Stinky Sidewalks, Dirty Sidewalks
As much as I bitch about the city of New York, even I have to admit it's pretty wonderful during the holidays. I've spent five Christmases here, and every year it's the same thing. Just prior to Thanksgiving, the holidays suddenly turn up on my doorstep, like some ex-lover I've not seen for 11 months, wearing too much makeup and reeking of gin. Much like that same ex, it catches me completely off guard and I'm always surprised at how glad I am to see it.
Obvious signs of the season will soon be everywhere. The Staten Island Ferry will have a cheap plastic wreath affixed to the front of it. Williamsburg 20-somethings who have not been seen without a cigarette in one hand and a cosmo in the other since February, can be spotted throwing snowballs at each other in the line to get into Movida. The inflatable management rat gets a Santa hat. Soon this is no longer the jaded pee-stinking metropolis I silently curse every time a cab nearly mows me down in a crosswalk. This is a place of feathery snowfall, extra sweaters and Frank Capra's wet dreams. Sure, Capra failed to mention that part of the Miracle on 34th Street included frozen dog shit, but he got the general idea down.
I spent my first 30-odd Christmases in Southern California, opening presents on sunny days in the upper 60s. The concept of snow was completely foreign, and the mall Santa might as well have been wearing Tevas and shorts. On the rare occasions it dropped below 50, we'd whine about how fucking cold it was, inconvenienced that we had to actually turn the heat on. We knew nothing else, and hadn't a clue as to what we were missing. Our experience with Winter Wonderlands was limited to cheap snow globes and Rankin-Bass specials. Looking back now, I feel slighted and saddened that growing up I never knew the joys of sledding or building a snowman, and never even owned a winter coat until 8 years ago. As good as the holidays could be in California, they were a far cry from what Christmas means in a northern climate. In a place where your choices range from sunny, really fucking sunny, or sunny with clouds, you have to work pretty hard to make the connection that it's winter. But I've seen the difference, and a string of lights on a palm tree just won't cut it anymore. There should be ice skating and mittens and frozen virgin landscapes. As a mother I vow to make sure that the Crunky sees snow and eats a roasted chestnut while he's still young enough to believe in Santa.
I can't pinpoint exactly how or when the change in attitude happens here, but things that normally irritate the hell out of me seem less bothersome. Perhaps it's the sight of garbage bags under a fresh blanket of powder, or an old woman in a fur coat walking a pug in a ridiculous sweater. All I know is that holiday time here is truly unique and for one brief moment The City That Can't Be Bothered™ is replaced by 8 million people who seem to walk a bit slower and smile a bit more, and I'd better enjoy it while I can. That pee stink will be back again before I know it.