It's December 24th, 2007. Here in Niagara-on-the Lake, Ontario, the outside temperature is -1 degree Centigrade and a thin blanket of snow upon the ground promises a white Christmas. And yet, this winter is still young. The first snowfall was barely a month back and people here are still feeling the ephemeral elation brought on by the Yuletide season. Soon the holidays will be over and so begins the inevitable slide down the icy slope of January into the frozen abyss known as February, where mid-winter depression leads some to madness, suicide or divorce, until a few days in April at above freezing temperatures coax the survivors out from beneath their thick, woolen blankets with the faint glimmer of hope that God has, perhaps, not forsaken them after all.
I am a Canadian who has never never enjoyed winter. I do not ski, I do not skate and I resent the daily necessity of encumbering myself with coat, boots, scarf, gloves and hat just to walk out my front door. That is why I am climbing on a plane in nine days from now and flying to Nicaragua. My departure is long overdue. I have been in this small town, “The Prettiest Town in Canada” as the tourist board claims, for two winters already due to unexpected circumstances. I had only intended to stay six months. This time, however, I am gone. My airline ticket is purchased, I have had my shots and my bags are packed.
