at The Fringe

Last day of the summer session. We hopped on the High Level Bridge Streetcar and rode over to The Fringe. Nineteen ESL students, one volunteer and two teachers wandered around among the food booths and street performers, practicing English all the while.

After sampling the performances, we ambled over to Kebab Express on Whyte Avenue, where a former student now works, and drank some Turkish coffee.

The female students were singularly unimpressed with the shows -- juggling, acrobatics, etc. Too much talk, not enough action, was their opinion. In the previous day's lesson I had explained what the word "fringe" refers to: performers and acts that have not (yet) made it big. I also assured the students that they need not feel obliged to give the performers money. One student argued quite extensively that we should give them money, but after seeing the performances, she came to agree with me that it was not necessary! However, most of the male students were quite taken with the shows, even to the extent of filming them.

I remember when my sons were little, The Fringe was the highlight of their lives. They could have stood forever watching the shows and stuffing their mouths with green onion cakes. 

For me, yesterday was a great way to end the session. The students loved the streetcar, The Fringe is an important piece of life in Edmonton, and the coffee and conversation at the Turkish restaurant were fun and relaxing.

Waiting for the streetcar

On my way home, as I rode through the River Valley, an old fogey, fully kitted-up and riding a no-doubt expensive Mercian road bike passed me (no bell, no vocal warning) as I neared the top of a hill. Once past the hill I increased my speed slightly and quickly caught up to him. Content to ride behind him, as the exit from the valley was approaching, I slowed down. Suddenly he stopped and made as if to do a u-turn. I think at this point he realized I was behind him, and he stopped completely. I stopped, too, and asked, "What are you going to do?" I thought that if he did indeed want to make a u-turn, I would allow him to do so. Instead of appreciating my considerate gesture, he snarled at me, "Go to the left." I was shocked. I replied, "I didn't know what you were going to do." He snarled again: "It doesn't matter. Go left." I was flabbergasted, but I meekly obeyed and went left, leaving him to his nefarious ways. I was slightly annoyed, but had to laugh at the situation. I mean, really! Without any type of signal, he veers left and then suddenly stops in the middle of the trail, and he has the nerve to snarl at me. Afterwards I decided that maybe he was humiliated, after passing me, to find that I was right behind him on my humble Trek 7.2 step-through city bike. Oh well, it takes all kinds, even in the cycling world.

Please note, I normally don't call people old fogeys. But old fogeyism is not an age, it's an attitude, and this guy had the attitude -- in spades. If anyone ever earned the moniker, he did.