Finding Peace among the Crowds

I’m shouldering my way through the crowd, stopping often behind a long line of bodies, waiting for people to squeeze by.  This is the end of summer, but I am not back-to-school shopping at the mall.  I’m in the mountains.  Johnston Canyon in Banff National Park to be more precise.

It’s beautiful, but as an avid seeker of solitude and peace it feels so utterly unnatural.  I feel like I’ve broken some sort of subconscious personal rule.  Normally, I escape to the mountains to get away from humanity.  This is exactly the opposite.  Thousands of people are here, all to get a glimpse of the upper and lower waterfalls that tumble through the narrow canyon. I was expecting this so I make a conscious decision to let the mass of people wash over me like the creek waters flowing below. 

I am here as a pseudo-guide for my good friend Lucy, who is visiting from England.  Smoke from distant forest fires have swallowed up any views of the mountains, so a stroll along a cool creek is a refreshing alternative.

We stride along the side of the canyon on a catwalk with railings that cling to the canyon walls and protect googly-eyed tourists from falling into the creek.  I enjoy the sights, but I am distracted by the many different faces I see going by me.  People from all over the world flock to Banff to enjoy the famous beauty of the Rocky Mountains—something I take for granted and enjoy every day of my life.  I hear at least half a dozen different languages and wish I understood at least one of them.  And then I realize that they are all probably talking about how gorgeous the scene before them is.  I feel like a proud mom.  Canadian pride, unearthed, comes bubbling to the surface.  Suddenly, I know my decision to not let the hoards bother me is a good one.  I live in one of the most stunning areas of the world, and why not show off what we have here?

We arrive at the upper falls and I admire the force with which the water crashes into the pool below.  Here, the volume of people has diminished and as much as I want to believe that the numbers don’t bother me, I appreciate having a little more breathing room.  I take a deep breath and withdraw from my introspection to share the moment with Lucy and enjoy watching the water as it disappears over the precipice.

I happily agree when Lucy suggests we carry on another three kilometers to the inkpots, seven blue and green-colored cold mineral springs with quicksand bottoms.  We leave the bulk of people behind and enter a thick-forested trail.  I stop suddenly and ask Lucy if she hears anything.  We don’t—just a few yards away from the roar of the waterfall and chatter of voices I find what I always look for in the mountains—silence.  I’m so glad we decided to carry on.  Although I would have been okay with going back through the throngs (ironically, I was at peace with not being at peace), I am delighted to explore a part of the mountains I haven’t seen before.  We arrive at the pools and enjoy a few moments at the nearby creek’s edge and soak our feet in the icy water. 

I look at my friend and we share a smile.  After today, I won’t see her again for a long time.  It was a small price to pay.

Five Amazing Mountain Hikes to do near High River

I’m heading east through the foothills toward my home in High River after a wonderful day hiking in southern Kananaskis Country.  The drive gives me time to think about how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful town and so close to the mountains I love.  In fact, there are dozens of hikes that can be easily accomplished in a day with time to spare.    

Here are five hikes within about a one-hour drive from High River.   

Mt Burke

This beautiful peak stands on the eastern slopes in the Livingstone Range and can be seen from High River.  It’s a tough hike but the reward is well worth the effort with views of the prairies and mountaintops in every other direction.  At the summit sits abandoned Cameron fire lookout, built in 1929.

Directions: 

From Longview, drive west on Highway 541 to Highwood Junction.  Drive south on Highway 940 (a gravel road) for 14km and turn left toward Cataract Creek campground.  The trailhead is on the right before entering the campground.

Length:  16 km round trip. 

Elevation gain:  935 m

Hiking time:  5-7 hours.

For more detailed information:

 http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Mt-Burke-near-Longview-AB-5406

Note:  After the 2013 flood, sections of the trail along the creek bed were washed out.  Keep your eyes peeled for red ribbon marking the trail.

Raspberry Ridge

Another stunning hike to an active fire look out.  After a grueling final ascent, trekkers are awarded with 360-degree mountain views. 

