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I'm sitting in the Beet Root café in Whistler. G and Joel (a business associate) are out skiing. Sadly, the snow shoeing trails have closed due to a week of melt, so I went for a romp in the hotel gym, then a morning walk.
As I sit here in the steamy coffee-and-baked goods-scented air of this café watching the snow fall outside, I am reminded strongly of my days in RI; of the many hours of my youth spent nursing café au laits, speaking of philosophy, art and science as the snow piled up outside. I'm feeling warm, cozy, safe and very nostalgic.
Little breezes following paths between the buildings, meeting other winds along the way, are blowing the light fluffy flakes in spirals; dancing white snow, twirling in waltzes and rumbas.
The flakes fall to the ground and they melt. The ground has warmed here. The crocus and first daffodils are beginning to bloom, the trees are forming leaf buds, the smell of spring in its infancy, a smell of hope and new beginnings, is hinted in the air.
Our journey north felt like driving back in time. Vancouver is about two, maybe three weeks behind us in springtime development. It's not enough to shift my perspective, just a little hint of déjà vu and an opportunity to appreciate the flowering plums and hyacinths again. In Whistler, it feels like February. The tulips are mere green bladed daggers slicing a few centimeters above the ground. Robins are still working throughout the day to find fodder beneath the snow and in the clear patches of land.
This is a busy, happening village. There are huge crowds in some areas -- noisy, youthful, adventurous -- and there are other places where the snow quiets all but the rushing waters of the many streams and rivers. I pass over a wooden covered bridge on my way from the hotel to the village. I paused to appreciate the creamy gray-green rushing waters beneath me and observe the frolicking corvids on its banks. All was quiet and peaceful... right up to the moment a group of skiers passed onto the wooden planks, their stiff, heavy boots sounding like a herd of sauropods reverberating off every surface of the bridge. I laughed at the stark contrast.
As I sit here in the steamy coffee-and-baked goods-scented air of this café watching the snow fall outside, I am reminded strongly of my days in RI; of the many hours of my youth spent nursing café au laits, speaking of philosophy, art and science as the snow piled up outside. I'm feeling warm, cozy, safe and very nostalgic.
Little breezes following paths between the buildings, meeting other winds along the way, are blowing the light fluffy flakes in spirals; dancing white snow, twirling in waltzes and rumbas.
The flakes fall to the ground and they melt. The ground has warmed here. The crocus and first daffodils are beginning to bloom, the trees are forming leaf buds, the smell of spring in its infancy, a smell of hope and new beginnings, is hinted in the air.
Our journey north felt like driving back in time. Vancouver is about two, maybe three weeks behind us in springtime development. It's not enough to shift my perspective, just a little hint of déjà vu and an opportunity to appreciate the flowering plums and hyacinths again. In Whistler, it feels like February. The tulips are mere green bladed daggers slicing a few centimeters above the ground. Robins are still working throughout the day to find fodder beneath the snow and in the clear patches of land.
This is a busy, happening village. There are huge crowds in some areas -- noisy, youthful, adventurous -- and there are other places where the snow quiets all but the rushing waters of the many streams and rivers. I pass over a wooden covered bridge on my way from the hotel to the village. I paused to appreciate the creamy gray-green rushing waters beneath me and observe the frolicking corvids on its banks. All was quiet and peaceful... right up to the moment a group of skiers passed onto the wooden planks, their stiff, heavy boots sounding like a herd of sauropods reverberating off every surface of the bridge. I laughed at the stark contrast.
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