I look back on my first winter in Montreal with a lot of happy memories, but there’s two not-so-happy ones that come to mind immediately when the snow starts to fall every year. The first was when my partner and I lived through a long winter in a basement apartment in the suburbs. That meant little natural light and not a lot of family or friends dropping by since nothing was really around. I remember sitting at the kitchen table digging into our sixth and thank-fucking-god last container of frozen lentil soup of the season. Our spoons clanking against the bowls were the only things breaking the silence while we both gazed in opposite directions with little to nothing on our minds. “This weather needs to lift soon or I’m going to lose my mind,” I said to nobody in particular.
The other was when we were heading to a bed and breakfast with snow up to our knees. I wasn’t yet prepared for the amount of snow in Montreal and the city’s laissez-faire attitude when it came to moving the white puffy mounds off the streets. We had been walking for twenty minutes but it felt like hours. In frustration, I burst into tears in the glow of the Ogilvy Christmas windows. My tears froze my hair onto my face.