First Night in Edmonton

Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and fucking exhausted, I sit in a musty hotel room near what would become my first Edmonton apartment. I have just completed a six-day drive across Canada, from the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia to Alberta. It was just me, my few precious and/or required belongings, and my leased red Nissan Cube. I loved that spacious, weird little car-thingy — not quite a car, not quite a van, not quite an SUV. At 4 p.m. on this warm, late-August afternoon, I suppose I could have loved just about any vehicle that had landed me safely in Edmonton.

What a fucking drive that was, though I am too tired to think back fondly on the journey right now.

In two weeks, I am going to start my PhD. On paper, my life reads like a steady climb: diploma, degree, medal. Christ, what a myth. My real education began much earlier, in rooms where no child should have had to learn anything.

I shake my head violently. This is NOT the time to start dwelling on the past.

I am here, in a city I have only seen in pictures. The marriage I left behind in Nova Scotia already feels distant. My family is scattered across other provinces, and I do not miss them either. I am free. I pick up my apartment key tomorrow afternoon, and there is nothing to do now but take it all in.

Looking out the window, I can see the sun shining through some trees surrounding a half-full gravel parking lot. I squeeze my right cheek against the window, the glass feeling both refreshingly cool and warm at the same time. I cranked the AC the fuck up when I got to the room. I am trying to look down the street toward my apartment building, but the angle isn’t right, and I just end up fogging the window with my breath.

I start pacing around the room. This is a new place, a new city, a new life. I should get out and explore!

But.

I flop my ass back onto the bed.

I am honestly terrified. New people have never really been my thing. When you live life bullied, abused, or isolated, the idea of boldly going where you have never gone before is fucking scary.

Ah ha!

There are pamphlets and glossy sheets of paper on the bedside table. These may contain the answers I seek. A swim in the hotel pool or a trip to the gym? Not me! I am officially a PhD student. This body is all about the brains, baby.

Ordering in a pizza and watching cable TV is an option, as is setting up my computer to stream some YouTube junk to kill time, but that idea is about as appealing as it has been in every hotel and motel I stopped in on my drive across the country. In other words: NOT.

Hm. There is a Chinese food restaurant in the lobby. That gives me the chance to answer the rumble in my tummy — yes, I hear you, stomach, relax — without forcing me to venture too far from my current safe haven.

I grab my phone, room key, lighter and cigarettes, and a Stephen King novel for good measure. With the book, I won’t have to make eye contact or small talk with anyone.

Turning to look in the full-length mirror on the wall near the door, I check to make sure I look human enough to make a public appearance. A little ragged from the road, but what the hell. I am only going for hotel-lobby Chinese food after all, not dressing up for a night on the town. My jeans and Super Mario Bros. T-shirt will do nicely.

I look around the room one more time before heading out and think about how bland and murky it is. I wouldn’t be surprised if a black light revealed more bodily fluids than clean spaces in this room. Rolling my eyes, I turn to the door.

The first thing I check for in every hotel room is bed bugs. Those little fuckers creep me out almost as much as ticks and leeches. No sign of the little fuckers in this room, so I can tolerate the idea of unseen semen on the walls for one night.

Grinning, I head to the lobby.

Pausing by the front desk, I look outside and see the sun reflecting off the hotel directly across the street. I remind myself that I haven’t had a smoke or a game of Hearthstone in over an hour.

I scold myself, as usual. I really need to quit smoking soon.

Honestly, though, I love how it bothers my husband. We have a deal: he gives up chewing nicotine gum, I give up smoking. He never even smoked, by the way. He just started on the gum and got addicted.

Funny and ironic, I think.

I do enjoy my habit, though. It gives me a reason to be outside, and an excuse to try just one more hand of Hearthstone before supper.

When I walk outside, the hotel butt can is hanging on a wall to my FAR left. That’s got to be twenty feet, not the required three. Ah, but to my right there is one much closer. It is beside the door to some shithole bar.

I hesitate.

But it is nice out, and I am alone out here, so what harm is there?

Lighting up, I lean back against the cold brick wall while loading a game of Hearthstone on my phone. I draw a deep drag off my slim 100 menthol death-stick and slowly exhale a puff of smoke and contentment.

This is nice.

I jump when the door to my right opens with a jerk. An older man, maybe fifty, walks out of the bar. Stumbles out is more like it. He pulls out a cigarette of his own and tries to make eye contact with me.

I quickly look down at my phone.

He wanders around for a bit but eventually decides to engage with me.

“You staying at the hotel?” he slurs.

I politely smile and nod, trying to make it clear with my body language that I am not interested in discussion.

He doesn’t seem to get the hint.

“Yeah, it’s an okay place,” he says. “The Chinese place is pretty good, but stay away from the seafood.”

He laughs in the way drunk men laugh when they think they have said something clever.

Then he uses a racist nickname for the restaurant, one I haven’t heard since my father used to say it when I was a kid.

“You going to eat?” he asks.

Trying not to look annoyed, I give up on my game and look up.

“That’s the plan,” I say, trying to sound off-putting but hearing kindness in my own voice. “I just got into town, so food sounds good.”

“Where you from?”

“Nova Scotia,” I say with caution.

“Shit yeah, lots of people here in Edmonton come from out East,” he says. “You should come over to the bar when you’re done with your food. It’s karaoke night, and lots of folks are from your home. They got good beer, cheap. Come on, we don’t bite!”

I butt my smoke out and smile.

“Thanks, but I’ll probably stay in.”

“Well, if you change your mind, drinks are on me,” he says.

I hurry into the hotel lobby and head toward the restaurant.

A few drinks could be a nice way to relax. He seems harmless, and I am close to an easy escape.

But karaoke?

Yikes.