Sit inside Pharos Pizza, in one of their 1970′s leather seat booths, and look across the street. Poised like a vulture studying its next meal is a Domino’s take-out counter. The ground zero of the fast food incursion into the Edmonton historical district of Old Strathcona happened a mere block down, where a KFC, a Taco Bell and a McDonald’s stand shoulder-to-shoulder, like a scrum entering the rival team’s penalty zone. Domino’s lurks dangerously close to High-Level Diner and Pharos, testing the waters.

For a while, Pharos seemed impervious to these market pressures. It’s easy to imagine that their menu hasn’t changed in 40 years of business. Every pizza or pasta they serve is custom made to order, and offer a simple, quaint elegance that must have made it a prime dating spot fourty years ago. For example, soft drinks are served in tiny 250 ml glasses, a ghost of an era before the litre jug became standard.

When visiting a place like this, it’s tempting to associate its timelessness with a form of immortality. But in less than a month, Pharos will close its doors, finally yielding to commercial pressures. The Garneau building has a new owner, and he is raising the yearly rent above their annual income. In other words, they’re being forced out of business.

There is no doubt that whoever will replace Pharos in their prime location will have the business acumen and the marketing power to pay the high rent. Someone, say, with deep corporate pockets, who can cut production costs with more efficient methods and supply systems. They will probably offer soft drinks in extra-large format, too.

The story of Pharos, sadly, is that of every mom and pop shop, every old-fashioned pizza joint or hot dog stand in North America. Thriving historical places such as Montreal’s Schwartz’s are the exception. There’s a reason these little pieces of local history are rare: their existence is a struggle in the currents of a globalized food industry. They are more concerned with authenticity and the human touch than they are with franchise scaling and corporate earnings.

“Local” as a food word is becoming trendy, but boutique bistros with seasonal menus are kind of missing the point. The real soul of many North American cities, including Edmonton, can be found in these pizza joints and hamburger stands. It’s the tragedy of these places that no foodie will stand up to their defense when the corporate food industry moves in for the kill.

The story of Pharos is the story of the Western world in the age of the industrial food chain. There might not be much appeal beyond the nostalgic in another spaghetti and meatball joint going out of business. But every time a burger joint goes out of business, another piece of our collective soul fades away.

And with Pharos passing away, so does another piece of Edmonton’s soul.

Pharos Pizza will close down for good in the month of June. This is your last chance to try Edmonton’s best pizza while enjoying a slice of Edmonton’s history. Pharos Pizza is located at 8708 109 Street, next to the Garneau Theater.

Every Saturday since Catfish Coffee set up shop at the Old Strathcona Farmers Market, Jack sneaks in before opening hours, and gets his special order: decaf beans, roasted espresso dark. Dominic never fails to bring him a one-pound bag. In felt pen, he writes “Jack’s Blend” on the bag.

Sure enough, Jack shows up, right on time. He’s an amiable man, and he spends a minute chatting with Dominic as we rush to finish setting up the Catfish Coffee booth.

Jack is what Dom calls a “pro”. The pros make it early to the market, intent on snatching the freshest produce off the shelf before the masses can pick through them. They are organized: they bring lists, and know where to go.

I’m one of these pros, although my Saturday market routine involves spending a leisurely breakfast at the nearby New York Bagel Café. But today, I’ve beat them all, even Jack.

You see, today, I’m one of the vendors.

Bounty from the Market, May 2008
(Click to enlarge)

Over the last year, Helene and I have spent countless hours at the Catfish Coffee stand, chatting with Dominic and his fiancee Tracy. I’m as passionate about good coffee as they are about roasting it: and as surely as coffee begets conversation, conversation begets friendship.

For Dom and Tracy, the love of coffee means spending long evenings roasting their coffee by hand, despite having a newborn baby, and in the case of Dominic, a demanding day job. Yet every Saturday morning, they show up in time for Jack’s unofficial launch of the market day, with hundreds of pounds of coffee painstakingly roasted by hand, 5 pounds at a time.

