It turns out there was a single building with two sides. Like America, the Canadian rink was evenly divided between disparate social populations; in this case, hockey and curling. Two sides of the same icy coin, they should get along harmoniously; but I detected a bit of friction. Must we always “other” the… um…. other? Either that or I just look like a homeless dipshit and read too much into it when I triggered the platoon of psycho-moms.
Despite playing hockey as a kid I’m not enthused about hockey rinks. I have happy memories of skating with friends on frozen beaver ponds. (It’s a miracle nobody drowned, froze, or put an eye out.) Being herded about by groups of helicopter moms is entirely unlike my fuzzy memories of Normal Rockwell style wintertime fun. I was a little bit shaken. I’d smelled a whiff of the universe that will non-ironically say such bullshit as “permanent record” and “extracurriculars will help you get into a good college”. Ugh! A flashback to the tortures of youth!
Luckily, now I was at the curling rink and my stress vanished. It looked, felt, and smelled like a tavern; because that’s exactly what it was. Not the kind of blaring “sportsbar” where dudebros shriek at football games on LCD screens. Not the kind of fern bar where everybody knows your name. But rather the far superior kind of bar where nobody gives a shit about your name and they let you drink in peace.
I soaked in the joy. Thick soft, well-worn carpet, no televisions blaring propaganda or sportsball, dim lights, a half dozen cheap beer lights, and small tables surrounded by comfy seats. Some tables were stocked with decks of cards and cribbage boards. There was a popcorn maker in one corner. Heaven.
One wall was mostly glass windows where you could look out and down at a row of Curling lanes. (I think they’re called “sheets”. Each lane is about the dimensions of a generous pistol lane.) There was a row of barstools near the window. You could sit here and drink in the warmth while heckling your teammates!
I fell in love. Beer taps, comfy chairs, and none of the clucking women from the hockey arena. The perfect man hangout. It was the kind of place that makes me want to throw a sleeping bag in the corner and hibernate all winter.
It was also abandoned. I wandered around a bit and discovered the taps were off. (Don’t judge me! You’d have checked too!) Out on the sheets someone was working a contraption I presume to be a pint sized, walk behind Zamboni. Turned out he was preparing the ice for our arrival. How cool is that?
My friend showed up just as I was settling into a particularly overstuffed chair. I think he’s a bigwig in the curling world, or at least at that curling club, or at least I didn’t have to pay to use the facilities… any one of which makes him a rock star as far as I’m concerned. He explained that more people were soon to arrive. The taps weren’t open but the soda fountains were, so I poured myself a coke and topped it off with a little something from my hip flask. Meanwhile the rest of the gang arrived and a potluck materialized. I tossed a bag of chips in their midst and chowed down on their far more delicious contributions. Someone showed up to open the taps and run the bar. (Liquor laws I guess?) I bought a pitcher or three of shitty beer. Several others did too. Fed, beered, and feeling groovy I was like “I love this sport!” Then it was time to play. I slurped up the last of the beer and (still carrying a cup of mostly hip flask contents with a splash of coke) made my way to the “sheets”.
The game begins…
I’m fairly certain that the Canucks don’t want me to ever re-enter their country and it’s a sentiment that I hold even more strongly after my last interactions with their less-than-friendly (to put it most very mildly!) border guards, but I’m enjoying the story.
That’s a shame. I’ve always had good luck there. (Especially the fishing!) The only dickheads I’ve met at the US/Canada line have been asshats with badges on the US side. I’m convinced that nobody joins the US Border Patrol in hopes of being sent to the frozen hinterland to guard against peaceful Canada. Thus, my theory goes, remote crossings on the north side of America are often guarded by jackoffs so abrasive they were sent North to the hinterland because their hard working colleagues stationed in Tucson or El Paso were about to frag their ass. This doesn’t apply to more populous northern crossings where both sides have standard TSA level competency and politeness.
I had to pay $200 to enter Canuckistan because I was “taking away employment from a Canadian”. I explained to the official that no Canadian could do the job ’cause Her Majesty’s Subject was in the states at a company school learning to do the damn job. No dice.
OTOH, one of my Canadian clients danced evenings at a strip club and dressed for it while at her day job. Me: “Um, doesn’t she get cold?” Male client: “No, the stares of her male co-workers keep her warm”.