Oh, snow.

Trudging through inches upon inches of snow always reminds me of my childhood. Those Canadian winters were harsh and in all of my 14 years growing up there, I can only recall schools closing down once, when I was in the eight grade. Some white powder and ice never stopped anyone. We celebrated it, with winter festivals like Carnaval in Quebec and Winterlude in Ottawa.

We didn't have a car back then, and my mother and I took three different buses and walked miles upon miles once a week to get to my piano teacher's home, located in a far more affluent part of town. The one-hour lesson never seemed worth the amount of time we spent on the road to me. I hated the way I felt inside, watching all those big and beautiful houses silently go by as I blankly stared out the windows. I resented my mother for putting me through it. I slumped down to my knees once, simply because I no longer wanted to go on, and sat like that in the icy cold snow like a statue, refusing to move or even try. I cried and cried and was utterly miserable and repeatedly demanded she flag down a cab to take us home. But she said nothing. She waited and waited and waited until I was too numb to be stubborn and proud anymore and finally got up to quietly follow her. We got home so late I didn't even eat dinner that night.

Tough love. Snow reminds me of tough love.

I really do lovelovelove my Digital Harinezumi 2.

I have always loved taking photos but never really pursued photography as a hobby until more recently. And, although I still carry my point-and-shoot everywhere I go and undoubtedly appreciate the clear and crisp pictures that my DSLR faithfully captures and delivers, I've been taking on a new lover around town lately: the Digital Harinezumi 2.

This whimsical, plastic toy camera, immensely popular in Japan, was gifted to me by Manfriend this past Christmas. I think I even squealed the very second I unwrapped my present. For one, it is so cute, and two, I was so curious! I knew absolutely nothing about the Harinezumi (meaning "hedgehog" in Japanese) but got so excited when Manfriend told me the camera was created to replicate the grainy feel of old 35 mm film -- but digitally, and without any alteration. In other words: packaged nostalgia, all in the palm of your hand (and pocket). I couldn't wait to try it out!

Just as I suspected, I quickly fell in love with it. My snooping around the web tells me this little technological gem doesn't come cheap, but if you are a true camera enthusiast or just want to own something unique and quirky, the Harinezumi comes highly recommended. Not only does it take photos in color and black and white, the Digital Harinezumi 2 also has sound and video capabilities with a scratchy, muffled quality that is very much like those of VHS or cassette tapes.


Yet despite its simplicity, I've taken so many pretty pictures with it (and received quite a number of quizzical stares when I'm using it in public as well). And, in a continuously transforming world saturated with airbrushing, post-processing, and advanced editing, the Harinezumi boasts haphazard highlights, irregular vignetting, unpredictable hues and contrasting -- and I find its blurred imperfections, as is, oddly and perfectly comforting.


Its photos are reminiscent of dreamy, foggy, silent memories, and I can almost hear my mother's voice slowly fading away as I drifted into deep, deep sleep as a child. There's definitely something to be said for a camera that can bring you back in time at the mere click of a plastic button.