THE YUKON'S RUGGED INDIVIDUALISM
by Scott Young, copyright 1999
The night before I check in to the most luxurious hotel in Calgary, the
belle epoque (by Calgary standards) eminence that is the Palliser Hotel*,
I am drinking in a biker bar called the King Edward with blue collar
guys and just off work council workers, trying to be oblivious to the
burlesque acts that bump and grind behind us. Well, I was lonely, and I
can usually captivate an audience (read, secure free drinks) with
Rabelasian tales of my rake's progress, regress and egress through
western Canada. Ventured one, "You're staying at the St Louis?", a
crumbling workmen's hotel of some considerable squalor, "I guarantee you
man, there wouldn't be one person staying at the Palliser this weekend
who has ever stayed at the St Louis. Not a one. Not an (expletive) one".
So much for the rules of the travel story lead paragraph. So let's look
to the Calgary Visitor's Bureau for guidance 'Her mountains will move
you - her people win you back' goes the marketing catch-cry. 'Her'
mountains are of course the Rockies, and when you elevate your gaze
higher than the rows of cookie cutter suburbia or downtown glass
monoliths, there they are, a visual feast. Bit of a long way away
though, like you know, Banff. Apparently there's all sorts of terribly
physical sounding activity that takes place up there, such as skiing and
snowboarding, but your correspondent is basically a lounge lizard, so
this article will concern itself, as I did, with Calgary the metropolis
and Calgarians themselves. How many Calgarians does it take to change a
light bulb? Ten. One to twist it in, nine others to tell you how great
the winter Olympics were. That's a local joke, and a good example of the
wry, self-deprecation of many of the Alberta capital's citizens. They're
an odd mix, a combination of the hearty frontiersmen who founded the
city, and an influx of a new, sophisticated urbanite who are still
flooding to the city despite fluctuations in the price of oil. High tech
industries and not a few of Canada's major corporates now have their
head offices in Calgary. They're making the best they can out of their
spot on the praries. Few would choose Calgary as a pleasure destination,
but because of its commercial importance, it has become an international
city. You can now fly direct from Calgary to New York, Amsterdam and
Buenos Aires. And after a few days in Calgary, you may well want to.
Still, my visiting affluent foodie girlfriend was quick to praise the
Italian market cuisine of the Teatro, in the 'theatre district' and
diagonally across from The Palliser, we ate the best and certainly the
most chi-chi breakfast in Alberta, at Bis Qiks. In both instances, fine
food in pleasing surroundings for affluent, educated palates. And mine.
Yes, there's nightlife beyond the line dancing C&W bars, livelier in
it's way than say Vancouver, which may surprise, until you've spent some
time in a climate that can drop to forty below, or more. It just brings
people together. In many instances, to drink cold beer. And watch sports
on television.
In Canada it's just Hockey, you don't need to call it 'ice' hockey. In
March, a full four agonized pages of the editorial of the Calgary Sun
were devoted to the trading of ice hockey player Theroen Fleury to the
Colorado Avalanche. The high pitch of the press coverage made it appear
that the defection of the Fleury of the Calgary Flames was an event itself
as great, and as tragic as the outbreak of final hostilities in the
apocalypse. No different to the editorializing you saw after the all
blacks stunning series of losses against the Australians. But let's not
deny the Canadians this; Ice Hockey is a fine sport, one of the best
spectator sports there is. The lower body is all grace, poise and
agility, the upper is all hand to hand combat. With sticks. On Ice. It
goes beyond Cro Magnian to Paleolithic. You might go and see the Calgary
Flames spoiling it with, oh, I don't know, the Edmonton Oilers, at the
Saddledome. You won't have to go to the Stampede to see a Cowboy.
But to give a true account, from almost the first moment I was in
Calgary, I was thinking about getting out of it, making the best out of
not knowing anybody in Calgary, with just twenty dollars and no
particular place to stay. I'm back in Vancouver now, fifty dollars to my
name, praying for cheques. This is Travel Writing. Right now, my only
work prospect is two months in Vilnius, Lithuania and Krakow, Poland.
All my razz-mattaz friends are going to New York or London for the party
of the new millennium and I'm off for a slice of medievalism. Who knows?
It could be just the thing. At least, that's what I'm trying to tell
myself.
Oh, final point about Calgary, there's a wonderful Irish pub along the
western frontier colonial stone building lined St Stephens Avenue called
the James Joyce. Drop in for a libation or two. I did, it's where all
the trouble started, after an afternoon drinking with Christine, a local
gonzo journalism website editor, and I'd highly recommend it. The
Glenbow Gallerys not bad, either. The best two streets in the town are
probably whatever street is leading out of it, or Stephen's Ave, in
which area you'll find the places I mentioned in this article. Go to a
brunch with dessert at the Palliser's Oak Room lounge, and don't sit in
the dining room with all the herds, sit off at a table in the Oak Room
Lounge to be reminded that civilisation exists almost anywhere. And
white chocolate in champagne flutes.
The Palliser is to Calgary what the Hotel MacDonald is in Edmonton. Unlike the capital,
Calgarians are pretty intent on destorying their own heritage, so, by default, the
Palliser remains a class act, the former boozing grounds of Ralph Klein. Just watch out for
the homeless people in the nearby underpass.
