Well, the trip was a success. My pal Jeremy had a good time turning 32. Much alcohol was consumed and he enjoyed his birthday gift very much. He’s a true Pink Floyd fan. Me, not so much.
Alberta is an odd place. Jeremy, like so many others before him who have left their region for better prospects, often finds himself in the position of having to explain/defend the Maritimes to his colleagues who either a) believe that the East Coast consists of a chain of islands east of Quebec called New-FOUND-land and b) the reason so many people are without work out there is that they are simply lazy. He tells me he wants sometimes to simply play up that role of the colourful peasantry as he’s too tired to correct whatever misconceptions they have of us due to years of listening to Ralph Klein’s verbal horseshit or watching ‘Codco’ and not understanding that the act was meant to be ironic. But playing that role can be tiring as well. Sitting in the Trap n’ Gill (a pub for transplanted East Coasters that is decorated as though the Maritimes had thrown up all over the walls), we listened to some folk singer warbling about how the fish is gone, the jobs is gone, and pretty soon we’ll all be gone. We decided that the Trap n’ Gill isn’t exactly helping that image.
But it’s not a bad place. I hear the steak can be quite nice when it won’t kill you. I stuck to chicken mostly and Jeremy’s wife Patti made a lovely fish chowder that we ate with perogies. And if you like humongoid pick-up trucks with gun racks, Alberta’s your place. But they seem like nice enough folks in a flirts-with-facism kind of way. It’s just that they don’t love their children as we do.
And on an unrelated note: Somebody’s birthday is on Friday.