Snow Day: A Cultural Translation
It’s snowing in New York, which means two things: the city looks absolutely magical, and my aikido dojo just sent an email canceling class due to “hazardous conditions.”
I’m looking at maybe two inches of snow.
Back in Belarussia (Belarus now, but we’re talking 1970s), this wouldn’t have even registered as weather. This was called Monday through Sunday.
When I was a kid, nothing closed for snow. Not schools, not buses, not the pubs where all the local alkies gathered. Six inches, twelve inches, two feet—it didn’t matter. You simply accepted that for at least three months you lived in a snow globe that Zeus had dropped after a drunken orgy and forgotten about.
We skied to school. Not because we were hardy outdoorsmen or because our parents were trying to build character, but because that was genuinely the most efficient way to move through waist-high snow that the city had quietly decided was not its problem. Cross-country skis were just winter shoes.
The city buses ran no matter what… or rather, slid with purpose. And yes, we pelted them with snowballs and called the bus drivers names. This was not vandalism but civic participation. The drivers expected it. Some of them even seemed disappointed if you didn’t try.
Here, in the land of milk and honey, I’ve learned that a “snowstorm” is a relative concept. Three inches triggers closures, warnings, and toilet-paper-buying panic. The Weather Channel speaks in grave tones. Schools close preemptively. My dojo, where we practice the art of being thrown repeatedly onto mats, has decided the streets covered with a light fur of snow are too dangerous.
So instead, I’m sitting by my window, watching New York transform into something quieter and softer than itself. The streets look like Saul Leiter’s photos, when snow erases all the grime and noise and chaos, and the city holds its breath for a moment.
Back in the old country, we’d still be out there, bombing through it on skis, throwing snowballs at buses.
Here, everyone stays inside. And maybe the snow looks even better that way.
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Have a Happy New Year!
ak
Don’t forget the sadistic game of touching an icy metal pole with your tongue and then forever trying to get unstuck. Happened to me when I first kissed my future ex wife
The whole country has become risk-adverse, when it comes to snow. I miss the old days, when you could see the newbies, those who were not from a snowy land, slid off, into the ditches. Winter Darwinism.