It's a little shameful how importantly climate figured into my decision of where to attend college. Wherever I was going to go, I wanted to live with snow. I was halfway sold on going to Colgate University because the first photgraph in their pamphlet depicted a student knee deep in a snowy clearing catching a frisbee. That guy was awesome. He knew where it was at. Snow was where it was at.
But it wasn't really just a dream of throwing frisbees around on deadly black ice. I'd had it in my mind ever since I was a little kid that people who lived in really cold weather somehow had richer life experiences. What exactly a "rich life experience" was, I don't think I knew, but they were all the rage with me back then. I think I regarded people who wore winter scarves, specifically, as having a more meaningful connection with existence. The guy in the Colgate picture wore a winter scarf. He was really living. I would try to wear a scarf sometimes, but Atlanta never really got that cold, and when it did I drove everywhere in a heated car anyway.
So I came to Chicago and I got snow. But it turned out that the only rich life experience I was getting was waiting for the #55 bus at one in the morning in the arctic wind tunnel that forms over the Dan Ryan Expressway. Or hiking across campus with my jeans sopping with slush. Or staving off the overwhelming apathy that comes with five hours of daylight per week. I got to wear a scarf, finally, but it turned out that scarves look stupid on you, at least when you're wearing them in a useful way. Soon I forgot all about my romantic inclinations, and began to wonder why I hadn't paid attention to issues like academics or housing when I applied to school. There wasn't even a guy on the quads throwing a frisbee as if in a stoner winter wonderland; just university drones rendered dark and formless against the bleached white and grey city by several onion skins of L.L.Bean.
Up until yesterday I had convinced myself that my love affair with cold weather was over. It had been a nice romantic crush for a while, but winter, it turns out, is a bitch.
Until yesterday: which proved to be the first cool spell of the year. I spent the day riding my bicycle around Hyde Park and painting out on my back porch, and that night it all came back to me: the smoky air, the invigorating chill, the grace of entering a warm building, the snugness of jackets. Maybe I'm still in love with it after all. Or maybe three months of hot weather and sweating in bed has made me forgetful and stupid. That's awful likely. But I'll try on a little naivete for a while. Maybe I'll wear a scarf tomorrow.
But it wasn't really just a dream of throwing frisbees around on deadly black ice. I'd had it in my mind ever since I was a little kid that people who lived in really cold weather somehow had richer life experiences. What exactly a "rich life experience" was, I don't think I knew, but they were all the rage with me back then. I think I regarded people who wore winter scarves, specifically, as having a more meaningful connection with existence. The guy in the Colgate picture wore a winter scarf. He was really living. I would try to wear a scarf sometimes, but Atlanta never really got that cold, and when it did I drove everywhere in a heated car anyway.
So I came to Chicago and I got snow. But it turned out that the only rich life experience I was getting was waiting for the #55 bus at one in the morning in the arctic wind tunnel that forms over the Dan Ryan Expressway. Or hiking across campus with my jeans sopping with slush. Or staving off the overwhelming apathy that comes with five hours of daylight per week. I got to wear a scarf, finally, but it turned out that scarves look stupid on you, at least when you're wearing them in a useful way. Soon I forgot all about my romantic inclinations, and began to wonder why I hadn't paid attention to issues like academics or housing when I applied to school. There wasn't even a guy on the quads throwing a frisbee as if in a stoner winter wonderland; just university drones rendered dark and formless against the bleached white and grey city by several onion skins of L.L.Bean.
Up until yesterday I had convinced myself that my love affair with cold weather was over. It had been a nice romantic crush for a while, but winter, it turns out, is a bitch.
Until yesterday: which proved to be the first cool spell of the year. I spent the day riding my bicycle around Hyde Park and painting out on my back porch, and that night it all came back to me: the smoky air, the invigorating chill, the grace of entering a warm building, the snugness of jackets. Maybe I'm still in love with it after all. Or maybe three months of hot weather and sweating in bed has made me forgetful and stupid. That's awful likely. But I'll try on a little naivete for a while. Maybe I'll wear a scarf tomorrow.
7 Comments:
Obviously I'm a biased source on this matter, but I think you're missing a crucial distinction.
Cold weather can be nice sometimes. Fall, in particular, is a great time, particularly when you get the fall smell (burning leaves?) in your nose.
Snow, however, sucks. While it makes a pretty postcard and a nice vacation, living with snow just plain sucks. Especially when you have to shovel it.
California rules!
each time the seasons change there is the sensation of silmutaneously going home and going somewhere completely unknown.
I side with fall rocking out (pretty sure I can cite you on that one) but winter sucking. Cold is cool until you can't block it out.
I'm with Thomas. Skiing rules, but I wouldn't want to have to actually live with snow in the real world. Go Cali.
drew, you are too adorable.
I find that DC has a lame fall. I miss Georgia fall, actually, when it's all the same except for the smells and the cold. I remember thinking that everything always just seemed posed for a picture.
The meat and potatoes are not metaphorical. That was the best meal I ever created.
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