Stormy Weather

There is a universal truth when you live in the English-speaking world, particularly in places like Canada or the UK: weather isn't just an atmospheric condition; it is a cultural cornerstone. It is our default social currency, our icebreaker, and our collective obsession. If you are stuck in an elevator with a stranger in London, Manchester, Toronto, or Winnipeg, you don't talk about politics, art, or what you had for breakfast. You talk about the rain. You talk about the wind. And depending on the season, you debate the air's exact texture. But after years of navigating these conversations, I’ve come to a troubling realisation: I have a geographical bias. And as much as I love the changing seasons, I am officially drawing a line in the humid, sticky sand. I am never going to adjust to the summer heat in eastern Canada.

Before we get into the meteorological misery, let’s start with the linguistics. In the UK, weather talk is a complex, multi-layered dance of understatement. A torrential downpour that floods the high street is merely "a bit damp out." A grey sky that hasn't changed since Tuesday is described as "miserable, isn't it?" with a sort of grim satisfaction. In Canada, the tone shifts. It’s less about resignation and more about survivalist pride. We wear our extreme weather like badges of honour. If it drops to −35∘C, someone will invariably stand outside in a light hoodie, holding an iced coffee, just to tell you, "It's not the cold that gets you, it's the wind chill." People in Winnipeg routinely tell visitors that the -30 degree winters aren’t really that bad - it’s a dry cold, after all. And for the longest time, I agreed with that sentiment. Because I grew up understanding a very specific kind of climate: the unapologetic, dramatic extremes of the Canadian prairies. You don’t just get used to it: you start to like it. Winter in Winnipeg smells clean - clean as a fresh sheet of paper, even as the air stings your cheeks and makes breathing feel like a questionable choice to make.

There is a profound honesty to prairie weather. When winter arrives in the west, it is, in fact, a dry cold. Yes, it is sharp enough to freeze your eyelashes shut when you blink, but it’s a crisp, clear, blue-sky kind of cold. If you layer up properly - wool layers, insulated boots, only your eyes exposed to the cold like a sort of stealthy winter ninja, you can create a localised ecosystem of warmth. The air stays out; you stay dry. In fact, sometimes all that clothing, like a self-made, personal greenhouse, can be too warm, and you have to take your mittens off to let some of the built-up heat escape. The same goes for prairie summers. A 30∘C day in the west is a glorious, baking, dry heat. It feels like walking into an oven, sure, but the moment you step into the shade of an awning or a tree, the temperature drops. Your sweat actually evaporates, doing exactly what nature intended: cooling you down. It’s comfortable. It makes sense.

Then, I moved east. Living in the eastern part of the country, particularly during a July or August heatwave, is a completely different ordeal, and one that feels like a kind of water torture to me. Here, 30∘C isn't a number on a thermometer; it’s a physical weight. The humidity rolls off the waterways and settles over the cities like a damp wool blanket left in a trunk since 1994. It’s like breathing soup. There are moments when, in my distressingly sticky state, I cannot bear to have any part of my skin touching - not even my fingers, so I wander around or lay in bed at night with my hands splayed like starfish, trying to find relief - relief that is not there to find. In a dry heat, you can retreat into the shade, drink something iced, and breathe a sigh of relief. In humid heat, there is no escape. The shade offers zero help because the moisture is suspended in the atmosphere all around you, shade or otherwise. You step outside for four minutes to check the mail, and you return looking like you’ve just been fished out of a river. Your hair expands to three times its normal volume, and your skin becomes a stranger, behaving in ways that feel foreign and unexpected every summer. The air feels thick, heavy, and deeply, personally offensive. It’s like summer hates me - and frankly, I’m not too keen on it here, either. Every conversation at the local coffee shop or on the corner turns into a collective groan about the humidex. "It’s not the heat," a neighbour will sigh, wiping their brow, sweat staining their shirt in wide swooping arcs around their neck and under their arms. "I know," you reply, trapped in the script. "It’s the humidity."

They say the human body is incredibly adaptable. We can acclimatize to high altitudes, desert landscapes, and arctic tundras if given enough time. But I’ve officially given up on eastern summers. Every June, as the air transitions from "crisp spring" to "steamy laundry room," my prairie-conditioned soul rebels. You can keep your heavy air and your sticky afternoons. Until September - who am I kidding, late October - arrives to rescue us with some proper, brisk Canadian air, you can find me hiding from the heat, directly in front of the nearest air conditioning unit, daydreaming about the beautiful, dry winds of the West.

Jennifer