I’ve never been one of those people who enjoy seasons. Or rather, I like two seasons: dry and monsoon. I spent my early childhood in the tropics and have never quite adjusted to lands where people wear things on their feet to make them go fast over ice and snow.

I moved here because of my husband’s screenwriting career, and we love it here. Alex sets everything he writes in Montreal (never in some generic North American city) because Montreal has more charm than anyplace north of New Orleans. Still, there’s this thing here that begins with a W. I can barely bring myself to say it… Suffice it to say that Canada has its own problematic “W” and it’s the season that comes after fall.

How did colonists settle a place that gets down to 30 below? I don’t care how many beaver pelts you have — that’s cold! On particularly frigid days, I beg Alex go to Hong Kong to make kick-boxing movies for the winter — it’s tropical there. Helpfully, I suggest various plots for possible Hong Kong films. It’s become a seasonal shtick in our household for him to ask, “What’s the weather like outside?” and for me to answer: “He promised his sainted dead mother he would never fight again, but then the Big Boss violated his innocent cousin Ming…”

Other times, we go into denial. When we had our convertible, whenever the temperature was 1 degree above zero, Alex would ride around the block with the top down. I’d go outside and mock-scream, “I can’t see my breath! I can’t see my breath!” Then we’d go inside for frozen tropical drinks and listen to salsa.

I’m told that other locals, when faced with the severe climate, take up sport d’hiver. Tell me, fellow Montrealers: What’s your own strategy for adjusting to the cold?

Related posts:

1. Four seasons, every day of the year.
2. An oberservation on people and the coming snow storm
3. Unable to get home
4. Seven wonders of Montreal
5. Death signs gone wrong