingency plan to move indoors to the local theatre (also across the street) in case of inclement weather. Fortunately, despite continuous rain throughout the morning, promptly at 11:00, the showers ceased, the clouds began to dissipate, and blue skies prevailed.

It was a bit of a festival miracle and just one more thing that made the day a delight.

Admittedly, getting to Port Gamble is a challenge. Unless you live on the Kitsap Peninsula, you will likely have to take a ferry. Coming down from British Columbia, we stayed overnight in Lynnwood to facilitate an early start on festival Saturday. Next morning, we lined up for the Edmonds-Kingston ferry just as the 7:55 am sailing chugged off. By the next sailing at 8:50, the line-up behind us was impressive.

The Northshore Ramblers.

Once you make it to Kingston, however, it’s only a 12-minute drive to Port Gamble, and—Be still, my beating heart!—there’s lots of free parking in town.

Wiki tells us that: “The Port Gamble Historic District, a U.S. National Historic Landmark, covers one of the nation’s best-preserved western lumber towns.”  As we sauntered around that morning, we noted the many historic plaques on buildings dating from the mid- to late nineteenth century. We dropped in on the friendly quilting shop, where I managed to resist the urge to buy a quilt pattern simply to maintain the pleasant fiction that I might actually sew one someday. We ate a late breakfast at the Scratch Kitchen, by a window overlooking the bay, then walked the few metres back to the festival site.

The music runs from noon until 5 pm, with four feature acts plus presentation of the songwriting contest winners and a grand finale that brings all the performers back on stage leading singalong sea shanties. Oh, the harmonies! It appeared that all the performers were more or less local and most seemed to know each other, judging by the joking and camaraderie during the finale. I was impressed that all the performers stayed 99% on the maritime theme, albeit with occasional dashes of Bluegrass and pop styles to keep things lively.

From our perch on the hillside, we looked down past the stage to the sparkling water of the ocean and the serene forests of the opposite shore. A variety of birds put on an aerial show: gulls soaring, kingfishers diving, eagles hunting, Canada geese arriving en flock to rest on the beach below.

As the final strains of the last shanty—“It’s time for us to leave her”—were carried away by a fresh breeze, we headed for the ferry. Luck stayed with us and we were one of the last cars to make that sailing, arriving back at our snug anchorage in Lynnwood in time for a tasty Japanese dinner at Wild Wasabi.

Verdict: Live, local, accessible folk music FOUND in Port Gamble. Thanks, folks!

The Port Gamble Maritime Music Festival takes place in August. Admission is free but donations are gratefully accepted. This year’s performers included Spanaway Bay, the Northshore Ramblers, the Whateverly Brothers, and Curlew’s Call.

Books That Found Me

Compulsive reader: n. A person who cannot refrain from reading.

Situation: We pull into a gas station in Mexico to use the restroom. I jog across the tarmac to the ablution block only to pull up short in dismay at the large sandwich board sign displayed outside: Baños cerrados. Even with my tiny bit of Spanish, I get this: Toilets closed.

I slink back to the car and sit with legs crossed while Mark pays for the gas, contemplating the baños with resentment and some anxiety. Who knows how far to the next place of relief?

I see another driver stride purposefully toward the baños door. Any moment now, I think (somewhat smugly), he’ll see the sign and turn back. But no, he simply pushes past it and continues on. Is the door locked to thwart non-signreaders such as this brash fellow? No, it opens easily and he disappears inside. A second man follows the same path.

Clearly, the baños are not closed. Had I simply not read the sign or ignored it, I would have been blissfully employing papel higienico at that very minute.

My compulsive need to read every bit of text I see has often gotten me into similarly inconvenient circumstances.

On the other hand, being ready, willing, and able to read anything can be a blessing when travelling. I used to leave home with three or four novels stashed in my suitcase, irrationally worried that I would run out of things to read on the road. God forbid I should have to endure a moment at the airport or a rainy day confined to the hotel without reading matter.

However, as we stayed less often in big chain hotels where available text is inevitably restricted to the New Testament and the room service menu, I discovered a world of reading possibilities.

Many smaller hotels, inns, and hostels keep a shelf of books under the rule of “Take a book, leave a book.” Often, the selection will include many tempting choices in languages that you cannot even identify, much less decipher. There will also be dog-eared travel guides that predate the Internet and provide essential information for visits to the U.S.S.R., West Germany, or the Ottoman Empire on $5 a day.

But hidden among the flotsam, there will be jewels.

