And, according to Icelandic Online, it’ll be staying, for awhile.
A recent exercise within the program asked me to correctly organize the months of year by season. I kept failing at this rather simple task because it took me three or four gos to figure out that in Iceland, November and March are both considered winter months:
This is particularly funny to me because it actually took me a long time to adjust to the idea of there being four seasons at all. In my “homeland” (Arizona), spring and fall didn’t really exist. There was summer and winter (colder-summer, maybe–gasp!–with frost in the early mornings.) I didn’t own a coat–a real winter coat–until I moved to New York for college. (I didn’t own a good winter coat until last year–it took me ten years to figure out that one layer of down is both warmer and simpler than three underlayers, an over-layered sweater, and two scarves.) When I first moved to New York I remember being vastly surprised that my early May birthday was not a summer birthday anymore–I used to have swim parties as a kid–but was rather a very early spring birthday on which I’d still be wearing a blazer.
Fall was a little clearer to me, what with the leaves changing colors and Halloween and the like, but it was, and is now, really closely associated in my mind with November, too–Thanksgiving is a fall holiday, right? And by March, aren’t we all kind of moving into spring? (Setting arguments of global warming and the last few scarily warm New York winters and springs aside, mind you.)
Wrong, Iceland tells me now. November will be winter. And so will December, January, and February. And March. That’s nearly half the year, guys. I’m going to have to take up more winter activities, I think. Double down on crocheting and also pick up something outdoorsy–Mark and I have been talking about cross-country skiing (less opportunities for me to break my leg, maybe?). Because it’s gonna be a long winter, and I want to enjoy it.