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.
