Where Bear Meets Beaver

Seeing ads in the town shops, I went to a concert at the Anglican church, St. George's-in-the-Pines (with a name like that, who could resist?) by the New Philharmonic of Cologne. I was describing to a friend where it was -- "at Buffalo and Beaver" -- and she cracked up, saying that someone else had proposed the theory that whoever named Banff's streets had criss-crossed predators with prey. Too funny.

A church lady introduced the concert, and told us we would leave feeling blessed and joyful. Works for me. The ladies had also put on a spread of cakes and cheese with tea at the intermission. The musicians shared it with us, and it looked like it was dinner (and lunch and breakfast) for them. The (I use the singular advisedly) reporter from the Banff newspaper was there covering the event. He took the time to get their names right, but had to leave to cover something else, he said. Hmm, sounded suspiciously like an excuse to go watch hockey playoffs to me.

So, he wasn't there to see the clarinet soloist almost lose it when the Canadian Pacific RR went whistling through town (not the percussion Mozart wrote) or to hear the rousing ovation at the end. Looking surprised and greatly pleased, the Armenian concert mistress asked,

"You want to go home? Or you want we play more?"

So, on they went with a "Russian Dance" which brought a standing o, and was followed "so you go to sleep and have nice dreams" with some Bach.

About 10.15pm we finally walked out of the church onto Beaver and then Bear. This far north, this time of year, there was still just a hint of afterglow of the 9.30pm sunset in the west. Sweet.

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