It was March of this year, and my city was coming out of covid lockdown and I was coming out of the end of a long-term relationship. I needed a break from all of it so I said to hell with it, took a Friday off (I teach college) and booked a room at a small ski resort for a long weekend. I hadn’t been skiing for ages but the snow and cold air always clears my mind and lifts my mood. So off I went in my little hatchback, ditching Toronto for a small ski town in British Columbia.
Checking in at the main lobby, I found the usual types passing through—couples, college students, families with shrieking kids. Reassuringly familiar; the only change this year was the masks. I checked in, got my key, and headed back towards the entrance to gather my gear from my car. As I opened the door, a group of college students was approaching—all women, seemingly close friends but not quite a sorority vibe, all of them clad in various forms of late-winter attire. I hold the door open for them, and they parade past, chatting with each other and oblivious to me.