Where everything is called Wayne

There is a town called Wayne in Alberta. If Wayne had a "sister city" in another country, it wouldn't. Sister cities are sissy. Wayne would have a brother town. It would be Barry, in Northern New South Wales, Australia. They would share a common vision of blokiness, beer, and trucks. All the male inhabitants would be called Wayne, or Barry.

The Last Chance Saloon seemed an appropiate place for a beer and a snack on the way back to Calgary from Drumheller. As background, I fully expect to be slapped straight onto a low salt, low fat, low cholestorol diet by my doctor upon returning to my homeland as pennance for a year's worth of pizza, chicken wings and burgers and unexplained weight loss.

With the recklessness of a person knowing her future will be full of avocado and tuna, we stepped into the Last Chance saloon and ordered pub food. The saloon was a throwback to another time. There were stuffed animals including a black bear's head over the bar. People were playing pool and smoking on a Sunday afternoon. There was a guy wearing a well-worn cowboy hat. Our barmaid was middleaged and tough-looking. There was the old interior of the 1900s Wayne post office at the other end of the pub, perfectly and unassumingly well-kept.

The barmaid took our order and, unbelievably, called out "Wayne!!" to the cook in the kitchen.

We had come to Wayne to be served by Wayne at the town pub. Fantastic.

Wayne is also home to the most number of road bridges in Southern Alberta. They are not covered, though it brings to mind scenes of the countryside from Bridges of Madison County. Laura and I also went for a walk over a suspension bridge which I wasn't too crazy about but it made for a good photo of her.

By the end of the day, I'd escaped from the jaws of the dinosaur to recover strange and beautiful gemstones, studied the mysteries of the natural world, swung on a bridge over a river and found the last authentic pub in Alberta.