News item: Victoria is the second-best small city in the world, according to the Condé Nast Readers’ Choice awards.
I confronted her as she got off the plane in Victoria: “So, who is this guy?”
Startled, she dropped her carry-on bag. The sound of breaking glass was followed by the pungent smell of tequila. “Who?” she stammered.
“Miguel!” I replied. I knew his name but had never seen him. Sexy Latin lover, all flashing white teeth and smouldering eyes, I imagined.
“Who?” She repeated herself, but couldn’t meet my gaze.
“San Miguel de Allende,” I spat.
This time she didn’t even bother with a denial.
“What’s he got that we don’t have,” I demanded. “Sewage treatment? Regional transportation planning? On-time bridge construction?”
“He’s just so … so hot,” the tourist stammered.
Couldn’t deny that. San Miguel de Allende was 26 C on Wednesday. Much nicer than the wind-whipped soaking here in Gloomy-by-the-Water. Maybe that’s why the readers of Condé Nast Traveler rated the Mexican community one spot ahead of Victoria when rating the best small cities outside the U.S.
Now, some tourist towns would be happy with second place. Look at the destinations ranked below Victoria in the small-cities placings: Florence, Bruges, Lucerne, Salzburg, Edinburgh, Stockholm, Prague … Most cities would be happy to wallow at the bottom of that list, let alone nudge the top.
Not Victoria. Others might be content with the silver medal. Here, we take it as an affront.
Victoria is used to being No. 1. To repeat: Various studies have declared this to be the most desirable, most romantic and smartest city in Canada. Just this week, we learned that Victoria has, for the third year running, been rated the best city in which to be a woman, as judged by the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives.
I assumed this last finding might have something to do with the magnificence* of the typical Victoria chick magnet (*paunchy, grey-haired, grey-skinned, yellow-toothed, self-absorbed, vaguely redolent of weed), but no, no, the study said it was due largely to Victoria being the only one of 25 cities where more women than men are employed, and where they make up almost half of all senior managers and elected officials.
Not that we need the external validation. Vancouver might go to Defcon 3 every time some B-list celebrity says something slightly derogatory (last week it was Riverdale’s New Zealand star K.J. Apa who dubbed the city “kind of boring,” triggering the kind of crisis of confidence not seen since The X-Files’ American star David Duchovny complained about the rain in 1997), but Victoria doesn’t question itself in that way.
Still, when people say we should be happy about being second-best after San Miguel de Allende, that’s like telling Sidney Crosby he should be happy being second to Connor McDavid.
“Why would you rather visit him than us?” I demanded of the woman at the airport. “What’s he got that we don’t?”
This time she stared at me defiantly: “Designation as a World Heritage Site. A historic town centre crammed with baroque Spanish architecture from the 17th and 18th centuries. A Gothic church whose striking pink spires soar over the cobblestoned streets below.”
This changed my image of Miguel. Obviously, she had fallen for an older man.
“OK,” I said, “but we offer the first hour free in municipal parkades.” Then I mimed a mic drop and walked away.
She called after me: “It’s his relaxed atmosphere, his languid pace.”
I wheeled on her. “You want slow-paced? Try the Colwood Crawl when it’s raining, baby. Or the Malahat on a summer Sunday. Or building anything over three storeys in Cook Street Village.”
I saw no need to mention two-sailing waits for the ferries, two-year waits for surgery, or our, um, measured approach to decision-making. (Why does it take so long to get anything done in Victoria? Because we spend so much time staring at the mirror, reflecting on our total awesomeness.)
Nor was it necessary to bring up our other advantages. Sure, San Miguel might have a vibrant arts scene, but does it offer an excellent selection of 13 boutique micro-governments, each with its own eclectic and inventive approach to bike lanes, speed limits, policing, pot shops, garbage disposal and snow removal?
A quick glance at the brochure shows no hint of a North Allende, Central Allende, Allende-By-The-Sea or Allendeford.
Ditto for nightlife. That is, we don’t have any. Frankly, it’s a relief to pull on our slippers at the same time the Mexicans are squeezing into their dancing shoes. (The Food Network’s John Catucci once theorized that Victoria’s brunch scene is so hot because nobody stays up late enough for supper. That, and we all have night blindness so are afraid to drive to the restaurants.)
We might be second to Condé Nast, but we’re first to bed.
