Rachelle Delaney

About half a year ago, P and I decided to be responsible freelancers facing tough economic times. We bade adieu to our lovely, spacious apartment (and its patio, fireplace, and in-suite laundry), and moved a few blocks away into the smaller, more spartan place we now call home. At 560 square feet, it’s cozy to say the least. But somehow, we managed to squeeze in two office spaces, a living room, bedroom, and tiny dining area. Ikea would be impressed. Granted, we have to turn sideways to pass each other in the kitchen. But still.

My only problem with the apartment is my writing space, or lack thereof. My desk sits halfway in the kitchen, nestled up against the microwave, so writing can be distracting (and mildly dangerous, if you’re the type to worry about radiation). I’m missing my old writing space, with the big south-facing picture window looking out onto the patio and its canopy of magnolia blossoms.

I’ve been pacing the apartment, trying to find a better spot to write. But we seem to be fresh out of space. So it looks like I’ll have to be content to dream of my ideal writing room. I’m picturing a solarium, sunny and filled with plants. Soundproofing would be nice too. And a functional radio to listen to Drive and Q on CBC.

In the meantime, I can look longingly at other writers’ workspaces. Like these, on The Guardian website.

Well.

There was no peach juice after the fiddle recital. And my time on stage was a bit of a gong show, with each fiddler playing “Hector the Hero” at a different pace. But the rest of the evening was excellent – full of talented Celtic musicians and catchy tunes. And hey, bad recitals happen. I figure you have to get the disasters out of the way in order to earn the successes. Not unlike book readings. And baking pie. Relationships. The list goes on.

Here’s a hopeful Monday photo: a shot of Lucius Vorenius’s newest pup. (And yes, a new bromeliad bloom is called a pup. Delightful.)

Tomorrow will mark the first time I play my fiddle in public.

And I’m a little terrified about this.

I really shouldn’t be. It’s a casual recital, and I only have to play one tune, accompanied by three other fiddlers. But still. I keep imagining the piano recitals I had to endure every June throughout my youth. They always took place in a church – a stuffy one with a stuffy basement where we’d all reconvene for nanaimo bars and peach juice afterward.

The piano stood near the altar, and when your name was called you’d have to make the long, grueling walk up the aisle, past all those parents wondering if your sonata could hold a candle to their child’s nocturne, then past your teacher who inevitably wore an expression that was supposed to convey encouragement but clearly said, “Please tell me you memorized the B section. Please don’t go blank halfway through.”

I played piano until I started university, and liked it well enough, but I always longed for the fiddle. So about a year and a half ago, I gave in and started taking lessons. I knew it’d be difficult, and painful for my neighbours and for Paul (who didn’t ever complain, bless him). But what I didn’t account for was Crazy Larry.

Crazy Larry was my first fiddle teacher. He promised me that within five weeks I’d be auditioning for bands (ha!), but for the first three weeks of my lesson, he didn’t even let me touch the instrument.

What did we do instead?

Well, we pretended our hands were squids, of course. I would curve my bowing hand into the shape of a mommy squid rising to the water surface to collect food, then bringing it back down to feed the baby squid. And again.

Sometimes we also made the fingers on our bowing hands look like ravens. Then parrots. Then ravens. Parrots. And again.

After five weeks, I was no more ready to audition for bands than the baby squid. I dropped Crazy Larry like a hot calamari and found a new teacher.

Things improved immediately. These days, my tunes actually sound like tunes. Most of the time, anyway. But am I ready to play in public? Can I get through “Hector the Hero” without trembling so badly I drop my bow? Who can say?

All I know is, there’d better be peach juice afterward.

This past weekend, Paul and I took our last road trip in the Flying Burrito.

The Flying Burrito, also known simply as the Burrito, is P’s ’84 VW Vanagon — a two-toned brown and boxy beauty with an expression of perpetual surprise. (Those of you who can’t help but think of cars’ headlights as eyes will understand that.) He bought the Burrito over four years ago to drive down the coast to Santa Cruz. And never got rid of her, despite my very subtle suggestions. 

A few things you should know about the Burrito:

- P’s parents originally christened her Brown Thunder, but we renamed her on our first camping trip together while waiting at the ferry terminal in Sidney, BC. Nearby, someone was selling burritos out of a trailer with “The Flying Burritos” emblazoned on it. We decided that our ride looked much like a burrito herself. Later, when our lineup began boarding the ferry, we realized we’d lost the car keys in the grass a few hundred metres away. Panic ensued.

- The Burrito has no handles on her side door. Just a hole where they used to be. Her radio doesn’t work, either. But what she lacks in functionality she makes up for in style. People actually stop and point when we drive by. 

- The Burrito has an aversion to road trips. One day last year we were set to tackle our first triathlon in a town a few hours away, and she started leaking gasoline all over the floor of our underground parking lot, gushing under a nearby Bimmer. A few months later, we started out at 6 am to tackle a four-day backpacking trip in the mountains. We made it as far as Stanley Park, about three blocks away, before the brakes failed. We had to coast home, more than a little put out.

This past weekend, though, the Burrito made us proud, taking us camping in the Skagit Valley and even surviving a long drive on a rutted gravel road. The dear girl even waited until we returned home and parked in our cul-de-sac to unload before she died — the no-nonsense death of one who’d lived life fully and was ready to move onto the the big parking lot in the sky. The heated underground one, preferrably. 

But P was not to be deterred. After a few hours, he managed to resucitate her long enough to move her to her parking stall, where she now awaits her fate. Will it be a scrap yard? Or a starry-eyed youth willing to put his savings from his summer job at the mini golf course into reviving a tan-and-chocolate beauty who might just take him all the way to Cabo?

We shall see.

So…wanna buy a van?

The Burrito awaits her fate