It was the autumn of 2010.
Ryan and I had recently driven 20 hours from Southern Ontario to Terence Bay, Nova Scotia to start a vigorous new life. We'd booked a rental home remotely (in those days a much less common practice). A house on a lake that didn't allow pets.
We brought our two cats along with us.
We were quirky rebels, depending on how you look at it. Or stupid assholes.
The lake house was affordable and dated. Very dated. Affordable because of how dated it was: the 70’s bottled up for anyone willing to crack the lid. It probably smelled musty but I couldn't tell because I had no sense of smell back then. There was thick plastic covering all of the furniture…
The furniture! It was fully furnished. Ah. That's why they didn't allow pets.
This could become an issue.
It was clear from day one that we didn't belong. We kept the curtains closed while we took a night or two to recalibrate and ponder.
The neighbour/groundskeeper came by early on the first or second day and banged on the exterior walls - intermittently scraping methodically all the way around - instead of knocking on the door like a normal human.
We gave each other side-eye as we made excruciating small talk. We were justifiably suspicious of one another. He, of these shifty young Ontarian artists invading his neighborhood. We, of this shifty elderly man on a riding lawnmower disrupting our first days on new turf.
We knew after that conversation (and aforementioned rude awakening) we'd have to leave.
When we weren't hiding in our creepy cottage, we drove along the coast for respite, admiring the ocean from various angles. One day was pristinely sunny.
We pulled over someplace to soak it all in.
The sun's radiation, we noticed, felt extra warm on our skin. We'd spent our lives under an exorbitant haze of pollution and had never felt the sun in proximity to wilderness, unadulterated.
Bouncing off of the Atlantic, the sun’s comforting heat was simply unmatched. We had spent a lot of time wandering and revelling in the sunshine outdoors, but never felt the sun like this.
It warmed our cheeks through the car windshield. We smiled, and closed our eyes, temporarily forgetting that we’d soon have to start strange new jobs and meet new people and hunt down another viable place to live.
We both leaned forward, stretching our necks towards the sun from the familiar safety of our hatchback while icy waves crested and crashed upon boulders bordering the sea.
“Put your face in it,” I said.
And we did.
And we laughed.
And it stuck.
The expression has lingered, forever meaning to me what it did to us that day.
And now, you know.