Today was the first day since I moved to NYC that city kids were granted a snow day - license to built snowmen and lose gloves and contract hypothermia all day long. Had I still been a teacher, I’d have been doing the same. Alas, I trudged to work.
I trust meteorologists about the same amount I trust ads for prescription drugs. After a fitful night of sleep, I crawled out of bed and peeked out the kitchen window. The snow hadn’t been sticking when I went to bed last night, so maybe I wouldn’t have to wear snowboots.
But the alley between my apartment building and its twin sister was as smooth and white as a wedding cake. Snow perched in fat, high piles on the window sills, like chickens sitting on eggs. I slathered moisturizer on my face, smoothed warm water onto the staticky strands of my hair, and layered tops and bottoms.
Gingerly, I walked downstairs to the lobby and then through the heavy front door. Unless you live in a doorman building or in a really posh area, many neighborhoods that are primarily residential don’t go through great efforts to salt or shovel in the early morning. Some supers were just getting started as I headed out.
I crunched through the snow to the subway, watching my deep footprints form over the delicate criss-cross imprints of someone else’s hiking boots. The snow was pearl shiny and soft. Cars whispered down the streets, taking a break from their normal honking cacophony. The men who usually lean against this one building were nowhere to be found. Neither was the lady who hoarsely announces the free daily newspaper that keeps hands smudged and busy on the morning commute.
The magic of snow is its ability to transform the city by keeping so many people indoors and making what’s left outside - what can’t retreat to warmth or dryness - beautiful. The frigid sidewalk grates looked like doilies on a dining room table. I could hardly stray from the worn trail on the sidewalk, because it was just so perfect.
The city’s surfaces and mundane landmarks - from the grattified brick wall of the grocery store to the trashcan - seem a little more human on mornings when it’s just me and them and inches of frosty cover.
No one pays them much attention in this age of cellphones, but I’d never seen a phone booth look so lonely as this. If I’d held the receiver to my ear, I’d have heard a whimper. I don’t mean my own.
I imagined the crooked icicles on the light at the subway entrance being wayward teeth in a shy smile.
The trashcans outside my office were much haughtier. Wall Street waste receptacles, don’t you forget it. I couldn’t resist mussing them with my umbrella as I walked by.
Just stopping by. I haven’t visited for a while. So today I sit down to Miss Amanda’s adventures in NYC while sitting down to a cup of tea. You always bring a smile out of me.
And your comments do the same to me!