Supertramp On the Ramp

📀 NEXT WEEK we welcome Dreamer: The Supertramp Experience | Wed 5 Oct, 7:30pm at the Harbourfront Theatre.

An incredible band featuring live clarinet, sax, flute, and vintage keyboards (Wurlitzer) perform a spectacular show that will feature costume changes and a memorable performance of the album ‘Crime of the Century’ in its entirety.


Theatre PEI


Confederation Centre Update

Post Hurricane Fiona Update – Sunday, September 25.​

Confederation Centre’s operations and programs are suspended until end of day Thursday with a further update by Wednesday afternoon.

Until then, the Centre will be operating as a Warming Centre​ for the community daily from 8am to 10pm.

Visit for further details.

Theatre PEI


Harbourfront Theatre Update

We are sending all our love and thoughts out to all the community across PEI, and hope you are safe.

An important update:

– Our in-person/telephone box office will be closed today and tomorrow (Mon 26/Tue 27). Online booking is still operating as normal at

Our events this week, A tribute to Elton John & Ed Sheeran (Thu 29 Sept) & Hotel California: The Original Eagles Tribute (Sun 2 Oct) are still going ahead as planned, for now. Please keep an eye on our social feeds/website for any further updates.

Stay safe, and all our love ❤️


Theatre PEI


Fiona Shuts Down Watermark Theatre

Dear Theatregoers,

Everyone here at Watermark Theatre sends our best wishes to all of those who have been affected by hurricane Fiona. It will take time to clean up, to repair the damage, in some cases repair lives, and for all of us to recover from the shock of it all. The resilience of Islanders, and seeing neighbours helping each other out, has already been inspirational, and we know this will continue in the weeks and months to come.

Our production of Beneath Springhill: The Maurice Ruddick Story was to begin performances on Wednesday. Like almost everyone on the Island, we do not have power and will not be able to go ahead as planned. Without knowing when power will be restored, when roads will be cleared, and when life will return back to a semblance of normalcy, we have decided to postpone the production to later this Fall.

The new dates of Beneath Springhill will be announced very soon. We are really looking forward to presenting this wonderful play about the “singing miner” who survived a disaster of his own with resilience, compassion, and through the power of music helped his fellow miners survive.

For those who had tickets booked, we will be contacting you in the next week or two about rebooking for another date. If you are unavailable at that time you may save the credit for a later production, get a refund, or we will forward the cost of your ticket as a donation to the Red Cross’s Hurricane Fiona in Canada Appeal.

If you have any questions please contact us by email at info@watermarktheatre.comor call 902-963-3963
We realize that not everyone has power at the moment so please help us in passing the message along so that ticket holders are aware of these changes.

My best wishes to you and yours.
Robert Tsonos
Artistic Director
Watermark Theatre

Working Up an Appetite

By Ed Staskus

   New York City’s George Washington Bridge is the busiest bridge in the world. More than a 100 million cars and trucks cross it every year. The double decker suspension bridge spans the Hudson River. It opened in 1931, was widened in 1946, and a lower deck was added in 1962. Since then, billions of drivers have sat on the overpass, chewing the cud, their engines idling.

   The speed limit on the bridge is 45 MPH. During rush hour, when my wife and I drove across it, on our way north from Virginia to Cape Cod, it was 0 MPH, or less. There are innumerable stops and starts that stretch time out like silly putty and test a man’s patience. We were glad we had empty bladders, a full tank of gas, and weren’t on any kind of schedule.

   We were on a 2-week end of summer road trip. We first drove from Cleveland, Ohio to Chincoteague Island, planning on Cape Cod the second week. Chincoteague is a barrier island, floating on the Atlantic Ocean shoreline due east of Richmond. We did it in one day, leaving early and getting there late. All the roads in town have signs saying “Evacuation Route” in capital letters and red arrows pointing one way. When we pulled in the lady at the front desk of the Waterside Inn told us the only place still open to get a bite to eat was the Ropewalk. When we walked up to it most of the wait staff and some of the kitchen staff were on the front steps kicking a group of unruly patrons out.