Directions:

From Highwood Junction drive 11.4 km on Highway 940.  Look for an unmarked, gated dirt turn out on the west side of the highway. 

Length:  9 km return.

Elevation gain:  653 m.

Hiking time:  3-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Raspberry-Ridge-Lookout-near-Kananaskis-AB-3243

Grass Pass

This easy day hike is a fairly straight and steady climb into the pass between Bull Creek Hills and Holy Cross Mountain.  Limber pines adorn this trail.

Directions:

Follow Highway 541 from Longview to the Sentinel day-use area. 

Length:  7km return.

Elevation gain:  427 m.

Hiking time:  2-4 hours.

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Grass-Pass-near-Longview-AB-2430

Foran Grade Loop

A peaceful walk among lush vegetation, with views of the Sheep River, and then an ascent onto a ridge for views of the Sheep River to the west and the foothills to the east.  Downtown Calgary can be seen as well.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 (Sheep River Trail).  1.6 km west of the winter gate at Sandy McNabb campground, and just after crossing a cattle guard, there is a pullout on the right side of the road.

Length:  7.4 km loop

Elevation gain:  280 m

Hiking time:  2-3 hrs

More info: 

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Foran-Grade-Ridge-near-High-River-AB-2999

Junction Creek

If waterfalls and river crossings appeal to you, this excursion should be on your to-do list. This is an easy hike (after crossing the Sheep River) through a valley filled with spruce and fir trees, remnants of an old sawmill and best of all, a three-tiered waterfall.  Pick a hot day and bring your swimsuit.  It’s a little piece of heaven in the middle of nowhere.

Directions:

From Turner Valley, drive west on Highway 546 to the very end of the road at the Junction Creek Day Use area-approximately a 30-minute drive.  The hike begins with crossing the Sheep River so bring a good pair of river shoes or sturdy sandals. 

Length:  14 km return

Elevation gain: 

Hiking time:  4-6 hrs

More info:

http://www.trailpeak.com/trail-Junction-Creek-near-Kananaskis-AB-2605

As with any hike, be prepared.  Bring bear spray, layers, food and lots of water.  There are a lot of resources available on the web, but here is one: http://sectionhiker.com/day-hikers-ten-essentials-guide/

These hikes are all in Kananaskis Country.  For more information including trail reports, go to www.kananaskis-country.ca

Finding Treasure in the Kitchen

My dog Lily whines and looks up at me with her large amber eyes.  She thinks we are taking her to the river, and that makes sense because we are trudging through the bushes on the route to where we usually go to cool off on a hot summer day.

But not on this quiet evening because my husband Phil and I have a different more delicious objective:  To pick as many saskatoon berries as we possibly can.

I hadn’t noticed them until recently, when I took the time to look up while carefully making my way through the trees to the water.  The discovery was like finding buried treasure.  Instantly, I laid claim to our find and worried that someone else would find out before we were able to return.  My fears were unfounded though, as the berries were still intact when we arrived.

It doesn’t take much effort to pull the juicy purple berries from the branches.  They are ripe and fall effortlessly into the palm of my hand.  As we search for more of the succulent fruit, I think of my mom and how much she would enjoy this.  I remember the story she likes to tell of my aunt and her finding something similar beside a dusty road in North-Eastern Alberta.  With no buckets to hold a bountiful chokecherry crop, they improvised and used an old pair panty hose and a plastic lunch bag.  By her account, they hauled in 80 pounds that day.

I can see why they would go to those lengths.  I’m not the kind of person who spends hours canning, baking and preparing food for the cold room.  But something—maybe it’s my Mennonite heritage—compels me to pick and keep picking.  What if I miss a big juicy clump?  The thought of even one berry being missed fills me with a mild sense of panic and I find my self obsessively compulsively making sure every berry is in my bucket. 

The wind blowing gently through the trees and the sound of the river lulls me into a trance-like state.  Until Phil clears his throat and suggests that maybe we have enough.  I glance at my hands and they look like I’ve been finger painting with blue and purple.  Phil also has multiple bug bites up and down his arms and legs, and Lily continues to whine.  So regretfully, I close the operation down and make a mental note to come back later, in search of more tasty treasure.

