Os dejo con un post vintage y una foto refrescante.
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I leave you with a vintage post and a refreshing picture.
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Empieza en inglés (es que cuando empecé a escribir mis posts, lo hice en inglés primero), el español viene despues.
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Toronto in the fifties was an Anglo-Saxon, white, European society. As, a
matter of fact, I had never seen a black person in my life until one
day we crossed the border to see the Falls from the American side, and
then on to Buffalo, N.Y. It was full of black people! What a
difference from one side to the other... (the first black person I saw in
Toronto was, I think, in the sixties). Anyway, this is just a little
anecdote but really has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell (except seeing the Falls from the American side...).
My father bought a car--Morris Oxford--and, of course, the first trip we took was to Niagara Falls. They were breathtakingly beautiful and magnificent, however, my parents were so enthralled and enthused that for the next TWO YEARS we practically went every weekend! Too much for me. I knew the Falls inside/out! I knew them from above; from below--with the yellow raincoats; from the bottom, on the boat, with the black raincoats; across from the front from the Spanish Lift which, by the way, was built by one of our relatives, therefore, the name "Spanish". So, least of falling over them--which would have killed me and I wouldn't be writing this--I was fed up with the Falls!!! Never went back again and don't plan to do so in the near future.
My father bought a car--Morris Oxford--and, of course, the first trip we took was to Niagara Falls. They were breathtakingly beautiful and magnificent, however, my parents were so enthralled and enthused that for the next TWO YEARS we practically went every weekend! Too much for me. I knew the Falls inside/out! I knew them from above; from below--with the yellow raincoats; from the bottom, on the boat, with the black raincoats; across from the front from the Spanish Lift which, by the way, was built by one of our relatives, therefore, the name "Spanish". So, least of falling over them--which would have killed me and I wouldn't be writing this--I was fed up with the Falls!!! Never went back again and don't plan to do so in the near future.
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Toronto, en los años cincuenta, era una ciudad muy anglosajona, muy europea y muy blanca. Jamás había visto un negro en mi vida hasta que un dia cruzamos la frontera, para ver las cataratas del lado americano y nos adentramos hasta Buffalo, N.Y. Estaba lleno de negros, qué diferencia de un lado al otro..., creo que la primera persona negra que vi en Toronto fue en los años sesenta. Bueno, esta es una pequeña anécdota que no tiene mucho que ver con la historia que cuento a continuación (excepto el ver las cataratas desde el lado americano...).
Mi padre compró un coche--un Morris Oxford--y,
claro, el primer viaje que hicimos fue a las cataratas del Niagara.
Eran fabulosas, preciosas y grandiosas. Ahora bien, mis padres quedaron
tan alucinados y entusiasmados que en los DOS AÑOS siguientes fuimos casi cada fin de semana. Me las conocía de arriba, abajo. Las vimos por arriba; por
abajo con los chubasqueros amarillos; por debajo en el barquito con los chubasqueros negros; por
enfrente cruzando el "Spanish Lift" (se llama así porque fue construido
por un pariente nuestro) y exceptuando haber caido por ellas --habría
muerto por lo tanto no estaría escribiendo ésto ahora--¡¡estaba harta de
las dichosas cataratas!! Nunca más volví ni pienso hacerlo en un futuro cercano.
