Longing on PEI

My mother's mother, the youngest of ten siblings, came with two of her sisters from the family farm on Prince Edward Island to Massachusetts some time around 1900. My mother visited the farm and relatives there several times as a girl. She remembered it fondly and would say that we should visit sometime, but we never actually did so. She did, however exchange Christmas cards with a cousin there until her increasing dementia ended the exchange a few years before she died.

A few days before my mother's death, a letter arrived for her from a daughter of the other cousin on the island. It asked my mother to share any memories of her visits as well as any information which might help the writer track down the descendants of the other sisters who had come with my grandmother. We couldn't give any information my second cousin had requested, but the family was reconnected, and my brothers, sister-in-law,  nephew, and I visited the island that summer and met the relatives: two cousins of my mother and their spouses, our second cousins, and several of their children.

In the course of our visit, we took a guided walking tour of downtown Charlottetown, the capital. The guide, a college age man, was in 19th century costume, and I found him quite attractive. The following year, my brother, sister-in-law, and I returned. She had arranged to give an organ concert in Charlottetown and another in Tignish about two hours away. After the first concert they went to Tignish to prepare for the concert there. I didn't need to go with them, and I decided to stay in Charlottetown and take another of the walking tours which were offered.

To my delight, the guide happened to be the one from a year earlier. It also turned out that I was the only person signed up for the tour. So in addition to the tour, the guide also gave some information about himself. His name was John — I've forgotten his last name — and he lived in one of the suburbs of Charlottetown. He said that he and the other guides stayed in the Delta hotel during the season, and he told me several times that they gathered every evening in the lounge of the hotel. It seemed clear to me that in effect he was inviting, encouraging, me to join the group there. I told him that I had to join my family members in Tignish that evening.

I would have liked to see him that evening. Of course, my imagination developed a scenario in which I fantasized that after a couple of drinks he would invite me to his room, and make advances toward me. I would refuse to engage in sex, but there would be innocent displays of affection. Certainly there we would exchange contact information, and we would stay in touch. None of that could actually happen because of my family commitment, but I definitely wished it were possible to get to know him better and to develop a friendship. We have had no contact since then, and I wonder how he has done in the dozen or more years since those encounters. I hope all is well.

I wonder if he had known that I would be the only participant on the tour that afternoon and if he had arranged to be the guide for that reason. The guides used to get tips, and a tour with only one tourist would not have been very desirable. I can imagine that it could have been cancelled because of insufficient participation, but it wasn't. Maybe he had noticed my interest in him on the earlier tour (I took several pics of sites with him in them)  and somehow learned my name. Or maybe it was pure coincidence that he drew the assignment. Of course, I had signed up for it because the area to be covered  — the Lieutenant Governor's Mansion and the area between there and the edge of downtown — was of interest, and I'd have enjoyed it in a group or with a different guide, but being alone with him made it even more enjoyable.

Some people might consider this sad because of what didn't happen. On the other hand, the actual experience was pleasant, and it is an instance of chance encounters being able to produce good results. There was nothing lasting, like what came from a chance encounter in Rothenburg, but it was good while it lasted.

Catching up

On October 17 I went to a symphony concert, and the following evening I trekked in to Boston again, for a show called "Baritones Unbound." It's a brief look at the history of the baritone voice, especially after it was identified as such in the early 19th Century, and it was having its first run anywhere. It was basically a fun evening — pure entertainment. Apparently it hadn't been booked anywhere else as of when I saw it, but the Three Baritones are hoping to be signed elsewhere. So keep your eyes on the entertainment listings; if you notice it, I think you'll like it.

Over the weekend, I came down with a cold. On Monday morning, I had almost no voice. But there was gradual improvement. I was able to take a visiting cousin to dinner at Scollay Square before I went to symphony on the 24th. She didn't join me for the concert, but the "absolutely gorgeous young man" I wrote about in my previous post was at Symphony Hall that evening — with another guy who wasn't nearly so gorgeous. We happened to meet in the corridor after the concert was ended. It was his companion's first time in Symphony Hall and his first time hearing Mahler's "Lied von der Erde" live. They were both enthusiastic. I wasn't, but I refrained from negative comments. Having heard his name for the third time, I actually remembered it long enough to look him up on social media. It turns out his paternal grandmother was Japanese. (I hadn't noticed anything semi-oriental-looking about his father in pictures — dad's also on social media.) He was actually in Japan a few years ago on some study-abroad program when grandma died, and he described going to the funeral. In case he shows up again, I think I'll call him G.