Why do they do it? If you ever meet them go ahead and ask them that question. They’ll tell you they cannot imagine having it any other way; and their smile will leave no doubt they’re telling the truth.

Dom and Tracy manning the booth
(Click to enlarge)

The pros are meticulous in their appreciation of coffee. They ask questions about the roast, and sample the various blends. When Dom or I answer, you can see them lean forward across the table, gulping up the knowledge. They’re clear about what they like and don’t like, and the mere suggestion that they might not have a grinder at home makes their eyes widen in amused outrage.

Dom and Tracy give them friendly nicknames. Biker Al got his because of his omnipresent helmet. The Coach got his moniker for his seven daughters, enough for a baseball team. To Dom and Tracy, until they learned my real name, I was French Press, both for my native language, and my usual way of making coffee.

As the lunch hour approaches, the crowd thickens and changes. We’re entering Tire Kicker territory: that’s how Dom calls those who are just hanging out. We start seeing more and more Starbucks and other commercial coffee cups. Every time one cup-holding wanderer goes by without stopping to investigate the stand, I feel I’m on the darkened side of a one-way mirror. Will these people ever realize that they walked by the best coffee in town, while they sipped their Tim Horton’s?

Fortunately, others are curious enough to stop and ask a few questions. A minute of hearing Dom talk with knowledge and passion, and most of them will try a sample; and of those trying a sample, very few leave without a bag. The coffee speaks eloquently for itself; Dom and I are there to make the introduction.

Catfish Coffee’s “Bali Blue Morning” beans
(Click to enlarge)

If you ever stop by the Farmers Market, I dare you to ask Dominic about Fair Trade certification. While most of his beans are certified, he does not have the Fair Trade sticker on his bags. Doing so would require that he charge his customers as much as $5 more per pound, with not a penny going back to the producer.

But even worse, Dom has seen a decline in recent months in the quality of fair trade certified coffee. This is due in large part to the economics of Fair Trade: simply put, a grower must reach a certain volume of production before he can apply for certification; and because of market demand for Fair Trade, the only way for small growers to sell their beans in within a cooperatives.

During my visit to their retail and roasting location, Dom showed me a Fair Trade Costa Rican. The beans were uneven, some of them broken into pieces; he even pulled up rocks from the beans. This, Dom says, is the result of twenty-some farmers pooling their beans, and stopping to care about quality knowing it will be buried under nineteen others.

Then, one day, Dom and Tracy received a green bean bag from Harar, Ethiopia. The bag featured the crude picture of a horse, and was sewn shut by hand. When she opened it, Tracy found a surprise inside. It was a note, written by the grower, addressed to whoever would inherit the fruits of his labor.

Hope my beans are good, it said. If you have a problem with them, here’s my phone number.

Without knowing it, Catfish Coffee had taken its first step outside the comfort zone of Fair Trade certification. The world beyond was filled with producers too proud to abandon their beans to the anonymity of a coop. A world, unsurprisingly, very much like that of the Farmers Market.

Oh, and the Harar Horse? Best coffee I’ve ever had. Brew it fresh, close your eyes and take a sip: you can taste the soil it grew in, somewhere in the Horn of Africa, lovingly coaxed from the beans by Dominic and Tracy’s roast.

January 2009: Catfish introduces the Harar Horse
(Click to enlarge)

As closing time approaches, the Tire Kickers dwindle. The pros have moved in again: this is the crowd I usually join, when I’m not busy selling coffee.

I’m tired and exhilarated by my day at the market. Most of it has gone in a blur, and all I can remember are the powder of fresh ground coffee on my fingers, and my repeated explanations to customers about Catfish Coffee’s philosophy.

And it dawns on me: like Dominic, Tracy, and most of the vendors at the Market, I’m not here selling a product, but a worldview. Every time a customer walks by, I want them to taste the coffee, and share with me the feeling of walking off the beaten path of consumerism. I want them to see the world lurking behind the facade of brands and certifications, where human beings still trade with a smile and a handshake, whether on a field in Ethiopia, or in a market in Edmonton.

