When it's hot, it makes me think of the cold. Not cool as it might be more natural, but its cool to cold, as soon as it happened to you some time and made you suffer. Once I was always ice cream. When I was in the mountains, the friends I teased because I was always full of sweaters and heavy jackets, even when others were in t-shirt, I did not miss even gloves and socks. Then it was Russia that has changed me. Temperatures and deadly snow birches between boundless horizon until the last ice along the walls, transparent stalactites that fall from the rooftops. Now I think I feel more at low temperatures. I always warm and do not tremble more when the wind blows cold dell'Assietta.
Needless to say that my so-called friends, they will say that it's all due to the thick layer of lard, extending under the skin around my body, to protect me as the walrus, from the harsh winter. It 's true that at that time I put on a nice kiletto year and eventually all that matters, but I do not think it's just a matter of fat. When I was in Moscow, how strange, in my memory I always feel like it was winter, was getting a cold burner. Emerging from a hot environment, perhaps a bit 'sticky for the stale air and smell human characteristic, certainly had no desire to open the half with double-and triple-glazed windows to let in the gusts of Grandfather Frost and you found on the wide pavements slippery ice Tvierskaija, while the cold air will penetrate under clothing taking you in like a vise.
I hand you trod in dublijonka thick and even more shapka of hair on his head to protect your ears, but when after a heavy breathing dry felt a pain in the back of the throat, that was the clear signal that the thermometer was below 25 ° C. I could not even walk fast to reach a sheltered place, restaurant or hotel that was, clinging to his pants legs hardened, tough as they themselves were of thick plywood and the pitch was made difficult, heavy. Then came the goal and what a relief to take off all the layers off, returning the air sweet with too much heat, wiping her eyes watery. An alternating hell of ice and fire that may shape the body, who knows, took away the habit of complaining. This time, just out from the halls of the fair, the streets dark and without light in the early afternoon of a late January, not even hear the pungent smell of petrol burnt low quality.
The Vigilante who stood erect and motionless near the bar, looked like the Michelin Man, so many jackets and padding between the visor and was wearing a coat and scarf, you could see only the eyes suffering from having to stand outside without even a drop of vodka, beating the feet do not freeze. We even checked the pass, as we walked towards the car. The cursed did not want to leave and he was there to lend a hand to push, to the slightly downhill, just to keep warm. Place hands behind, but when the car started, my colleague started shouting like crazy, he had no gloves and the skin of the palms had been attached to the plate. There were 32 degrees below zero. When it's cold, cold.
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