or, excuse me, I meant to say blavatar. Anyway, in my history of avatars, the current one is only my second. For years, mine was Ms. Frizzle, and she was apt. I taught four academic subjects to at-risk middle and high school students. I have read hair and a somewhat wacky personality (I encouraged this perception, of course!) and did hands-on stuff when ever I could. I remember scrambling through the woods and bogs of Southampton, Massachusetts looking for remnants of the canal network. The girls I took were not like my girl scouts. Oh, no, not them (whiny-ass crybabies). So they got a few scratches and whatnot. I picked the ticks off them myself, didn’t I? Anyhoo, back to Ms. Frizzle. I had to say goodbye to her this year when I quit teaching this past spring. For one thing, any reminder of teaching made me anxious, and hard to avoid looking at your avatar, innit?  ‘It was no longer appropriate’ said Ms. Frizzle gently, and drove away in her magic school bus, her little lizard on her shoulder swivelling his saurian head around as they faded into the cybersphere.

It was at this time that the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan. Many of my friends changed their avatars to the Japanese flag (some even to the empirical Japanese flag, although I’m not sure they understood why they did-I didn’t ask, but I had my doubts). I changed mine to The Wave to bide me some time while I found another avatar.

Meanwhile, I kept noodling around in Photoshop, trying to create a cartoon of a picture of me. There’s a few hundred ways to do this, at least, and I kept noodling.

Plus, there’s so many other cool things to play with in photoshop, like the liquify tool and the self healing brush. Like the undo button, the self-healing brush is a tool I hope will one day be actual and not just virtual, but not likely to be available in my lifetime. So I was searching and noodling at the same time (could be a name for this blog, hey?)

And then I found her.

Vindicator, one of the all Canadian members of the new Alpha Flight. Isn’t she lovely? and a righteous babe, ta boot! http://www.newsarama.com/php/multimedia/album_view.php?gid=3335&page=2

The only thing I don’t feel quite honest about is, while there was a time I could have easily pulled that look off (and almost did! I still have my circa 1982 Diane Von Furtstenbug jumpsuit).  I don’t think I can pull it off as well as the whole Ms. Frizzle look.  For one thing, my hair is just jaw length now. It can’t shake and sway like a superhero’s (although there are parts of me that shake and sway just fine, thank you). I’m just issuing a caveat about my appearance in case you’re don’t recognize me without the crime-fighting costume if we met ftf. Just so’s we got that cleared up.

Living my formative years in the land of the silver birch, and summers thereafter, I have, from birth, been able to speak fluent Canadian.  In fact, I often speak ‘Canadian’ in the states. When I taught in a high school, whenever I said ‘the washroom,’ the kids would say “What? Why do you call it that?” “Well, I know you’re not going to bathe there, but I hope that you wash!” I replied. Also I say ‘process’ so that it rhymes with ‘no less’ rather than the ‘lot less,’ rhyme of the American pronunciation.  (These are not great rhymes, sorry, hope you get it.)

Today, at the store I saw an endcap display of Kraft Dinner.For Americans who may be reading this, I am talking about macaroni and cheese. Now I have a certain song running through my head…if I had a million dollars, by the Barenaked Ladies where they sing about Kraft Dinners. Apparently, there was a time in the early years when fans would throw boxes of the stuff on the stage, pelting the performers and strewing powdered cheese onto the equipment, where the lights and the heat would bake it into a stinky, bubbling mess. Ewwwww. Here is a happier thought: The songs were written when Ed Robertson and Steven Page were camp counsellors. they also sing about a chesterfield, which is a sofa. According to Wikipedia:

If I Had $1000000 is one of the earliest-composed Barenaked Ladies songs. It was first conceived as a simple improvised song while Page and Robertson were counsellors at a summer music camp. On the way home from camp, Robertson played the tune for the campers, randomly listing amusing things he would buy with a million dollars. Upon returning to camp, he brought the idea to Page, and the two fleshed out the song.

But anyway, I loved hearing BNL singing about Kraft Dinner, because it reminded me of Canada, and 99% of my memories of time in Canada are happy ones. I wonder, is Kool-Aid still called “Freshie’?

Hardly anyone in Halifax uses an umbrella. I noticed this right away when I got here, since it was raining. People kind of bend their heads into the rain, stoic as cows. Almost everyone wears a hat of some kind or other, though. I asked my landlady why nobody uses an umbrella and she said “it rains sideways, so an umbrella won’t help.”

I brought two umbrellas up North with me, a little wee lavender job that fits in my purse and a big black English ‘walking umbrella’ with flowers sewn around the edge for when I want to bring out my inner Mary Poppins. Today, I was running a bit late, and I couldn’t find the big one. It had been on the bedpost, as a handy weapon, but it kept getting in my way so I banished it somewhere. The wee lavender one was in my purse already, so I went with that.

I don’t really like the collapsible umbrellas, I feel like Charlie Chaplin when I walk with one, because of my height. I mean, from elbow to hand is parallel to your body, while shoulder to arm is straight out. It isn’t comfortable and it looks silly. One more reason to dislike them, I discovered today, is that they’re not very strong. I don’t think it was so much a matter of the rain moving sideways today as the wind gusting in different directions. It did blow my brolly inside out once, but I was able to snap it back. After a while, though, I gave it up and tucked it back into my purse.

As I was walking along, I was able to raise my head enough to see a couple of trash cans with broken umbrellas in them. This picture is not one of them. It was raining too damn hard for me to want to stop and take a picture.

Now I have lived in windy cities before. Boston’s weird buildings create wicked wind tunnels. One time, I saw a

Cambodian woman swept right off her feet. If she hadn’t been hanging on to a post, she would have been blown right off the face of the earth, I think. I also lived in Chicago one summer. They say the name is from the politics, not the climate, but it was a hot summer, and even the shore breeze we got felt like a blow dryer aimed at your face. I say this so that readers will not think I am some sort of delicate flower, but DAMN, this place is windy!

