Mid winter downtown Toronto

Salt. Lots of salt. Salt is on every street. Salt is on every shoe, on every pant, in every hallway. When the streets have been cleaned and the walkways are dry and no more snow is falling, the asphalt is still hazed with the white dust of salt. I imagine soil salinity is not an issue here as it is in Australia.

Other than the theatrically salt-whitened walkways, other than the frozen waves of snow on sidewalks whose colours range from pure white to all shades of brown, other than some red-brown Tim Horton cups and cigarette buds, the streets and other public places are signposted with lost gloves. They are like a ranger’s marks in a forest - sometimes low on the ground, sometimes high on a bush or a tree, sometimes ten meters away from a beaten track (how did they ever get there?) and sometimes on a subway train's seat. Occasionally they look like lonely lost puppies waiting for their owner. None loses hats, scarfs, shoes - only gloves. If I collected them all I could probably open a shop with a motto "Variety is the spice of life when it comes to gloves!"

The air is beyond cold. It is crackling crisp cold. It is crisper than the Pecking duck's skin but colder than the dry ice. If something did not get a chance to melt and run away, it is frozen in action. Even the snow while still looking like snow, when you touch it, is a cracking frozen crystal. The steam from your mouth when talking, and from your nose when just walking – they don’t look cute any longer, they look cold. "There goes some more of my inner warmth" I think watching the steam run away. I am sure that if my ears were not covered, on close inspection you would see steam coming out too. Everyone on the street looks like the horses on winter paintings, with curls of steam puffing out of nostrils, or like those old steam powered locomotives.

In winter, people's faces reveal another remarkable distinguishable quality. As if the size and shape of noses was not enough as a source of anguish for some, their colour in this cold weather also varies. There are some white-nosed people, and there are some red-nosed people, and then there are all those shades of red in between. How do you explain that? I don't mean from the physiology point of view, but rather from that of a natural selection?

Winter compromises go beyond fashion - they shake the most fundamental of my convictions: Tim Hortons with their warm brown colours and inviting lights look like safety-houses in the darkness of an early but very black night. While the mind falters and contemplates the pros and cons of walking in, the simple-minded proletarian-spirited feet keep carrying you on to a safe distance away from that evil artisan well of capitalism and bad coffee.

I received a few presents over the last few months, starting with the months leading to leaving Australia. Every second present was a scarf, so my neck is well packaged with one of the rotating 6 scarfs. My head is covered by a woven hat over my ears and up to my eyebrows and together with shoulders the head is sunken into my stiff torso in an effort to preserve inner heat. As I make my way home, I see some young cool people walking free style with open necks and no hats. My back straightens and shoulders are pulled back, vainly trying to look more graceful. The hat stays on. As I walk on I see the neon lights on top of Canada Life building. These lights always run either up or down depending on the direction of current temperature change. Tonight they are running down – it is getting colder. My grace is forgotten, my head and shoulders are again pulled in and my short steps fasten.

The metal frames covering the sewage outlets have a life of their own. In the summer they were either quiet or made occasional gurgling noises on a rainy day. When the first snow melted quickly and flooded the sewage system they made violent noises with little droplets jumping out every now and then. Now they are steaming, adding that Hollywoodian mystery to a street. The only thing that is missing from this movie set is either a jazz soundtrack or a heart-throbbing suspense music. In the winter these places are magnets for heat seekers. During the day the pigeons sit on them all puffed up with eyes half closed, intoxicated with heat. At night the pigeons are replaced by the creatures of higher pecking order - the unfortunate homeless people who are covered with sleeping bags of all sorts. On street corners they rise out of the mystery of sewage steam like black mountains. Sometimes they move.

On the streets of downtown Toronto there are still people asking for money. I admire their determination. It is like a job for them – they are always there on the same sweet spot that has not changed since summer. Now they wear warm cloths, and a warm hat, but the collecting hat in their hand is still the same summer baseball cap. The discrepancy is subliminal, but the more I think about it, the more striking it is: just seeing these summer caps in this cold makes me shiver.

The walk from the hospital to my place is 10 mins, enough to start freezing. Today I walked many blocks to a market. I was prepared: I test-drove my new merino wool pair of long johns. Glad I did, or might have become less of a man by the time I got home. Canadian winter experience would not be the same if I never got a chance to wear those.

The real winter has come. The festive season has passed. On we go with the winter existence.