Losing in Buffalo, Freezing in Niagara

Jimmy called me up earlier in the week, which usually means he’s got a plan. That’s not always a good thing.

“SABRES. HABS. Buffalo. Saturday night. You in?”

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to go, but because I knew how this would end. I’ve seen this play out before. Jimmy’s a Sabres fan, which means he signs himself up for heartbreak every single year. He gets excited, he believes, and then the Sabres find new, creative ways to crush his spirit. But it had been a while since I’d caught a game, and even longer since I’d been up to Niagara Falls, where we were planning to stay for the weekend. Jimmy lives way north—somewhere up near Barrie—so meeting in Niagara made the most sense. Plus, I hadn’t been to the Falls since I was a kid, and I remembered it being underwhelming, but I figured, why not? It’s still a giant, freezing-cold waterfall. Maybe it would be better this time.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot of the Diplomat Inn on Friday afternoon, I was starting to wonder if we had made a mistake. The Diplomat is… let’s just say it has character. Some reviews called it a hidden gem, while others made it sound like the kind of place where you’d wake up missing a kidney. It looked like it had been stuck in a time loop since the ‘80s, with weirdly faded signage and a general air of this is fine, but don’t ask too many questions. The parking lot was empty enough that I started wondering if they were even still in business, but once I found the front desk, the guy checking me in seemed relatively normal—surprised to see a customer, sure, but friendly. He handed me my room key and told me parking was free, which I immediately filed under major selling points because I wasn’t trying to get gouged by the Clifton Hill lots.

Inside the room, things were… well, the good news was that the floors were tiled instead of having that weird, sticky motel carpet. The bad news was that the heat had clearly been off for a while, and it was colder inside than it was outside. I cranked it up and hoped for the best. The bed looked clean, the bathroom wasn’t terrifying, and if I ignored the mysterious stains on the walls and the slightly weird smell from the bathroom, it was perfectly adequate.

Jimmy pulled in about an hour later, tossed his bag onto the other bed, took a long look around, and nodded like he had just walked into a five-star resort.

“This,” he said, dead serious, “is exactly what I was hoping for.”

First stop? Food. Jimmy had been to the area before and knew about a weed shop above a Subway—because, of course, he did. And since it was right there, we might as well grab sandwiches first. If we were going to buy weed above a fast-food restaurant, we might as well commit to the experience. The dispensary itself, On the Ridge, was about as no-frills as you’d expect for a shop tucked above a sub shop. No sleek Apple Store aesthetic—just a couple of glass cases, laminated menus, and a guy behind the counter who looked like he was also the owner, manager, and possibly the janitor. Jimmy spent entirely too long analyzing the selection, only to buy exactly what he picked up first. I grabbed something light, and we made our way toward the Falls.

Here’s the thing about Niagara Falls in February: it’s cold. Offensively cold. I had gloves, I had a decent jacket, but I was not prepared for the wind whipping off the water, cutting straight through every layer like it had something personal against me. The weed helped a little, but nothing was stopping the fact that it was freezing balls. We made it to the overlook, stood there for maybe a minute, and immediately questioned our decision-making.

“This was a mistake,” Jimmy said, pulling his hood tighter.

“Yeah,” I muttered, although the falls all lit up did look awesome in the winter.

I wish I could say I had some profound moment of reflection, standing there looking at one of the great natural wonders of the world, but all I could think was I should’ve worn a better jacket.

The walk back to the motel was brutal, and by the time we got into the room, we were frozen solid. Jimmy didn’t even bother taking off his coat before collapsing onto the bed. “That was awful.”

I kicked off my boots. “And we’re gonna do the same walk tomorrow.”

He groaned.

The next morning, we decided to fully lean into the tourist experience and eat somewhere ridiculous. After some light arguing about whether Denny’s counted as an experience, we ended up at Margaritaville, because nothing says weekend in Ontario like a Jimmy Buffett-themed chain restaurant. I ordered poutine because I was already making bad decisions. It was… fine? I don’t know. It was gravy and cheese on fries. Jimmy got something appropriately ridiculous and overpriced.

After wandering around Clifton Hill long enough to question our entire existence, we packed up and started the drive to Buffalo, which should’ve been quick. Should’ve been. The Peace Bridge was jammed. Every Sabres fan in Ontario was trying to cross at the same time, and when we finally got to the booth, the border agent seemed way too interested in Jimmy’s lighter.

“What’s with the lighter?” the guy asked, flipping it over.

Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a lighter.”

The agent gave him a look. “It’s a lighter with a naked lady on it.”

Jimmy nodded. “Yeah.”

There was an awkward pause.

“…Okay,” the agent said, finally handing it back. “Drive safe.”

It got real uncomfortable for a moment and I thought they were about to go through the car and rip it to shreds. Fortunately, we were able to drive on.

By the time we got into Buffalo, we barely had time to park before heading to KeyBank Center. The place was packed, because say what you want about Sabres fans, but they always show up. The game started slow, but the second period was chaos. Montreal struck first. Jimmy tensed up but relaxed when Buffalo answered back with two quick goals, taking the lead. The crowd was electric. Then, Montreal tied it up. Then,  took the lead. And, of course, when the Sabres pulled the goalie at the end of the third period, Montreal buried the empty netter.

Final score: Canadiens 4, Sabres 2.

Jimmy just sat there, staring at the ice.

“Every year,” he muttered. “Every. Damn. Year.”

After a long pause, he stood up and stretched. “Casino?”

We first stopped at High as a Hawk, a roadside weed store with ample charm (and deals), connected to a gas station in Seneca Nation. Jimmy looked around until he found something he would only refer to as 'a sign.' He found a strain called 'Blackjack' and just had to have it. So we grabbed an ounce before heading back downtown to Seneca Buffalo Creek Casino, where Jimmy was convinced he’d turn the night around after a quick joint in the parking garage. That didn’t happen. He started hot, hitting blackjack twice in a row, and then the spiral began. One bad hand. Then another. Then a brutal double-down.

“Cold dealer,” he muttered.

I shook my head. “Or, and hear me out, you are bad at this.”

Fifteen minutes later, he was cleaned out.

The drive back was quiet. Back at the Diplomat, Jimmy collapsed onto his bed, fully defeated.

I kicked off my boots. “Still think ‘Blackjack’ was a sign?”

Jimmy, face down in his pillow, mumbled, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

We had plans to grab breakfast at a diner before I hit the road in the morning. But for now, we just laid there, listening to the hum of the heater, watching the neon lights flicker through the window.

I guess Niagara Falls hadn’t changed much from what I remember since I was a kid. Other than all the weed. But I was glad I went.

Even if it was cold as hell.