The following evening, I went to Scollay Square again, before another HMA concert. I had the same waitress as the previous evening, and she recognized me. She was good, but I was sorry not to see Wendy or Blake, the waitress and waiter I had liked last spring, on either visit. With my cold still lingering, I decided to leave before the second half of the concert.

This week, the cold has continued to fade away. Wednesday was another evening at the theater, for "The Power of Duff," about a TV newscaster in Rochester who begins to pray at the end of the news programs after his father dies. Some interesting things happen, but mostly the play is about his attempts to connect with people — especially his estranged wife and alienated 15 year old son — after a lifetime of being self-absorbed. There is some value to the story, and the play has its good moments, but the characters and the action often seem contrived. It was nice to hear some of the Red Sox final game of the World Series in my car on my way home and to see the last inning on my TV after I got home.

Last night was another symphony evening. I decided to escape Hallowe'en trick-or-treaters by having dinner in Boston before the concert. There is a local chain called Petit Robert. They describe themselves as French-style bistros. The menu varies slightly from location to location, but both the ones I've visited offer some things that are commonplace in American restaurants and some things you don't see regularly on this side of the Atlantic. Before "Baritones Unbound" I went to the Petit Robert Central and had oysters and coquilles St. Jacques. The latter is not available everywhere in America, and it was quite enjoyable. The waiter was easy to look at and properly attentive. This week I went to the Petit Robert Columbus Ave. and enjoyed a tasty foie gras appetizer and a very good tripe entree (neither of which was on the PRCentral menu, although Central had a different style of foie gras). I really like being able to get these things that aren't on most American menus, especially the organ meats, and I'm looking forward to going to one or the other before future plays or concerts.

Looking forward, I'll be seeing "Waiting for Godot" for the first time next week, in a performance by an Irish company called the Gare St. Lazare Players. Symphony Thursday and the following two Thursdays. Harvard Musical Association on Friday the 8th. My parish has their Mass of Remembrance, especially for those who have died in the past year, on Saturday at 4:00, followed by Italian Night at 5:00. Then there is an end-of-season Race Committee party at 6:00.

Interesting Encounter; Autumn

Interesting Encounter.  Last Friday evening I went to the first "social evening" — i.e., concert followed by refreshments — at the Harvard Musical Association for this season. This particular concert was preceded by a lecture dealing with the history of the building which houses the association. Just before it began, in came a 30-40 year old member who I'm confident is gay with an absolutely gorgeous young man.

After the concert, I joined the pair and got introduced to the young man. He gave the impression of being gay also, and they may be something of "an item," for example, taking trips together. Eventually they went off but later I encountered them again, and in conversation learned that the young man had graduated from college two years ago, which would mean that he's about 24. (Even so, he's practically beardless, with only a few fine hairs visible on his cheeks.)

As he and I talked, I felt his elbow touch my arm just above the elbow. (How did he do that? He's several inches shorter than me.) With another touch, I noticed that he was turning his upper body back and forth. In all, he touched me in that way four to six times. At the time, I took it as expressing some measure of affection, like a pat on the back or an arm around the shoulder. But over the weekend I began to wonder if it was some sort of come-on. Was he inviting me to the men's room for some fellatio or some such thing?

I asked over on twitter if elbowing someone as he did is a commonplace signal. Nobody responded. If anybody knows that it has a common meaning among gay people, I'd like to know. (Not that I'd accept the invitation: I don't do sex. I'm just wondering.) If it means no more than, "I'm enjoying this encounter," I might even respond in kind, but if it means, "Let's have sex," I don't want to.


Autumn.  The arrival of the concert season coincides with the onset of autumn. Leaves are turning red, orange, and yellow and dropping from the trees. It will take a month or more for them all to go, but I'm never happy to see the trees bereft of leaves. They are much more attractive with their leaves, and with their leaves they make their surroundings more beautiful. They also seem to soften the sunlight, especially toward sunrise and sunset. I'm also sorry to have the sunsets coming so early.

I also associate feelings of nostalgia with Autumn. On sunny late afternoons I think of the high school sailing club: it was under such conditions that we'd return from our meets an hour from home. When the weather is cool and damp, there is a more generalized feeling of remembrance and loss. There is also a specific memory of an evening one autumn when a bunch of us were at a classmate's house and I found myself seriously crushing on her dark-haired, dark-eyed younger brother. And in the daytime, when most of the leaves are gone and the air is somewhat moist, I think of Tom.