One never forgets the first time they experience frostbite.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t really frostbite. My fingers didn’t turn black like those guys on the Discovery Channel show, Everest, but they certainly weren’t functioning right either
I blame this whole thing on my coworker Marcus. He works with me in our Montreal office and apparently has thick blood and skin that native Californians will never possess. Last night, it was about 8 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I was lamenting about my eight block walk back to my hotel. Marcus gave me a look that said “you silly, lazy American,” and then proceeded to tell me how he was planning to jog FIVE miles home in those conditions.
In other words, he totally one-upped me and to add insult to injury, he raised the stakes by jogging.
After thinking it over, I decided I’d show Marcus how tough I was. I wrapped my scarf around my neck tightly, donned a hat, buttoned up my coat, put on my gloves, and bravely walked out the door.
This, of course, was a mistake.
The first block was lovely. The streets of Old Montreal are dark, empty, and icy at this hour. It is oddly quiet for a big city and the silence just adds to the beauty. I realize Marcus might actually be on to something by commuting on foot. Yet, by the second block, my inner peace dissipates as I discover the evil powers of wind chill. And by block three it is all I can do not to cry out, “TAXI!”
No such luck. Walking meant I was committed to my choice – there isn’t a cab in sight. Block four brought on an entirely new inner dialogue. The air is so cold that my nose, which had been previously running, stopped dripping. Did that mean my snot just froze? Can snot freeze in your nose? Oh my god…could I have frozen boogers…IN MY NOSE!?!
Luckily, eight blocks go by quickly, especially when you’re focusing on not slipping on icy sidewalks and constantly worrying about snot ice cubes falling out of your nose.
The staff at my hotel is wonderful. After three days of Montreal mishaps, they now know this goofy California girl by name. Nick races to open the door for me and greets me with, “Ah, Ms. Pearce, come warm up by the fire.” I happily follow him and tell him stories about how our winter days tend to be about 50 degrees warmer. After stories of sunshine and a cocktail, I retreat to my room and don’t come out until the morning.
I wake up to a sunny and clear day that looks deceivingly warmer than the previous evening. I am wrong. It is now 6 degrees Fahrenheit and the clear skies, as I will learn later, only mean it is colder as there is nothing in the atmosphere but ice cold air. And the wind chill factor is something that defies explanation. The only comparison I can come up with is standing naked in a walk-in freezer while an airplane engine blasts you with cold air.
I consider a cab, but I’m only going to an office that is about six blocks away. Once again, I remember the expression Marcus gave me the night before and decide that I will walk, convinced it will make him proud of me when I see him later. The doorman questions my decision, but I tell him I’m tough and I’ll be walking. “Bye-bye! Good luck Madame,” he says with a smirk as I whimper when I'm immediately blasted by an icy burst of wind.
Dammit. Why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, foolish pride. I push onwards until I’m happily confined in the warm office walls.
At lunch time, I meet our PR team for a lunch meeting. This requires more walking. Somehow the walk to the restaurant doesn’t seem so bad, but it is the walk back, after leaving the warmth of the café where I was sitting right on a heater vent, that really gets me. I am joining my coworkers on the walk to the office that is farthest away. The wind is ripping right through my clothes. My left hand is gloved and tucked away safely in my jacket pocket; the other gloved hand is pulling my roller bag. I’m chatting with my coworker Shannon the entire way. She confirms that snot can indeed freeze in your nose. I pick up my speed, once again convinced snot ice cubes will begin shooting out at any moment. I’m so consumed with my thoughts that I’m not thinking about switching off hands to pull my bag. Although I’m wearing gloves, it is such an unfamiliar level of cold, I don’t realize I’m experiencing the first levels of frostbite until I make inside the office doors and have to sign in.
Suddenly, I can’t hold a pen. The last digits in my fingers are not working right and can’t grasp the pen. I scribble something that looks like my signature and push on. My fingers feel like ice cubes. Hmm…should I be concerned?
Ten minutes later, my fingers on my right hand are still numb. I use the ladies room and stupidly run my hands under hot water. The heat shoots pain up my hand as I silently scream and tears well up in my eyes.
Finally, the feeling returns in my digits and I rejoice in surviving my first harrowing experience with frostbite. I walk up to my workstation, which is situated across from Marcus. I tell him about my walk home the night before, how I walked to work and lunch, and melodramatically whine about the wind chill and the close call with frostbite.
“You don’t have frostbite Kristen,” he tells me, laughing at the absurdity of my comments and shaking his head at me. He didn’t even seem that impressed with my choice of walking.
What did I expect, sympathy? These are French Canadians and the winter cold doesn’t stop them from living. They've adapted to their environment in ways a California sissy like me could never imagine.
