It’s midnight, or more probably five o’clock. I can’t really tell because it’s well below zero, possibly snowy.

No point in getting up from the chair and peeking from under the closed curtains on my left. Not only am I wrapped in a blanket, but I don’t want to step away from the portable heater.

I’m cold enough already, thank you very much.

I know, I’m always cold. But it’s not just me this time.

It’s actually cold, even by Tough Canada™ standards.

When I came back from France, it was just your typical November weather for a few days—warm enough, i.e., hovering around 0 °C during the day, grey and cloudy. Not exciting but easy enough and very similar to France in a way.

Then I went to Mark’s school for the usual fall “student-led conference.” This is the rebranded name of the parent-teacher interview, by the way, except you get to sit down with your kid who is supposed to show you what he is working on—it goes exactly as you imagine with a sulky teen.

It was winter for real already, and just in case I didn’t get the memo, a long row of school tables overflowing with gloves, hats, scarves, and more was taking over the hallways.

“Stuff we lost in the schoolyard,” Mark replied, rolling his eyes at my puzzled look and apparent inability to understand this accidental Canadian modern-art installation.

The kindergarten kids leaving their classroom at this exact minute were bundled up so well I wondered for a second if they could even walk in their snowsuits.

Then it got cold—very cold—and it’s been getting colder and colder ever since.

It’s so cold that the sewer grates are steamy—yes, just like in movies.

It’s so cold that there’s nobody outside, not even me.

It’s so cold that it hurts.

The cold bites hard. At first, your body just registers the (unpleasant) sensation. It doesn’t take long before you feel the burn on your face, (gloved) hands, and feet. All your muscles contract in a desperate attempt to stay warm. Then comes the sharp, painful reminder that you shouldn’t be outside—crazy you—good luck grabbing your key and opening your door, your hands are completely numb.

Last Thursday, I went out for a walk as usual, but I had to turn around at the end of the street and head home because I couldn’t feel my body after five minutes fighting the north wind. Yes, I dress for the weather. Yes, I “layer up,” the top Canadian advice, usually offered by people who drive to places.

I will forever admire Nunavummiut who thrive in what I consider a hostile environment.

Because at one point—often when the temperature drops below −15 °C, and the wind chill makes it feel like −25 °C—you just can’t stay warm and comfortable, especially if you didn’t grow up taming winter.

I embrace every season but winter. In winter, I just fight—against the cold, the constant lethargy, and the nagging feeling I shouldn’t be here.

The three of us went to the nearest supermarket to get our flu shot (and a COVID booster for me). I was probably the only one dreading not the needle, but the moment I would have to take off my jacket and sweater—I was still freezing from the walk across the parking lot.

I feel utterly trapped. I can’t just walk to places easily—just imagine, it’s a 45 °C difference every time I open the door. Even driving isn’t that easy because, on top of colder-than-average temperatures, we have snow, and it’s very slippery.

And it’s only December 10!

O, Canada…

“This is why the French ceded Canada to Britain and left, right?” Feng noted tonight.

“I will too. The leaving part.”