The Other Banff Is Not As Beautiful

They say Banff will make you believe in God.

Where the Canadian prairies are no longer prairies, the heavens have indeed been kind. There, jagged peaks declare their majesty, adorned in fresh snow, an ideal mirror for the bountiful sunshine above. Lining the peaks are manicured evergreens, trimmed not by the hands of man but by the forces of nature.

Icefields and glaciers have also laid claim to this land. As the latter recede, they leave lakes that birth rivers, which in turn nourish the oceans. When the Rockies are angled toward the sun, the lakes melt, their rock flour reflecting visible light as a brilliant blue. And when night falls, if the conditions are just right, the lights are of the Northern variety.

In Banff, the lowly human is even less relevant, a simple speck in a miraculous landscape.

But he doesn’t want to feel this small.

***

The trip from India to the Great White North had been surprisingly painless. The initial chill was raw, but the right gear had softened the blow.

He had landed in Calgary, where culture shock was more like a flicker of static. Thirty percent of the residents had origins on his continent. The local hockey team celebrated South Asian heritage night. Even the mayor was of Indian descent.

And then there was the thing that had brought him there in the first place—the economy. Courtesy the fossil fuel industry, the province of Alberta had the highest per-capita GDP in Canada, outdoing 37 US states. Locals had cash, and the restaurant industry was thriving. In other words, his livelihood would be secure.

Or so he thought.

The same demographics that had made him feel welcome also made for stiff competition. He wasn’t the only twenty-something, English-speaking Indian fit to work in the service sector. His clones were just as capable.

Initially, extended family helped make ends meet. They offered couches to sleep on, leftover meals, and then a loonie here or there for rent. But their spare rope was limited, and he couldn’t risk dragging them down with him.

Go to the mountains, they had said.

There is a restaurant, and the tourists never stop going.

They weren’t wrong.

Where the Bow River mimics the Ganges, the work was plentiful.

But space was not. Banff was stingy when it came to expansion, and the existing rectangles came at a premium.

He would need a roommate. Or two. Or three.

The place had a one tiny bathroom and an even tinier oven.

Most of his salary went toward this palace.

So he developed a routine.

Work. Palace.

Work. Palace.

Work. Palace.

Seven days a week.

Millions of tourists.

Three roommates.

But he was alone.

He is alone.

He hardly knows the owner who cuts his checks. The other waiters aren’t there to make friends—they have their own palaces to look after.

Each day, he notices the workplace decor.

The Indian flag. The Gateway of India. Tirupati.

Did he make the right choice?

He’s in someone’s paradise, but it’s not his own.

The jagged peaks are the heights he’ll never reach, the icy glaciers metaphors for how the New World has received him. And the lakes—they’re usually frozen, too.

***

They say Banff will make you believe in God.

But he already believed in God.

Now he’s not so sure.