Montréal

Montréal froze the top layer of my face.  At least one wooly scarf is needed to begin to protect a face from the wet and dry cold air colliding from the prairie and the ocean.  Once out of my brother's apartment, I choked for just a minute on the gentle daggers of air.

As we walked to the ice skating rink, my legs began to numb and the moisture from my breath into my scarf collected nicely around my mouth and under my nose.  Sniffle sniffle pat pat.  My mascara froze and then melted away above my eye shadow when we arrived inside the ice skate rental room, painting the tops of my eyes like a war paint, or eyelid claws.  I took a second to warm up my toes, since they have been known to turn a frightening shade of white in the cold.  My boots were now decorated with sludge from the street and my shoelaces crackled when I untied them.  I loosened the laces on the skates and forcibly shoved my feet into them, using my minimal arm strength to pull the laces as tight as I could which still left a generous amount of space for my ankles to wobble around.

We continued onto the ice, my brother holding my hand as I wobbled around on the skates for a number of laps.  These were soon replaced with superior hockey skates and my brother's faithful hand released.  We ventured out to the natural ice of the river - I shuffled my feet slowly while holding the railing - where we skated for a bit until I gracefully fell down onto my knees.

I scooted elegantly to my feet and glided on.  We skated back to the rink and soon headed inside for a cup of hot chocolate to liven our spirits, fingers and toes.  After ice skating, we walked over to Old Port where I was able to grab a glass of "hot wine" and hug the heater with my feet.

This is all to say, Montréal, that I have fallen for you - time and time again.