Cold Play.

It's a long way to Tipperary, and, it would seem, quite a haul to International Falls, where I spent my weekend. True to tradition, it snowed convincingly Friday night, right before Sara and I departed for the Canadian border, and I wisely left my car keys with a benevolent neighbor, who saved me hundreds in inevitable impound fees. I've lived on Christ-street USA for five years, and have been towed thrice. That's quite enough, right?

Even in daylight, there's nothing to see on the trip but pro-life billboards and ads for Hardees burgers the size of Logan International Airport. I can't ever decide which is the more disquieting image; some baby with cerebral palsy trying to justify its miserable existence, or layer after layer of ground beef, weeping grease like a sweaty, gangling teenager. I might stop and eat fast food, but I'm no more after this trip convinced to adopt some crack baby.

Here's what I expected from 'The Falls,' as local parlance has it: Cold, a paper mill that smells like Lindsay Lohan's mattress, and cold. Three for three. Apparently, the city once boasted the world's largest thermometer, but it broke and was never replaced. I wonder if anybody got mercury poisoning from that.
I stayed with Sara's grandfather, who would rank among somewhere among the world's most hospitable gentlemen. His place was tidy, the bed was soft, and the cocktails were plentiful.

I'm never too worried about my ability to make a good impression; it's what I get paid to do, chat with strangers, find common interests, and eventually get their money, but I really like Sara, and wanted to bring my 'A' game to the show. In this, I succeeded handsomely, managing to slip deftly a 'Christmas Vacation' quote into dinner conversation, remembering to pass all side-dishes without being prompted, and not soiling my best dress shirt.

To my immense relief, nobody singled me out for special questioning, so I never had to get into how many nights are spent ritualistically sacrificing small rodents to my insatiable man-beast God. I love and worship thee, oh Great Raneeshesh, maker of heaven, hell, and anti-bacterial hand-soap! Nor did I have to get into my penchant for eating smelling-salts while listening to ABBA. Actually, ABBA did factor into a conversation with her Finnish Aunt, who invited us over to her lake-home for a sauna, which was accepted, and much appreciated. I haven't sweat so much since my last performance review at work.

Anyway, I was proud to share in her past, and her heritage, and it made me reaffirm how greatly I adore my own family for their kindness, generosity, and unconditional love, even if they live in a town renowned for antique collectibles and founded on merciless deforestation. The Falls had some great shops, including a jewelry shop owned by her uncle, a collector of rare currency. I will find it endlessly fascinating how you can use currency to buy other currency. That seems like the purest form of collecting.

Environments and geography shape people; their minds, their language, attitudes and expectations about life. I don't fully understand that, and I probably never will grasp the magnitude to which her small, Northern residence forged Sara's character, but I'm glad to have had a glimpse, the first of which will be many, I'm sure.