Calgary

How do I write about the place where I grew up? The place I know so well? The place that has changed so much since I was a child, and exponentially so over the past 12 years that I've been away from it?

Ok, its not like I left twelve years ago and this summer was the first time that I'd been back. Most years I visited once or twice for a week to three at a time. So its not like I'm faced with all the change Calgary has gone through at once. I've eased into it. But it is certainly more pronounced for me than it is for my friends and family who still live there, who wake each morning to a Calgary sunrise, who ski in our mountains an hour away in the winter and float along the Bow or Elbow rivers on hot summer afternoons.

I used to marvel somewhat disdainedly each time I flew into Calgary Int'l Airport to see the rapidly growing urban sprawl below, or when I would drive down Mcleod Trail, for example, and realize that the city now almost extends to its southern neighbouring town, Okotoks. Not to mention its encroaching upon Cochrane, Airdrie, Strathmore, and other satellites. Calgary just seemed to spontaneously spurt up new communities during my absences. Without a doubt, the city has boomed, has grown up from the little prairie cowboy town, its otherwise hick “Cowtown” reputation and corresponding nickname, into an Important Oil Industry Big City with a tangible energy.

While the urban sprawl makes me scoff, I get it. The oil industry calls for more professionals, more professionals means more families moving to town, and more families means more communities to house them all. I mean, when the prairies stretch out for hundreds of kilometres in all directions, why not just keep building outward? Unlike Holland and Japan, two of my adopted countries, space is not a particular concern here.

To put it into the words of cold hard facts, when I was a wee girl, the city's population was around half a million. Its now well over a million. Its doubled its size in my lifetime.

What's the same and what's changed? Aside from the the obvious urban sprawl, its difficult to put a definite finger on. A friend I had lunch with this week asked me about this, and, unable to answer clearly, we agreed to the suggestion that, after all these years, Calgary is an odd blend of strange and familiar for me.

Here's what I noticed in Calgary: people are still friendly. Like, when you walk down the street and pass somebody, chances are s/he will say hello. Cyclists usually nod or lift a hand in acknowledgement of our common passion. Despite new communities sprouting like weeds, some parts of the city have never changed. Seriously, the same sign for the same daycare has been standing close to my parents' (almost previous) house as far back as I can remember.

Some favourite Calgary places? Cycling along the Bow river. Strolling down 8th Avenue, a.k.a Stephen Avenue Mall (I don't know who Stephen was, though). The view of the Rocky Mountains from the ridge by my parents' (almost previous) house.

None of that has changed.

This week in Calgary was obviously all about coming home. If you haven't already noticed in my blog posts, my parents sold the house that I grew up in. The keys change hands next week, so this week was the crucial one for seriously clearing out 30 years worth of stuff.

“Stuff”, you should know, is what I consider to be the bane of our existences. I think I move every few years, partly for the change of scenery, but also partly for the purge of stuff. I keep important, sentimental things like old photographs and less important but equally sentimental things like my old Japanese bank book. But it always feels good to throw crap away.

This week, my brother and I got to do just that. We loaded up a van numerous times, drove to the city dump, the goodwill, my parents' new house, all to dump stuff. My parents have downsized, so luckily some important purging decisions were made. There's still a lot of stuff hanging around, but it seems a bit more manageable.

While it was tiring work, I was glad to be able to help my parents get the house ready for the new occupants. May they love and argue and grow and experience as much as we did over our years there. I was also glad for the chance for one last look through it before driving away. No tears for it. Empty, it doesn't hold the memories that I thought it would; I can better find those at my parents' new place downtown, amongst all their familiar “stuff”. The house is a shell, and my dad took this picture with my brother at the entrance right before I drove away from it for the last time.

Adios 28 Woodfield Way. No hard feelings. Only, now I have to memorise a new address.

While saying goodbye to the scene of my childhood, I found myself revisiting some old friends and previous relationships that had up until now remained long in the past. Each reconnection was important, and confirmed for me an identity as someone who somehow belonged in Calgary, amongst people who were also connected to this city. Whereas in previous years I held an unexplainable aversion to any mention of the city of my birth, my “hometown”, I now wore my cowboy boots with pride, and began to look at the city through eyes that weren't programmed as a jaded ex-Calgarian to judge the exterior effects of its growth.

And I noticed that I started to like the city again in a way that I hadn't in recent years.

I had parked the Jamboree in front of Tara's house for the week, and revelled in sleeping in a bed, in a house, with an ensuite bathroom. Tara's hospitality extended beyond hosting me and the contents of the Jamboree to include doing whatever she could to help my family with the move. She lent me her car while she was at work, stored some extra stuff in her garage and, despite impending exhaustion, even came over one evening after work to lend her time to cleaning bathrooms. My friendship with Tara is an absolute key component of my life; whether I am in Calgary or not, you are a superstar, Tara.

It rained all week. Between that and all the wine that Tara and I consumed, I carried a headache around with me for much of the time. It became sunny again this weekend, just as I was planning to leave. When I woke this morning to the sun, despite plans to leave town early, I couldn't resist the call of the bikepath. I cycled a glorious half hour (only) along the Bow River pathway, noticing not only the peacefulness of the river and its birds, islands and shorelines, but also the tree roots bursting through the paved path making my ride unpleasantly bumpy, and the many pedestrians and runners that I had to manoever along the way. Dodging these obstacles both slows me down and makes for a disjointed ride. No matter my newly regained endearment towards Calgary, I am still Dutch in my expectations of what I perceive as a bike path being for cyclists only. I am sure the runners and walkers will disagree with me; it is a “pathway” designated for pedestrians and cyclists alike. Not that I care much; Betty and I are faster.

I left with a lingering feeling of wanting more from Calgary. It won't happen now, not yet. But at least I drove out at 10:35 am on 16th Avenue N, a.k.a the Trans-Canada highway, heading east, with my new Alberta-registered license plate to identify me: as me, and also as an Albertan.