The Calgarian sun had set a few hours before I finally arrived so I didn't really understand why people call it a "gateway to the Rockies" until the next day. I washed the stench of bus from my skin and ascended to the top of the Calgary Tower, 525 feet above downtown Stampede City. From here I got my first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains and they literally took my breath away. All throughout my trip there have been certain moments where I find myself stepping back and hovering above whatever situation I am in at that very moment and thinking: "My Oh My: I am a long way from home" and seeing the Rockies for the first time was yet another one of those out-of-body moments that I have come to treasure.
The next few days were populated by some Albertan culture. I visited the Glenbow museum where there is a brilliantly thorough exhibit about the entire history of First Nations Canadians, from Creation to residential schools and everything in between. I sampled some of the Stampede style nightlife and even got the chance to "meet" a few of Calgary's finest police officers - don't ask me how but I have learnt to never cross a road in Calgary without adult supervision. Then, on somewhat of a schoolgirl-like whim I decided to jump on a bus to Banff and take a two day tour through the Rockies, up to Jasper and back to Banff again. No big deal, right? Wrong! This mini-break from the buses and bustle was incredible. I got a ticket on a backpackers bus tour (check it out at www.moosenetwork.com) that drove north from Banff along the Icefields Parkway. This is one of the 5 most beautiful drives in the world, and in winter one of the most treacherous too. Accompanied by 8 young women and a tour guide with Scottish roots I got a real Rockies experience: Elk in their dozens, glaciers that are receding all too quickly, crows the size of labradors, freezing cold outdoor toilets, snow hikes, glacial moraines, silly lumberjack hats, and beers in the jacuzzi. It truly was a trip to remember, and I am forever thankful to Mark's Work Wear-House (a rugged yet stupefyingly cheap clothes shop frequented by truckers) for the thermal pantaloons.
I returned my eyes to their sockets and my body to Calgary, although I definitely left a part of myself in the beautiful Rockies. After all, it was time to get to work with Habitat for Humanity Calgary. I spent my first day with HFH Calgary doing what I do best - volunteering in one of their 3 Restores. There was no messing around and after some quick introductions I was put to work merchandising sinks, pricing paint and generally lifting lots of heavy things from one area to another... and it was great! The team at that Restore are good fun and full of stories. I spent some time shooting the Chinook-inspired tepid breeze with Paul, Dustin, Matt, Joanne and Andrew and I can't thank them enough, especially Joanne, for exemplifying the Habitat spirit and making me feel at home.
Unsurprisingly I could not resist the call of the wild and so I soon found myself back on a build site. But this was no ordinary build site (apologies to any linguists reading this for starting a sentence with 'but'). HFH Calgary are currently building two homes in an up-and-coming sub-division of Calgary, or as we call it in the UK & Eire: a commuter town of nigh-on identical gaffs. what makes this strange is that usually HFH homes in Canada are built on the outskirts of a town or city, and more often than not they are in less developed areas that you would not consider to be on-the-up. After all, HFH is dependant on governmental donations for the land to upon which to build affordable housing, and beggars can't be choosers. However, the build in Calgary was on land provided by a developer, not the government. Accordingly, the Habitat homes being built on the land have to adhere with the high architectural standards of all the rest of the new homes in the development. Think somewhere between "Desperate Housewives" and "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air". I got the chance to work on the fascia of the houses with Eldon and some up-standing gent volunteers. This involved working in a cherry-picker with a nail gun and a power saw. Very alpha-male indeed. The next day my Tarzan facade was broken down by Jane, or, more accurately, Lindsey the on-site construction assistant a.k.a. fore(wo)man. Lindsey and I hit it off and shamefully spent more time telling each other our life stories than progressing on the house. When I meet someone who is enamoured by Judaic and has a background in musical theatre and a penchant for building affordable homes then it would be rude not to get wrapped up in conversation. Lindsey, in her infinite wisdom, pointed out that I was in Calgary for the Grey Cup Final and ought to try and go to it.
