There is only one word on my mind as I start to write this. It’s on loop.
We who were born high up in the Andes fancy ourselves a bit like goats: we’re used to the cold páramo weather and we scoff at the people in lower elevations. We are the proud possessors of more red blood cells than others and we also realize that most of the world thinks that just because we were born near the Equator, we love warm weather.
We don’t. But that doesn’t mean we really get much extreme weather. Unless you can count major hailstorms as extreme weather, and I think you can.
Then when we move to California and every newscaster freaks out about rain –RAIN!– and when the amount of snow we’ve seen in over 14 years of living in the same place (not counting trips elsewhere) amounts to less than one inch, we become complacent.
We scoff at snow in winter but inside we’re afraid– afraid because those reports sure sound ominous.
We make silly little jokes about hanging out in our refrigerator and stare with incomprehension when we hear talk of snow ploughs, rock salt and emergency routes.
And then one magical day we step out for a walk and we catch the first icy wisps and all our defenses, misapprehension and lack of understanding melt in inverse proportion to the powdered-sugar world that falls all around us in beautiful and silent elegance.
Yes. Snow is all they say it is, in its happiness factor. It is more, in fact because no one can ever do it justice– from the way each flake follows its downward path fearlessly to their landing on each and every possible surface; to the steady coating of the land in a shiny and edible coat that makes the night glow.
I am simply in love with it. I’m sure I wouldn’t be rhapsodizing like this if I’d had to deal with it all winter, I know. But bear with me: I’m new at this frozen precipitation business.