There’s this idea that you need to travel across the globe to see the most interesting things. There’s this other idea—related, I guess—that Canadians are terribly dull people, floating silently through history. Well, most of us, at least. Like, we’re just a big pack of Tim Hortons litterers with special rim-rolling devices from Lee Valley, taking up entire sidewalks with our SUV-inspired strollers. That’s there, part of us. I sure hate it.
Defying these debatable premises (that particular transcendence can only exist after an airplane ride), I decided last week to give Calgary another shot. But in full-bore, walk-the-alleys, Edmonton style. Construction boots on in case of mud or needles. You know what I mean: instead of complaining about the obvious gloom of condo culture, I’d start a fire in the backyard, get drunk, and walk a bottle of wine through the streets in any random direction.
Just the other day, for example, we spent the evening on a golf course in the dark, chasing geese and throwing snowballs as hard as possible at each other. Glasses, lighters, bags of weed, all lost in the snow. But so much fun. Thankfully, unlike Sherwood Park, there aren’t CCTV cameras on every corner here yet.
Architecturally (and even topographically), sister Calgary simply tingles with possibility. Can it really be so hard to find that city’s soul amidst its supersized mansions? Perhaps it’s off the Glenbow, where every vehicle is disturbingly large and bears only one occupant?
It wasn’t hard at all. The city’s soul, it turns out, is in a little restaurant called Lion’s Den, where 17 Avenue meets the C Train station in arenaville. It’s been there for decades, a splendid anachronism. Within it, without provocation, we were barraged with what was seriously the steadiest flow of bullshit I have ever heard. Not surprisingly, I loved it. I’d found what I was after.
The owner of the place, a graying little Super Mario-looking dude, introduced himself with a bunch of marriage jokes—brazen, but nothing you haven’t heard before during tedious wedding receptions. As Carmela Soprano says, it’s amazing how these guys who run down their wives have such total, slavish reverence for their mothers. But then things got interesting.
I’ll just list it all—there’s no other way to do it. Our host claimed, no word of a lie, that he (a) had raised several of the Oilers on his pizza, his mama lipping off Glen Sather; (b) had designed, without getting credit, the toonie’s polar bear; (c) once owned a dog who “almost” starred in a remake of The Littlest Hobo; (d) had a brother who single-handedly saved the infrastructure troubles of the Calgary Olympics by threatening to toss volunteer workers down the ski hill; (e) saved the life of a cop by ratting on some homie making threats; and (f) what the hell, knew a proven, about-to-hit-the-world cure for fucking cancer via his homemade hot sauce.
“What, you don’t believe me?” he bellowed. “Try it!”
The Penguin series of books called Extraordinary Canadians comes to mind. The first three volumes are devoted to Lord Beaverbrook, Emily Carr, and Nellie McClung, all of whom have left ghosts in Edmonton and Calgary. Their quirks, like Beaverbrook’s creative math or Carr’s tendency to have extended nervous breakdowns, are nothing compared to their accomplishments. Regardless, they are not boring, not far away, and certainly not floating silently through history.
But in a way, I pity them their meager accomplishments, for not having in their hands—ever—a magic hot sauce, about to revolutionize the very balance between life and death itself.