* For anyone reading in the UK & Eire: The Grey Cup Final is the annual Canadian Football League final where the two best CFL teams battle it out for the title. Think of it as the Canadian Superbowl and every year the location of the final is moved around the country. For me to be in the host city on the actual weekend of the match is pretty coincidental, especially considering I had no idea there was such a thing as Canadian Football!
Forever the optimist, Lindsey stamped her foot and decided that I would go to the ball... I mean, football, despite the fact that all 40,000 tickets were sold out, and at this point (three days before kick off) the cheapest ticket was going for a scalper-friendly $1000, or about 1000% above face value. The chances of getting a ticket at all let alone for face value were somewhere between "slim" and "not a hope". But Lindsey would not be beaten. She wrote a posting on classifieds website Craigslist.ca claiming I was essentially the Jewish, Irish, Male reincarnation of Mother Theresa and that I would collect the ticket, support either team and party with whoever was kind enough, not mention give them a big shout out in this blog, if I could just get a ticket for face value. We posted the ad with my cell phone number, reminded each other that we are both naive fools and returned to work.
Abooooot an hour and a half later as we were wrapping up on lunch (busy day, I know!) my trousers begin to vibrate. Realising that my vibrating trousers were in the wash and deducing that this feeling could only be my cell phone I answered it, and the sweetest voice in all of Canada responded. My prayers to the sporting gods were answered by Zeus himself, or as he prefers to be known, Tony Ratz. Tony's team had failed to make it into the final and he could not bring himself to watch any other team contest this fixture. So Tony put his tickets up for sale on Craigslist. He got huge cash offers for the tickets. In fact, so ridiculous were these offers that Tony decided he would go to the match himself anyway. But in a moment in time where fate, cupid, Michael Jackson and the planets all aligned Tony took one last look on Craigslist to see if anything had changed and he saw my ad. He was moved to tears. But not weak, sissy tears. Man-tears that could crush a small child. He lifted his phone with ease (he has enormous biceps and never goes to the gym) and had one of his 33 concubines dial my number. In a voice that would make Barry White rise from the dead just to do a duet Tony offered me his ticket at face-value. He even drove for forty minutes (in a chariot, obviously) to drop off the ticket and seat cushion so that my feeble tushi (Tony has buns of steel and is reported to have taught Greg Smithey - click that link - everything he knows, and so does not need a weak butt cushion) was fully supported. So in case you ever wondered who the greatest Canadian of all time was, it's Tony "Bitchin'" Ratz (middle name created and added for emphasis; all defamation claims should be directed to the nearest waste disposal unit).
I was on a high for the rest of the day... no... week! Lindsey and her fiancee invited hostel hound Joe and I to the pre-game concert in the Saddledome, where I most definitely fell asleep during the headline act Great Big Sea. There is no good excuse for such behaviour and I will never live it down. Any chance I ever had of one day being granted the key to the city of Calgary evaporated as my head bopped in R.E.M. sleep while 25,000 people bopped to the music. I can hear the lads back in London as they read this: "Shameful showing from JD". But I was saving up all my energy for the match itself the next day. It was a hotly contested affair between Saskatchewan (who wear green and I was therefore supporting) and Montreal (who speak French and I was therefore ne's pas en soutenir). The result of the game is not worth mentioning, but let this be known: I will be sending an abacus and a calculator to the Saskatchewan Roughriders dressing room!
In any case sorrows were drowned in a downtown Irish bar with a man with a trumpet and an ape. Only in Calgary!
Oh my gosh! Only Two Cities left! Make sure you don't miss a single pun or hyperbolic comment - add me on Facey B (that's what they call Facebook in Australia, really) quoting HFH Canada.
As always, I'll leave it to a wiser man...
"Acadian driftwood,
Gypsy tail wind,
They call my home the land of snow,
Canadian cold front movin' in,
What a way to ride,
Oh, what a way to go"
Written by Robbie Robertson
Performed by The Band
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