Hi - Edmonton | Leiowl

Edmonton

Edmonton was one of the first cities I considered staying in when I arrived in Canada. If you’re coming to Canada, the first place you’ll likely stay is a youth hostel. HI Canada is a chain of youth hostels across the country, offering complete facilities, affordable prices, and a quiet, clean environment. During your travels in Canada, you might frequently stay at these hostels, so I recommend registering as a member. Membership provides discounts on accommodation, which can make a significant difference during the peak summer travel season when prices rise. Over time, these savings can help reduce travel expenses considerably.

This city is home to the University of Alberta, making it a vibrant hub with well-developed amenities. Around the university, there are plenty of rental options and part-time job opportunities. Since the population here consists mainly of young students, life is dynamic, filled with student activities. Additionally, places like West Edmonton Mall (North America’s largest shopping center) and the area near the airport often have job openings. Temporary positions are also available at winter ski resorts such as Rabbit Hill Snow Resort.

Because Edmonton is located in Alberta, both sales tax and income tax are the lowest in Canada.

As for transportation, the city mainly relies on buses and the LRT (Light Rail Transit) to connect urban and suburban areas. I recommend purchasing an Arc Card to enjoy discounted fares. If you’re staying for a short period, you can buy ticket booklets at youth hostels and convenience stores for bus rides.

However, one thing to be mindful of is Edmonton’s extreme winter cold, where temperatures can drop below -30°C. Be sure to prepare warm clothing such as down jackets, snow boots, thermal gloves, and woolen hats. Learning how to walk on icy roads to prevent slipping is also essential.

In the End, I Didn’t Stay

On a freezing winter day, I arrived in Edmonton by train from Evansburg. Through the window, I saw a vast and flat city, its skyline stretching endlessly. But unlike my hometown, Taipei, there were no surrounding mountains to provide a sense of embrace. The boundless winter fields made the lush green mountains in my memory stand out even more vividly.

Edmonton’s winter is like a frozen poem—whispering in the wind, silent in the snow.

Outside the window lay a tranquil white world. The land seemed deep in thought—no noise, no extravagance, only snow, layer upon layer, spreading like a minimalist painting. This was the silence of 53° north latitude, where the brutal cold freezes all clamor into stillness.

The moment I stepped out, the wind rushed in like a hungry wolf, biting through my bones, gripping my soul. I hunched my shoulders as my breath turned into mist, drifting briefly in the air before vanishing. The streets were so quiet that I could almost hear time flowing beneath the snow. Occasionally, a car passed by, crunching over the slush, like a gentle knock on winter’s door. The trees lining the road had long since shed their leaves, their bare branches pointing at the gloomy sky, standing still like markers of time.

The North Saskatchewan River slept under the winter night, its surface frozen, its murmurs silenced. On Walterdale Bridge, a few ravens perched on the railing. Their dark figures starkly contrasted the vast white snowfield. They croaked softly, their voices drifting in the wind like lost verses of a winter poem. Looking down from the bridge, I saw the city standing still—its towering buildings reflecting the overcast sky, resembling philosophers in deep contemplation, watching over this frozen land.

Winter in Edmonton is not just about the cold—it is a profound, soul-penetrating stillness. In the city center, pedestrians hurried along, wrapping themselves tightly in coats as if trying to steal a bit of warmth from the bitter air. The streetlights cast a pale glow on the snow, stretching out thin shadows like footnotes of time. Even at noon, the sun was stingy, barely sending weak rays through the thick clouds, as if the world’s last remnants of warmth were fading.

As night fell, the city became even quieter. Walking along the streets, the only sounds were my own breathing and the crunch of snow beneath my feet. There was no Taipei-like bustle, no Tokyo-like neon lights, and not even the restless energy of New York. Edmonton’s winter nights were like frozen frames in time, where all sound and color were swallowed by the cold.

Yet, within this silence, there was an undeniable beauty. The snow covered everything, leaving the world pure and serene. Every step left deep imprints, as if writing poetry in the endless winter landscape. At that moment, I stood alongside the city, sharing in its quiet existence.

Edmonton’s winter is long—it lingers until April before the snow slowly melts and the city awakens from its slumber. But during these endless cold months, it feels as if the entire world has paused, waiting for spring to gently stir it back to life. In these few short days, I experienced a different side of winter—a tranquility as poetic as it was desolate, yet profoundly deep and eternal.

Edmonton’s winter is not just about ice and snow—it is a silent conversation, a profound dialogue with time, the world, and oneself.

The Next Morning

The next morning, the sun remained reluctant to shine. I stepped into a church near the youth hostel for Sunday service. Most of the congregation were former Hong Kong youth, who had come to this distant land decades ago, dreaming of a new life. They arrived as students and, after graduation, chose to stay. The years passed, and now their hair had turned gray. Their stories, like rivers from different sources, converged in this city, weaving together a shared history.

At the hostel, I met a young man from Shandong. He had come here alone to study, paving the way for his family’s future immigration. His wife and child were still waiting for him back home. The chill of being far from home was not just from the weather but from the weight of responsibility and the ache of longing.

Not far from the hostel, I found a Taiwanese beef noodle shop. On a cold winter day, a steaming bowl of beef noodles, its broth rich and fragrant, tasted exactly like the ones from a street corner in Taipei. In that moment, I wasn’t just tasting noodles—I was tasting nostalgia. In this foreign land’s relentless winter, that bowl of hot soup momentarily melted away the cold within me.