The Falls thundering like a steaming avalanche terrify me, stir up in me a deep urge to fly over the flimsy railing, to soar into the mist. What a stupid primal urge, the urge to fly. Like a good Canadian, I re-direct my primal desires into shopping. I drag my parents - two older sisters trailing, scoffing and complaining of sissy brothers - back away from the platform behind and under the Falls. I want to be away from there, where the mist hisses and sprays and the thunderous grey waters make it seem as if the whole world is crumbling down around me. Back up through the slippery, claustrophobic tunnels we climb, up the stairs, into the safety of the souvenir shop. Souvenir shops in such places thrive on re-directed anxiety. They know we are coming. They have been waiting for us. My father, hesitating in a moment of weakness and love - or inspired by the thrill of seeing fear in my eyes - buys me a black Shriners-type cap with a picture of the Canadian Falls painted on its side in lurid fluorescent paint.