GR66
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It's not even a big town...population of 30,252.
That would place it at the 62nd largest municipality in Ontario...in between Orangeville and Centre Wellington.
Our North - SSE Policy Update Megathread
- Thread starter MilEME09
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That would place it at the 62nd largest municipality in Ontario...in between Orangeville and Centre Wellington.
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I can’t even think of any RCAF tech or operator trades where you can get fully qualified in a year, even if there was zero waiting time and annual leave wasn’t a thing.
Quirky
Army.ca Veteran
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Day 213: Ocean still wet.
Comox has a lot of newer fleets heading its way, where they getting all that ramp space? Don’t even think about paving that golf course…
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P-8, MQ-9B, CC-295…what else? Of those, the MQ-9B is the only addition.
Mate...
Between Charlottetown and Whitehorse...oooooffffff that's a hard one...
if I was a young person trying to choose between the two, for the amenities or a 'bigger city' kinda feel, I'd be stumped.
lenaitch
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Yup, sounds like my youth.
Many people from Toronto don't see surrounding communities such as Markham, Richmond Hill or Mississauga that way. Heck, some don't see north of Eglinton Ave that way. They will endlessly complain they can't afford to live or can't find a decent job, but endlessly declare that they won't move and it's all the government's fault.
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Charolttwtown is a one day drive away from Boston, Montreal, Quebec, etc... Whitehouse, not so much.
Halifax Tar
Army.ca Fixture
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PrairieFella
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Cape Bretoners when they get shit on for working 3 months a year and then going on EI for the rest:
daftandbarmy
Army.ca Dinosaur
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Just you wait... wooden ship building and undersea coal mining will make a come back and then you'll be sorry
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It goes way up in the summer with all the tourists (lot of Germans due to some kind of Western cowboy wilderness fantasy or something) as well as a lot of Quebec students working there for the summer. Not sure if they still do it, but when I was there for one summer they did a St. Jean Baptiste day celebration.
daftandbarmy
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There's an understatement ....
Teepees, Powwows And ‘Indianer’ Camps: Germany’s Long Fascination With Indigenous Culture
The obsession started when German author Karl May wrote a series of books featuring an Apache warrior called ‘Winnetou’ in the 1890’s.
Author and playwright Drew Hayden Taylor was living in Dawson City, Yukon when he noticed that large numbers of German tourists were flooding into Canada’s westernmost territory. Demand for tours was so high that a German airline had added a direct flight from Frankfurt to Whitehorse, serviced by a 767 jumbo jet. He was surprised to discover that these German visitors were extremely curious about local Indigenous groups.
But where did these German tourists develop a passion for Indigenous culture? This question would take Taylor and a team of filmmakers to Germany, where they discovered a fascination with North American Indigenous culture that traces back more than a century. That journey is documented in CBC Docs POV film, Searching for Winnetou.
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So, similar to the flood of Japanese tourists that descend/descended on PEI after Anne of Green Gables was popular over there.There's an understatement ....
Teepees, Powwows And ‘Indianer’ Camps: Germany’s Long Fascination With Indigenous Culture
The obsession started when German author Karl May wrote a series of books featuring an Apache warrior called ‘Winnetou’ in the 1890’s.
Author and playwright Drew Hayden Taylor was living in Dawson City, Yukon when he noticed that large numbers of German tourists were flooding into Canada’s westernmost territory. Demand for tours was so high that a German airline had added a direct flight from Frankfurt to Whitehorse, serviced by a 767 jumbo jet. He was surprised to discover that these German visitors were extremely curious about local Indigenous groups.
But where did these German tourists develop a passion for Indigenous culture? This question would take Taylor and a team of filmmakers to Germany, where they discovered a fascination with North American Indigenous culture that traces back more than a century. That journey is documented in CBC Docs POV film, Searching for Winnetou.
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They still descend. We were there two years ago.
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That's interesting, thanks! It was pretty random to fly for 14 hours into a remote town way up north and see a bunch of german speaking folks in cowboy hats and wearing a lot of leather fringe.There's an understatement ....