I want them to know the taste of a coffee born without a barcode.

+

Catfish Coffee is on sale every Saturday at the Old Strathcona Farmers Market in Edmonton, at 10310 83rd Avenue. Their retail location will open soon at 6507 112nd Ave. For inquiries, call 780-491-0771, or join the Catfish Coffee Roasters page on Facebook. Tell them French Press sent you!

Sunday morning, my shoulder will feel sore as hell. It’s getting punched repeatedly by a merciless bully. The bully’s name? .300 Winchester Magnum.

I line up my shot, remembering not to lean forward too close to the rifle’s sight; I don’t feel like shopping for a new pair of glasses with a black eye. My target is square in the crosshairs, so now comes the hard part: not fearing the kick of the gun as the shot is fired.

“Every time, you have to convince your brain that this time, this one time, you won’t get hurt, that a bullet is not about to explode inches from your face. But of course, it’s a lie,” explained Jim, an ex-colleague and gun enthusiast.

Unfortunately, I’m not that great at lying to my brain, yet. I can’t help but double-check that the rifle’s butt is squarely set against the crook of my shoulder. I can’t help but close my eyes the second before I pull the trigger.

The shot goes off. The bullet’s explosion is enough to shake some snow off the roof of the firing stand. My shoulder briefly throbs from the hard plastic punch of the rifle’s butt. I check the target, and see I’ve missed the center by a few inches. I jerked a bit as I squeezed the trigger, knowing the shot was about to go off.

I eject the spent cartridge by pulling back the bolt. I load up a new one, and lock up.

Lining up the shot, I start lying to my brain again.

The Sherwood Park rifle range in summer

Jocelyn, Ben, Jim and I are at the Sherwood Park Outdoor Firing Range on a Sunday afternoon in February. Despite the biting cold, two other men are at the rifle range, and shotgun shots can be heard from the skeet shooting range nearby.

I came here at Jocelyn’s behest, after he heard of my trip to West Edmonton Mall’s Wild West Shooting Range. Joce is a Quebecois friend from BioWare, and a hunting enthusiast. I hadn’t planned to venture again into the world of firearms, but Joce’s proposal is tempting: he’s offering me the chance to fire real hunting rifles, at an outdoor shooting range. In travel terms, he’s suggesting I move away from the tourist trap, and try out an authentic local spot. Put almost anything to me in these terms, and it’s impossible to say no.

On the way over – a 45 minutes drive from downtown Edmonton – Jocelyn and I talk about local food issues, as well as the thrill of hunting. And truth be told, I’m warming up to the idea of stalking an animal, holding a big gun. “What’s more organic than a buck that grazed from the forest all its life?” asks Joce. He’s right.

After the WEM shooting experience, I’m less weary around firearms. Not that I’m careless, on the contrary – but my aversion for them is turning into respect. As my friend Malcolm puts it, it’s the kind of respect you give a boiling pot. You can feel it coming from the experienced shooters, as well; you never see the guys waving them around, or making light of them in any way. If anything, they are even more aware than me of the gun’s destructive potential. When I lean forward to look through the scope of Ben’s unloaded rifle while Jim is in the field placing targets, Joce quickly instructs me to put the rifle down, even when it was clearly not loaded. I feel a bit shameful, and do as he asks.

Once Jim is back from the target area, Joce sits down to business: he’s doing load development on two of his rifles, which means he’s testing out a number of loads for accuracy and velocity. It’s all business for him, but thankfully, he lets me sit down with another one of his rifles, and a box of .300 cartridges.

I shoot enough of them to numb my shoulder. Lie as much as I want, my brain remains firmly convinced I’m out to hurt myself every time I pull the trigger. Damn you brain for being right.

Third from right: .300 Winchester Magnum

On the way back from the shooting range, I express my satisfaction to Joce. It definitely felt more real than at West Edmonton Mall, and firing a hunting rifle capable of taking down a moose is quite different from a 9mm pistol.

