Historically, everyone west of Winnipeg made their early-20s pilgrimage to Vancouver. They were supposed to escape their hometown to gain experience, financial security and a sophistication that could never be realized in East Bumfuck, Saskatchewan.
To me, the Left Coast lifestyle was one of endless excess fuelled by massive paychecks and the proximity of hedonists. Notorious after-hour clubs and cops who would force me to share my joint with them were the stuff of legend. Not only did nobody care how you dressed, but at work, they accorded you the respect you deserved for matching a Misfits leather jacket with fingerless gloves and camouflage pants.
So Edmonton’s best and brightest – or those that considered themselves as such – were spirited away to Vancouver. They inevitably spent a few weeks on somebody’s couch or in their cars. Like any grasshopper apprenticing themselves to an ancient Master, it was simply one of the trials they had to face before being accepted as a Vancouverite.
When they finally signed a lease for a crappy one bedroom with some guy who was crashing with the same friends, they were ready to take on the world!
Newly-arrived Edmontonians are easy to spot. They’re either overdressed for the weather, or underdressed. (“What do you mean, cold? Back home, we wore shorts when it was 10 degrees in February!”) They don’t know how to buy an umbrella.
They adapt quickly.
In fact, they adapt so quickly that within a couple of months, they know more about Vancouver than anyone who was born there. They knew the best dim sum place on Burrard and the only Granville Island boutique open after midnight. They have stories from every after-hours club you could name and unending contempt for Surrey.
Most amazing was their physical transformation. As soon as they discovered that Vancouverites hose their disposable income at stuff (rather than souped-up pickups, pot or minimum-cost-per-case beer), they went on an orgy of acquisition. Their wardrobe improved from jeans and Gap khakis to Helmut Lang and Dolce within weeks. They talked endlessly about the new gym that opened near their apartment. They had gorgeous – if tiny – apartments. They spent the cost of three mall hair cuts on a single bottle of product. Instead of sports, they discussed what films were shooting just down their street. The transformation was complete: they were a New Vancouverite.
However.
It doesn’t always work out, does it? It starts as intentionally ironic Facebook updates: “Today, Vancouver has beaten the shit out of me again.” It results in more frequent TMs just to keep up with what is happening back home. It is strongest in May and June, when the weather has turned in Edmonton and everyone is raving about the weekly festivals. Soon, as the temperature and humidity rise, NeoVan is pricing out trips home for the weekend.
A midnight move comes next. The damage deposit is forfeited in favour of a U-Haul and a couple of buddies that flew down to help drive back. The buddies are regaled with stories about Vancouver until about Golden, after which they are pressed for updates about Edmonton’s harsh winter.
When they get home, they walk a little taller. The NeoVan’s return is heralded with joy by their circle of friends, some of whom will also give up their couches unless there is a parent’s basement that has yet to be converted into a den. The prodigal son made the right decision.
The hero’s return is not without incident: the relationship that was avoided by escaping to the Left Coast rears its comfortable head and parents expect to see a new focus on career. There is nowhere to wear the fabulous outfits they brought back, let alone the even more fabulous shoes. The fabulous haircut grows out and they bemoan the state of public transit in this benighted, backwards, uncultured town.
The prodigal always talks about returning to Vancouver to try again. They may even do it before they turn 30, with a slightly greater chance of success. If they go and return again, or if they simply don’t go, they resign themselves to the endless “what could have been”. They have to live with that, and so do we.
Vancouver, consider putting up some transitional housing or forming some support groups. In exchange, you will receive all the disaffected geniuses from across the prairie provinces and they’ll stay for good. I’m only asking because once you have had your way with them, we don’t want them back. It’s not you, or them - it’s us.
They would be far happier with you, anyway.
to run red lights. After arranging a standby flight I cleared security by breathing on the guy with angry, beeping stick. The Edmonton airport being the vindictive bitch it is was mocking my pain with P.A. announcements, metal detectors and what seemed to be the loudest revolving door on earth.
