A big treat

I hardly expected to see any old Aussie friends in Calgary last year. But bless them, Steph and Tauri decided that a bit o’ nature was warranted after so long in the concrete jungle of Soeul. Tauri has family in Canada, Steph in the US and their trip coincided with weddings for cousins in each side of their family.

I had the fun of hosting them briefly but several times during their stay and they in turn, told me about places I didn’t end up getting to during my year, such as Jasper.

There is a strange validation in being visited friends from your own country. It affirms to your new, foreign friends that you are living overseas out of choice and not because you are incapable of socializing with your own people.

Steph and Tauri had a trip planned that took them as far as Oklahoma and Toronto, Vancouver and up some leg-torturing mountains. Their requests for me were simple, after so much delicious Asian culture they wanted some good European- style food and American movies. I obliged with a trip to the cinema to see the new Simpsons movie.

One of the most memorable occasions was taking Steph and Tauri to the Broken Plate, possibly the best name for a Greek restaurant I have ever heard. It is the only Greek restaurant, or any restaurant I know of where you can actually break plates. They have a special section of the restaurant for it. Fantastic. Also, they had some sort of flambé entrée which looked great too.

The world became a whole lot smaller last year. I met up with Laura in Quebec city, Calgary, New Orleans and Texas, Steph and Tauri in Calgary and Soeul, Stefan the German hostel worker I was buddies with in Quebec city and ran into by sheer coincidence on a street in Dublin 10 months later, Chris in Winnipeg and Calgary and Alistair in Venice and London. It was great to show some older mates my new life overseas, and most importantly to meet the people I’d made new friends with.

So, if you’re in Calgary, I recommend the Broken Plate. The calamari is worth it.

Six Glaciers

I went up a mountain.

Marc and I traded in the glamour of a brunch restaurant in Banff for a sunlit wildflower meadow on the shores of Lake Louise. It was the most beautiful location I have ever been for a picnic. We ate blueberry scones and watched the breeze on the water. You can hire yellow canoes to go out onto the lake and the people paddled away on a surface that looked like ruffled glass.

The Plains of the Six Glaciers is arguably the most famous hike in the Canadian Rockies. All in, it’s over a 14 kilometre hike, but less than half that just going to the Tea House and back. Starting from the Chateau Fairmont at the lake shore it follows a lake path and then winds past horse trails up into the mountains. Near the top of the tree line is a very old, beautiful Tea House. It’s the perfect walk for older couples with a classy hot chocolate at each end of the round trip.

Outside the tea house was this pile of scree (rubble path) almost directly vertical up into the mountains. Marc seriously contemplated trying to get me to go up it, and even with him carrying the ‘top of the mountain’ beers he had packed for the hike.
The true path lead us past the glacial river bed, new wildflowers and up past the tree line. The wind picked up and the other company on the trail grew less as the afternoon got late. The sun sets fast in the mountains. They great grey Rockies have a strange effect on a person. You have a sense of tremendous possibility yet are so minute. The Rockies are awesomely overwhelming.

It was the furthest I went on my own feet up into the mountains and it was an experience of indescribable beauty, all civilisation removed.

Getting Perspective

My old neighbour, Aunty Vicky warned me, "When you love him, sometimes you want to kill him. You want to bash him over the head with a frypan".

Not the best way to start a post on a romantic weekend in Banff.

My work organised a day trip to Caraway Park, which sounded like a prime opportunity for a few rounds on a rollercoaster with friends Melissa, Tim and Marc. Turned out to be blisteringly hot and I, the Aussie shamed my country by being unable to cope, demanding that either we all get into the shade out of the line or I'd leave and meet up with them after, and somehow violated a Canadian code of courtesy. I still don't know how badly I behaved by local standards because Marc is too nice to tell me, but a apology delivered in verbal triplicate did go a long way to repairing the dents.

That, and a round of beers served by the fake lake.

Turnabout is fair play though and on the drive to Banff the idea was put to me that we catch up with his chef cousin in Canmore at the pub for one brief pint. Turned out to be several pints over a 2hour period with no dinner in sight. Whilst I do really like Dave and was glad we caught up, by the time we got to Banff and lost our way to our digs, it was 10.30 pm, I was starving, exhausted, cranky, dirty and despairing because I'd been promised a romantic dinner in the chalet town and packed a dinner outfit for it.

We settled for not changing but found a terrific Thai restaurant in town. We were the only people in it and if I believed in Feng Sheui (would help if I could actually spell it) I would think it the perfectly soothing supper after a big day out.