   We waited for the fuss to die down and found a table. It was a sports bar with flat screens everywhere. We had walked in blind, and it looked like we were going to be blind-sided. Our waitress was from New Jersey, there for the summer with her boyfriend. She was friendly enough but hard to see, hidden behind tattoos and piercings.

   “I might stay here,” the young lady said, “except nobody can live here. It’s too expensive.” She lived on the other side of the causeway near Wattsville on Route 175. She wasn’t the first or last person to tell us there wasn’t enough island housing, and what there was of it was too expensive. There were plenty of retirees who had cashed in and old hippies who had cashed out. They had snapped up the real estate from Archie Cove to Hammock Point.

   Ropewalk was on the water. “How cute it would be to sit by the bay,” my wife said, pointing to the side deck. “The deck is closed,” our waitress said. We ate at a table next to a window. Our pints of eastern shore IPA were good, and the appetizer crab egg rolls were tasty. It went downhill from there. “This poke bowl tastes like nothing,” my wife said. Our poke bowls were tuna, corn, rice, and avocadoes. “The corn looks weird, too.” It was about as bland as could be, which was surprising in the home of cornpone.

   We went to Assateague Island the next day. My wife went running on the Wildlife Loop that goes around Swan Goose Pool while I walked some of it. I was breaking in an after-market hip and could only go so far. “No running,” my surgeon had told me. The next day, when we went back, somebody warned us not to hike on the Marsh Trail. “Too many bugs,” he said. While my wife went back on the Wildlife Loop for another 3-mile run, I tried the Marsh Trail. That was a mistake. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I didn’t know one hundred mosquitoes could land on a human being’s arms and legs all at once and all start biting at once. I didn’t know I could walk back to our car as fast as I did, hop-a-long hip and all.

   We went to Captain Zack’s that night. Their motto is “Yum Yum Getcha Some.” The deck was full of diners, so we stepped to the side where there was a take-out window. The kitchen was behind the slide-to-the-side glass. The man in line in front of us said, “Honestly, everything is good.” An older woman in a Mother Goose dress took our order. “I’ll call your cell phone when it’s ready,” she said. We waited at a picnic table on the dark side of the gravel parking lot.

   The soft-shell crabs were good. The sides were too much, literally. There was enough to feed a troop of marching men. We nibbled on some of it, although most of it was disappointing. They had somehow messed up the hush puppies. “How can something soggy be so dry?” my wife asked, adding, “They are supposed to be crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.”

   We ate at Bill’s on Main St. two nights later. It’s been there for more than sixty years, a squat brick building with windows on three sides and raised slightly up from the sidewalk. The tablecloths and napkins are cloth and the waitresses come dressed in black and white. Our waitress had apple cheeks. “I’ve worked here since I was 21-years old, which was 21 years ago,” she said. She was a single mother and lived on the other side of the causeway. 

   We had oyster stew soup, which was oysters, country ham, butter, and heavy cream. The heavy cream set the tone. The richness of the food on Chincoteague Island was by now not a surprise. It may not always have been tasty, but it was rich, for sure. My wife had crab imperial stuffed shrimp and I had flounder. The crab died drowning in the mayonnaise. The waitress brought twice as much tartar sauce as I needed. By the time we were done and looked around we discovered we were the last patrons still in the restaurant. We waddled back to our lodgings.

   We spent the next afternoon on the beach at Tom’s Cove. The parking lot butts up to the dunes and the dunes slope down to a long beach. We eventually went for a walk, picking up rocks and spiral seashells. We met a German lady from Hamburg who had moved to Virginia forty-some years earlier. “The beach is washing away,” she said. “It’s the storms. The park service brings sand in on barges most years now to keep it from disappearing.”

   Before we left, as we were brushing sand off our feet and getting into our car, a seagull walked up and started squawking. It sounded like maniacal laughing.  We had a half-bag of waffle cone bits and pieces in the back seat, and I emptied them in front of the bird. When I did the food fight was on. Twenty or thirty more birds swooped in out of nowhere and the waffles were gone in seconds. The gulls were crying for more as we drove away.

