“Theatres are curious places, magician’s trick-boxes where the golden memories of dramatic triumphs linger like nostalgic ghosts, and where the unexplainable, the fantastic, the tragic, the comic and the absurd are routine occurences on and off the stage. Murders, mayhem, politcal intrigue, lucrative business, secret assignations, and of course, dinner.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly
Last weekend we made a hastily planned trip to the Stratford Festival. For a while this was an annual event for us, and I hope it will be again. In addition to being home to the Festival’s three theaters, Stratford is a charming and affordable small walkable city with wonderful food only four hours from home. I had no problem booking tickets, probably because we were more than open to matinee performances, which allow us to indulge in leisurely dinners. Since it was a holiday weekend, it took a little bit of work to find a place to stay, and for the first time I chose a motel out of town over a bed and breakfast. 
One advantage was that this afforded us the chance to have breakfast/brunch out instead of sharing the traditional good-but-unexciting B&B offering with strangers. John always strikes up an interesting (at least to him) conversation with our fellow B&B guests, but I generally just want to be somewhere else.
We arrived in time for dinner on Friday, without reservations. As soon as we had checked in, 8:00 came, the evening performances began, and we had plenty of choices for where to eat. We picked a small place with good service, an interesting menu, and even some local wines. The restaurant was on Wellington near City Hall, which seems to be the hot new area of town.
Our seats at a window table made for great people-watching, which is always fun in Stratford. We saw adorable children, elegant (and not so elegant) women of all ages, and an interesting young couple one of whom had a spiked collar and backpack while the other was incredibly beautiful and seemingly genderless, dressed all in black of course. Saturday’s brunch was at Monforte on Wellington, the osteria associated with a local dairy. We sat outside in a small patio completely “roofed” with umbrellas at every table, and, in addition to our fellow diners, several bees kept us company and shared our meal. Next year I want to visit the home farm too.
Our only planned-in-advance meal was Saturday evening at Bijou, which we stumbled across last year and vowed to return. 
I had a Sauvignon Blanc from Niagara with dinner and an ice cider after.
For Sunday brunch before the play we chose Mercer Hall on Ontario Street, Stratford’s main drag, and we were lucky enough to arrive and order before the arrival of some huge parties filled up the front rooms. They served the prettiest smoked salmon platter I’ve ever seen, followed by housemade ramen in pork broth with pork, smoked salmon, and a poached egg. . 
And the plays! I thought I remembered seeing Taming of the Shrew before, but if so I don’t remember being so frustrated with such a disagreeable message being delivered in such an amusing way. The promotional materials boast that Deborah Hay’s performance as Kate is one we’ll talk about having seen, and, having seen it, I can believe that. Liner notes suggested that perhaps Katerina’s taming was all an act, just one more instance of role-playing within the play-within-a-play. I think I will choose to look at it that way. The entertainment started even before the play began, with music and wardrobe-fussing and pratfalls on stage.
Similar mental ajustment was required to appreciate The Sound of Music. My later research suggests that few who knew Maria Von Trapp would have described her as a moonbeam. But for 3 hours on Sunday I admired the children, despised the Nazi officers, and rooted for Maria and her family. There were tears in my eyes at least once.
It was a good visit.
I feel there’s a power in theatre, but it’s an indirect power. It’s like the relationship of the sleeper to the unconscious. You discover things you can’t afford to countenance in waking life. You can forget them, remember them a day later or not have any idea what they are about. Tony Kushner