The Beach at West Edmonton Mall

They arrived in motor coaches from all over windswept central Canada - young and old, housewives and students, waitresses, drug store clerks, grandmothers and construction workers. In winter and in summer they came to the West Edmonton Mall to go to the beach, to sit under palm trees and sip umbrella drinks while waves broke on the sandy shore and heat baked their chilled bodies and warmed their spirits.

I was in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada on business, hosted by the Edmonton Convention and Visitors Bureau. The West Edmonton Mall, one of Edmonton’s most significant assets, is a shopping mall spanning the equivalent of forty-eight city blocks under one roof. At the time I was there it was the largest shopping mall in the world. It housed more than 800 stores and restaurants, a full-size hockey rink where the Edmonton Oilers NHL team practiced, an amusement park with a fourteen-story triple-loop roller coaster, a fantasy hotel where you could sleep in the back of a pickup truck or on a raft in a lagoon, and a beach.

The beach was fashioned after Waikiki Beach in Honolulu, Hawaii. Long and curved, it was covered with soft white sand and real palm trees waving in a gentle breeze. Waves lapped lazily against the shore, unless there was a surfing contest scheduled. Then wave machines under the water produced six-footers and teenagers paddled out on their boards and rode the waves in. Tanning lights replaced the sun, and there was never the disappointment of a rainy day. The beach was surrounded by glass.

On this day I peered through the steamy glass wall of the beach. A motor coach began to unload and a stream of people wearing heavy coats crowded through the door, kids running and yelling and women shouting at them to slow down or they would slip and fall. I spoke with an older woman in a parka wearing sunglasses and carrying a plastic beach bag and a pillow.

“How do you like this beach?” I asked her. “Have you come here before?”

She nodded, a little cautious about talking to a stranger. “It’s a nice place, and a bit of sun does me good.”

“Is it just as good as a real beach? I guess we’re a long way from a real beach here.”

“Well, I know about real beaches, I can tell you! I flew the airplane to Mexico once. The sand fleas bit me to pieces and I got sick from the food. Never again! Here I can just get on the coach and I’m here in a couple of hours. I have friends on the coach and we play cards. It’s a break from the cold.”

“Do you stay here at the Mall then?”

“Yes, I’m going to sleep in the back of a pickup truck tonight!” She smiled, excited. “You know, they have those rooms in the hotel. Haven’t slept in a pickup truck since, well….since I was a young girl.”

Her smile was suddenly embarrassed and her shyness returned. She hurried through the door into the beach. Apparently the pickup truck brought back fond memories.

I chose to sleep on the raft in the lagoon, another illusion that was accomplished with mirrors and lavish creativity. Indeed much of the floor and the entire ceiling in my very large room were covered in mirrors. There was a six-foot waterfall into the rock hot tub next to the mirror lagoon my king-size bed sat on, with ferns and the sounds of tropical birds. No birds, though, just the sounds. It appeared it was going to be tricky getting into bed, but once I reminded myself that the water was a mirror I just “waded” in. Alas, I was there alone.


The next day, after buying more than I had intended, I went to the beach myself. As I settled under my palm tree, I noticed no one there was quite as white-skinned as I was – the tanning lights were on the job. A lovely young woman in shorts and a bikini top took my drink order and the strains of a slack-key guitar wafted through the air. The high notes of children on the waterslides at the far end of the beach tinkled in the distance, and added to, rather than disturbed, my tranquility. I sat back, looked around and said to myself, not bad. Not real, but not bad. An illusion of Hawaii, bringing some warmth to the windswept plains of central Canada.