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Nina Discombe

A few years ago, I decided to spend my winters in Mexico, where I sleep under a mosquito net and set my alarm for 4:30, hoping to catch a few hours of writing time before the roosters and muffler-less trucks welcome the dawn. When the jacarandas stop blooming, I return to Canada to my cottage in Quebec where the silence and the occasional call of the loon make me yearn for the cacophony of Mexico.

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