We talk about hunting some more. Joce explains how he’d like to butcher an animal himself, some day, maybe this year. I nod my consent. Whenever I speak to hunters, there is nothing but respect for the animals they kill. They talk about the thrill of the hunt, of the beauty of nature, of the quality of the meat.

“The people who say it’s too easy to hunt with a gun make me laugh,” explained Jim, earlier. “They have no idea how hard it is to kill an animal with a rifle. The cold, the interminable waiting, the difficulty of hitting an animal at 100 yards… It’s hard.”

Joce, for his part, explains the thrill you feel when you have an animal in your sights. “That’s what you don’t get at the firing range… the adrenaline. Your hands start shaking, it’s so hard to take a shot.” It sounds like a hell of a thrill.

Feeling my bruised shoulder, I wonder what it would be like to kill a buck myself. To clean its carcass. To grill its meat on the barbecue. I wonder how you can be disrespectful to an animal when you snuffed away its life yourself. Is it possible to treat it with the blind contempt our society holds for industrial meat? I doubt it.

In a way, the thought process that got me here, on a cold, sunny day, is the same that got me to quit meat for 3 months.

It comes from a desire to appreciate the food I eat with both eyes open.

“We’ve never shot before. We’re looking for something fairly small, just to get a feel for it.”

“9 mil,” answers the cashier without hesitation. She’s Asian, petite and cute, in her early twenties.

“Right! Ok. But we’d also like something more powerful. See, we’re fans of videogames, and there’s a gun…”

“Desert Eagle.” The cashier flashes us a smile. She’s got us all figured out.

Dorian and I grin at each other: oh, it’s on. We’re about to shoot a gun for the first time in our lives, all in time to catch a movie. Just your typical Friday night at West Edmonton Mall.

*

Dinner and a movie. That was the Friday night Dorian, Helene and I had agreed on. But when we reached the movie theater, we realized we had 2 hours to kill. The movie theater being at West Edmonton Mall, we had a lot of options to kill time before the 10 PM showing, including glow-in-the-dark minigolf. That and the gun range.

I’m not a fan of guns. I recognize them as the lethal pieces of metal they are, and I’ve shunned them most of my life. I don’t think they’re glamorous, and although “guns don’t kill people”, they certainly make it a hell of a lot easier to do so. Even in videogames, I find the glorification of modern weapons to be troubling.

But I’m not one to pass up an experience, especially when it puts me outside of my comfort zone. And so, when Dorian suggested we visit the Wild West Shooting Centre in West Edmonton Mall, I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

Dorian and I stood in line while we waited for 2 booths to clear up. The firing range was much busier than I expected on a Friday night. The crowd was mostly young people, generally in their early twenties. There were some couples holding hands, and young girls gossiping as they waited for their turns. We all held a paper target; unsurprisingly, my zombie motif seemed pretty popular with the guys. The girls liked the cute-looking alien instead.

The range officer set up two booths side-by-side for Dorian and I. We had established through rock-paper-scissors that I would start off with the 9mm pistol. Dorian would be firing the Desert Eagle as his first shot.

I remarked to Dorian that it was a hell of a gun to first fire a shot with. The range officer laughed knowingly.

“It’s like losing your virginity to a hooker,” he said.

*

I have only ever held a gun once before. This time, though, I am loading the bullets one by one into the clip, loading the gun, and pulling back the barrel to chamber a bullet. I am holding a loaded 9mm pistol. I squeeze the trigger, trying not to blink from the expected bang.

Loud noise. A hole appears in my target.

The 9mm is instructive. I’m experiencing something new, and I can appreciate it on a philosophical level. How easy it is to point it, pull the trigger… it feels like you’re not part at all of that final hole in the paper.

After firing 10 rounds and emptying the clip, Dorian and I trade places. Dorian has a gleam in his eye from shooting the Desert Eagle. This should be good.

“When you’re about to fire, lean forward and push with your right hand. Pull back against your right hand with the left,” the range officer explains. This is to compensate for the recoil. Oh, gosh, he didn’t say anything about recoil on the 9mm, and yet I could feel it.

