THE NARRATIVE ARC / MEMOIR
Being Swedish, I Got in Trouble With Canadian Law
But I did have my first pizza and Pepsi, so there’s that
When I grew up, Italian food was never on the menu. If it wasn’t potatoes and meat, or potatoes and fish, lots of butter, lots of sugar, lots of bread, lots of coffee, it just wasn’t food.
The Italian stuff was, well, Italian, but it wasn’t food, and Mom shielded us from it effectively all through my childhood.
Then I grew up.
Toronto, February of 1973. The coldest I had ever experienced. And for someone growing up in northern Sweden, I guess that says a lot.
It was so cold that no one, not even the hardiest of the locals, waited by the curb for the “walk” sign to turn green. They all waited inside the store closest to the pedestrian crossing and then, when the sign turned green, they all busted out, ran across the street, and then into whatever store was closest at hand on the far side.
Someone said forty below with the arctic wind coming off frozen Lake Ontario. Really, I could not feel my face, so I returned to my hotel store by store.
Where Brad, my business pal, was also busy thawing.
