Dear Estevan,
I'm writing to you as a man who grew up there and left in 1998. After a few years of wanderlust I eventually settled in Winnipeg. I had a rare chance to visit you a few weeks ago.
I still call you my hometown, and I miss your relaxed pace. Winnipeg has grown on me, but on days when the traffic is insane, the crowds downtown are oppressive, or the complicated municipal politics are mind-numbingly self-obsessed, I long to return to my humble roots on your simple streets.
A lot has changed; my old church is now a law office, you have a Tim Hortons (finally), and the mall's parking lot is nasty again. I remember the kerfuffle caused when a tourist wrote a letter to The Mercury circa 1995 complaining about the repair work they needed done on their motor home after driving through the mall's lot. That letter prompted the mall's management to bite the bullet and effect repairs.
But so much is the same: How everyone there considers it normal to wait for a specific retail item to be ordered if it's not in stock (instead of just zipping over to another store). How your single movie theatre is always a few weeks behind most newly released films. How the freight train neatly bisects the city for a few minutes every few hours.
I passed by my childhood home and was delighted to see some kids out selling iced tea on the boulevard in front, which provided me with an excuse to stop and say hi to the new owners. I bought some iced tea for my own wife and kids, who waited patiently in the hot van while silly Daddy relived his youth.
Even as a teenager, I enjoyed Estevan's quiet aura. I never hitched my wagon to a star, thinking of the excitement of a big city; my sojourn away from you was driven by the forces of love. One day, I hope to move back.
Never change, Estevan. You are a gem on the prairies; a treasure buried in a field. The big city just can't compare.
James Kautz,
Winnipeg, Manitoba
