My winter vacation

With winter gone AWOL, a trip designed to rediscover the joys of snow and frost was in order. Spent a night at the Quebec Ice Hotel, where wind chill contributed to a still-toasty minus 17 Celsius outside temperature come morning.

Staff people were not at their best. Guests were ordered to wear special badges which, the woman at the check-in counter said, would ensure better service. Mere visitors, paying $14 for a quick tour, shouldn't expect pleasant hellos from employees, apparently.

The better service had limits, however. One travelling companion, who brought along her one-year-old, generated you-must-be-a-bad-mother shock (what? you have a baby?). And even if our stay had been previously paid for, a credit card was again needed -- in case we stole the bathrobes and towels.

Most of your time is spent in heated, mortar and brick restaurants and lobbies. There, my forays into same-sex public displays of affection were received by most, by the by, with occasional surprise but no snark or upfront gratuitous upset. Extra marks to the American woman who paused, counted to five, then kept chatting. She did, however, have concerns about getting out of her wet bathing suit in the common changing room area; I gave her a big smile and wandered out to the spa. I can be a magnanimous lesbian!

Note: good luck trying to have sex in a frigid room -- and bed -- made of packed snow and ice. Do tell if you manage without tacking on hypothermia or a related ailment.

You sleep bundled up in a mummifying (good to minus 40) sleeping bag, like a caterpillar entering a deep and transforming sleep who'll spread new wings come morning. Only your nose and mouth peek out from the refuge, spraying humidity. When I got up, the sleeping bag was covered in an almost slushy film.

It promised to be an exciting adventure. Your own body heat, trapped within the bag, keeps the spark plugs flickering. And men, explained the sporty chickie giving us the last of our survivalist instructions, are warmer than women. Ha! thought the butch chickie: Macha heat. I am always more than happy to believe such generic statements. And so I doffed my PJs and hunkered into neutral.

Two hours later, I thought I was going to freeze to death. By morning, I had curled up into a tight little ball, desperate to save my feet from amputation. It turns out female physiology rules over big toughie identity. I'm filing a human rights complaint with God.