It had been snowing heavily from the minute I sat down in Western
Theatre, so I wasn't looking forward to
the long walk home. But when I stepped out of the main
Lang building, the
snow was soft and wet and...
quiet.
That's the most
amazing thing, in
New York City.
Everything glowed softly, and was very still. Few pedestrians, and fewer cars. 11th Street was near ankle-deep in seemingly unmarked snow, and I turned my
face up and marveled that for once it wasn't the sharp,
angry ice bits that attacked the city a week or so ago. I walked
home, everything from my footfalls to passing buses muted.
Most of the sidewalks weren't shoveled or salted, so my too-long corduroys got soaked, and I ended up looking like an
ice sculpture by the time I got back to 15D, but I just shook off my
coat and
hat, sat on the bed and watched the buildings below me turn
white.