I load the Desert Eagle, and slowly squeeze the trigger. I push forward with the right hand, back with the left. I don’t know what to expect.

I fire.

Holy CRAP. I feel adrenaline coursing through my veins. The shot is loud, even through my ear protectors. Dorian exclaims from the booth over that my own shot has deafened out his 9mm.

In that moment I understand the allure of the gun. The Desert Eagle is a heavy piece of destructive machinery. One second it lies quiet in your hands, and the next a bullet explodes in the chamber that sends your arms backwards.

I like it. A lot. I line up for my next shot, feeling a bit sad already that I only have 4 bullets left.

*

Stepping out of the firing booth, Dorian and I had big grins on our faces. Helene, who had shot a gun before, had preferred to go shopping for clothes while we did the manly thing. She didn’t quite expect our enthusiasm coming out. We both showed her proudly the numerous holes we had punched in the paper zombies, then showed her the Desert Eagle in the counter.

The rush of power lasted a while. Never mind that we had very little to do with it in actuality; the only thing we did was give our bank cards to the cashier, then listen patiently to the range officer as he explained how to load a gun. But even then, the sense of immediate power when the gun goes off was hard to dispell.

I was left wondering how people felt about using this power against other human beings. Can it overcome the dread of what would happen?

If anything, this intimate encounter with live firearms has given me a greater respect for what they represent. Now I know not only its destructive potential, but also its allure.

Before leaving, I checked the price list. There was a range of rifles I was eager to try next time.

Oh yeah. There will be a next time.

Edmonton is really nice, and quite comfortable so far (granted, this is the summer and not the dark end of February.) Montreal was also familiar very quickly when Helene and I went back last year. That’s a good thing, in a sense… But I’m reading about exploring Japan or chatting with a North Korean waitress in Mandarin, and I feel like I left a part of myself in a foreign land.

I’m not saying I want to leave Edmonton right away, or that it was in any way a bad decision to come here… But it feels like I’m gathering myself, here in Western Canada. I’m gathering myself for another jump into the unknown. I don’t think it will be China (although I wouldn’t exclude the possibility), but China is, well… somewhat familiar now. I miss it, for sure, and I want to go back, but the lure I’m talking about is the pure joy and terror of being in a completely alien land again; which China isn’t anymore.

Where to next? I don’t know. I have 2-3 years to think about it. It’d be nice to go somewhere strange again.

That’s it… I’m strangesick.

You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Well, to be fair, that’s not exactly true. I’ve left cities before, and I’ve missed aspects of them a lot. So now, wisened, I get to enjoy things as they happen.

When Helene and I moved to Edmonton, I didn’t expect to like it very much. I figured it would pretty much suck, so I’m surprised it’s growing on me as much as it does. Does it mean I’m gonna settle here? Hell no. But I do get to spend my time here and enjoy a few things that are unique about Edmonton. Things like:

The Old Strathcona Farmer’s Market

I can’t get enough of the Farmer’s Market. Yes, there are markets in Montreal, but they don’t approach this one, I’m sorry to say. The Old Stathcona Farmer’s Market is filled with local producers, and whether you’re buying a homemade pie or choosing your fresh-picked vegetables, you get to chat with the people who prepared your food for you. The quality is insanely high, and the people there are just nice. I’ve been there often enough that they wave at me as I walk by the stands.

The Kindness of Strangers

I’ve been to a few places around the world, and I’ve met many nice people, whether it’s the Chinese, the Macedonians or the Scotish. But there’s something just so damn nice about Edmontonians. They smile at you on the street and say hello. They smile at you when you pass them by. And even in the nicest restaurants, the staff is kind and genuinely interested in your well-being. To be frank, I think Edmontonians are the nicest strangers I know.

The Food

This one’s a big surprise. I expected to find good steak, sure, but that’s pretty much it. Instead, I found restaurants obsessed with freshness and local produce, and whether it’s the steak at Von’s, the delicious breakfast at Highlevel Diner, or the mind-boggling beef carpaccio at Packrat Louie, I’m amazed by the quality of the food here.

