Living in New York this winter has
been a bit like living in the tundra, except the tundra has fewer sick and
unhappy citizens. I’ve been a
victim of the polar vortex gloom myself.
I’ve been sick on and off for the past month, and I may be guilty of
having watched the entire 4th season of Breaking Bad because arctic
conditions have provided me with an excuse to become a hermit.
It’s remarkable how much difference
25 degrees and some sun can make for an entire city. The temperature reached 40 for the first time a couple of
days ago, which, at this point, felt nearly tropical. Today it made it all the way to 50. As a result, I accidentally walked 75
blocks, which I only realized just now.
The small ice mountains on the edges of the sidewalk crunch when you
kick them, and I can finally see the concrete that’s been buried under snow in
the alley behind my apartment. I
left my window open all day for the first time since last year.
It’s 75 degrees at home, where my
whole family just spent the weekend celebrating my grandfather’s birthday. He turned 90 yesterday. I’m not sure if it was the actual card
I sent that thrilled him, or if it’s more that he was fascinated by the success
and existence of the postal service.
But either way, I’m glad it made him smile.
A fun pastime is trying to imagine
specific individuals being in New York.
My roommate’s grandmother is coming to visit in a few weeks. She’s spent time in the city before and
is excited to return to her favorite Jewish delis. She’ll fly here alone, stay in a hotel nearby, and she and
Sophie will do things like see Broadway matinees and have coffee and treats in
cafes.
I try to imagine my grandfather
here, but it doesn’t work. I can’t
imagine him at a Broadway show, or on the subway, or eating New York pizza, or
in a coffee shop. I can’t even
imagine him on a plane. I think
the farthest I’ve ever seen him from his house is two and a half hours away in
Clinton, and that’s only happened twice.
It’s easy for me to forget the years he spent driving 18-wheelers around
the country, and the ones before that he spent in the Pacific during World War
II. I like to think he’d like New
York, at least for a little while, maybe even more than my card or the postal
service. But I like that after 90
years of life experience, it’s the small things like cards and cake and Jack’s
fried fish that still make him so happy.
The sleet/snow is supposed to start
again tonight, and tomorrow it’s back to the 30s. The library wouldn’t let me check out the 5th season
of Breaking Bad, and my computer refuses to play Netflix. I wish I could be in the 75 degrees
with my family for Mardi Gras so we could eat Paul’s Pastry King Cake and I
could go to Sam’s Endymion party.
But today was beautiful, and I bought some walnuts, and last night I
made marinara and came up with a new recipe for the best turkey meatballs that
ever existed, and a new restaurant just opened around the corner that has tasty
vanilla mint rooibos tea, and we can keep letting the small things make us
happy.
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