On the shelf of a nature lodge in the jungles of Mexico, I discovered a novel—The Name of the Wind—that I was actually planning to read anyway, as it had been recommended to me by a friend. Curiously, it was clearly brand new, and appeared unread. It was such an odd coincidence that I felt the book was meant for me, that it had somehow found its way to me.

In Ecuador, I browsed an inn’s bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling, covering an entire wall. Out of several hundred books, I pulled one called The Year of Pleasures, scanned the back cover and knew instantly this story about a woman trying to find a new life after losing her husband would go straight to my own grieving heart. I almost put it back, not sure I could handle it, but I promised myself I could put it aside it if it took me in the wrong direction. I galloped through it in three days, cried many times, and marvelled at passages that made me ask “How does she know?”

One of the best things about found books is that they challenge and tease you to read things you might never otherwise choose. Sometimes that means you are condemned to the only English-language volume available, which is usually a thriller by the uber-popular hack writer of the day, the one you never read. But other times you may be led to an unexpected place. Like the slim hardcover sporting a photo of a man wearing a dress and purse and the quirky title Kennense Noch Blümchenkaffee? Die Online-Omi erklärt die Welt. With my rudimentary German I puzzled this out to be: Do you still know flower coffee? The online grandmother explains the world. I guessed that the reference to flower coffee hearkened back to the war, when luxuries like coffee were in short supply and inventive Germans turned to making hot beverages from a variety of sources such as flowers. This is one of those almost-forgotten facts that has passed or is passing from common knowledge.

I still don’t know if my guess was accurate, but it intrigued me enough to flip through the pages. The book turned out to be a tongue-in-cheek “dictionary” of outdated terms and concepts that only an “omi” (affectionate term for grandmother) would still be able to explain–with a generous dash of humour and some social commentary. Example (rough translation): “In olden times, we already had ebay. Only it was without computer and it was called the church bazaar.” Reading this in German and then struggling through to a lightbulb moment when I finally got the joke was so much more fun than reading it in English, and a perfect way for me to stretch my foreign vocabulary.

There have been many other books that found me along the road. I must confess, however, that I have occasionally been known to take a book without leaving one, rationalizing such inexcusable behaviour with the thought that the universe seeks equilibrium and if I am caught without a book to leave, then somewhere there must be someone who has reason to leave a book without picking one up.

Even worse, while I usually conscientiously leave the books behind on another traveller’s shelf once I’m done, sometimes a volume begins to possess me and I take it home to hoard, pawing it lasciviously and mumbling My Preciousssssss! This is a bad habit. I need to remind myself that books need freedom to find new readers who will flatter and appreciate them. To paraphrase Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly!:

“Books are like manure: They’re no good unless they’re spread around, helping things to grow.”

Valladolid on Parade

Colourful ladies parading along the colonial streets of Valladolid. Photo by Marian Buechert.

Revolution Day is when Mexicans celebrate the beginning of their revolution in 1910, and in the city of Valladolid, the occasion is marked by a popular parade through the colonial streets. Valladolid has a particularly close connection with the start of the Mexican Revolution, as described in this Yucatan Today article:

“On June 4…the insurrection began which attacked the town of Valladolid, Yucatán. The insurgents’ army was made up of laborers from the neighboring haciendas….The federal government retaliated by sending a battalion of 600 soldiers….After three assaults by the federal troops, dozens of bodies of the revolutionaries and soldiers remained scattered through the streets of Valladolid, in the first tragic episode of what would…become the beginning of a new era for Mexico.”

Since we were in the area close to the date and I was eager to see the celebration, we duly strolled out from our hotel in the cool early morning to take up a position along the route. We were pretty well the only non-locals in attendance. The parade was not well publicized to outsiders and even our helpful hotel manager downplayed it as “just a local event.” “Mainly school kids,” he said.

Perfect, I thought. There’s nothing more fun to watch than young folks on show. Whether they react to the spotlight with eye-rolling  and goofiness or a serious sense of responsibility, it all makes for good entertainment.

I wasn’t disappointed. The ages of the youngsters ranged from primary school to university, and they included tumblers, dancers, musicians, rope twirlers, and flag wavers, as well as many, many lovely girls done up in regional costumes with artfully crafted hair and make-up, who looked hot and stressed until they saw my camera and then broke into radiant smiles as they posed. I found the children dressed up as revolutionary heroes particularly hilarious and poignant, with their gigantic fake moustaches falling off and their toy guns clutched to their chests.

The last hour of the parade consisted solely of hundreds upon hundreds of medical students from various disciplines—presumably from a local specialized post-secondary institution—marching in perfect step. I wondered how Canadian student doctors, nurses, physiotherapists, paramedics, dentists, hygienists, etc would respond if they were asked to turn up for marching practice just to prepare for a holiday parade. Somehow, I don’t think it would fly.

