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.