Between Carnival and a snowstorm

Walking in the blizzard, my boots sinking deeply into the snow, the nasty wind was pounding me with waves of snow from every direction. But knowing that I was just 5 blocks away from home, the discomfort had the same thrill that you get in a roller coaster: you’re glad that you’re in for the ride, and you know you’ll be even happier when it’s over.

I finally made it back into my apartment and I tuned in the news: Highway closures, gridlocks everywhere. Not a good day to be in the road. My phone rang, it was my friend Shawn. He needed a place to stay for the night in Toronto.

- Aren’t you in Ottawa?
- Yes, but my flight to [undisclosed location in Africa] leaves from Toronto tomorrow morning.
- How do you plan to get here?
- Driving
- In the middle of the snowstorm?? Are you insane!? (Rhetorical question, he IS insane).
- The airports is closed.
- Why don’t you take the train?
- I tried to, the tracks are blocked somewhere.

So he rented a car and drove through the snowstorm. He arrived almost at midnight, I had friends over, and he entertained us with his adventures as journalist disguised as diamond smuggler in [undisclosed location in Africa]. Or at least I found it entertaining.

I’ve seen Shawn more than 24 hours in the last couple of years, so there was plenty of catch up to do. About the family, his house in Rio de Janeiro, his new dog, living conditions in Brazil, diamond smuggling in the amazons, and the sort.

Then the next day, I realized he forgot to mention something. He came out of the shower, wearing no shirt, and I realized a couple of nasty wounds in the back, just an inch below the armpit. They were pretty recent, they still had the stitches on.

Turns out, the week before, after a full day of dancing and drinking in the carnival in Rio de Janeiro, where he lives since year 2004, he was taking a lonely alley back home when two guys tried to take his wallet. He decided it was a good idea to fight with them. In retrospective, he admits it wasn’t the wisest idea. He could not understand why one of the guys insisted in punching him mildly in the shoulder. “What a harmless fighting technique” he remembers thinking. It wasn’t until he saw the blood, and then a shine in the guýs hand that he realized that he wasn’t being punched. He was being stabbed.

Luckily, the blade didn’t touch the lungs, so he’ll be alright... well, at least as related to this incident. Last I heard from him, in an e-mail from his wife Alex, is that he was stranded in an obscure region of Africa because the plane landed abruptly due to technical problems.

As I write this, the weather is getting mild, but one major highway is closed, as the half melted ice stalactites are staring to fall from big buildings, such as the CN tower.

Which one is a better way to die? By a pointy piece of pointed ice, the size of an adult person, falling 500 metres from the sky? Or having your lung punctured by a knife after dancing the day away in Rio’s carnival? Which one is a better way to live?

Toronto, March 12, 2007