Ah, the QE Pool. Used to be hidden up in the valley, just north of Saskatchewan Drive and 105 street. This pic is of the new incarnation of the pool, located in Kinsmen park, next door to the Kinsmen Rec Center.

Just testing the Twitter integration with michaelgravel.com. Ignore this update.

In 2010, I taught an internet technology course at the University of Alberta. It was part of a program called ELLA, which is the flagship program of the Edmonton Lifelong Learners Association. They stage a three-week program every May, offering a variety of courses to those over 50 years of age. The program is simple: participants pay a flat fee and can attend any class (or classes) they choose. There are seven class periods per day (six “main” class blocks, and one early morning Tai Chi session). There is a wide variety of classes – from religion to Salsa dance to internet technology.

I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be at the U of A this May, delivering a class called “Getting More Out of the Internet”. I love teaching this class because the students are eager to learn. Even for me, a guy whose stock and trade is built on the internet and related technology, it’s tough to keep up with the rapid pace of innovation. The ELLA students are keen to keep up, and I enjoy playing a small role in their development into “digital citizens”. I’ve got 65 students on the roster so far and more are signing up each day. The class is capped at 80, and I know I’ll get there.

In the future, I hope to do more of this. I hate to trot out a cliche, but teaching is rewarding. To see someone finally “get” a previously poorly-understood concept is a beautiful thing. I hope to get better at it.

On Saturday evening my wife and I had the opportunity to slide down to the Winspear for the ESO’s latest performance in the Robbins Pop series. The event featured the orchestra with The Roby Lakatos Ensemble, a six-piece Hungarian folk/roots group. As I’ve written before, my wife and I are currently enjoying the hell out of our season passes to the Classic Landmarks Series. We’ve come to love (and even depend on) symphony nights, so it was a special treat to see an additional performance, especially one that was outside of our current series.

The atmosphere at the Masters series can be a little on the heavy and stodgy side at times (I’ve seen more than a few people stumble out of a concert with steam emanating from their ears) so I was really curious as to how the “lighter” approach of the Robbins Pops series would translate for the crowd. Would I see any tattoos or facial piercings? Leather jackets at least? Well, the age range was wider. Plenty of young people (a few with lip rings) and a good helping of older folk. This crowd felt different, funkier, a bit edgier (as edgy as a symphony performance can be, that is). It was a nice change.

We had floor-level seats for the performance, which were a switch from our usual perches in the upper circle. Gotta say, I know why the most expensive seats are at the back of the hall, one level up from the floor. The sound quality from our seats was a bit on the muddy side. Had trouble distinguishing the different instruments at times. I also missed seeing all the performers, as strange as that may sound.

The night opened with remarks from conductor Bill Eddins, who, as I’ve said on many occasions, has to be the coolest guy in the world. Eddins described Roby’s music as what inspired masters like Liszt, Brahms, and others. His advice was to “hang on”, because tonight was going to be a wild one. It was that and more. The Roby Lakatos Ensemble strolled on stage with the confidence and swagger of a street gang. Black tuxes, slicked-back hair, and some central-European attitude. Decked out in bright red pants and a glitter vest, Roby was a commanding, charismatic presence. Before the ensemble struck a note I knew we were in for a fantastic night.

Across the evening’s two halves, Roby and his cohorts took the audience to the heights and quiet depths of traditional folk / gypsy music. He jammed his violin with the conviction of a man who was born with the instrument in his hands. His band was equally impressive – especially cimbalom (a concert dulcimer – here’s the Wikipedia entry) player Jeno Lisztes, who never broke a smile, but was nonetheless the crowd favorite after Roby. The ensemble soared with foot-tappers that begged for dancing, then slowed things down to hold the audience rapt on the edge of a bow. Often in the same piece, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to dance or just sit with my hand on my chin and soak in every note.

During the break I planned to get a traditional symphony treat – a Haagen Dazs ice cream bar. Crazy thing was, the lineup for ice cream was damn near longer than the queue for booze. I settled for a chocolate chip cookie and a latte instead. My wife and I watched people flow out of the main hall with mile-wide smiles. The delight was palpable, and I wished that the performers could see everyone so happy to be there and so thoroughly entertained.

