Fast forward to 1969. My parents visited from Germany. When my father went moose hunting in the North, my mother and I had tickets for the first concert of the National Art Centre Orchestra. To make it a special occasion before the performance, we went for dinner at “L’Opera,” which at that time was the name of the cafe upstairs in the art centre. We were seated a few tables away from the former Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson. I pointed him out for my mother, as well as the soon to be Governor of the Bank of Canada, Gerald Bouey, my customer, and various other notables. After the concert we joined a reception behind the stage, and who was there - the real Prime Minister, Pierre Elliott Trudeau. Since I knew some of the press photographers, they convinced me to walk up to Trudeau and have some snapshots taken with him.
My last encounter with Pierre Elliott Trudeau took place when the European Union ambassador gave a costume party at his residence in Rockcliffe Park. I was dressed as a satellite. I had a silver dress on and a wig with silver balls sticking out of it. This time I was invited as a guest, not as a photographer, but I was neither a diplomat, civil servant or a politician like the others. Close to the end of the evening, who showed up but Pierre Elliott Trudeau as a gypsy. Later on, I watched another gypsy, this time a lady, reading Trudeau’s fortune by observing the lines in his hands. Since this was my hobby, I noticed she was completely wrong as to her interpretation about his life. She did not correctly predict his future. Loud and clear, I declared that he was going to lose the election according to the lines in his hands. I received some dirty looks from both gypsies….but three days later Pierre Elliott Trudeau was defeated. So I must have lost an admirer after all. I never saw Pierre Elliott Trudeau again. His son Justin became the Canadian Prime Minister in 2015. I have yet to meet him.