The Snow Begins To Fly

When I felt the autumn chill of Los Angeles last week, I was reminded of long wintertimes in New York. I remembered how the icy windowpanes reflected the morning sunlight like prisms. An icy cold winter night always yielded a show of pretty colors once the sun came out the next morning.

And on nights when it snowed, you could step outside your door at 3am and listen to the dense sounds of New York City, muted in white. Everything was so peaceful, because underneath our sweaters and scarves and moon boots, everybody was equal and had to make the best of an inconvenient situation.

The world resonates differently under snow. That's the only thing I'm going to miss about the wintertime on the East Coast. Especially since I was at the beach today in a hot pair of sandals and little else.