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By: Erich Mende
Illustration by: Derek Carman
When my friends and I were younger, stupider and generally
better looking, we used to make a game out of shocking, disrupting
and generally outraging as many tourists as we could. We saw
them as an affliction. We would pitch burning firecrackers
behind them while they peacefully strolled the Bow River path.
We would propel ourselves as fast as our little legs could
pedal down the centre of the sidewalk on Banff Avenue creating
a wake of elderly bodies, cameras, sandals and bad sweatshirts.
And at some point or another, we may or may not have been
involved in an incident, whose name we dare not speak, that
involved a tour group from Gainesville, Florida, 28 litres
of Rockaberry Canada Cooler and a poisonous monkey. Our capers
were spirited, plentiful, and in our 12-year-old wisdom, victimless.
Fortunately, though, I’m proud to announce that an evolution
from juvenile thinking now allows me great pride in sharing
the place I call home with excursionists from all corners
of the planet. Any thoughtful Bow Valley resident knows how
important our tourist friends are, even if, periodically and
in our weaker moments, we all make fun of, shake our fists
at, and generally wish them a slow and painful demise, usually
sometime very soon after they settle their bill. But we always
restrain ourselves and come to understand that their ability
to continue breathing and returning and recommending the mountains
of Alberta to friends and relatives makes them a lifeblood
of our valley. Those who came to hike our trails, eat in our
restaurants, ski our slopes and experience our splendor are
a big part of the reason we are allowed to make a living where
we do.
And before those of us who don’t get it become too ensconced
in the velvet that is our local righteousness, let us remember
that we do the same damn things when we go on vacation. Our
exits from the Bow Valley have us driving around lost, asking
silly questions, buying abominable souvenirs and attempting
intimate contact with dangerous local animals for photo opportunities.
The reason that we live, work and play in the Bow Valley
is same reason that t-shirt buying mouthbreathers from all
over the world come here to spend vacations. The human species
toils weekly in windowless cubicles, hides its extra dollars
under filthy mattresses and stuffs Sears luggage full of socks
and underwear periodically leaving home to explore, to play
in , and to experience new cultures, languages, foods and
sights.
I need not remind you how very important a constant injection
of suitcased wayfarers has become in light of the global financial
cataclysm. With Wal-Mart the last remaining profitable enterprise
on Earth these days, and while much of the world sits unemployed,
living under bridges in makeshift shantytowns heating stolen
beans over open fires, we must all do our best to make sure
the Bow Valley remains a favourite destination for global
travelers. Be a little nicer to them. Go that extra mile to
ensure that they are well looked after. Leave a little bit
of money in their wallets as you clean their hotel rooms.
While we must come to honour, value and respect our tourists,
that doesn’t mean that we can’t have a little bit of relatively
harmless and injury free fun at their expense while they are
here:
Let visitors from around the world go home and regale their
grandchildren with photos and videos of Mount Vesuvius, the
Montgomery Burns ground squirrel and Lake Gretzky. Let them
bore their neighbours with tales of an attempted rear mount
of the majestic bull elk. Let them experience the small Alberta
town where Star Wars was filmed. Let them excitedly hike to
the top of Sulphur Mountain to witness the mating of the dishwasher
from Truro and the front desk agent from Saint-Paul-de-la-Croix.
I raise a glass to our visitors, whether from Calgary, Cairo
or Chicago. To you: your beer, your ski hills and your women,
may none of them be flat.
If you do however, happen to find yourself jumping out of
the way of a war-crying hellion on a BMX bike flying down
the sidewalk jousting souvenir bags, please dear reader, don’t
let it sour your mountain experience. Suppress your desire
to scold, laugh quietly, step swiftly to the side, and take
solace in the fact that, in 25 years, that tubby little bastard
will most likely still be living in his parents basement thumbing
through a handsome collection of rejection letters from the
New Yorker while he earns a living serving tourists from all
over the globe.
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