Back at home proudly looking at my haul, I realize I actually have to do something with it.  So I turn to the only person I know who has decades of pie-baking experience:  My panty–hose filling mom.  She will be proud that I took the initiative.  But this time, instead of just dropping off my loot and waiting like a spoiled child for that scrumptious baking, I want to learn how to make a pie.  I think of how much I take her for granted, and I have to admit my dependence on her impressive baking and clothes-mending abilities has resulted in an embarrassing lack of homemaking skills.   It’s time to step up and practice what I preach and try something new.

I arrive at my mom’s with a bucket of berries, two pie plates and a pound of lard.  She starts the lesson by trying to do everything herself and I have to gently remind her that it’s time for me to learn.  So, I obediently put in five cups of flour, a sprinkle of salt and most of the lard.  Later, I mix in an egg and a tablespoon of vinegar.  I ask her what the vinegar is for and it’s like asking a politician a question.  She is evasive and can only say she has always done it that way and tries to change the subject.  I make a mental note to find out later, and then change my mind.  Sometimes, even in baking, there should be some mystery.

She tells me how to roll the dough out and place it in the pie plate.  Next, I clean the berries and put them in a bowl where my mom tells me to put in some sugar.  In her world, measuring is done with a nonchalance taken from decades of practice, meaning, there are no exacts.  Measuring cups are simply for taking ingredients from one place and putting them into another.  In fact, she often uses a coffee cup and a regular spoon to “measure”.  So from what I can tell, I’m putting in over a cup of white, granulated sugar into my pie.  In her 80 years on this earth, I don’t think there has been any real thought given to calories, fat or gluten.  And I have to admit it is refreshing and very liberating.  It’s pie after all.  If you can’t enjoy a fully leaded treat, who wants to eat it then?  It’s just not fun.  Then I realize what is happening:  I’m having fun.  This is not the chore I thought it might be, and I’m enjoying spending time with my mom.  We put the top on the pies and then I help her cut some apples to use in her pie. 

We put them in the oven and clean up our mess.  While we wait, I show her how to use her smart phone.  It takes a while but I think she gets it and I hope she remembers how to use voice mail.  Then I think of the pies, and all the other baking and mending she has done for me over the years. 

Maybe I should show her how to send a group-text.

Four "Real Simple" Recipes Reap Results

I’m paging through a subscription to Real Simple magazine when I get to the back and glance over the recipe section.  Usually, it’s a cursory thought of “maybe I should actually use some of these recipes”.  And then I don’t.  Ever.

But this time, I notice the heading in large bold face type:  EASY DINNER.  Now I’m interested.

Probably like many people, parents especially, I find the task of making unique and delicious meals daunting.  And when you add how busy we all are to the mix and how picky our kids can be, it’s a matter of waving the white flag and calling up for pizza.

These recipes however, actually look fairly simple.  As I run through the list of ingredients, they are items I recognize and can find easily in a grocery store.  Because I am so utterly tired of recycling the same food every day, I am suddenly inspired to do something new and for once, refreshing, as food goes.  So I decide to try one new recipe each week for four weeks and use my family as guinea pigs.

My first attempt is Pork and Rice Meatball Soup.    It can be found on the Real Simple website here: http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/pork-rice-meatball-soup

I spread out the ingredients and tackle the recipe, relishing this new undertaking in such a mundane area of my life.  I love being able to create something that is new to me.  It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a photograph, a story and now apparently, food.  The food comes together in a wonderful burst of flavor in my mouth.  I would have never thought to put these items together and am grateful to those who know how to do it and share their knowledge. 

The result is met with great enthusiasm by my husband and kids, and they enjoy it all, right down to the spinach.

