Morningside Park.
On Friday, I had to get from the upper west side of Manhattan down to the UN, over to Brooklyn, and back, and happened to pick a miserable, urban ice storm in which to do it. In addition to subways, that’s about 40 blocks of outdoor walking. I had not come to the City with the right gear, either (dramatically incorrect footwear, no hat, flimsy umbrella). I felt, as I often do these days, culturally ill-equipped for my re-entry into US society — Martian, even — as though I have never had to be out in snow before and could think only of the 78 varieties of coconut that grow in my fictitious backyard.
As I walked down 42nd Street, I couldn’t help but notice that my face was being bombarded with tiny stinging ice pellets (Mum helpfully pointed out that said pellets are called “rime,” but the fact that they have a name that appears in 19th-century poetry does not excuse their behavior).
As we stepped gingerly through the gunmetal slush, trying to find a bus – any bus – to catch, a recent transplant from Canadia confessed to me that she had dismissed that morning’s severe weather warning as the paranoia of wimpy Americans. Then she got to work, and started noticing colleagues arriving at the office covered in, well – rime. With wet feet. And then she realized her only shoes were buttery-soft leather flats. I should add that the addition of ziploc bags used as socks did not help (is that some sort of Canadian trick?). The one who fared best among us was, interestingly, from Perth, and had never been in such weather in her life. She was wise enough to have invested in granny boots at the first signs of winter.
And now that I’ve picked myself up off the floor from laughing over the image of ziploc bags as socks…can I give props to your mom? I swear, she knows EVERYTHING!
Umm, yeah, I feel your pain. I think it got up to 60 degrees here today. I still wore my down coat and shivered profusely when I got into the car and the heater didn’t start at 80 degrees. Haifa made me a total cold weather wimp.
Mum does know everything, Lizzie. And I will see if I can find the photographic evidence of the zipsocks.
Dear Mara: I am sure you are tougher than I am. Maybe we should just chalk it up to Amadeo? (Do you like my subtle lobbying?)
Tahirih
tell her that her Ottawa peeps say hi