The next day I ran around taking photos of the Banff YHA, one of my favourites in the world, with both dorm-style rooms and 2 room chalets in one of the most beautiful locations I have ever been to.

Dave's wife, Bree was unavailable for brunch the next morning, so we faced a decision, brunch alone at a swisho restaurant or a picnic in the great outdoors. Correction. The most amazing outdoors in Canada.

We were on our way to pick up a takeaway coffee when I saw him. My Canada moment. The one I'd been waiting for all year, before, since and during my relationship with Marc.

The one man who could possibly give me an edge over Laura. A mountie.

I'd seen them on parade at Stampede, those men and women, who Laura had whooped and whistled at. We'd both had a romantic fascination with them ever since I first knew they existed. Less than 200 men formed the first RCMP and rode out of Ottawa to bring the law peacefully to the warring peoples in North America hundreds of years ago, thousands of miles across western Canada with inadequate kit, little accountability and some of the harshest weather conditions known to man. And they did it. They were not corrupted or lost.

I thought they were wonderful. Marc had tolerated my girlish fantasy with some amusement because I was a foreigner and the occasional muttered comment that I should have looked for them in Disneyland, since Disney owned the trademark.

But on the main street of Banff, there he was, in full dress uniform. All my tiredness fell away, I was so excited.

It was the first time all year that I didn't have my camera handy. I looked at Marc, "My camera, it's in the car !!" I wailed. He barely said a word, but tired and without his morning coffee he didn't hesitate, he turned and ran for the car for my camera before I could. So, we got this photo. I knew then who my real hero was, and it wasn't the one in the uniform. It was the one who thought my fascination was a little silly, but put it before his own comfort anyway without hesitation.

Of course to hear him tell it, he was just pleased that we'd found a mountie who was barely taller than me, to bring a little bit of reality to my fantasy world. After all, a 3/4 sized mountie was no threat to anyone but a shetland pony.

On a night like this...

Twas the last real night of Stampede, and Karen was having a party. The last time Marc and I had met her friends en masse, it was our third meeting and first real date at Don Quiote's for dinner and dancing. Only three short months later and they were delighted to see us together.

So, if you're going to a Stampede party; here's your checklist;
1. Your cowboy hat
2. Your cowgirl (that's me !)
3. Your C train ticket (because forget about getting a taxi on a Saturday Stampede night)
4. Your case of chilled beer
5. A good pair of shoulders to put your beer on

So off we went to Karen's apartment, which has a fabulous view of the skies over the Stampede grounds and the city skyline. My first introduction to chocolate martinis and a great opportunity to warm Karen's new home with a BBQ cooked on the balcony.

Of course I did get a bit overexcited about the idea of seeing the fireworks and probably annoyed all the Canadians by announcing every 20 mins for the 2 hours before midnight that I was sure they would be starting anytime soon. But I was forgiven when they eventually did start and they were pretty special.

And so is Karen and Victoria. Two of the most beautiful women you could meet, inside and out. Happy birthday for this week, Vic, I haven't forgotten.

It was a great night, and there was no better way to finish Stampede than to walk off into a starry night in my boots with my very own cowboy.

Razzle dazzle plastic western

The best thing about the evening show was the Indian hoop dancer.

Now I don't know when one indigenous American found the time and the initiative between hunting, fishing and resisting white invasion, to decide that he didn't have enough cardio activity and needed a little hoop dancing, but I'm grateful for it. It was an amazing performance of skill and athleticism.

And then there were the Young Canadians. Oh my. If you dressed a group of beauty pagent contestants in western wear and told them to lip sych a series of pop rock anthems you'd be pretty close. It was as close as cynical Kelty got all year when describing this lot. They did look very pretty but I drew the line when I found out the band was pretending as well. Fortunately, the staging and fireworks were terrific. It was an impressive spectacle as the sun went down.

Laura had an early start the next morning and left early, and the three of us remaining faced the absolute certainty that as the last firework faded into the stars, that we'd need to battle up to 20,000 people to get to the C train station for our transport home.

Marc didn't miss a beat. As I was jamming my camera back into my case he grabbed both myself and Kelty by the hands and plunged into the crowd. I looked behind his back to see Kelty grinning like a kid let out of school. We looked at each other and shared the same thought; I had caught myself one stubborn guy, who we could both rely on to see us home safe.