Next on my list is Noodles with Flaked Salmon and Crispy Bok Choy Slaw.  It can be found here:

http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/noodles-flaked-salmon-crispy-bok-choy-slaw

The title of this one intimidates me.  I’ve never cooked with bok choy and am unsure of how to make a slaw.  But I persevere and am delighted with the results.  Even more, I am happy to discover my always-picky son loves the salmon.  I make a mental note to remember to marinate it in teriyaki sauce next time.  I love the simple mixture of fresh limejuice, teriyaki sauce and a little salt and pepper.  The slaw is also simple to make and takes less than 10 minutes to chop and mix. 

The picture of my next recipe doesn’t exactly make me excited to tackle it.  It’s Steak with Cauliflower Puree and Crispy Quinoa.  Here it is: http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/steak-cauliflower-puree-crispy-quinoa

I’m not a fan of beef.  (I know that’s surprising, coming from a born and raised southern Alberta girl).  So my attitude going in is not what is should be.  However, my family is avid beefeaters.  So I take it on.  I puree cauliflower and fry the quinoa, both of which are new to me.  In the end, my family enjoys only the beef.  I guess mashed up vegetables and fried quinoa are too new to them.  My daughter always the optimist tries hard not to hurt my feelings, telling me she enjoyed it, but “just not the taste”. 

My last attempt is Roasted Vegetable and Wild Rice Salad with Almond-Parsley Sauce:

http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/roasted-vegetable-wild-rice-salad-almond-parsley-sauce

While I have made meatless meals before, (does tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches count?) I have never put something like this together.  It feels odd walking through the grocery store and leaving without meat.  On top of that, I have a difficult time finding acorn squash and have to go to another store to find it along with manchego cheese, which I discover comes from sheep of the manchega breed from Spain, according to Wikipedia.

As I prepare the food, I realize this is something my kids will most likely not be interested in.  So I make it for my husband and I.  It’s probably my dislike of squash and perhaps my inexperience in making it, but it falls flat in my mouth.  It makes me realize how much a cook’s attitude toward the food is revealed in their cooking.  

This new venture into a tiny piece of the culinary universe has been a breath of fresh air for me, for my family and my kitchen.   I feel like a whole new world has opened up. I intend to do some exploring.

Second-Hand Shopping is not Second-Rate

The hangers make that familiar metal-on-plastic clink as I sift through dozens of blouses and pants.  I’m blasting through someone else’s past in a tidy little second-hand clothing store in Okotoks and it’s the first of four my sisters and I will be visiting today. 

It’s a bit daunting, but worth the effort, I think.  I’ve become increasingly tired of spending $100 on one pair of jeans, (I know, even that is fairly cheap these days) or $65 for a simple t-shirt.  The buyer’s remorse coupled with the fact that I’m not even sure what I bought looks good on me or even goes together is frustrating.  In a mall, I wander around discouraged and overwhelmed.   To many choices is not always a good thing for me.  Usually, I give up within the first 30 minutes and head to the frozen yogurt stand to seek solace and comfort.

So after hearing a conversation from several co-workers about their amazing second-hand buys, I decide it’s time to take the plunge. 

But even after all my reasoning, I’m really not looking forward to spending my day indoors hunting for treasure like an apathetic pirate.  But I began to realize that I could treat this excursion like a mission, complete with a plan and a goal in mind.  So I come up with the idea of taking the $100 I would spend on one pair of pants at the yoga store and see how many gently used pieces of clothing I can buy with it.

So I adjust my attitude and stride into the first shop with a clear and determined mind.  I vow to go through every single shirt, blouse, vest and turtleneck one-by-one.  It doesn’t take long to find two blouses that actually fit and look half decent--and for $10 apiece, the thrifty side of me rejoices.

Feeling good about my finds, we drive to our next destination.  I picture a small shop like the one we were just in, but instead, we walk into one of the biggest second-hand shops I’ve ever seen.  Rows upon rows of every kind of shirt, pant, coat, dress, skirt and shoes line a space big enough to house a basketball court.  I feel myself deflate slightly.  I’ve had actual nightmares about this.  The air is thick with the scent of old refurbished clothing, and dozens of solemn-faced women peruse the racks with robotic-like focus.  I picture a pack of lions slowly circling their prey and then fighting over the carcass.  However, remembering my attitude adjustment, I begin the task.  After what feels like hours, I eventually find a pair of jeans that might work, trudge back to the dressing rooms and try them on.  No dice.  I give them to the harried sales lady and walk back into the fray.  The clothes are all color-coded, and so the isles look like an enormous color wheel—not a bad idea.  But still, it is too much for me, and I lose the small amount of determination I had when I walked in.  If only I had a personal shopper, I think, for the thousandth time.  Someone to just lead me around plying me with an armful of clothes and telling me what looks good. 

