I’m mostly an unconscious driver. I get from point A to point B, often (and admittedly) without direct knowledge or memory of roads I’ve just travelled, less or otherwise.
Which is why I was even more surprised to witness a purely Calgarian moment waiting for me at the 52nd St. and 130th Ave. S.E. intersection.
Stopped at the same red rush-hour light in front of me was a full-on country song. A purebred ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ late-model Chevy pick-up truck, dark blue. Part of the bumper on the left hand side was missing, and the twang was almost oozing from the light smattering of rust spots. The truck spoke of a life time’s worth, and old-fashioned care.
Seated in the front row were two salt-of-the earth down n’ dirty cowboys—the kind that for most other big city slickers, exist only on the big screen. Their shaped and worn cowboy hats kept swaying as they talked, engrossed in what seemed to be a hilarity-filled boisterous conversation. (How did I know they were authentic you ask?—well, the powers of deduction mandated it to be so: Stampede was still more than three months away, and the Alberta Beef bumper sticker was somewhat of a tell.)
That’s when the silver and gleaming Maserati pulled up directly beside them, heading the opposite way. Seated in the driver’s seat was a 40-ish Mr.Money Bags, a lit (assuredly Cuban) cigar in his tan leather driving-gloved left hand resting slightly out the open window. His wealth was very visible and deliberately advertised, as were his designer sunglasses and coat.
That’s when I smiled. I smiled at the open window into the dichotomy of Calgary. A city that can boast both Marlboro men and magnates, oil riches and hand calluses. I know many cities play host to diverse populations and social standing, but the picture that was painted for me last Friday at that red light, was one at the heart of what we believe Calgary to be—a place where men can still tip their hats to a lady, AND buy you a $15 martini.
I'd say that’s worth smiling about.