A few weeks ago, I went with a friend to a Nuit Blanche being held on the 8thfloor deck of her condo building. The literal translation of this French phrase is ‘white night’. According to Wikipedia the event began in 1989, when the Helsinki Festival established a Night of the Arts. On that occasion “every gallery, museum and bookshop stayed open until midnight or later. The whole city became a giant performance and carnival venue” perhaps in an effort to combat the seasonal blues. The event was a great success and since 1989 many other cities, including Montreal, have followed the Finnish example.
The Nuit Blanche I attended differed considerably from the original. It was neither all-night, nor in the winter, nor did it involve any museums or galleries. But, from the eighth floor of my friend’s condo we were able to watch the last night of Montreal’s annual International Fireworks Competition. It was as splendid as it was in 1990 when the Competition began. As well, the food was wonderful, the company charming, and the conversation was (I believe) witty and amusing. (I cannot be certain because my witty French is woefully deficient).
However, for me the best part of the evening was the presence of a harpist, Denis. I am an enthusiastic music-lover but I have never before had the opportunity to hear or see a harp up close. I was enchanted and spellbound by the instrument, and by the music Denis chose was hypnotic – mostly pieces composed by Mary Lattimore, who he considers to be a genius.
This brings me to my dilemma: I was so smitten that I was seriously tempted to rush out and buy a harp just like his. But, in light of my failing attempts to master the clarinet after 36 years, or to resurrect my never-very-good piano skills, was it the least bit sensible to even consider tackling this bewitching instrument? Perhaps the best reason for doing so even if I utterly failed might be that the image of me plucking harp strings was certain to impress someone! Even, perhaps, my children!!!
PS: Some of the condo dwellers invited me to join them in a game of pétanque. Before the match, not wanting to seem like a typical clueless Anglais, I searched the web for some guidance. Unfortunately, I entered the word ‘petoncles’ and learned more than I needed to know about scallops. As the match progressed (the French vs the Canadians), I frantically continued to try to gain a better understanding of the strategies and rules with the help of the web. Why do some players have three balls and others only two? Why does the order of play seem to change and who decides? Why did I not win when, by pure chance, my boule hit the cochonnet (jack)?
But, I did learn one thing that might give me an opportunity to impress my fellow boulers (or whatever the right term is). I discovered that the balls in boule and in pétanque differ slightly. I realize however that even that gem can be as confusing as all else in this ancient game because boule is the word for ball and also for the game that is played with those balls… or the others. Have I gained your sympathy for my confusion? To add to the joys, learning how to throw accurately remains a complete mystery because everyone seemed to have a different technique.
All that confusion aside, much less mysterious was the marvelous meal that followed on the seventh floor deck. Who can resist a bowl of moules after a long game of boules?
Merci à tous du comité social!