There’s always someone in your group of acquaintances who’s had a brush with celebrity. Until August, I’d met no one of particular significance, save an Oiler (or was it an Eskimo?) and even then it may have been an overly fit accountant. So when it came to a dinner arranged through a political journalism course I attended in the summer, I was somewhat, um, ecstatic to learn that the meal would be hosted by none other than the former premier of Alberta, Ralph Klein. There I was, sitting across the mahogany expanse of a table from the infamous King Ralph, eating wild salmon in a light dill cream sauce and braised asparagus spears. 

I was such a nervous wreck that several glasses of (delicious and expensive) shiraz failed to remedy the situation. I shook. I avoided eye contact. I fidgeted with my woefully overly-casual outfit. I smiled too much. And then I opened my mouth.

When you meet a public figure, it’s hard not to focus on the fact that they (a) are significantly shorter or taller than you expected, (b) have been on television more times than you’ve turned on the television, and (c) actually breathe the same air as you, and apparently require food to function. And apparently, Mr. Klein prefers his steak medium rare.

Now, I realize that meeting a provincial politician is small-time, but I’m small-time. I’m a born-and-raised Alberta girl, used to living in Edmonton on an island of “red” within a sea of Tory blue, used to making excuses about my hometown, my home province, and my local politicians. So meeting this particular premier was a pretty big deal to me. I mean, the man is famous across the country for reminding the Legislative Assembly that Question Period is just that — for questions. He’s the man who tossed money at sleeping men in a homeless shelter, who promised one-way tickets to B.C. for those on welfare, who cut millions and millions from healthcare and social services, who plagiarized a university paper, who loudly proclaimed that journalists are lazy, and who was responsible for opening up Alberta’s oilsands to massive development, starting us on the explosive economic ride we’re on today. He made Alberta debt-free and made alcohol available for purchase seven days a week until the wee hours of the morning.

My relatives in England know who the man is, for goodness’ sake.

Now, I wasn’t at a swanky downtown steakhouse to argue about the merits or ills of his several terms in office. Rather, I was to sit down at a table across from one of the most notorious premiers in the country’s history and bite my tongue.

Which I didn’t.

Needless to say, while we didn’t agree on a lot (we pretty much agreed on nothing), we had a damn interesting conversation. In fact, we’re best friends now. I grilled him to the best of my naïve and drunken ability about his track record, the current state of the province, climate change, oilsands and the environment, his regrets and his fondest memories. I asked him what he thought of the potatoes, which were delicious, and his answer jibed with mine. We completely butted heads 90 per cent of the time, but the conversation was, for me anyway, remarkably entertaining. I think I might have convinced him with my own version of how to make healthcare efficient without overstepping the bounds of the Canada Health Act, but he might have been nodding out of politeness. In fact, I’m sure he was just nodding out of politeness.

My new buddy Ralph said to me much later in the evening (after my second to last glass of wine — the nightly total came in just under two litres) “You, kid, are a good arguer” to which I replied, “Thank you, sir, but truly I’m just argumentative, full of youthful idealism, and really quite drunk.”