Folks in Niagara say there’s something in the water — and they don’t mean metaphorically. Visible from 20 miles away, and audible from twice as far again, locals claim the Falls act like a kind of lithium bath, albeit on a superhuman scale. “There’s something about falling water that makes people happy,” says Ginger Strand, author of Inventing Niagara: Beauty, Power, and Lies. “Falling water has an effect on the human spirit.”
With over 3,000 tons of water cascading down every single second, that’s a lot of lithium baths. No wonder 14 million jolly tourists cram here each year, together contributing $2 billion to the local economy. But pass a little time in Niagara, where Ontario meets New York, and you’ll realise this Canadian town is about more than river spray and mist. There are other reasons to be cheerful, too, from the ziplines to dinosaurs to the motels, 165 at the last count, together wallowing in a veritable lithium bath of kitschiness. It all speaks to an instinctive rejection of middle-class “curation”, in favour of good-old-fashioned garish dazzle — elitist snobs be damned.
The sheer power of Niagara panicked the first Europeans to see it. In 1678, an early Belgian visitor described the “surprising and astonishing manner” in which the water barrelled down. But, by the 19th century, the Falls became popular. In 1801, Vice President Aaron Burr’s daughter chose Niagara for her bridal tour. Three years later, Napoleon’s little brother Jérôme did the same. Those proto-influencers soon turned Niagara Falls into the honeymoon capital of North America, a title it’s retained ever since. Perhaps it’s that gigantic lithium bath, or else the easy drive from Toronto, but 50,000 happy couples still flock here each year.
The Falls are surely part of the romantic allure. Bob Fitzgerald, who runs the Falls Wedding Chapel on the New York side of the border with his wife Sally, has wedded everyone from popstars to WWE wrestlers. Regular punters from as far away as Singapore arrive to tie the knot here too, as well as one Australian in her 20s, who came to Niagara to wed her beloved before passing away from a terminal disease. “The Falls,” says Strand, “are a giant magnet that attracts human impulses.”
Spend time gazing at the torrent — “At last, fortissimo!” quipped Mahler when he first laid eyes on it — and it’s hard not to be impressed. Yet chat to the Fitzgeralds and it’s clear Niagara is about more than nature unleashed. Consider, if nothing else, the helicopter ceremonies the couple offer above the Falls, with newlyweds exchanging vows in the cabin. And if that hints at a town comfortable with showiness, there’s plenty more where that came from.
A great example here is the Zipline to the Falls, carrying daredevils 2,200 feet down over the abyss. Rebecca and Elizabeth, who work at the attraction, giggle as they recall the 98-year-old woman who took her own high-flying lithium shower. It’s unlikely even she could have managed other Niagara pastimes. Since 1850, 11 stunters have tightroped across the gorge, while 15 have barrelled over and survived.
Such kookiness is clear away from the Falls themselves. On the Canadian side of the border, you can golf with a Brontosaurus at Dinosaur Adventure Golf, or encounter Vlad the Impaler at the Castle Dracula Wax Museum, or take aim at moonshine jugs at the Hillbilly Shooting Gallery. Until 2002, the local museum even boasted the mummified remains of Pharoah Rameses I, which somehow turned up in the mid-19th century.
But the true apotheosis of Niagara kitsch is in the accommodation. Visit the Cadillac Motel and you’ll see what I mean. Pinch-your-cheek cute, the tidy retro property features 23 themed rooms, ranging from “Ghostbusters” to “Marilyn Monroe” — who, according to local lore, once stayed the night. Ray and Lisa Brock, the owners, regularly rent half the place out to hockey teams and stag dos, who happily gorge themselves on home-cooked barbeque and what Lisa calls a “pig trough” full of beer.
“A fascinating accretion of human culture and goofiness that piles up around the Falls,” is how Strand summarises the town. “It is a fun place that illustrates a side of human absurdity.” But if that explains the what, we’re still left with the how — how is it that, amid the unending march of neoliberal drabness, places like Dinosaur Adventure Golf and the Ghostbusters room survive? The price is probably a good place to start, even with the Falls themselves. There are crowds, sure, but the torrent is visible a half a mile down the Niagara Parkway, making for a cheap day out. “You don’t have to stand in line,” Bob Fitzgerald says. “It isn’t Disneyland. You don’t have to pay or elbow people aside.”
Yet if the accommodation is similarly light on the pockets — a night at the Cadillac will set you back just $85 Canadian dollars a night in the off-season — Niagara is about more than fun on a budget. “People like the unique,” Lisa Brock says. “The big hotel chains don’t care.” Certainly, it’s hard to imagine the Hilton putting out pig troughs full of LaBatt Blue pilsner for thirsty hockey bros.
