In Transit 3

I arrived in Canada yesterday, in Calgary. Slept in an airport hotel with two beds in it, the one I crashed into as soft as marshmallow – I sank and I sank from 8.20pm til 5.30am, when I snapped into consciousness and the dark of the industrial fringes of the unknown city.

 

I rallied and went into Calgary, which has a kind of new out of the box sort of feel to it:

 

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I had time to buy some supplies, take a brief look at the archives in the Glenbow museum, and take in the locals. The racist outburst in a discount shop, the nice shop assistant who told me that in her town last December it was -50 for a week straight. Thankfully I was buying warm things at the time. Strangest of all, the otherwise-calm man on the bus who sat next to me (mid route) and asked if I’d heard the news. No, I said. He said, it was something to do with Canada and the start of World War Three. Oh, I said, waiting for more. But he just giggled and sat behind me, and continued to giggle intermittently until his stop. I was unsettled. It was almost like the start of an anecdote had been left to trail over everything unresolved.

 

Thankfully, the Banff bus was undertaken in the company of pleasant strangers without incident. Unless you count the scenery.

 

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I have lots more stories to tell, and more to add to the list soon, but for now another new bed. A combination of jet lag and altitude wooziness (or so I’m told, Banff is at over 4,000 feet above sea level, enough to make a difference?) draws me down to sleep. I’ll leave you with a wee shot of the view from my room at Lloyd Hall. I know. I can’t believe it either.

 

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