Yes, Canada: where winter isn’t a season, it’s a full-time occupation, and where temperatures drop so low that birds, clearly wiser than many of us, migrate to sun-soaked lands where t-shirts, shorts, and iced drinks make far more sense. You might think I need a psychiatrist to explain why I’d profess fondness for a season that freezes your breath mid-sentence.
And truthfully, I didn’t much enjoy Canada’s six-month snow saga. What I loved were the vivid moments in between: the echoing crack of a bat at a Blue Jays game, a car crammed with friends, music pouring from the speakers as we carved memories into summer’s golden space. Those moments still live warmly in my hippocampus, alongside the scent of popcorn and distant cheers. But I digress. The winter I cherish now is the one gifted by Botswana. Mornings are crisp but kind. The air is clean, the chill gentle, and a hoodie feels just right. One feels quietly, but undeniably alive. And today, buoyed by that serene brightness, we had plans. A new Superman film awaited, and for movie buffs like Shabana, Ayaan, Azeem, and me, this was no casual outing. A new face beneath the cape, a new myth to embrace.
