Listen, I have lived in Florida for nearly 70 years. And for that I have no (well maybe just a few) regrets..
But here’s the thing.
My first seven years were lived in Pennsylvania. And I can still remember waking up on that magic morning to discover that there was fresh SNOW ON THE GROUND. And that I had to get into it.
And so, by Florida standards, perhaps I am cursed.
There is something in me…on the cellular level perhaps…that still, after all these decades, compels me to periodically go off in search of snow.
I can’t explain it. I simply must.
I have walked through Central Park in a blizzard.
And one of the most enchanting days of my life was that time I wandered through Prague in a heavily falling snow.
I have camped in the icy Rocky Mountain wilderness, listened to elk performing their mating rituals, and muttered: “Get a room for goodness sakes.”
I once backpacked in the Appalachians and got so distracted by the silent flakes falling all around me that I completely lost track of my companions. (To this day I hope they all made it back OK.)
I guess you could say that I am a snowaholic.
Which is why Jill (she’s Canadian don’t you know) and I just hopped a flight from Orlando to Syracuse and drove a rental across the border to Ontario.
The lady at the customs post asked us why we were entering Canada. I said “we’re the only Floridians who actually go looking for snow.” She nervously rested her hand on her holster for a moment. But let us pass anyway.
We drove to Perth, where we have spent more than one splendid summer contemplating life, the universe and everything.
And, as we had hoped, Perth had switched gears in our absence.
Perth in winter turned out to be everything we were looking for. (Traveler’s note: Layering really is the key to a Floridian’s survival when he is a stranger in a strange land. Trust me).
Jill, the Canuck, celebrated her homecoming by scooping up a handful of snow and inundating herself with it. Apparently this is a sacred ritual in these parts. I cannot explain it.
But I digress. The point is that Perth is a Canadian town for all seasons.
I have sat on this very bench in the summer and watched children swim and frollock in the Tay river.
Now there is nary a swimming kid in evidence. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps it is because kids aren’t as tough as they used to be.
But again I digress.
The point is that we fled to this frozen paradise in order to GET AWAY FROM FLA HEAT AND HUMIDITY.
Yes, we deliberately came in search of ice cycles and exactly the sort of frozen water that we could have scooped out from our freezer back home without venturing into the unknown.
Later on we drove to Otty Lake, where we have languished away summer months basking in the sun and swimming in cool water.
But that was then. This is Otty now.
We found that our summer sanctuary had, inexplicably, changed. Though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.
Apparently the lake where Jill and Roman once paddled off into the sunset hasn’t actually seen a sunset for many a day.
Which, when you come down to it, was the reason we came to this frozen wasteland to begin with.
Because I am a snowaholic. And have been for many years.
And is that great or what?
FreeGNV 