As I watched them troop past in their work garb, it occurred to me that possibly many of them were the first in their families to achieve post-secondary status and that there were likely a lot of proud parents in the crowd overjoyed to see their son or daughter with such a secure and prestigious future assured. Maybe that was the point of them marching: they represent the hope of the community as it moves forward into a high-tech, white-collar world.

There was a small military presence, with a guard marching before and after the main parade and a few military vehicles on display, but their best contribution consisted of army athletes demonstrating various sports, including jumping through hoops. Strange but interesting.

My only disappointment was the lack of horses. I waited through the entire three hours, saying “There has to be horses! How can you have a parade without horses?!” Sadly, the horses—only about six of them—came at the very end, just before the final military escort. I thought it was a striking difference between this Mexican event and the equine parade we attended in Costa Rica a few years ago (see “Heaven for Horse Lovers”), where they featured nothing but hundreds of horses for four hours.

On the up side, we once again experienced the unexpected kindness of strangers when we were standing streetside waiting for the parade. Many of the residents had come out from their homes to watch (the parade, not us), bringing chairs with them so they could settle in for the long haul. One lady saw us standing and went back inside for two more chairs to offer to us. Gracias, señora, for your very thoughtful and friendly act.

 

 

 

 

Tintern Abbey

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet
—Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey
William Wordsworth, 1798

Perhaps it is the sign of a weak mind to be so influenced by a few lines of poetry written over 200 years ago that I felt I must see for myself what inspired Wordsworth. If so, then I am certainly guilty, for once I knew we would be in Wales, Tintern Abbey was on my list. I have gazed at photos of the site over the years, and the combination of the skeletal yet still-soaring stonework and the picturesque setting added to the feeling that this was a place I had to see someday.

I do love old cathedrals and churches, even though my interest is purely secular. A cathedral may have been intended as a tribute to God’s majesty, but to me, it is a symbol of humanity’s spirit, perseverance, ingenuity, and artistry.

All photos by Marian Buechert.

I planned our visit for an evening and the following morning, staying nearby in one of those pleasant inns that the Brits seem to specialize in. We arrived late in the day, just in time for the magic evening light, and although we couldn’t enter the abbey (it had closed for the day) we had the exterior of the site to explore by ourselves. It was intriguing to imagine the area buzzing with activity as it would have been during the abbey’s heyday.

As the shadows lengthened, we strolled across the nearby bridge and along a walking path that followed the river to where we could view the abbey from farther away. Without modern buildings or roads to ruin the illusion, the ruins probably looked much like they did when Wordsworth composed his lines.

In the morning, we revisited the site, poking around the interior this time. “Inside,” what was once flagstone floors is now a smooth carpet of manicured greenery across which the shadows of the pillars and arches etch patterns. With grass beneath your feet, stone rising around you, and the ceiling of blue sky, you feel as if you’re in a temple to nature.

Through the site, I wandered lonely as a cloud, when all at once I heard a single voice raised in song. I followed my ears around a corner and beheld a young woman, standing alone in the centre of the abbey’s great open nave, singing a beautiful melody in a language I didn’t understand. Along with everyone else on the site, I stood transfixed until she finished, when she immediately moved off and became just another visitor again.

I would have loved to do what she did and express my reverence with music, but I feared that it would be seen as mockery, so I remained silent. But inside, my heart was singing.

Are there historic sites that inspire reverence in you? Let me know in a comment.

The Getty Center

If you think Los Angeles symbolizes everything kitschy and facile, and serves only as hub for the cult of 15 minutes of fame, you haven’t visited the Getty Center. Who would have thought La-La Land could boast a world-class museum that impresses in so many ways?

First, there’s the gorgeous location, perched on a hill, overlooking LA one way and out toward the hills of Santa Monica the other way. One is so tempted to say it literally rises above the surrounding city, but I wouldn’t stoop to such a cliché.

Second, there’s the architecture and design. They’ve created an inspiring, welcoming space to relax outdoors in the courtyard, intriguing nooks and crannies between the buildings that frame the surrounding landscape, and galleries to rival any that I’ve seen.