Teepees, Powwows And ‘Indianer’ Camps: Germany’s Long Fascination With Indigenous Culture
The obsession started when German author Karl May wrote a series of books featuring an Apache warrior called ‘Winnetou’ in the 1890’s.
Author and playwright Drew Hayden Taylor was living in Dawson City, Yukon when he noticed that large numbers of German tourists were flooding into Canada’s westernmost territory. Demand for tours was so high that a German airline had added a direct flight from Frankfurt to Whitehorse, serviced by a 767 jumbo jet. He was surprised to discover that these German visitors were extremely curious about local Indigenous groups.
But where did these German tourists develop a passion for Indigenous culture? This question would take Taylor and a team of filmmakers to Germany, where they discovered a fascination with North American Indigenous culture that traces back more than a century. That journey is documented in CBC Docs POV film, Searching for Winnetou.
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Some people would pay a lot for that experience...
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Had a similar experience in a Berlin nightclub, which apparently had a leather club night! Very different vibe and age group though.
This was more like seeing some really serious business men type geek out like excited children playing dress up, it was unexpected I guess but much more wholesome. The Berlin thing was more like Sprockets with Dieter, but in real life. Still stuck around for a beer though.
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Sometimes you just need to observe the local wildlife in it's natural habitat.
daftandbarmy
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Pretty funny, and concerning on a variety of levels
Ich Bin Ein Indianer
Germany’s obsession with a past it never had
In one of its more equivocal forms, the experience of homesickness is rooted in an intuition that there is not and never has been a home. This occurred to me on an unseasonably warm spring afternoon, shortly after arriving in the town of Regensburg, deep in the heart of Bavaria. Outside the train station, I found a cab and asked the driver if he knew of the Regensburg Cowboy Club. He gave me the once-over. “Cowboy Club?” he queried. (I was lacking the requisite Western attire.) “Yes,” I said. “The Regensburg Cowboy Club.” He shrugged. “No problem,” he said.
I was in Regensburg on the advice of Murray Small Legs, my Blackfoot guide to Germany’s famously flourishing Indian hobbyist movement. As I was soon to discover, the presence of a Canadian at the Cowboy Club was a special occasion. My trip was a reversal of a pilgrimage that, for most hobbyists, is a right of passage: Instead of coming to North America to see real Native Americans, I was journeying to Germany to see pretend Indians.
Murray Small Legs, incidentally, is not a hobbyist; he is a real Blackfoot, from the Peigan reserve, in Alberta. He has been living in a suburb of Berlin since 1997, part of a growing aboriginal expatriate community in a country where an estimated 60,000 Germans convert, on weekends and holidays, into Nineteenth-Century Native Americans. For those who haven’t witnessed its curious pageantry, Indian hobbyism describes the imitation and study of Native-American culture by non–Native Americans. Typically, the hobbyist gatherings in Germany are organized around a central event, such as a powwow, a sweat lodge, or a rodeo. It was just such a gathering that I hoped to witness in Regensburg. The Regensburg Club, Murray Small Legs had told me, was hosting a weekend rodeo, and the local cowboys were expecting large contingents of dress-up Indians.
Located on the outskirts of town and forming a narrow border between a housing development and the farmland beyond, the Regensburg Cowboy Club is surrounded by a tall, Western-style wooden fence. The club occupies two or three acres of grassy land and is divided by a long, rectangular log cabin. On one side of this cabin is the Club’s camping ground, which, on this day, was dotted with brightly painted teepees. The other side was occupied by what looked to be a miniature Nineteenth-Century American frontier town. The fence, I realized, was designed not only to keep strangers out, but to mark a symbolic division of present-day Germany from the wild, unbridled West. Murray Small Legs had told me to ask at the gate for the “Chief.” The cowboy at the gate was shirtless, wearing a black ten-gallon hat, a leather vest, a pair of seriously new gwg jeans, cowboy boots, and a sheriff’s badge. “The Chief,” I said.