When I landed at SFO last night it was a positively balmy 46 degrees out - so warm that I walked outside to wait for a shuttle bus without my jacket on. I will never complain about a cold California day again.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Mr. Sport Hotel
My family has a long history of infamous family vacation stories. There was the "Vegas Girls" incident where my brother Bryan, who couldn't have been older than eight at the time, found a magazine full of pictures of scantily-clad hookers wedged between the seat cushions in a VW camper bus my parents rented for our vacation. Bryan, already a man wrapped in the body of a young boy, responded to Vegas Girls with wide-eyes and a loud WOO-WOO! As the bratty older sibling, I did what most big sisters would do in the same situation...I immediately ratted on him to my parents. Mom quickly confiscated the magazine, much to the dismay of my brother. For the rest of that vacation, any time my mom and I would go off to do an activity on our own, my dad would joke he and Bryan would be around checking out Vegas Girls. I think Bryan is still mad at me for telling on him.
Then there was the "Peabody" incident at a Friendly's diner in Peabody, MA. My mom was writing out a traveler's check to a cashier for our meal and happened to ask what city we were in. The "helpful" cashier responded in a language that resembled something short of Martian, saying "Peabidee." My mom, baffled, asked her to repeat what she said, and once again received a curt "Peabidee!" Mom asked the cashier if she could spell out the town, which came out P-E-A-B-O-D-Y. My mom, relieved she wasn't losing her mind or her grasp of the English language, replied saying, "Oh, you mean PEA-BODY?" The cashier, obviously irked with my mother now, looked at her like she was some sort of idiot, and replied with a snort saying, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID! PEABIDEE!"
Clearly.
What brings up these incidents of the past is my current business trip to Vancouver, B.C. I arrived here yesterday for a work event and my company put us up at a fabulous hotel in the Yaletown District, called the Opus Hotel. By some accident, I was put up in an executive suite. The room is very modern, and has a living room area with the most comfortable couch, two plasma televisions, surround sound, a huge bathroom, iPod docking station, down comforter, heated bathroom floors, and a big, cozy terry-cloth robe. The room is loft-like with large windows that look out towards the water on one side, and out towards brick and glass buildings on the other side. Add a kitchen to this place, and I could call it home.
This is my third trip to Vancouver. I was here for a day last May when I left for Alaska on a cruise, but it is my first trip here, at the tender age of 16 that truly stands out to me. It is also the trip that introduced the Mr. Sport Hotel into my life and Khorge family vacation infamy. As I look at the luxury of this room, and compare it to the room we stayed in at the Mr. Sport, I knew I had to write about it.
The summer of 1990 was a big one in my life. This was the summer before my senior year in high school. It was also time to begin considering what college I would attend the following year. I didn't have a tragic high school experience, but I did know I wanted to get out of my hometown. When a brochure from University of Puget Sound arrived at my house, I was confident I had found my school of choice. It was small, brick and ivy, and it had a physical therapy program, which at the time, was what I thought I wanted to go into.
My parents decided we would travel to Tacoma, WA to check out the college. They mapped out a route that would take us to Eureka, CA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and then continue up the coast of Oregon, into Washington to check out the campus, visit family who lived in Seattle, and eventually, our final destination would be Vancouver, B.C.
My uncle in Seattle had given my parents some ill-advice by telling them they need not worry about hotel reservations on this trip. My parents liked the idea - it allowed for some flexibility and freedom on the trip. Unfortunately, we were not the only family on this journey that summer, and every night became a terrible struggle of driving from town-to-town looking for a place to spend the night. I remember passing by what looked like happy families at Shiloh Inns, Red Lion Inns, Holiday Inns...swimming in heated pools and enjoying free HBO. In comparison, we were playing Bates Motel roulette nightly, staying a string of dumps. Only in Seattle, did we move on up to a deluxe accommodation, when we stayed at the downtown Westin and enjoyed panoramic views of the city to Mt. Rainer.
By the time we rolled into Vancouver, the northwest was experiencing an unusual heat wave. It was sweltering and after hearing nothing but whining from my brother and me, my parents were just trying to find a hotel with a swimming pool. We must have passed 100 NO VACANCY signs until we arrived at the Mr. Sport Hotel, which advertised air conditioning and a heated pool. Good enough! We pulled into the parking lot.
Note to self: if the hotel you are staying at markets itself to truckers with a "stay nine times and get the tenth visit free," immediately exit the premises. (We didn't of course). Mr. Sport spared no expense on decorating the lobby - it was just worn and tired with its olive hues and dark wood trim. A restaurant off the lobby offered stale pastry and sour orange juice served in red plastic cups as our daily free continental breakfast. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and Pine Sol. And the heated pool was a mere hole in the ground, surrounded by tall walls of the building that blocked the sun.
The rooms lacked character too. It looked like an episode of Miami Vice had thrown up with pale pastel walls, pastel comforters, and white lacquer furniture. I can't remember what was wrong with the air conditioning unit, but seem to recall it either not working or about to fall out the window.
Perhaps the finest feature of the Mr. Sport Hotel was proudly advertised in the elevator. On the weekends, the bar/lounge up front became a topless lounge. Imagine standing in an elevator as an overdeveloped in the chest 16-year-old girl, with a bunch of truckers, looking at XXX-lounge advertisements together.
