So last Tuesday I received an invitation to a house party in Brooklyn. I had no plans to be in Brooklyn this weekend, but then I realized, why shouldn't I? So I booked a Greyhound bus and got a cheap hotel and lo and behold, I was off to NYC for the weekend.
I did, however, forget to check trusty ol' weather.com. As it turns out, New York was in for a bit of snow this weekend. Not just a bit of snow, but the city's the biggest snowfall ever on record.
It was fine my first day. I paid a visit to the New York Historical Society's exhibit on slavery in New York, and then went to the Met for a leisurely evening visit before heading to Brooklyn. But by the time I left the party, the snow was really coming down and the wind whipped it into great big white swirls that felt none too good on bare skin. Luckily, I was wearing Parkazilla and big ol' snow boots. This was not a trip about looking hot.
The next morning there was 27 inches of snow on the ground, and people were positively giddy. I had seen a few inches fall on the city, but nothing like this. Cars were buried, streets were unplowed, and everything was quiet. As I walked down Central Park West, a small SUV came barrelling down the street and spun out wildly in front of me. Before I could properly react, a young college-age guy leaned out the window and said "WHHOOOOOO!!! Dude, you gotta do it!!" I gave him a thumbs up in approval.
People were pulling their kids in sleds through the streets in Brooklyn, artsy looking kids were taking pictures of lamposts in Central Park, people were building snowmen in Rockefeller Center, and everyone was generally behaving as if they had woken up on another planet. But there were still a good number of people out. One lady out with her beau was wearing heels and Capri pants. You gotta look good, I suppose.
I was very glad for a lovely snowy day, but transportation was not the most enchanting part. Greyhound basically laughed when I called about scheduling. So I took a train, along with passengers from the three previous trains before mine that had all been cancelled. Signal problems, empty cafe cars, and eavesdropping on semi-drunken bisexual college students occupied my time during the duration of the eight-hour ride home. It is not supposed to take eight hours, nor is it supposed to take 45 minutes to get a taxi from Union Station, but such is the price to pay for spontanaeity.