BioWare

BioWare is often cited as one of the best employers in Canada, and there’s a reason for that. It feels very much like a Western Canada company, founded on hard work, integrity, and honesty. That would already be awesome if they didn’t also produce the best games in the industry.

Blue Skies

Oh, we get blue skies in Montreal, although I did miss them in Shanghai. The sky there is most often gray, sometimes pearly yellow, and when it’s blue, it makes the news. But the skies in Edmonton… My goodness. They’re impossible blue. I’m often stunned by the perfect blue of the sky in the afternoon, and I’m caught staring at it for long minutes. The sunsets are pretty awesome, too.

Another Saturday, another visit to the farmer’s market.

The Old Strathcona Farmer’s Market is easily my favorite thing about Edmonton right now. It’s one of those old-school food and craft markets, where hippie soapmakers rub shoulders with Ukranian grandmothers peddling pierogies. It echoes the food markets I’ve grown to love in Asia, and yet somehow it’s completely unique.

Helene and I have been there every Saturday for the last four weeks, and it’s quickly replaced the Planet Organic market as our source of high-quality ingredients. Not only that, but we’re turning into “organic snobs”, as we’re starting to consider organic certification of food as the second-best option. Who cares about an international QA company calling a tomato “organic” when you can talk to the man who grew it, and ask him questions about the process?

Bison & saskatoon berry bratwurst, red cabbage sauerkraut
and aragula & tomato salad
Click to enlarge

Michael Pollan, in his stunning book titled In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto called this practice “shaking the hand that feeds you”. Truth be told, I’m getting hooked on this ability to meet face-to-face with the person who grew my vegetables, and be able to talk about their produce with them. When I drink my coffee in the morning, I can picture the young, dynamic couple who roasted it three days ago, and who gave me an extra free bag this weekend. When I eat aragula salad, I see the kind grandmother who sells it to us. When I cook the grass-fed beef I now buy, I can remember seeing the pictures of the farm where they were raised.

How can you not prefer eating healthy and natural when you can meet the people who grow or raise or bake your food? I try to picture a McDonald’s burger after this, and I’m forced to imagine the long chain of artificial processing, not to mention animal abuse, that goes into it.

Compared to that, the simple life of a locally-grown cucumber makes for a much more compelling story.

You know how it goes… You see a friend every day, and you have tons of stories to tell them. But don’t see them for a year, and the next time you meet, you’ll be hard-pressed to find one interesting story to tell them. Know the feeling?

That’s a bit how I feel about this blog right now. Sorry for the neglect!

So… It’s been three months already since I last blogged. Last time I did, we were right smack in winter, enjoying West Edmonton Mall. So what happened in the last three months?

• Helene and I found a place to live, and promptly moved there beginning of May. To say I like the place would be a gross understatement. I adore it. It’s huge, and the balcony overlooks the River Valley, which is the huge park sinewing along the North Saskatchewan River. We have the best damn view in the entire city of Edmonton, I tell you.

• I love BioWare, and BioWare loves me back. Sure, work is stressful and filled with uncertainty, but that’s why they pay me the big bucks. We’re making great games here, and we’re pushing the bar up so much we have only ourselves as a reference of what to beat. The people here are awesome and hard-working.

• Most surprising of all, I’m growing fond of Edmonton. It’s not a dazzling city by any means, but there’s a kindness here that’s growing on me. Our new neighborhood goes a long way to make me feel better about the city, being that it’s far away from the mall-infested, pickup-littered parts of town. It helps me focus on the positive values of Edmonton: the kindness of its people, and their proximity to simpler, more wholesome values such as family and tradition.

• Speaking of which, my favorite new place in town is definitely the Old Strathcona Farmer’s Market. The market is open Saturday mornings only, and Helene and I have made a habit of visiting it every week. I’m just in love with the freshness of the products on sale there, and it’s inspiring me to eat better. Not only that, but I’ve started cooking on a regular basis; nothing too fancy, but fresh, simple and wholesome meals.

