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Why can’t I feel my toes?

Posted by on February 7, 2008

So this past Saturday after a quick 12hr nap I awoke in a place that seemed, ironically, very foreign. Cold and foreign. Was I in Russia?

“Michael!?! are you STILL sleeping? You have jetlag, not mono. If you want to fix your internal clock I suggest you get out of bed and do something today. Besides, I need you shovel the driveway”

Ah yes, I’m back in Canada. The land of beavers, poutine, double-doubles & hopelessly delusional Maple Leaf fans.

For those of you quasi following this blog in between your thankless meetings at work and killing time until Heroes and Lost are on, let me fill you in on my return.

For the Spanish authorities to begin filing my work visa papers I need to be out of the country (mainly because as of mid-Dec I was there illegally). So now I’m back in the freezing rain, heavy snow, and -15 degree weather of my home land where visiting the beach in shorts and a t-shirt is only an option if I’m looking to end my life or build a snowman.

Oddly though, as much as the weather here has already started to steal my soul I couldn’t be happier to be home. Dorothy said it best as her yappy dog agreed, “There’s no place like home”.

The day after I arrived I had orchestrated a reverse surprise party for myself at the house of a close friend. As a group of my good friends sat around having a few drinks preparing for yet another booze-infused night in Toronto I walked out of a locked guest room and sprung my surprise. The true show of someone’s feelings I’ve always thought, is the split second reaction when they see something they were not expecting. After that split second the thought process begins and the barriers reappear. Its nice to have a warm welcome home that you know is genuine. These people are definitely what Spain was missing for me.  The snow however, I could do without.

I always wonder why my father couldn’t have emigrated to Australia in the 70s instead of Hamilton, Ontario. He must have come here in the summer for the first time, because if he would’ve landed in mid-January I doubt he would have left the airport.

So the return home for me is certainly far away from permanent but 60 days is a long time to spend in the mother country without the possibility of growing a few roots in the meantime.

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