If ever there was a city having an identity crisis—in the best possible way—it’s Calgary. One part slick and modern metropolis, one part dusty rodeo town, Calgary is where cowboy hats meet coffee shops, and glass skyscrapers rise over bucking broncos. Nestled between prairie and peaks in southern Alberta, it’s a city that doesn’t just surprise you—it throws you right into the ring.

On a quiet February morning in 1943, a Mexican farmer named Dionisio Pulido was tending to his cornfield in the village of San Juan Parangaricutiro. The sun was rising, the soil smelled of earth and ash, and the world seemed as ordinary as ever. Until, quite literally, it cracked open beneath his feet.