For over a week now I’ve been trying to write a lament for Canadian March. I was planning to write how hard it is to be stuck in an endless, snowless winter, with no prospects of either Christmas or Spring in sight. I meant to write how difficult it is to wait and wait and, when you can’t take it any longer, wait some more. I was planning to put this all on the blog, along with some pictures of what true Spring truly looks like, but then… then came Stella. Stella is not my friend or psychiatrist, she’s not

I have no memories people usually keep from their childhood. I remember neither my first seaside vacation, nor my first doll or the first time I was on the plane. But I remember the first time I left home. It was the longest train ride in history: the ride from everything I knew to the unknown. I was seven, I wasn't scared, just bored by monotonous country landscape and frequent stops at the little stations that weren't ours. I believe it took us two days and one night to get to the destination - by the time we arrived it was dark and I was too cranky to notice yellow street lights, cobblestone, black silhouettes of churches against indigo sky and homely noise of the invisible river.