Frozen Snot and Frostbite - My Week in Montreal

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.