The second half brought more stunning music, including a moving version of John William’s Schindler’s List, rendered with exquisite beauty by Roby and with just the right touches from the orchestra. Throughout the evening I felt the sensuousness of Roby’s arrangements. The pieces often started with slow romance and built up steam into full-fledged, red-blooded passion. It made sense, then, that the final (official) piece of the night featured a duet with Roby and one of the female violinists from the orchestra. They traded passages and I marveled at the beauty of it; the humanity of it. The simplicity of a man and a woman trading violin riffs until their notes smoldered into each other. This was music for the body as much as the mind.

However, Roby and his band weren’t done. They kicked out FOUR encores. Four! The ensemble would leave the stage to a standing-o and Eddins would just wave them back. I pity the few who left the auditorium early, thinking the show was done. The encores were the band in play mode, letting their hair down. We heard Rachmaninoff and stunning displays of technical skill from Lisztes, the never-smiling cimbalom player. The looks on the faces of the orchestra players were priceless. By the time the last bow was taken, each player owned a big smile and many were laughing behind their instruments. Damn inspiring. That’s what music should do, shouldn’t it?

The ‘ol Buick was in the shop and that gave me a chance to take the bus to work. Felt good to be back on the scows, if only for an hour and a half in the morning. Caught the 106 at 99^th and Whyte, cold breeze shooting in from the east. Waited for a minute until she docked curbside, those old familiar things—the popped-tire door hiss, the diesel city smell, the driver handing a transfer without a word or smile. To the back seat facing starboard, but only for a stop or two before buddy in the hornrims gets off and I slip into my favorite spot – backseat, front-facing, curbside. On Whyte and 109 I catch a glimpse of three sets of hardtoes, blue hardhats giving away their trade, cigs and thermoses up the street, grease-potted duck overalls ready for another layer. A reminder of who built this place.

Off at the U of A for a transfer, wait in the stiff morning sun for the 128—possibly my favorite route for its transit of Groat Bridge. Bus pulls up and the driver—young with white rims around her eyes and blue nails—throws me a smile and today, on my short return to the rubber and diesel, it’s reciprocated. A week of this and I’d be my usual half-snarl self. My coffee nearly spills as I lose footing on my way to the back. The Doobies on the phones today and don’t ask why. Got a hankering for Takin’ in to the Streets last week out of the blue. The 70’s are like that. They sneak in and tap you on the shoulder, yank down your pants and make you sing.

There are certain things in this world to which no written description can do justice. Poems and songs can come close if you let them; if you meet them half way. 7:38am Tuesday, sun well up and aroused. The 128 in the valley proper, nose northward, Downtown wringing the sleep out its eyes. From Groat Bridge there’s a scrolling perspective shift between the distant towers of downtown and the highrise condos lining the valley lip. The sun in there with it’s pink underwear, casting flecks onto the river ice. The bus with all its mess and windows. I’ve seen this many times but it’s rarely like this at my time of travel. It’s beautiful because it lasts only eight seconds.

Westmount is still the shitpile it has always been, despite a facelift back in ’06. I spend a whole five minutes in the shelter and laugh at the big-jacket punks from the nearby high school. My final ride of the day rolls up and whaddaya know, I recognize the pilot. Grayhair with a permanent frown, drove this route back in ’06 and ’07. Barely cracks a smile and never leaves the bus, even when in dock. He gives me a barely perceptible nod which may indicate that he recognizes me. I gave the guy a Christmas card in ’06 as a token of my appreciation of his “don’t complain, don’t explain” attitude. He said thanks then.

It just happened to be a Monday. The sky was a shade of eggshell and the trees were sprinkled with frost. I was in the valley for ten minutes only. To my right, the steel of downtown. Left, was a bank of trees that would not have looked out of place on a postcard. The hum of the vehicle was in my seat and the radio was silent. It was a scene that could have gone unnoticed – one that could have simply slipped from memory like the rest of my thoughts. But this scene was a product of weather and time and awareness, like squelching a caffeine rush, or brushing through a steaming prairie night. My eyes cued to this lack of contrast with little effort. The eyes are comfortable with gray; not as much work to resolve. Further down the river, thin clouds had gathered to hide the tree frost and I cannot confirm or deny that a flock of waxwings whistled somewhere on the edge of my field of view. The maw of morning cars ticked away the minutes, head forward and pedals down. Confident and unswayed, the trees held the gray at bay as I wound out of the valley.