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.