   We had coffee and croissants several mornings at the Amarin Coffee Shop on Maddox Ave. The other thoroughfare on Chincoteague Island is Main St. The coffee shop was where the causeway from the mainland joins the island. At the other end of Chincoteague Island is another causeway that leads to Assateague Island, which is mostly a sanctuary for migrating birds, wild ponies, and a standing army of mosquitoes. We were sitting on the front deck of the coffee shop when a fit trim man in his 50s sporting a couple weeks’ worth of beard asked us how we liked the coffee. He turned out to be the freeholder.

   His name was Bernard and he had been in the armed forces, specializing in counterterrorism, until he retired. He served in the Middle East and the Far East. “I was in the swamps in the south of Iraq for a while,” he said. “Our job was nabbing foreign fighters trying to sneak into the country from Iran.” He spoke fluent Arabic and knew full well how to say, “Hands up.”

   He met his wife-to-be in Vietnam, got married, and went into his new family’s coffee-growing business. It’s labor-intensive work, grown from seed. Trees take about 5 years to bear fruit. The family grew beans in the Central Highlands, north of Ho Chi Minh City. The French introduced coffee in 1857 when a priest brought one arabica tree into the country. After the Vietnam War ended the newly unified nation became one of the world’s largest coffee producers.     

   Bernard was from Grand Rapids, but when he came back to the USA he settled in Virginia, working for NASA near Chincoteague Island. When he and his wife started importing the family’s coffee beans, he set up a roasting operation. They had a food truck, too, parked in a gravel lot behind the coffee shop. Oz made the Vietnam-themed sandwiches.

   Oz was a stocky man in his 40s who had lived in Vietnam, where his father went to run a furniture factory. Oz had advanced degrees in philosophy and history. “What that means is I know all about unemployment lines,” he said. He taught English as a second language in Vietnam until the 19 virus and his impending divorce back in the homeland brought him back home. He was pining to return to Southeast Asia.

   “It’s my beautiful place,” he said, bringing us spring rolls and a crispy pork belly sandwich on a ciabatta roll. The sandwich was the best food we had in the land of cotton, even though it was the land of corn and crabs. There wasn’t a road without a field of corn planted alongside it and there wasn’t a pit stop without crab cakes.

   The food in the south wasn’t bad, except when it was, but it was too rich for our northern palates. Everything seemed to revolve around butter and mayonnaise. When we went to Steamers for our last supper, we knew enough to split the plates. 

   Steamers wasn’t anything to look at. The front of the house had a hostess station and some desultory tables. Farther inside was a bar and lots more tables. It sounded like a party was going on back there. We sat outside on a slab of concrete surrounded by aluminum fencing. Our waitress was a middle-aged black woman who had lived there her whole life. “I live across the causeway,” she said. We had littlenecks on the half-shell with breadcrumbs and bacon. Then we had flatbread topped with clam dip. We took the waitress’s recommendation and finished up sharing deep-fried rock fish. 

   The day we left Chincoteague Island we saw a Mennonite woman in a cape dress ride by on Main St. on a bicycle. We had seen them every day here and there, usually with a civilian husband in tow. Three of them with digital cameras and long lenses were on Tom’s Cove taking pictures of the surf one windy afternoon, tugging on their haubes to keep them in place on top of their heads. The weather was the same the day we left as it had been the past six days, 80 degrees, sunny, and humid.

   When we finally crossed NYC’s George Washington Bridge the traffic jam didn’t get any better. There were too few lanes and too many cars. We inched forward like snails. I started seeing pairs of Central American-looking women on the shoulders on both sides of the roadway hawking mangoes in large, lidded plastic cups. They had coolers at their feet. When our turn came, we got a cup of them. They were the right refreshment at the right time.

   Mangoes are the national fruit of India. Apples are New York’s official fruit. We didn’t see any apples in the Big Apple. Mangoes are a stone fruit. The name comes from the Portuguese word manga from back in the 16th century. The ones we ate were red, although they also come in yellow and orange.

   “Don’t sit at home and wait for the mango tree to bring mangoes to you,” Israel Ayivor once said. “It won’t happen.” He was right. We had driven a long way to get our mangoes. The Central American women had gone far out of their way to sell their mangoes. They stood on the sides of the road breathing in rubber tire fumes and exhaust fumes and dealing with tempers fuming.

