On Syracuse weather.
I love the cold.
I love the cold and I can say that with enthusiasm because I live in Syracuse, NY, and it is currently -2 outside. I have to say it with tempered enthusiasm, though... quiet enthusiasm... that kind of enthusiasm that might get you killed in a place like this. My experience so far is that no one, not one of the 145000 residents or a single student at the University, enjoys the cold. I cannot even imply that I don't hate the cold without getting a scowl or even a verbal reproach. I moved here in the summer, eager, excited, and even then people warned me against my anticipation of winter. They offered advice on snow tires, parking, and keeping my heat bill down. They patted me on the arm affectionately, perhaps finding my naivete endearing.
When the first cool breezes began to temper the fall weather here, everyone I worked with adopted identical expressions of misery. "It's coming," they all seemed to say, their tones dripping with caustic acceptance. "Have you thought of moving somewhere warmer, like down south or out west?" I would ask, but New Yorkers seem to unanimously hate the heat as much as they hate the cold. It sometimes seems as if everyone here is trapped in a failing marriage with Mother Nature. Maybe they talked to a lawyer early on, but the process seemed too tedious, maybe too expensive, so they eventually resigned themselves to carrying out their miserable relationship until the bitter end. Better the devil you know, after all, and boy, do they know this cold devil well.
Syracuse in the winter becomes a frozen wasteland, and no one quite knows how it became a city at all. My theory involves a broken down wagon, an igloo, and two Adam-and-Eve-like characters who became trapped here with nothing to do but populate the place, but at this point it's still just a theory. However it came to be, it is, despite being one of the snowiest locations in the country thanks to the Great Lake effects. Average winter lows are in the teens, and for the first time in my life, I'm seeing weeks at a time where we don't see highs above freezing. The bulk of the tax funds for outdoor maintenance goes to plowing the roads, and entire parking lot are reserved for snow piles from January to March.
I was raised in Alabama and I spent three years before this in sunny Florida. I lived on the Gulf of Mexico, where I pretended to be a character in a Jimmy Buffett song by drinking before noon as often as possible and mastering the art of mixing margaritas. When I sat by the water and sunk my feet into the powdery white sand, I didn't think about the cold North. I didn't long for icicles, I didn't imagine a foggy puff of air accompanying my every breath, and I didn't wish for the feel of long-johns and wool socks.
But here I am now, and I can't get enough of it. I love the first gust of wind that hits your face when you open the door to go outside. I love the way the tops of my ears are the first things to feel cold and the last things to warm up again. I love the inescapable brightness that accompanies the inevitable snowdrifts. I love the icicles, the foggy breath, the long-johns, and the wool socks. And my margaritas are still some of the best you'll ever have-- even in the snow.
I love the cold and I can say that with enthusiasm because I live in Syracuse, NY, and it is currently -2 outside. I have to say it with tempered enthusiasm, though... quiet enthusiasm... that kind of enthusiasm that might get you killed in a place like this. My experience so far is that no one, not one of the 145000 residents or a single student at the University, enjoys the cold. I cannot even imply that I don't hate the cold without getting a scowl or even a verbal reproach. I moved here in the summer, eager, excited, and even then people warned me against my anticipation of winter. They offered advice on snow tires, parking, and keeping my heat bill down. They patted me on the arm affectionately, perhaps finding my naivete endearing.
When the first cool breezes began to temper the fall weather here, everyone I worked with adopted identical expressions of misery. "It's coming," they all seemed to say, their tones dripping with caustic acceptance. "Have you thought of moving somewhere warmer, like down south or out west?" I would ask, but New Yorkers seem to unanimously hate the heat as much as they hate the cold. It sometimes seems as if everyone here is trapped in a failing marriage with Mother Nature. Maybe they talked to a lawyer early on, but the process seemed too tedious, maybe too expensive, so they eventually resigned themselves to carrying out their miserable relationship until the bitter end. Better the devil you know, after all, and boy, do they know this cold devil well.
Syracuse in the winter becomes a frozen wasteland, and no one quite knows how it became a city at all. My theory involves a broken down wagon, an igloo, and two Adam-and-Eve-like characters who became trapped here with nothing to do but populate the place, but at this point it's still just a theory. However it came to be, it is, despite being one of the snowiest locations in the country thanks to the Great Lake effects. Average winter lows are in the teens, and for the first time in my life, I'm seeing weeks at a time where we don't see highs above freezing. The bulk of the tax funds for outdoor maintenance goes to plowing the roads, and entire parking lot are reserved for snow piles from January to March.
I was raised in Alabama and I spent three years before this in sunny Florida. I lived on the Gulf of Mexico, where I pretended to be a character in a Jimmy Buffett song by drinking before noon as often as possible and mastering the art of mixing margaritas. When I sat by the water and sunk my feet into the powdery white sand, I didn't think about the cold North. I didn't long for icicles, I didn't imagine a foggy puff of air accompanying my every breath, and I didn't wish for the feel of long-johns and wool socks.
But here I am now, and I can't get enough of it. I love the first gust of wind that hits your face when you open the door to go outside. I love the way the tops of my ears are the first things to feel cold and the last things to warm up again. I love the inescapable brightness that accompanies the inevitable snowdrifts. I love the icicles, the foggy breath, the long-johns, and the wool socks. And my margaritas are still some of the best you'll ever have-- even in the snow.