Portrait study, 1818, Theodore Gericault

Third, there are wonderful tours to help you navigate and better appreciate the art. After many expeditions to many museums around the world, I know that it’s all too easy to get exhausted, lost, and numbed, stumbling around like a zombie, wanting to see everything and not seeing anything properly. You can get away with doing this for a quick visit, but if you’re there for the day, you need to find a way of focusing your attention and budgeting your energy. Tours are a great way to do this: someone else chooses the pieces to view, plots out the best course to navigate the galleries, and spoon-feeds you useful information. On our recent visit to the Getty, we did the Highlights of the Collection Tour, plus the Curator’s Tour of the special exhibition, “Eyewitness Views: Making History in 18th Century Europe.” This title might lead you to think the exhibition was a real yawner and pass it by; however, with the enthusiastic and knowledgeable guidance of the person who actually envisioned and put together the exhibition, it came alive as we gained real insight into commemorative paintings.

Last but not least, there is the art itself, representing a wide spectrum from paintings of all periods to sculpture, tapestries, illuminated manuscripts, furniture, photography, and decorative arts. The paintings of masters such as van Gogh, Manet, Rembrandt, Goya, Cezanne, and Fragonard are all included in the Getty collection. I wandered from gallery to gallery finding familiar works that I remembered from books and discovering new pieces that I will never forget.

The tapestry rooms literally took my breath away; I’ve seen tapestries on exhibit before, but never in rooms that are designed to emulate those in which the tapestries originally would have been hung and admired.

I was equally enraptured by a special exhibition titled “Illuminating Women in the Medieval World,” which explored how women’s roles in the Middle Ages are documented in the precisely detailed illustrations of illuminated manuscripts. The brilliant colours and shimmering gold leaf bring the Medieval world to life.

Peering in at a display of Sevres porcelain took me back to my university days and a research paper on Madame de Pompadour’s patronage of the ceramics manufacturer. It gave me a quiet little thrill to actually see some of the Sevres pieces from that period.

 

When your mind is saturated with great art and your feet are sore, take time to rest and refresh in the courtyard next to the water feature, where you can sip a cool drink and admire the architecture.

After a full day at the museum, I still had not seen the garden or the villa, and there were many unexplored galleries calling me back for future visits.

The icing on Mr. Getty’s cake is that his museum is free, such a rarity for anything in the U.S. (Thank you, J.P.) They do charge a parking fee, but that’s it. Which allows you to spend your money instead at one of the cafes or at the gift shop. Another perk is that you are allowed to photograph most of the art, so Snapchat away and share your favourites with all your “friends” who think you’re visiting the City of Angels for shallow pursuits like Rodeo Drive shopping and bus tours of celebrity homes:

Jeanne Kefer, 1885, Fernand Khnopff

“Adored this little girl i spotted at the Getty! Dont u just heart culture?! ”

Do you have a beloved museum or gallery? Have you visited the Getty? Share your thoughts in a comment.

In Search of Folk Music: Princeton, BC

The Didgetary Do’s on stage at the Princeton Traditional Music Festival 2016.

Every August, I pack up my breeziest dresses, my best sun hat, and my music sheets and head to the tiny town of Princeton, British Columbia, about three hours east of Vancouver.

There’s a big, busy highway that rips through Princeton, but once you’re away from that thoroughfare, it’s the kind of place where you can lay down in the middle of the road and take a nap. A couple of pick-up trucks going in opposite directions down the main avenue will stop side by side while the drivers lean out their windows and chat for a few minutes. I’ve not yet seen anyone mosey into town riding Ol’ Paint and tie up at the pub’s hitching rail, but it’s the kind of place where you feel that just might happen.

Fiddler Michael Burnyeat performs at the festival in 2016.

Though Princeton isn’t exactly the town that time forgot, modern and trendy aren’t really the right words to describe it, either. It is, in short, a place where traditional isn’t a dirty word. In fact, it feels pretty good rolling off the tongue as part of the Princeton Traditional Music Festival.

Traditional music—as in “music so old that you don’t know who wrote it”—is not the stuff of popular radio. Instead of three minutes of “baby, baby, I love you,” you get eight minutes of anything from two crows discussing how to eat the corpse of a dead knight to a bawdy song about old men marrying young women. There are drinking songs, sea shanties, ballads about sisters murdering each other, songs celebrating sheep, mourning songs, ancient instrumentals, and, yes, the occasional equivalent to “baby, baby, I love you” e.g., “I have loved you, fair lady, for long and many the day.” There are duels, enchantments, suicides, diseases, disguises, cruelty, faithlessness, and fidelity. So much richer than the tiny palette from which modern music is painted. There are bouzoukis and banjos, dulcimers and djembes, and lots and lots of guitars.

At the Princeton festival, two main stages run through the daytimes of Saturday and Sunday, with a small additional acoustic performance space in the library on Saturday only. Saturday evening is given over to parties, jamming, and songcircles.