I am still at only $20, so we get back into the car and drive to our next location.  This one is a little more my style, tucked into an aging brick building in downtown Calgary.  It’s small, and we are the only people inside, so it begins to feel a little more intimate and casual.  The anxiety I had in the bigger store dissipates and I relax and go slowly through the racks.  I find a pair of tights, a yoga top and some sort of golden sparkly sleeveless number I wouldn’t normally buy.  But for $10, why not?   I soon realize that buying second hand clothing is actually making me a little bolder.  Or maybe it’s reckless.  Either way, it seems to be working.  I’m looking at dresses and other pieces I would never even consider at the mall.  I realize the reason is that my choices are limited, and the clothes are unique, a concept that appeals to me.

Our last destination is in the quaint Kensington area of Calgary.  The shop sits on the upper floor of a two-store building, overlooking a bustling street.  Inside, we find a similar vibe as our last shop and begin browsing.  I eventually find a great name brand short-sleeve pullover for a bargain.  I’m elated.  I end up with five pieces of clothing for just under $100.  Not bad for my first attempt.  I’m sure a more adept shopper would have squeezed a little more product out of their cash, but I’m satisfied.  I hear tell of a few more second-hand stores sprinkled around the city and I intend on going there soon.  Who knows what kind of treasure lies in wait for such unsuspecting (and sometimes unwilling) shoppers like me.

Laughter and Loud Music: A Mixed Bag

“I have tickets to go to a comedy club in a few weeks,” my husband announces one evening over dinner.  It should sound like a lot of fun, but instead, it fills my stomach with lead.

All week, I push the thought away, the same way I do on Sunday afternoons, when the idea of Monday morning work rears its ugly head.  I still haven’t figured out exactly why things like this are so hard for me.  Maybe a few hours with a psychologist would help, I think.  Ten-plus years of being a reporter, and the youngest of seven kids should have made a difference as well, but for some reason, large social outings only succeed in making me feel anxious.

Nevertheless, I persevere, telling myself it’s not like I am going to be the one on stage.  I just have to sit there in the dark and laugh.  Simple. 

The night arrives, and I put off getting dressed up until the last possible moment.   I stare at my closet and draw in a large tired breath.  My wardrobe looks like a gym teacher clashed with a librarian.  I have no idea what looks good on me.  So I grab some jeans and a top, throw on some mascara and try and forget about it.

Our friends arrive to pick us up and we crawl into their suburban.  I am comfortable with them and soon, I start to relax.  Their presence insolates me and makes me feel at ease.  This won’t be so bad.  Most of the new things I’ve tried have turned out great, so this should too. 

We arrive at the club and are ushered into a darkened room and squeeze around a table.  I am struck suddenly with the horrified thought that one of my friends will be that one person in the crowd everybody hates.  The heckler.  For someone who shies away from any kind of attention, this would be horrendously embarrassing.  I inwardly beg for silence from my table, and I am rewarded.  My friends are not inconsiderate big mouths with the maniacal desire to make others squirm. 

The comedians are hilarious.  The laughter calms me even further and I wonder what I was so worried about.  Exposure to these types of situations is exactly what I need—I do it to remind myself that the world is not a scary place to live and without a little risk, it seems dull somehow.

After the show, I am relieved to get out of the stuffy room and begin to think about pajamas and a movie.  Instead, my friends suggest we go out.  I cringe.  The little baby in me has a silent fit, and wants to scream.  Go out?  I think, we just did! I’ve done my duty for at least the next month.  Instead, I gather my remaining patience and go along with the group. 

