It snowed all day yesterday; what New Yorkers call a blizzard. I, of course, am a Rocky Mountain girl and know the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard. Nonetheless, the city found it disruptive enough to close everything down. I was sent home at noon.
Where I grew up, the first sighting of snow meant that great things were around the bend: sleigh riding, hot chocolate, a lit fireplace, Christmas. There was something magical about watching the dogs roll around belly up in fresh powder, or hearing Pops coming in from clearing the driveway, stomping his moon boots against the cement staircase, as he entered the house from the garage.
Manhattan is also quite lovely when covered with a new layer of snow. The pace slows. There are fewer people in the streets and on the subway. The lights of Time Square are dimmed. The angry sounds of traffic are muffled.
Chris and I were in midtown, walking toward the subway Tuesday night, just as the snow began to fall and I noticed that he had quieted and seemed a little far away.
"What is it I asked?" I asked.
"Our city." he said. "I rarely look up at our city. So I thought I would."
A snowstorm gives us the freedom to slow down and pay attention.