Audience participation at the festival dancing.

The festival founders like to point out that venues for traditional music are scarce, particularly in western Canada. Princeton’s event thus serves as a gathering place for both performers and enthusiasts; many attendees return year after year and greet each other as old friends. Volunteers do most of the organizing and running of the festival and musicians donate their time and talents on stage. Because of this, there’s a warm, friendly feel to the weekend that has long been lost in the big-name “folk” festivals. There’s dancing in the streets, singing on the sidewalks, and a unofficial big splash in the cool river with brass instruments and kids shrieking and who knows what else.

And did I mention it’s FREE? Yes, you heard that right. Donations are solicited and warmly welcomed, but there are no tickets and no ticket prices. So you can afford the gas to get there, stake out a tent and heat beans over a Bunsen burner, or reserve a motel room and squeeze into one of the restaurants (all stuffed to the rafters for that one weekend). Bring your little folk, bring your elders, bring your dog. Do it your way, but do it.

Under the gazebo, a centre of action during the festival.

The Princeton Traditional Music Festival celebrates its tenth anniversary this August 18-20. More information is available on their website http://www.princetontraditional.org/

 

What’s your favourite summer festival? Let me know in a comment.

Here Comes the Showboat!

As we roll into the beginning of summer, I’m once again reminded of how splendid is my own little corner of the world and how happy I am when I get a chance to spend part of the summer around here. This doesn’t mean I don’t travel, but sometimes I enjoy being a tourist in my own town with all its festivals, free events, and fascinating nooks.

The Kitsilano Showboat is a perfect example. Even though I was born near Vancouver, for many years, I had no idea where Kitsilano is. Growing up in the burbs of Port Moody, Kits was just not a place my family visited. I was in my 40s before I heard about the Showboat. They ran an ad looking for roving musicians who would stroll the nearby beaches and perform for the crowds there, with the idea of luring patrons to check out the free stage at the Showboat. The shameless exhibitionist in me jumped at the chance to go where buskers and other musicians are normally forbidden. Evenings that summer found my partner and I gussied up in 1890s costume, playing to the scantily clad throngs in thongs arrayed on the sand. Afterwards, we would head back to the Showboat to catch the show.

It’s s a classic Vancouver experience: park your keester on one of the amphitheatre’s tiered benches, look down to where the Mexican Dance Ensemble or the South Surrey Concert Band is playing its heart out for you, and then gaze past: first to the epic aquamarine dimensions of the Kitsilano Pool, which lies just behind the Showboat, next, to the waters of English Bay beyond that, criss-crossed by the white triangles of sailing dinghies and the wet-suited figures of stand-up paddleboarders, still farther to the skyline of West Vancouver, and finally to the stunning backdrop of the Coast Mountains. A little to the right of this world-class vista, rest your eyes on the white sand of Kitsilano Beach set against the skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver. Now add in a perfect summer-blue sky and some silver gulls soaring on the breeze, and you have a scene to inspire E.J. Hughes.

Discovering the Showboat was like finding out I had a long-lost great-auntie living in a Kitsilano heritage home. This auntie is a former vaudeville star, fabulously eccentric but always entertaining. You can visit her any night of the week, as long as it’s Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or Saturday. You never know whether she’s going to show up for dinner as a hula dancer, a kilted lassie, a saloon gal, or a cowgirl. She might come out playing a tuba or bring a troupe of tiny tots on stage to wave little Canadian flags. Even though she’s pushing 82, she’s still a spry old showgirl flaunting a bright new coat of turquoise paint each year.

Founded in 1935—back in the days when the average person was much more accustomed to entertaining themselves, their families, and their neighbours with homespun talent—the Showboat relies on volunteer performers to put on a show. From the kiddies of the Hi-Kicks Dance School to wanna-be rock gods, everyone gives it their best effort, and although the talents are not always professional-level, they are never boring.

There’s a concession nearby for snacks and drinks, or, for more up-scale nosh before or after the show, drop in at the beachside Boathouse Restaurant just around the corner. Best option of all might be a packed picnic dinner on a beach blanket among the driftwood of Kits Beach.

When the performance ends, meander along the promenade and enjoy the sunset.

Hamming it up on Kits Beach with my partner a few years back.

“See the Show Boat,
Will you go?
Let me take you to the show!”
Show Boat (the musical, 1927)

 

If you grew up in Vancouver, do you have any memories of the Kitsilano Showboat? Or do you remember a similar local talent outlet from your own home town? Let me know in a comment.