I had to get out of the house so when I heard about a concert featuring Brahms at Dalhousie University, I decided to go. I also decided to walk. I find living in a city with good public transportation novel, and I am trying to limit my use of the car. The concert was at 7 and I left around 5:30. Walking and leaving when I did were in hindsight both bad ideas. Another was my choice of footwear. That afternoon, I looked at what I thought was appropriate concert wear for the weather in my closet and decided I needed accessorizing. Went back to the marvellous Value Village and bought a yellow scarf to wear as a belt and a lavender girly purse. I wore my aurora borealis skirt, a black linen sleeveless blouse and a black cardigan (de rigure in NS changeable weather). My third mistake was my choice of footwear: I broke out my ‘dress Birkenstocks,’ rhinestone-studded thong sandals and headed out.

I had wanted to grab a bite to eat, too, but not knowing how far the theatre was, I kept walking. Halifax is a pretty cool little city, with lots of little ethnic restaurants and funky boutiques, all uphill. The hill that I kept walking up and up. I have been reading Halifax, Warden of the North, by Thomas Raddall, and he describes the question of where the fort and town should be situated. The army wanted it to be in Bedford Basin, the governor wanted Point Pleasant. The New England traders and fishers objected to both sites: Bedford Basin was eight miles from the harbour mouth and Point Pleasant too rocky for dockage. The governor compromised by picking a site two miles farther up the harbor, a  deep area screened from northwest winds “with the result that the inhabitants of Chebucto and their descendents were fated to cling to a slope as sparrows cling to the easterly pitch of a roof.”  By the time I got to the theatre, my feet hurt terribly. The skin between my first two toes were not used to the friction and every step uphill jammed my foot against the thong. I thought I should carry my little journal with me, since the girly purse held hardly anything. As I walked, a caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window and thought I could pass for a Salvation Army lady with her bible and little girly purse! (Is this mistake number four?)

I passed a grand hotel, the Lord Nelson, a statue of Robert Burns, an old graveyard and a lovely public garden that I must check out one day when it is sunny. I passed a rehabilitation hospital and there was a woman, about my age in a wheelchair out front, smoking a cigarette. I wondered if she had been in a car accident. As I approached, we smiled at each other and she said “I just love that skirt that you are wearing!” I thanked her and we smiled again, each a little warmed by the moment, and I was glad I wore the skirt with the blazing colors.

When I (finally) got to the theatre, I bought the very last ticket. When I called earlier, the woman on the phone said there were plenty of seats. The woman selling tickets explained that there had been a huge rush for seats that just ended. She offered to sell her own ticket to the woman who entered just after me (she must have been the manager, then I thought, this being the situation any house manager loves: SRO.)

I went principally for the Brahms. Brahms has a way of bringing you to the depths of despair to the heights of ecstasy and then aurally smashing you into the rocks again that I like, especially in a chamber setting. This was no exception: opus 25 was lovely and everything it ought to be, but that was the second half. I was equally pleased with the first performances of the evening. Robert Uchida is fabulous, and Bach’s Sonata in G major was beautiful. I did grin inwardly between the movements when the audience sat perfectly silently, contrasting this with the ‘culture vultures’ at Tanglewood who applaud during each pause in the music. The Berio and Bartok were also masterful. I found the middle piece, by the McGill Percussion Ensemble, Percussion Sextet by Reich admirable for its precision and synchronization, but the timpani or vibraphone or xylophone or whatever it is isn’t my favorite instrument, and I was rather relieved when it was over. I demonstrate my ignorance of these instruments to underscore the fact that I am in no way qualified to be a music critic (but I know what I like!)

The walk home was kind of lonely. I wished I had someone to discuss the concert walking next to me. It was a beautiful night (and quieter than I expected for a city of 400k) and I ignored my aching feet to take a detour by the public gardens, rather than via the busier spring garden road (remember, I still looked like the church lady!) This is a good time to bring up how safe I felt walking alone at night in Halifax. I have a very keen ‘spidey sense’ that I keep on full alert, and I never felt any tingles.

Because I took a different way back to the pier, I wasn’t really sure where to go, but kept going downhill and saw the waterfront before long. My feet were glad to move from pavement to wooden pier. As I neared the ferry terminal, I passed a woman serenading the tall ships dockside with her trumpet. She clearly wasn’t busking, or she wouldn’t have been in such an empty area, but the acoustics were wonderful as the trumpet (or cornet) resounded back from the water and the ships. I tossed a coin into her case. I could tell by the sound it made that it was a toonie, but it was as satisfying in its own way as the concert was, and well worth the price.

At Alderney Landing, I paced back and forth on feet that felt like bloody stumps waiting for the bus for about 20 minutes. I kept looking across the street at an inviting little spot called Celtic Corner. When I saw the sign saying Strongbow Cider on tap, my mind was made up; Bus transfer be damned! I entered the bar and ordered a pint and a taxi. While I drank my pint down (it was a thirsty walk!) I made a friend. Counting the bartender, that makes five people I’ve met so far in Halifax. I suppose I could include the taxi driver as well. I realized during the ride that I might not have the fare, between tossing money to musicians, swilling cider and overtipping the bartender. He kindly stopped at gas station so Icoudl get more money. I gave him $5 ‘for security’ I said. What are you going to do, run back to Massachusetts, he laughed. Inside, I bought two Coffee Crisp bars and got cash back. When I got back to the cab I gave him another five and one of the candy bars. He laughed again, thanked me and bade me good night. When I got home, I put my feet up, ate the other candy bar and thought Halifax is pretty cool.