As I was peeking through the airplane window, I could spot the big snowy city, which I would soon be calling home. Montreal was a snowy, maple syrup-filled wonderland, with people speaking the only language I knew at the time, French, in a funny but challenging-to-understand manner. I had apprehended moving to a country whose primary language was English, which I basically did not know; and to a city where people spoke French in a bizarre accent. But what I apprehended most was going to a Canadian school.

The first day proved to be tough. Listening to my teacher teach a class for hours on end in a Québecois accent proved to be hard, as it would either cause me to lose attention, or have to ask the teacher to repeat what she had previously said; however, this was nowhere as bad as my first English class. I will forever remember the English teacher telling my class to go and make masks for a future show, while she started talking to me in English, using words, and syllables that, even though I tried as hard as I could, could not get a single ounce of sense out of. I remember the feeling of despair I had, being talked to in a language alien to me, and seeing all the other kids in my class having fun making cool-looking masks.

After around an hour of my English teacher trying to teach me how to say things like “pencil case” or “pen”, the bell rang. All of a sudden, every kid in the class took their things and ran to the playground, so I followed them. I wandered around until I went past a chubby, white-haired, and slightly old man whom I guessed to be the teacher looking after the kids during the break. Hoping he could help me find something to do, or introduce me to other children, I told him I didn’t know what to do. With a big smile camouflaged by his big messy white beard, he told me to follow him. Curious about who he was, I asked his name. “Mario”, he told me, “just like in the game”. I was amused by this cartoon-like character who was guiding me toward a group of boys I had passed by previously. He quickly introduced me to each boy and told them to play with me and waved me goodbye.

Next break, I looked for him, to ask him why he was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts in Quebec’s cold. “It is because once, I stayed in a fridge for a whole night”, he told me, and that now he was never cold. After this funny response, I laughed and went back to the group of boys he had designated to me the day prior. From that day on, I would go to him, ask him questions, about him and things in Canada, and he would answer me with funny tales and stories he made seem so real. He cheered me up and was the reason I looked forward to recess.

A year later, as I was saying my goodbyes to the friends I had made during this long year, I went up to Mario and hugged him, and thanked him for his presence and everything he did for me. And it was in this hug, with Mario who was the closest thing to a living teddy bear, that I realized how important and kind he had been to me; how his funny and made-up stories would cheer me up and make this feeling of despair go away. How he would always be there to tell me a new tale, about his polar bear pet, or him living in the North Pole with Santa Claus. And for that, I will always remember and be grateful to have met him.

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