They decide a pub would be a good idea.  That seems reasonable I think.  I like pubs—the casual atmosphere is unlike the bars I went to as a college student.  Just up my alley.  I’m okay with that.

We get to the doors and are stopped by two beefy men in black and a young man who looks like he couldn’t be much older than my teenage son.  I’m confused for a second, until I realize they are doormen, this young man’s enforcers.  Why would there be doormen at a pub?  My experiences with doormen was a long, long time ago, on a street we called Electric Ave.  Back then, there was a need for this kind of enforcement, because we were all young, with brains that had not quite developed the ability to think and act rationally.  What could they possibly need to do to a bunch of 40-somethings who would probably be in bed at this time of night, any other day of the week? 

The young man flashes a smile and asks to see our identification.  This instantly becomes the highlight of my night.  We whoop and holler like a pack of hooligans going to a soccer game.  We oblige and I pull my driver’s license out of my wallet basking in the glow of such a wonderful compliment.  But instead of looking at it, the youngster scans it into a hand held device that looks like a debit card machine.  A trickle of disappointment runs through me as I realize he would probably do this to my great grandma.

We file in and find a table.  The place is crowded and as I scan the room, I realize we are probably the oldest people in here by at least ten years.  I assume rather enviously, that the rest of our demographic is doing the rational thing and sticking to the solace and comfort of their homes.

I also notice that there is a dance floor.  Then it all comes into focus.  This is not a traditional pub in any sense of the word, where the tired, weather-beaten blue collar workers come to blow off steam in front of a large crackling open fire.  There are no dartboards or pool tables to speak of.  There are some antique-ish looking trinkets sprinkled throughout the place, but nothing is authentic, and it doesn’t match the vision I have in my mind. Instead of the grizzled old bartender, there are several young men and women slinging the drinks.  They probably don’t even have the double-barreled shotgun hidden within arm’s reach beneath the bar, I think with disappointment.

Looking around, I realize this is a place my 18-year-old self would have loved.  Now though, I feel like a teenager at a toddler’s birthday party.

We try to talk, but the music is so loud I have to lean over and yell into my husband’s ear and gesticulate wildly to communicate.  We sit around the table and occasionally try to say something.  But mostly, we just stare around the room.  My friend does try to say something, but I can’t hear and I’m too tired and lazy to figure it out, so I just nod my head and smile in what I hope are the right places.

We try to dance, but the music is just the same long, never ending pounding beat, like somewhere in the building, there is a drumming circle I’m not aware of.

I’m getting sensory overload and need some quiet.  After an hour, I convince my friends to leave.  Outside in the parking lot, we get odd stares from strangers, as we talk on our way to the vehicle.  I realize it’s because we are speaking at a volume way beyond what is normal and sound like a bunch of workers at a construction site.

I sigh in relief as we pile into the truck and make our way home.  We talk and have some good laughs at our own expense.  I’m not upset that I didn’t enjoy my first bar experience in a long time.  I just get more enjoyment out of other things, like a darkened comedy club, or sitting on the top of a mountain.  

I can happily say it’s just not for me. 

Wrestling, the Ultimate Spectator Sport

It’s Saturday night and I’m huddled on an unlit side of the Royal Canadian Legion in southeast Calgary.  Groups of people murmur in the darkness, our only illumination coming from a few dim streetlights hidden behind two tall, creaky pine trees.

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable in this situation, but this time, I’ve taken my son, sister, nephew and my mom with me.  We have come to watch my nephew wrestle in a Real Canadian Wrestling event.  His stage name is Evan Adams.  But I’ve known him for the past 24 years as Adam.   

 He has chosen a somewhat off beat passion and I want to see him perform…or compete.  I think it’s a combination of the two.  I am well aware of this type of wrestling, because as a kid, I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, Randy Macho Man Savage and Andre the Giant.  I’m pretty sure I know what to expect, and I’m curious to find out if things have changed since the WWF days.

I shift my feet on the icy sidewalk and hunker down into my jacket.  We wait for almost half an hour outside until the line starts moving. 

