All images by author. There are roughly as many wax museums as libraries. If you spend too much time in the city it feels disorienting. The success of Niagara ebbs and flows with the influx of tourists. Like a mini version of Las Vegas, the financial crisis ravaged the town. Businesses burned down. My former hockey coach was found strung out in a cheap hotel. A family friend—a man who practised law with my dad—was convicted of laundering cocaine money. But between the boarded up buildings were hints of Mad Men -era romance.
Niagara Falls had been the honeymoon capital of the world. Residents were quick to remind you about the Marilyn Monroe film.
It had been great once. Maybe it could be great again. I moved away from Niagara directly after high school. Over time that idea turned to resentment. I started to criticize Niagara any chance I could. As an adult, my trips back have been infrequent, weekend jaunts far from the tourist district, to visit with my mom and walk our family dog.
Knowing my relationship with Niagara, my editor pitched me an article. VICE has a series where we try to find a city's worst bar. The rules are simple: get a drink at what you consider the worst bar in town. Continue the process until you can't take it anymore. I accepted the assignment but put off the trip to Niagara for months.
Eventually—after a lot of mental preparation and a few false starts—I spent a night drunkenly wandering the streets looking for meaning amongst the tourists, fast food, and heart shaped jacuzzis.
