Being away from Manitoba during Festival sucks. This is my second Festival in a row spent out of town. Last year I was at the Olympics-which wasn't such a terrible trade-off but this year I really wish I could fly back just for the week...
Instead, all us little Franco-Manitobans living out east made our own Festival out in Sherbrooke. We jigged and made pea soup, bannock, tire, ham and caribou. Almost as fun as the real thing...
In passing, here's a column I wrote about Festival a few years ago...
Festival du Complaining
by Janelle Wookey
As much as I'm dying to take this opportunity to give you an insider's look into the warm n' fuzzy "where everybody knows your name" joys of being a Franco-Manitoban at the Festival du Voyageur, that will not be the main focus of this article.
As tempted as I may be to rub my offensively irritating, pea soup soaked French-Canadian pride in your face, and tell you that my people organize the week-long event with the same ardour and motivation as when the Festival first started in 1970, I cannot.
Over the past nine or ten Februarys, the Festival's shriveling character has been a hot topic among Big Fat French Festival Veterans, like me, all over Winnipeg.
When I was a kid, opening night on Provencher Boulevard had more buskers and hot coco stands than BOB fm trucks parked, handing out bumper stickers and water bottles. The snow sculptures lined up on Provencher Boulevard weren't plastered with ads for Dodge or McDonalds. The Festival's main site, Whittier Park was open for everyone, all week. Now the park is only open to the public on certain days. Traditional French-Canadian dance troupe, Les Danseurs de la Riviere Rouge, were the centerpiece of a week's worth of culture-rich performances. This year, they are not performing.
The overall quality of performers during Festival has been compromised to bring in "bigger" names like Daniel Lavoie, who appeared for one night only, at an event called For One Night Only.
But, like a true voyageur, I paddled my way down to Whittier Park in a 1989 Dodge Shadow I call Denise, and made the portage from tent to tent, carrying this large chip on my shoulder. I did not pay to get in. The gate man, my old badminton coach, laughed, swore in French, and saved me and my friend a combined total of 30$. This was his way of stickin' it to the Festival's administration.
"I see families coming in here with young kids, and they're paying 60 bucks just to get in. It's all become so commercialized."
Then, something funny happened. I enjoyed my visit, drinking caribou and laughing with my old boss, my brother's ex-girlfriend, my high school history teacher, my uncle's best friends, my second cousin, my mom's favorite co-worker and the kid who kicked me in the ear in Grade 3. After that first five minutes, I'd forgotten why I'd grown to begrudge the Festival so badly.
So maybe an administration that's lost its zing doesn't matter, after all. Who cares, right? Somehow, we end up having fun no matter what. We can't help it- We're French-Canadian!
But who am I kidding. I'll probably just keep complaining anyways. Hey. I can't help it- I'm French-Canadian.
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