As I waited, I caught my first glimpse of Nineteenth-Century American life through the gate. A middle-aged German woman, wearing a horn-trimmed fur hat and a buckskin jumpsuit, chased after three young kids in fringed leather pants. I was fixed on a group of boys just behind them — who were dressed in leather loincloths, with American and Confederate flags on their heads — when the Chief approached. His outfit was similar to the gatekeeper’s, except it included a shirt, a handsome number of the classic, pearl-buttoned, Western variety. He extended his hand. Here it was, my first physical contact with Germany’s hobbyist movement, and it felt good.
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That's interesting, but romanticism for the "new world" isn't restricted to Germany by any means.Pretty funny, and concerning on a variety of levels
Ich Bin Ein Indianer
Germany’s obsession with a past it never had
In one of its more equivocal forms, the experience of homesickness is rooted in an intuition that there is not and never has been a home. This occurred to me on an unseasonably warm spring afternoon, shortly after arriving in the town of Regensburg, deep in the heart of Bavaria. Outside the train station, I found a cab and asked the driver if he knew of the Regensburg Cowboy Club. He gave me the once-over. “Cowboy Club?” he queried. (I was lacking the requisite Western attire.) “Yes,” I said. “The Regensburg Cowboy Club.” He shrugged. “No problem,” he said.
I was in Regensburg on the advice of Murray Small Legs, my Blackfoot guide to Germany’s famously flourishing Indian hobbyist movement. As I was soon to discover, the presence of a Canadian at the Cowboy Club was a special occasion. My trip was a reversal of a pilgrimage that, for most hobbyists, is a right of passage: Instead of coming to North America to see real Native Americans, I was journeying to Germany to see pretend Indians.
Murray Small Legs, incidentally, is not a hobbyist; he is a real Blackfoot, from the Peigan reserve, in Alberta. He has been living in a suburb of Berlin since 1997, part of a growing aboriginal expatriate community in a country where an estimated 60,000 Germans convert, on weekends and holidays, into Nineteenth-Century Native Americans. For those who haven’t witnessed its curious pageantry, Indian hobbyism describes the imitation and study of Native-American culture by non–Native Americans. Typically, the hobbyist gatherings in Germany are organized around a central event, such as a powwow, a sweat lodge, or a rodeo. It was just such a gathering that I hoped to witness in Regensburg. The Regensburg Club, Murray Small Legs had told me, was hosting a weekend rodeo, and the local cowboys were expecting large contingents of dress-up Indians.
Located on the outskirts of town and forming a narrow border between a housing development and the farmland beyond, the Regensburg Cowboy Club is surrounded by a tall, Western-style wooden fence. The club occupies two or three acres of grassy land and is divided by a long, rectangular log cabin. On one side of this cabin is the Club’s camping ground, which, on this day, was dotted with brightly painted teepees. The other side was occupied by what looked to be a miniature Nineteenth-Century American frontier town. The fence, I realized, was designed not only to keep strangers out, but to mark a symbolic division of present-day Germany from the wild, unbridled West. Murray Small Legs had told me to ask at the gate for the “Chief.” The cowboy at the gate was shirtless, wearing a black ten-gallon hat, a leather vest, a pair of seriously new gwg jeans, cowboy boots, and a sheriff’s badge. “The Chief,” I said.
As I waited, I caught my first glimpse of Nineteenth-Century American life through the gate. A middle-aged German woman, wearing a horn-trimmed fur hat and a buckskin jumpsuit, chased after three young kids in fringed leather pants. I was fixed on a group of boys just behind them — who were dressed in leather loincloths, with American and Confederate flags on their heads — when the Chief approached. His outfit was similar to the gatekeeper’s, except it included a shirt, a handsome number of the classic, pearl-buttoned, Western variety. He extended his hand. Here it was, my first physical contact with Germany’s hobbyist movement, and it felt good.
Way back in 1999, when I was on the Army Cadet Outward Bound Scotland exchange, the British staff decided it would be fun to take us to a "Wild West" themed amusement park somewhere within an hour or two of Lincoln. We were somewhat less than enthralled with it, and would have rather seen some more castles, or other English cultural sites... I suspect they thought it would be a "taste of home" for us, but it was just kind of weird.
On the other hand, Dundee, Perth, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Lincoln, London, etc.. were big hits with us.
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