So that’s three months of catching up, in the least expeditive manner I can make it! It’s definitely a surprise to find ourselves liking Edmonton, although the sunshine and the warmer temperatures definitely help. I plan on enjoying as much of the summer as I can, so that when winter comes back around, the fond memories of summertime get me going.

I’ll write again soon, promise!

As last Friday was February 29th, EA Canada spontaneously decided to grant a free holiday to all Canadian employees. There’s your first advantage to EA’s takeover of BioWare! How cool is that?

So what’s a guy and his girlfriend to do on an unplanned day off in Edmonton in the middle of winter? Why, go to West Edmonton Mall, of course!

I’ve had been both dreading and looking forward to going to West Edmonton Mall. “West Ed”, as I hear it referred to here, is iconic of the city of Edmonton, and its biggest tourist attraction. Until 2004, it was considered the largest shopping center in the world; now it’s probably 8th behind some gynormous mall in China, but it’s still an impressive feat of consumerist architecture. (Thanks to Helene for the mall world record trivia.)

Those who know me are aware that I have an aversion to malls. This is why my moving to Edmonton was so ironic to a lot of my friends. It’s also why I’ve already broken my all-time record for number of times I visited a mall in a week. Anyway, we made our way to “West Ed” Friday, by bus, and began exploring the mall.

As malls go, actually, it was a bit of a letdown. I’ve seen malls in Asia which, albeit smaller, were much more stunning for their modernity; and the sheer human experience of waddling through thousands of people in a market were missing from the polite and quaint West Ed. (Guess I should go back during Christmas shopping.) Yeah, there’s stuff like submarine rides, but they amount to crappy-looking rides at the bottom of a swimming pool. Still, there’s a quaint quality to all of this that was worth the trip.

The mall does offer a humongous Asian supermarket, though, and I get the feeling we’ll be back. The supermarket is huge, and is surrounded by little stalls offering anything from bubble tea to dim sum. All of this can be found past a Chinatown “gate” which is more impressive than the one downtown.

All in all, we had a good afternoon and evening at West Ed, though I don’t see much of a reason to go there… outside of leap years!

(Pictures were taken on Helene’s cellphone; you can see all of them by clicking here.)

It’s a question I haven’t had the chance to fully figure out yet. Edmonton is definitely not a city that makes a strong first impression, compared to say, Shanghai or even San Francisco. And work-wise, I’m still new and figuring things out, and most definitely in my “honeymoon period”.

But with that in mind, how is it? It’s pretty good. Prettyyy, pretty good.

Work-wise, I have to admit: BioWare is a good studio. I’m impressed by the stories I hear of working there, and by the people I work with. It’s not all rosy and some projects are difficult, but people here, from HR to programmers, all care deeply about making good games. They want to work together, and they’re absolutely open to working out problems. There’s a laid-back yet hard-working energy at play in the studio. I like it, and I feel I get to contribute to a great studio.

City-wise, well… As my colleague and (new) friend Dorian puts it: “I expected to hate it, but to my surprise, I’m rather neutral towards it.” Neutral is a good description; it really ain’t that bad. I expected a big Western Canada Laval, but Edmonton is (thankfully) more complex than that. People are very, very nice here, and seem open-minded and curious. The city does have an overabundance of shopping centers, and there isn’t all that much to do in the evening, but we’re finding our own comforts and settling in surprisingly quickly.

Sure, there’s the -40 C weather and the unbearably long roads without sidewalks; but there’s also the little shops on Whyte Ave., and the people such as my next-door neighbor who set up his telescope on the night of the lunar eclipse so everyone entering the building could get a peak at it. In all my years of living in Montreal, I never knew my neighbors. That has to count for something, right?

I can’t say I prefer Edmonton to Montreal, because I don’t. But it seems to me that the combination of work and the city might actually be worthwhile. Combined together, they’re giving me a purpose and a sense of belonging that I find quite appealing right now.

Let’s see how it turns out once the honeymoon period is over!