A loonie for the red wagon

Going to the chuck wagon races and the evening show and fireworks afterwards at the Stampede was one of the most memorable nights of my time in Calgary. I loved this photo so much that I have a copy of it framed in my home. Three women from three different countries brought together by chance and circumstance who became the closest of friends. We were photographed by Marc, who none of us had a problem smiling at.

Laura can always be relied upon to pull out something special and she organised wonderful tickets for myself, Marc, herself and Kelty to go to this event.

The chuck wagon races are held every night of the Stampede, with the finals being held on the last night. No expense is spared. We took our seats directly behind a lovely old couple in the stands and stood up for the singing of the Canadian national anthem. Due to our trips to the hockey, by now Laura and I had a good handle on this one. It was a special treat though to be singing it for the first time with Kelty, who is a 100% Albertan soprano.

During the anthem to our surprise, a helicopter flew over the stadium, dragging the biggest national flag I've ever seen. The old lady in front of me turned at the end of the anthem and said something nice about my singing. I surprised her by telling her I was an Aussie. Well, that was the beginning of a great chat with her and her husband and Marc began some friendly side-bets on the chuck wagon races, one loonie apiece ($1) per race. Marc was on a bit of a winning streak though, and to avoid "fleecing an old-timer" he spent all his winnings on shouting him beers to even the score.

I'm still not exactly sure on all the technical rules of a chuck wagon race but it involves the wagon driver and two outriders, who must mimic breaking camp by loading the "stove" into the back of the wagon and then mount their horses and stay within a certain distance of the wagon as it careens down the racetrack. It's fast, wild and dangerous and one of the more unusual sports to have major corporate sponsership.

The races were followed by the evening stadium show, which left me speechless, but I will try to describe it. Checking out the web albums will help explain the sheer scale of "razzle dazzle plastic western" that was nevertheless highly entertaining.

Cowboys

Cowboys bar and nightclub involves a few classic Calgary things, large amounts of beer, an entrepreneurial spirit, a vintage reputation and size 4-6 waitresses with surgically enhancements.

I was as surprised as anyone else to be notified early in the year that Calgary's most famous classic bar paid for it's waitresses to have breast enlargements depending on years of service. Wow, that's more than a fringe benefit.... It redefines the concept of taking your work home with you... oh, I could just go on all evening with that one.

Now for those of you watching at home, Cowboys got a minor splash of it's silicone into the international news in 2007. Yes, Prince Harry can always be relied upon to behave like your average early-20something independently wealthy Briton. He was in Alberta on military exercises and received the full treatment whilst on leave at Cowboys from one of their staff who were able to defy gravity by serving him shots directly from her cleavage.

And this was the location for my workplace's Stampede party. It was obvious there must be more to this joint that met the eye. How on earth were they going to cater to politically correct businesses like a law firm?

Well, I have to say, they did a good job. We were just one part of a massive corporate party held that day and the atmosphere, whilst 100% western, was "toned down" from what I thought it would be.

I remember it was one of the hottest weather days of the summer to be standing in the sun, hat and all waiting for Marc to arrive. It was a fun occasion, there was a live band and dancing, though I spent more time trying to work out how other people were two-stepping than doing it myself.

Unfortunately it was short-lived, but it's not every day you say that you have to leave a party because you have tickets to see a chuck wagon race.

Good Charlotte

I might be getting too old for this but I wanted to see Good Charlotte play the Coca Cola stage at the Stampede.
On the Tuesday night my best friend from work, Melissa and I headed down to the Stampede grounds. We went around the fairground section for a while. I unsuccessfully played the games in some strangely immature, possibly hormonal fit hoping to win a giant Curious George, Spiderman or even perversely, a Giant My Little Pony. Of course I only succeeded in confirming a universal truth, true to both casinos and travelling fairs. The House always wins.
We gathered around with the tattooed, pierced, oddly goth cowboys and girls to watch Good Charlotte play. The band of course started out by telling us how much they loved Calgary and how fantastically good looking we all were. Considering that they were all equally carefully tattooed, pierced, goth looking with artfully greased and spiked hairstyles, it seemed a case of like admiring like.
The music was good, but maybe I am showing my age in that I was more excited about the discovery of mini cinnamon donuts hot off the rack inside the market hall. Get this- Canadians consume more donuts per capita than anyone else in the world. They have more than 30 varieties in some places. Try finding a plain old hot cinnamon one though. You might as well wait for the Toronto Maple Leafs to win the NHL or New Zealand to win test cricket.
It was a beautiful summer’s evening and the sun had not gone down when Melissa’s husband, Tim came to pick her up in his work van. I waved them goodbye and walked up to the Erlton Stampede C train platform, in that cowgirl saunter that looks stupid anywhere else but is inevitable when you’re wearing Alberta boots.

