Well friends, we are in our last days of another Sydney summer. Actually, as I write this, it would seem that summer is already over. A cold rain is sweeping through the city and has brought with it a bone-chilling wind. It is positively freezing.
Or, if you believe Weather.com, this is what’s actually happening:
Apparently, dear friends, I have fully acclimated…
When Alex and I moved here in the last days of winter ’11, we laughed and laughed at the people bundled up to keep warm against these very same temperatures. Temperatures that at the time were downright balmy. The sad truth is that I am now one of the very people I used to mock. 10 years of surviving New England winters and I’m reduced to sweaters in 63 degree weather. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
Of course I mentioned this to the people back home and was promptly met with ridicule and a reminder that were I in Boston rather than Sydney, I would still be navigating around the vestiges of the 2 feet of snow they got a few weeks back.
Truth be told, that snowstorm got me a little homesick. As far as I’m concerned, there is something quite magical about being at home, all warm and cozy, watching snowflakes softly fall outside. Or waking up in the morning and seeing a fresh blanket of snow that results in a day off. Hot cocoa, sledding, snow angels. Pure. Magic.
Of course, my friends dutifully reminded me that in the days that follow the magic starts to dissipate. The beautiful white stuff turns brown and ugly from all of the sand. The pedestrian phenomenon known as ‘salty pants’ happens. The dreaded ‘Parking Chairs‘ appear. And, worst of all, the temperature invariably drops after the snow is about halfway melted, freezing the streets and sending you sliding across an icy Comm Ave, ass over ears, with your belongings scattered to the wind (including that Snickers bar that you just bought at Chansky’s which was flung into the great beyond never to be seen or eaten again). Not. magical.
Anyhoo, being the good people they are, my friends Marla and Robert sent along some of the more magical shots of the recent Boston snowfall to let me enjoy the wonderment without the threat of salty pants. These shots also serve as a good reminder that 63 degrees isn’t cold, the wind isn’t freezing, and, best of all, I won’t have to shovel my car out tomorrow morning.