Winter Insulates

On the last really cold day, I was standing at the street corner waiting for the light to change. Next thing I knew I was getting bumped into. I turned to look at who had done it and await my apology.

It wasn't coming. The guy was so bundled up in his poofy parka that I doubt he even felt that he made contact with another human. I turned back.

Another guy had appeared on my left, also smack beside me. He was oblivious to his position because he had his hood up, and thus had no peripheral vision.

I was in a parka sandwich! I had to giggle because there wasn't anyone else around, yet I had these two, looming, bundled sentinels beside me, clueless to how much they were encroaching on my personal space for no other reason than their fearsome weatherproofing.

Since then I've been noticing how winter changes space for Torontonians. Sidewalks become narrower. Suddenly everyone is walking in single file rather than side-by-side. That's particularly annoying for fast walkers like me. Passing is much harder to do and being patient is also hard for me when I'm behind meanderers. Cars also have problems passing with the snow banks. And it seems fewer people are holding hands because mitts and gloves are hard to grasp onto. Plus the dreaded ice patch would take two out rather than just one.

We really are insulated in the winter. Sure, it's for good reason but the fall-out is that we are insulated from one another, from making contact and being friendly.

How many more months until the first heated patio opens?

Human Traffic-Jam

from my travel journal: 14 may 07
marrakesh, morocco

We had our crazy street experience last night. I’ve never been so jam-packed on a street with so many different types of people at once. I agree with Paul that our packs saved us from being totally tossed around.

People were crushed up together, like going upfront at a concert. Kids, one in a used wheelchair, others on bikes, and women with babies, old men, young men, and delivery men, pushing medieval carts (Paul saw one with precariously placed eggs.). I was utterly shocked when I looked up from the person’s neck in front of me to see two horses, signaling a carriage was trying to get through the hodgepodge throng too, at the narrowest part of the street, of course.

And what a gamut of expressions, if you took time to focus on faces rather than the tense, forced, stalled momentum. Some people were shocked. Others were excited, almost laughing. Anger. Disdain. Zen displacement.

Two of the sweetest Moroccan gestures happened to me during that street push. A teenage boy grabbed my arm, checking if I was ok, telling me to be careful, before he was tossed away. And two shopkeepers hauled me to their window, anchoring me with their shouts of "madam" and their hands on my backpack. They also warned me to watch it. I assured them it was locked. I think they would have hauled me over their window ledge, into dock, if I had wanted. So kind.

Paul and I somehow, separately made it through and found each other on the other side, right before the main square.