   A few months earlier, on Mother’s Day, a woman by the name of Maria Falcon was arrested for selling mangoes in a New York City subway station. She didn’t have a permit to vend. “She’s served her customers for more than 10 years,” her supporters said. “Those permits can be near impossible to obtain. There’s even an underground market where permits go for up to $20,000 each.” The police threw her fruit away and let her go. “She took a few days off to recover from her ordeal but is back out there today, because she can’t stop working,” said the Street Vendor Project.

   It was sunny and cool when we pulled into North Truro on Cape Cod. We stopped at a fish shack and bought a pound of scallops. We cut corn kernels off the cob, sauteed them in olive oil with diced Portuguese sausage, added seared scallops, drizzled squeezed lime juice with maple syrup over the top, and sat down to eat. We had white wine with dinner. The next night we boiled a pot of fresh linguine, sauteed a bag of clams, and tossed the linguine, sliced garlic, and a handful of parsley into the frying pan with the shellfish. The following night we had pan-fried cod filets with redskin potatoes. We didn’t mix up any fat-based sauces of any kind that week. We didn’t even have salad so that we wouldn’t have salad dressing. We had cleansed our palates on the George Washington Bridge and were keeping it that way.

   We had been swimming upstream like fish out of water down in Dixie but were back in the Yankee groove. When the red sky sank into the bay that night, we went to bed snug as fishermen pulling into harbor with their holds full to the gills with fruit of the sea. 

Ed Staskus edits Theatre PEI. He posts stories on 147 Stanley Street and Cleveland Daybook

Theatre PEI


Symons Tickets Now Available

Tickets are now available for the 2022 Symons Medal Lecture, to be held on October 13 at 1 PM in the Sobey Family theatre. 🏅

Shelagh Rogers, OC will share lessons she has learned from others, and from her own experience as an honorary witness for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, as she explores the importance of listening, the power of narrative, and its impact on the relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people.

This event is free to attend. To reserve your seats, please visit our website ➡️…/the-symons-medal…/

The event will also be livestreamed on the Centre’s Facebook and Youtube channel.

Theatre PEI


Keeping Track of Fionna

Confederation Centre of the Arts is monitoring Hurricane Fiona, which is anticipated to hit Prince Edward Island on Saturday. A decision about Saturday programming, including dance umbrella classes and performances of Tell Tale Harbour, will be made on the day.

Patrons with tickets to a Saturday performance of Tell Tale Harbour can pre-emptively move their tickets (free of charge) to tonight (Wednesday), Thursday, or Friday, or receive a credit on their account. If Saturday performances must be cancelled, patrons can receive a full refund, credit on their account, or make a donation to the Centre in the amount of their tickets.

Our box office will make direct contact with patrons who are affected by cancellations. Stay tuned, folks!

Theatre PEI


Making Artistic Spaces Safer

About the event

September 25th

1-4 pm

Art shifts reality, it’s infectious, and unapologetic in how it changes prerogatives, perspectives, and people.

All art spaces should be common grounds for anti-oppression, trauma-informed practices, and community growth. But sometimes community fails itself, and needs (re)direction.

Join our amazing facilitators, Jaime Griffin with PEI Women’s Network and Evelyn Bradley with Beyond the Brim Consulting as they take us through a three hour training session on building, and maintaining safer artistic spaces.

Safer Artistic Spaces was created by The Dandelion Initiative in response to the normalized patterns of sexism, harassment, and violence experienced by women and trans people in creative arts spaces.

Their content was developed by industry professionals, gender-based violence prevention experts, and survivors. Their unique and specific content blends survivor-centred education with industry-specific intervention skills, creating opportunities for meaningful and culture change that is specific to Hospitality and Creative Arts spaces and workplaces.

Safer Artistic Spaces was developed in 2017 and is a unique and artist-specific training created to develop core competencies in gender-based violence prevention and response for artists, musicians, venues, bookers, record labels, festivals and other creative arts/live music spaces.

The Dandelion Initiative will be closing its doors on December 2022, and we are grateful for their knowledge sharing and capacity building, as we move forward with this crucial work.

For free tickets

Or call the Guild Box office 9026203333.

Theatre PEI