Rodeo day

There is something quite touching and inane about being hugged by a giant red plush maple leaf wearing a cowboy hat. That was one of my lasting impressions of my first day at the Stampede Parade Grounds on a hot summer’s day. It was truly a huge outdoor show.
Two days after that fantastic first day, I joined Laura and two of her American friends visiting with her for the rodeo. The rodeo is an all afternoon event. There is rodeo for every day of the 10 day Stampede. Collectively, it’s probably the biggest rodeo in the world. I had never been to one and expected my conscience to be pricked, if not completely punctured.

It started with the exhibitions. True to the stereotype, if there is a massive parade ground full of all sizes and breeds of horses on display, dog show, giant turkey legs, fairground rides and live music stages, sooner or later a Texan will find the heavily artillery. For reasons that still escape me I found myself smiling uncomfortably and straddling a giant rocket or torpedo, with Laura insisting on taking my photo. I had a Jane Fonda-esque frisson of fear- Oh Lord, this is going to come back to haunt me. If I ever become publicly active in the anti-war movement, there’s that photo, floating around the universe somewhere. More importantly, I detested that 5 second experience. To be sitting with all the core of your own fertility in such close contact with something that is designed to destroy life, curdled my womb and did a head job on me.

To be clear, Laura is also anti-war and doesn’t own a firearm, but has grown up with a higher comfort level with guns in the community. I wouldn’t be surprised if her hairdresser back in Texas has one. I generally sit somewhere between baffled amusement, respect and genuine concern that the British ordinary police still don’t carry them and despair that every new college massacre in the US no longer surprises me.

Onwards to the rodeo! It was an awesomely organized show. We took our excellent seats (thanks Laura) in the stands and flipped through our programs. I identified that approximately ½ the competitors were from Texas, Montana or some other rugged tobacco-chewing state of the US, ½ were from Alberta and there was one Aussie. Hooray ! I stood up in the stands by myself and cheered for him when he did well, much to the delight to the 50 or so people around me and Laura helped me out with a few rounds of “Aussie Aussie Aussie, oi oi, Oi !”.

The rodeo was a real eye-opener. My favourite event was the barrel races. When I heard of this event it immediately conjured up images of a line of clowns on barrels running on top of them with maniacal grins towards a finish line, perhaps holding a hooter in one hand and a whoopee cushion for a self-made soft landing in the other.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. There were two barrels standing on their end strategically placed in the ring. What was this about? Then I saw something that transfixed me. A gorgeous woman on horseback burst out of the end gate at full gallop, thick, waist-length hair streaming like a banner out from under her cowboy hat. Her riding pants formed closely to legs that were toned, not from jazzercise or water aerobics but from a life in the saddle. Her trousers were cinched at the waist with a checked shirt neatly tucked in. It was cinematic. I was in North America but suddenly I could hear in my head the Sydney Symphony Orchestra playing the soaring theme from The Man from Snowy River. I could see in my mind’s eye her flying across the prairies towards the Rocky Mountains.

She galloped towards the first barrel at full tilt, rounded it within milimetres without knocking it over, then to the second with the same keen-eyed, knee gripping control rounded it and raced to the end. A simple sounding enough technique, but the combination of control, concentration, athleticism and synchronicity between horse and rider was mind–blowing.

Now here’s the kicker, every single woman that followed in that competition was just as beautiful, focused and bold. The only difference was the colour of their hair and the fractional difference in their skill in getting around those barrels at speed. Wow. I was completely outclassed as a woman. I reckon they could probably all race a horse, hogtie anything, pitch hay, fix a tractor and judge the time within a 5 min range by the sun. And they all looked better than me.

I had a moment of hopeless inadequacy. My hair doesn’t stream like a banner. It blows in my face and sticks in my lipstick when it’s lifted by the wind. My main claims to fame are that I can tell you how much your court case will cost you if you lose, the writer of Bridget Jones’ Diary would probably sue me for copyright just for writing my own autobiography, and I can sing every tune from Hello Dolly!

Then I stood and cheered for them. You go sisters. You go like the wind.

