It’s not exactly Vivaldi.
Now, one thinks, one does, if one thinks at all well, that us Canuckistanis have some right to boast about our weather. Oh, other countries may have visible seasons; I’m sure England has snowdrops at some times but not others and maybe even snow on alternate leap years if you reserve ahead, but it is a fact universally acknowledged that no Canadian child grows to maturity without freezing his little face to a huge, immobile piece of metal at least once. And quite a number of them are familiar with the terrarium-like view of a livingroom window that looks out onto snow piled up halfway to the top; it’s a little like being Jacques Cousteau of the North in your semi-submersible split level, only without fish and sharks and other nasty, squidgy things slithering past the porthole, and thank God, I say!
Tell me about the weather.
So when I was in Indonesia, they did. Oh yes, they said, very obligingly, we have four seasons just like you. I gave them my “don’t MAKE me come over there and straighten you out” face, but they appeared to be serious.
Betel nut is a very strong drug, it seems.
Wherever I went, up and down the equator, through fields lush with banana trees, mountainsides covered in jungle and echoing with the cries of invisible monkeys, or cities of corrugated tin, thatched palm walls, and glittering skyscrapers airconditioned to the recommended storage temperature for sushi, people would insist that they had four distinct seasons.
One day, the oppressive and unvarying tropical sauna of heat and humidity, along with the banal and ubiquitous politeness of the people and their cruel and pointless insistence on this obvious absurd falsity finally became too much for me, and I snapped.
“WHAT FOUR SEASONS?!?!?!?!?! What four seasons do you people have, in the name of all that is holy?!?!?!?!”
They looked at me as if I’d suddenly pulled a broadsword out of my purse and was threatening babies. They kept their hands where I could see them. They moved slowly, so as not to startle me. And one of them answered my question, in a soft, calming voice:
“Mangos, pineapples, bananas and jackfruit.”
Duh.
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raincoaster 
Hilarious!
hmmm … I wonder if that fruit constitutes the beginnings of a scoop on Indonesian poop … lol!
You don’t wanna know what I have to say about durian: it is Satan’s very testicles!
A taxi driver in Thailand explained durian to me — “It is the fruit of heaven and hell. Its appearance is from hell, but the taste is from heaven!”
I guess it’s what you grow up with…I’m glad for me it was peaches, not some foul-smelling, spike-armoured, fibrous, so-called ‘fruit’.
Koreans are the same — the way they point out to you “Oh, Korea has four distinct seasons” like they invented the concept can just about drive you mad. But then, they actually do have the distinct seasons.
But the most annoying thing about living in Korea was the expat community, or more specifically, the USians. “Where are you from?” you ask everyone: “Germany.” “Canada.” “Pakistan.” “Ethiopia.” “Australia.” “Britain.” “Denver.” (Which of these is not like the others?) :p
Denverites have always considered themselves a special breed.
Even Warren Zevon acknowledged that when he came up with things for your corpses to do, Lori
Oh Yes! This is too good not to link to. A wonderful story with only one small error.
Yeah, I think it was coconut instead of Jackfruit, come to think of it.
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In Joisey, dey go fo seasons too – Frankie Valli and de udda tree guys