And I wonder, too, if Niagara thrives on something else: nostalgia. Fast capitalism delivers boutique “experiences”. But even us globalist anywheres are ultimately from somewhere, and Niagara’s kitsch taps into that nostalgic impulse that pines for the authenticity of yesterday. A “Zombie Attack” interactive theatre is not your grandmother’s country fried steak — or, as we’re in Canada, a classic poutine. But retro connects us to our history. A round of mini-golf with vinyl dinosaurs evokes memories of vacations past. In Niagara, vacationers have that rare thing: fun. Rewilding or yoga retreats may offer a “bespoke wellness experience”, but they’re ultimately just contrived excuses to clamber back on the hamster wheel of self-improvement. Nostalgia, meanwhile, answers that simple yearning for gentler times.
“Nostalgia answers that simple yearning for gentler times.”
Not that Niagara is stuck entirely in the past. A mile from what the Brocks affectionately call the “Caddy” is Basell’s Restaurant and Tavern. Like other spots in town, it’s dripping in Sixties atmosphere, all neon signs and checkerboard floors. In other ways, however, Basell’s feels strikingly modern. Founded by two Greek brothers, the spot is now run by Fang. Indian-born and of Chinese descent, the recent Canadian immigrant has kept the booths, the steel-stainless counter, and the “evil eye” keeping watch.
At this point, Strand once more returns to the power of the Falls, bestowing the spray with almost mystical power. “It is a pilgrimage that helps define you as an American and Canadian,” she says. “Like the 19th-century Grand Tour, when elites went to the Falls to embrace their new nation. Bathing in the spray of the Falls it naturalises you. It is almost like a baptism.”
A case in point is Fred Fakouri. Tall and affable, the 27-year-old owns and runs the Persepolis Inn with his father. Typical of old-school Niagara, the 52-room motel is small and intimate, with heart-shaped baths aplenty. As the property’s name suggests, the Fakouri clan hail from Iran, fleeing the Islamic Republic to gentle Ontario. “The hotel is a healing process for us,” he explains. “The family is pouring everything into the hotel and Niagara Falls.” A town settled by the British, Niagara beckoned as a path to freedom for enslaved African Americans. This welcoming tradition continued into the 20th century, when the Falls powered industry that attracted migrants from Eastern Europe.
Yet if nearly 20% of Niagara’s population come from an immigrant background, and many, like the Fakouris, are integrated and happy, it’s wrong to see the town as a haven from all the world’s woes. Niagara Falls is the temporary home to more than 5,000 asylum seekers, the highest per capita rate of any Canadian city. Mayor Jim Diodati warns it’s at “breaking point” — telling reporters that the shelters are full, the transitional housing is full, and the drug problem is “like it’s never been before”.
There are other challenges too. Before Covid, the Fitzgeralds once averaged 701 weddings a year. These days, they hope these numbers will return, so they can pass the business to their daughter. Fakhori tells a similar tale. Since the pandemic, he says, business is down 50%, and refusing to fully rebound. Last year, overall tourist numbers were still down 7% from their 2019 peak, a shortfall of 1.5 million visitors and tens of millions in spending.
Of course, Niagara Falls isn’t alone in feeling the legacy of lockdowns. But the town is arguably at particular risk thanks to the very nostalgia that lends it strength. Those mom-and-pop joints may bring in punters, Lisa Brock says, but they’re also vulnerable to being snatched up by big Toronto investors — who strip their new assets for upscale customers unenthusiastic about heart-shaped baths.
These days, indeed, the bulk of accommodations at Niagara are now classified as “high-end”. A local newspaper editorial even bragged that the town is “positioning itself to become a more substantial player in the upscale hotel market”. These high-end chains replace a series of iconic establishments that were utterly unique to the town. Among these were the Foxhead Motor Inn, made famous by the Jim Crow-era Green Book travel guide, and the Inn on the Niagara Parkway, a late-Fifites gem that styled itself a “modern resort motel”. Nor is this just a Niagara phenomenon. In 1964, more than 61,000 motels, largely of the mom-and-pop variety, dotted the North American roadside. A generation later, that number is 16,000 and dropping.
The forces of globalisation and gentrification, then, are at the gate. But at least the Falls remain. Inspired, perhaps, by their unending roar, the Fitzgeralds still have ambitions to make Niagara Falls the “wedding capital of the world”. And, at places like the Cadillac, the old charm endures for at least a while longer. “See how old fashioned we are,” the receptionist tells me proudly. “We still use a key.” I can’t think of a better lithium bath.