The mens’ events concerned me more than a little. I have trouble understanding how fixing a belt around a bull’s balls until it makes him crazy-mad can’t hurt him. My showjumping 100% Albertan friend Alixe has told me it’s apparently annoying but not painful. Also, I don’t understand how a bull rider wouldn’t be offered bulk prices by his local chiropractor. It was exciting to watch, I was hoping the bull rider would stay safe and win, but a small part of me also hoped the bull would get his own back. Then Laura told me a story in which both of these things happened.

Laura lived in Alaska for a time and saw a rodeo there. At one point the bull tossed his rider off, jumped the boundary and cleared off into the wild forest nearby. The challenge was on. Every cowboy with a horse jumped into the saddle and went off to catch it. Of course there is worse in the wild forest, including bears and cougars, but the bull, after briefly tasting freedom, was recovered.

I am a meat lover. As carnivores go, I’m up there. I’m not beyond seeing those fluffy spring lambs as I’m driving along an Australian highway and thinking how wonderfully pesto goes with those little chops. However, I am pro- humane treatment of animals. Now to be clear, I don’t know what the mechanics are of picking up a calf and bouncing it so hard on the ground to rope it so its teeth rattle, but it can’t be good for it. That was the calf roping. The calf is let out first, and the cowboy dashes out after it, lassoing it whilst both are in motion, which for me who can barely manage a hula hoop, is impressive enough. He dismounts, strides over to the lassoed calf, bounces it on its back on the ground and in less than 3 seconds has trussed it, left it on the ground and strides walked away. The calf is left, blinking and confused on the ground until it is let go. My favourite was the one cowboy who missed altogether and the calf did make a successful dash for freedom through an exit clear across the other side of the ring.
I had partially come to the rodeo on the promise that there would be the equivalent of the “mutton races” that I had heard of but never seen in Aussie rodeos. This is when kids are put on saddled sheep and what happens then is apparently always a surprise, even to the kids. Sounds hilarious to me. Well, I wasn’t disappointed. We saw the wild pony races.

The kids were approximately 8-11 yrs old and broken up into teams of three. I was gratified to see that they all wore helmets and protective chest plating. It was also a mixture of boys and girls. The plan was simple:

1. Release the wild pony,
2. Kid no.1 runs after it and tries to get a rope around its neck,
3. Kid no.2 runs after it and tries to slow it down by grabbing it around its body, while,
4. Kid no.3 mounts the pony and tried to stay on, bareback until Kid no.3 falls off.
5. Bring in new team of kids and another pony,
6. Repeat.

I really wished my eldest niece and nephew were with me at that moment. They are incredibly talented and I believe they can do anything they set their minds to. But they are city kids and their play is structured and safe. These Canadian kids had sheer grit and were really inspiring to watch. They could have been hurt but showed no fear of that. They were determined to get their teammate on that pony.

The best example was one team where everything went wrong. It consisted of three little boys, not one more than 10 years old. Kid1 got his rope around the pony’s neck, but Kid2 couldn’t get a grip on its body long enough for Kid3 to clamber on. So the pony took off, with Kid1 still holding the lead rope.

Kid1 fell flat on his face, still holding the rope. The pony dragged him 2/ 3rds of the way around the arena as fast as it could. Kid1 never let go, though he was eating a cloud of dust the whole way. The two other boys chased the pony the whole way, though there was no hope catching it, their little legs pounding across the bare dirt floor. Eventually the pony slowed to a standstill, bored. Only then did Kid1 let go of the rope.
By then the entire stadium had already been on its feet for a minute, giving all three boys, but especially the first, a standing ovation.

It was a great way to end the day.

Welcome back

Well it's been 4 weeks and 3 road trips in Australia since I posted to Waltzing Matilda around the World from Seoul.

I'm back, having secured a home and career move to Melbourne, Victoria. Over the next few weeks and months will be going back over the gaps in my story from last year and writing my adventures, which also include Laura, Marc and Karen and Victoria, not forgetting my kind hosts on the "world tour".

My year in Canada ended with taking no less than 18 flights in 2 1/2 months around the world to get home and stopping in some of the world's most beautiful places. It's been the experience of a lifetime, but like a good book, the devil is in the detail. So whilst my story may lack some freshness in not being immediate reporting, I am looking forward to diving into the detail of the sights and smells of the past few months, from the sublime of the Prague Opera House to the ridiculous of seeing a person dressed as a toilet in Times Square, New York.

So pull on your cowboy boots and come with me to the start- Calgary Stampede July 2007, when men were "Tough Enough to Wear Pink" for breast cancer research.