Friendship is a sheltering tree.
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
TORONTO – I had not known snow in its full, immaculate blast than in the last two years that I’ve been in Toronto.
Sometime back in California, I had to give way to my curiosity out of a need to know what and how snow looked – quite trivial, isn’t it – because I love writing about the four seasons. Winter as it is experienced in Canada with all the abundant snow and the below-zero temperature is not the same winter in San Diego, at least.
In the 16 years that I’ve lived there, a third close to San Diego Bay in downtown by the Pacific Ocean, winter was no more than a vague change of clime. That’s because the sun never failed to show up most of the 365 days, ensuring an endless summer spiced with a little chill on some days.
In Toronto there’s no doubting winter is upon everyone. People bundle themselves up in layers of clothing and leather, wrapping heads, hands and feet in a variety of garbs that’s quite strange in that part of California.
The only time I had a taste of real winter was during a trek to the mountains of San Bernardino, near Lake Arrowhead, about two hours’ drive from San Diego. The fog and the flurries had conspired to make the drive up a struggle along the narrow road zigzagging through the maze of growth on the mountainside.
It’s no longer snow in its pristine glory that I saw and felt; rather its ice – hardened snow – that’s melting away in heaps along the sidewalk. My frustration was momentary. Right there and then I realized that that one-time experience could form the basis to write about winter and snow.
That trifle moment of discovery evokes an inner laughter now. The recollection rushes out in the midst of this winter, my third in Toronto since the day I stepped out of the plane at Pearson airport from San Diego two years ago.
How distance of a few hours could make for two different worlds, I mumbled. The chill that I had not experienced had suddenly gripped me as my body started to acclimatize to the sudden change of temperature. The landscape out of the airport looked desolate, the falling snow adding to the evening gloom.
The day after was a priceless reward in experience. The very first thing I did in the morning was to scoop up snow with my bare hands, feel its softness, rubbing it on my face, wondering how a little miracle like that takes place almost daily in winter time.
The other miracle was in knowing. The decades of personal naivete about this bit of nature’s quirk had been replaced by a knowledge experienced first-hand, the bountiful snow held by my numbed hands the mute witness to my transformation from blissful ignorance.
But it was to be repeated on a bigger scale. Not a week had passed yet and I was off to Niagara Falls. It was the height of winter and I, fully covered with mismatching garments too thick and heavy for a first-timer, had to wade through knee-deep snow just to see the famed falls.
What a marvel! For a tropics-born and raised person like me, it’s a blessed experience.
Right before my eyes, the long-held illusion stuck on my mind had turned real, specially seeing an entire village blanketed by layers upon layers of white crystals. In the background, Niagara Falls seemed suspended in mid-air, the cascading waters replaced by blocks of ice rolling down the river.
I should have had an early confrontation with a snowy winter while in Germany before coming to America, except that my principals had decided, rightfully, to let the season pass before I immerse myself in work in Hamburg. So the breakthrough happened in Toronto and in Niagara.
While preparing for the trip here, I had envisioned Canada to be a forbidding country. Vancouver had been an option I determined to be similar to San Diego’s since it shares the same Pacific Ocean on the West Coast.
The challenge then would be in the east, Toronto, specifically.
Might Toronto – and that include the Filipino community there – be as cold and detached as some places in California? And I mean cold in the physical and metaphorical sense. “It depends” might be a correct answer.
My work as investigative journalist in San Diego had taken a toll on personal comforts and friendships, though there remained a few sincere ones who understood the adversarial nature of the job and still chose to stand by me.
In my list I’ve got seasonal friends, friends who talked nonsense, friends who always nodded in agreement, friends who whispered, friends who paid lip service to principles, friends who delighted in laughter, friends who bullied, friends who cajoled, friends who popped out of nowhere, friends who pushed and shoved, friends who measured friendship by the depth of pockets.
Toronto seemingly looks different, although it might be too soon to say that as I’ve barely begun what I’ve set out to do. The blank wall that greeted me in my initial inquiries was quite a disappointment. And then there were the brusque restrictions, the overt hostility, the bullying and the cold shoulder.
I take all those in stride. I consider them a part of the long process that usually accompanies such endeavour as the one I intend to focus on. After all, I count myself a member of a thriving community wanting rescue from the dark and mischievous corners of the city.
There’s a silver lining though. I recently learned that even as I feel alone in embarking on a new challenge I’m really not without friends. Yes, I found my sheltering tree in Toronto. #