Awkward.
The Mr. Sport has provided years of entertainment to my family. We still talk about it and laugh. I stole stationary from there and even send my brother a letter on it from time-to-time.
I looked online to see if the Mr. Sport still exists today, but I couldn't find a trace of it. Perhaps it has come and gone, but it will always live vividly in my mind.
Then there was the "Peabody" incident at a Friendly's diner in Peabody, MA. My mom was writing out a traveler's check to a cashier for our meal and happened to ask what city we were in. The "helpful" cashier responded in a language that resembled something short of Martian, saying "Peabidee." My mom, baffled, asked her to repeat what she said, and once again received a curt "Peabidee!" Mom asked the cashier if she could spell out the town, which came out P-E-A-B-O-D-Y. My mom, relieved she wasn't losing her mind or her grasp of the English language, replied saying, "Oh, you mean PEA-BODY?" The cashier, obviously irked with my mother now, looked at her like she was some sort of idiot, and replied with a snort saying, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID! PEABIDEE!"
Clearly.
What brings up these incidents of the past is my current business trip to Vancouver, B.C. I arrived here yesterday for a work event and my company put us up at a fabulous hotel in the Yaletown District, called the Opus Hotel. By some accident, I was put up in an executive suite. The room is very modern, and has a living room area with the most comfortable couch, two plasma televisions, surround sound, a huge bathroom, iPod docking station, down comforter, heated bathroom floors, and a big, cozy terry-cloth robe. The room is loft-like with large windows that look out towards the water on one side, and out towards brick and glass buildings on the other side. Add a kitchen to this place, and I could call it home.
This is my third trip to Vancouver. I was here for a day last May when I left for Alaska on a cruise, but it is my first trip here, at the tender age of 16 that truly stands out to me. It is also the trip that introduced the Mr. Sport Hotel into my life and Khorge family vacation infamy. As I look at the luxury of this room, and compare it to the room we stayed in at the Mr. Sport, I knew I had to write about it.
The summer of 1990 was a big one in my life. This was the summer before my senior year in high school. It was also time to begin considering what college I would attend the following year. I didn't have a tragic high school experience, but I did know I wanted to get out of my hometown. When a brochure from University of Puget Sound arrived at my house, I was confident I had found my school of choice. It was small, brick and ivy, and it had a physical therapy program, which at the time, was what I thought I wanted to go into.
My parents decided we would travel to Tacoma, WA to check out the college. They mapped out a route that would take us to Eureka, CA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and then continue up the coast of Oregon, into Washington to check out the campus, visit family who lived in Seattle, and eventually, our final destination would be Vancouver, B.C.
My uncle in Seattle had given my parents some ill-advice by telling them they need not worry about hotel reservations on this trip. My parents liked the idea - it allowed for some flexibility and freedom on the trip. Unfortunately, we were not the only family on this journey that summer, and every night became a terrible struggle of driving from town-to-town looking for a place to spend the night. I remember passing by what looked like happy families at Shiloh Inns, Red Lion Inns, Holiday Inns...swimming in heated pools and enjoying free HBO. In comparison, we were playing Bates Motel roulette nightly, staying a string of dumps. Only in Seattle, did we move on up to a deluxe accommodation, when we stayed at the downtown Westin and enjoyed panoramic views of the city to Mt. Rainer.
By the time we rolled into Vancouver, the northwest was experiencing an unusual heat wave. It was sweltering and after hearing nothing but whining from my brother and me, my parents were just trying to find a hotel with a swimming pool. We must have passed 100 NO VACANCY signs until we arrived at the Mr. Sport Hotel, which advertised air conditioning and a heated pool. Good enough! We pulled into the parking lot.
Note to self: if the hotel you are staying at markets itself to truckers with a "stay nine times and get the tenth visit free," immediately exit the premises. (We didn't of course). Mr. Sport spared no expense on decorating the lobby - it was just worn and tired with its olive hues and dark wood trim. A restaurant off the lobby offered stale pastry and sour orange juice served in red plastic cups as our daily free continental breakfast. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and Pine Sol. And the heated pool was a mere hole in the ground, surrounded by tall walls of the building that blocked the sun.
The rooms lacked character too. It looked like an episode of Miami Vice had thrown up with pale pastel walls, pastel comforters, and white lacquer furniture. I can't remember what was wrong with the air conditioning unit, but seem to recall it either not working or about to fall out the window.
Perhaps the finest feature of the Mr. Sport Hotel was proudly advertised in the elevator. On the weekends, the bar/lounge up front became a topless lounge. Imagine standing in an elevator as an overdeveloped in the chest 16-year-old girl, with a bunch of truckers, looking at XXX-lounge advertisements together.
Awkward.
The Mr. Sport has provided years of entertainment to my family. We still talk about it and laugh. I stole stationary from there and even send my brother a letter on it from time-to-time.
I looked online to see if the Mr. Sport still exists today, but I couldn't find a trace of it. Perhaps it has come and gone, but it will always live vividly in my mind.
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