Wednesday, March 03, 2004


In my childhood, I read American books about fire engines, firemen, the town of Oakwood and the Americans. The biggest impression to me were the fire trucks which bellowed out its howling horn to rescue the poor people trapped by a fire. The second impression I got was that in America, there was snow. A lot of snow.

When I arrived in America in the city of angels, I went looking for snow. It was February and the winter days were the coldest I had ever felt. It was as if the cold burrowed into your bones seeking to stop your heart. Frost came out of my mouth. In the December of my youth, I blew frost like an addict smoking a cigarette. In Los Angeles, that frost was pure torture. My sinuses would protest my living in a climate bereft of humidity and heat. I began to dread the cold.

So I was excited to go to Tahoe and play in the snow. It had been twenty odd years since I have been in America and I felt that I knew how to deal with the cold. I wanted to feel ten years old again and wonder at the beauty and the power of the snow. I wanted to see just how cold it can get while playing with snow. How do you make a snowball? Does it hurt when you get hit by a snowball? And how about a snowman? How do you roll up snow and make a snowman? I am a man trying to be a boy wondering about nature.

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