I moved to Calgary four years ago. At the time, it was exactly what I needed. I was 19 years old and running away from home with my best friend. We quit our jobs and cleared out our apartment, then hopped on a Greyhound bus with 19 boxes and our first month’s rent. Our first apartment here was owned by a sketchy looking guy named Steve, was home to at least two drug dealers, and had a broken lock on the front door. What may have given our parents a heart attack gave us the freedom and excitement of our first home away from home.
For the first four months, we had no beds – we slept on pillows on the floor. Rather than buy air mattresses or sleeping bags, we spent our money on booze at the local bars, getting tipsy enough to pass out without noticing how hard the floor was. We thrived on our low-income, low-luxury lifestyle because that’s what best friends do – take crummy situations and make them awesome. Over the past four years, we have had more fun than ever. I have met some incredible people and landed an amazing job at a company that I love, and just generally had fun growing up and becoming myself.
However. I never once stopped missing Vancouver. In my first year as an Alberta resident, I think I went home eight times. My computer wallpapers have always been sunset views of English Bay, or the skyline at night, or at one particularly homesick time, my mom’s backyard. As much fun as I was having in Calgary, I knew I would not be here forever. I was born a west coast girl and that’s where I’ll be. Continue reading