I arrived in Montreal from warm and sunny
Australia a month ago, “worst time of the year” they said. “You'll freeze,”
they said.
That was
not the worst of my fears.
We found a
place, our new home.
The first
morning I went out and saw a grey pigeon perched on the rail of the balcony of
the block next door. It watched me as I went down the winding, twisting stairs trying not to break my neck on the icy steps.
“I will
have to find a job, of course, but will I be too old? Or too… Spanish? Do
people here like Spaniards? I will have to learn to drive on the other side of
the road, again. How long will it take me to familiarize myself with the
streets, will I be very stressed if I get lost?”
The day
after there were two pigeons, one of them saw me and took flight immediately,
ignoring me. The second one, the same as the day before, stood there, staring
at me.
“I will
have to make new friends. I will love them and then will eventually have to say
goodbye sometime, again, as I did the others. And then I’ll miss them.”
The day
after, the temperature was minus 36 degrees. I went out and the pigeon was
there still watching me, defiant, telling me with its imperturbability that it
would not work, that I wouldn't find warmth again, that there wouldn't be
friends or colleagues, and that I’d always be a stranger here.
I looked at
it and thought “maybe I should stay in. It’s really cold. Maybe it was not a
good idea to come here at all”.
I wrapped
myself up in warm clothes and went out anyway. I saw the damned pigeon watching
me again with its hatred and its murderous eyes. I decidedly ran down the
stairs with courage in my heart, walked the few steps separating my block from
the neighbour’s, looked up, took a deep breath and climbed the snow-covered
steps of the old building.
And there
she was, still staring; cold, grey and petrified as old lava.