I’m surprised at how many people have come to see this.  We enter the building, and it’s packed with standing room only.  What I thought would be more like a gym, is actually a ballroom-style venue.  But instead of a dance floor, a wrestling ring has been set up in the middle.  There are chairs, but not enough for the couple hundred spectators.  We squeeze down an isle and find seats for my mom and sister.  My son and I find a fold-up table that seems to have been randomly stuffed in a back corner and we gingerly make it our perch.  Then we wait.  I really struggle with patience, and this situation is definitely testing it.  I look around and realize though, that the opportunity to do some prime people watching has presented itself.  This place is a gold mine. 

People in all shapes, sizes and demographics are here. A tired looking older woman wearing black skateboard shoes, tight black jeans and a T-shirt that is too small sits at the front.  I notice her because her shoulder-length hair is stripped in bright shades of pink, blue and green.  Behind her, a rather large pair of senior citizens sit sipping Big Gulps and beside me, a man with a Bill Cosby sweater, faded jeans and running shoes sips on a rum and coke.  Across the room, a group of young boys sit in wiggly anticipation; all of them are wearing wrestling masks of various designs.  A couple people have even brought their newborn babies. 

A half hour later, the show begins.  A woman, who I deduce is the MC, strolls into the ring to announce the first competitors.  In her black and white stripped pants, stiletto heals and black leather jacket, she reminds me of a female Beetlejuice.  

A middle-aged man in a red and blue Speedo emerges from a back room and strolls around the ring.  I think he is the “bad guy” in this match, because suddenly from all around the room, people are screaming and calling him names.  Soon after, his opponent enters and the crowd’s volume increases.  It feels like I’m in the middle of an authorized street fight.  The match begins as the two men take turns throwing, slapping and jumping on each other.  This lasts for 20 minutes until a winner is declared. 

I’ve been to a lot of competitive sporting events in my life, but this has got to be by far one of the most unique if not entertaining experiences I’ve had.  Watching this kind of wrestling on television is nothing like being here in person.  Unlike most sports, in wrestling, yelling insults and giving the finger to the competitors appears to be encouraged.  Likewise, the wrestlers have no problem throwing out aspersions of their own. 

During the next several matches, endearing phrases such as “pecker head” are uttered with great frequency.  At one point, someone from behind me yells out something to do with having bigger man parts than the wrestler.  The wrestler seems to have no problem with returning these witty insults with sharp comebacks like:  “Suck my sweaty balls you big, fat bastard!”

A group of people sitting beside me starts chanting, “shave your back!” to one fellow who has a rather thick layer of hair all over his body.  Another, more rotund wrestler comes out wearing a singlet, which basically looks like a one-piece bathing suit for men.  Unfortunately for him, it appears to be too small—a detail that doesn’t escape the crowd’s notice.  A chant of “fix your wedgie!” starts up and doesn’t diminish until the match is over. 

Despite the yelling and general chaos, the competitors put on a fairly impressive athletic display.  They jump from the top of the ropes, and land with precision on each other with practiced skill.  It is a red neck Cirque de Soleil.

My nephew’s fight is an all-out war, with three or four teams of two battling it out for the tag team title.  To my surprise, Adam is one of the bad guys.  I like it.  He breaks all kinds of “rules” during the match, sneaking into the ring when he shouldn’t to land a hard punch to an unsuspecting competitor’s back, while the referee’s back is turned.  I try to catch his eye during the fight, but he is completely immersed in character and I think, would probably shout something nasty at me if I yelled at him.  Eventually, they end up winning the fight and claiming the title.  I’m impressed by his passion and skill.  It’s hard enough being an athlete and competing at a high level.  In this kind of wrestling, to be “in character” is one more thing to think about while balanced precariously on top of the ropes preparing to thunder to the mat on top of someone else without really hurting them.

I’m an athlete, but the introvert in me would rather pull my nails out than be up in the middle of that ring. 

Although, I have to admit there is a certain allure to being allowed to punch someone in the neck and not get arrested for it.  Maybe I should start practicing.