"It's hard to say when exactly winter arrived. The decline was gradual, like that of a person into old age, inconspicuous from day to day until the season became an established, relentless reality. First came the dip in the evening temperatures..."* the fall of the leaves, and the changing of the clocks- though there were still occasional moments of hope that winter was just a myth, mornings where it was still possible to leave the house without five socks, thermals and gloves and the sky was clear and bright. But all that disappeared as the did the days of the calendar. Soon, I felt the sting of the cold whipping across my face, the joys of the heater, and jealous of those Italian women with the big fur coats. I always thought I could move somewhere where it gets cold. I mean, I grew up in the foothills of California so I have at least a little clue of what it's like. But my memory must have left that detail out, that there is no escape from the harsh weather when always suffocated with layers upon layers. The heaping helpings of comfort… soup, tea and honey. But this week there has been a change in the air. The other day was a good one because it rained instead of snowed. An improvement. The streets are a little more crowded and I even saw my first pair of elbows the other day too. No more full-body suits needed to face the day. The trees are almost blooming. Spring is nearly here.
*I just found this book called The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton. It's a really interesting perspective on the analysis of why people travel. I've read another of his books and he is really enlightening. I would recommend it for sure!
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