I’d say that my favorite part of my winter break was my two-day trip to Boston.
Not because of the pretty boutiques or quaint little cafes or the charming people, though, although they were all perfectly lovely, but because of one other element:
On the morning of New Year’s Eve we awoke to a random snowflake casually blowing in the wind, but by 10:00 there were two inches of wet fluff on the ground and a good foot by noon.
I adored walking through the park (OK—sliding through the icy park) and up Newbury St, popping into Tealuxe for a pot of chai and smiling at the couple next to us, of which the female half could not feel her feet. (Maybe that’s not something to smile at, but you know, we Canadians are ruthless when it comes to being superior in the snow.)
I loved seeing people truly dressed for winter—toques pulled down, scarves rolled over chins, *long* parkas, and real snow boots (except on the above-mentioned Tealuxe patron).
I loved the wet snow on my face and the bitter wind that turned my cheeks red, a rosy reminder of why I never even thought to wear blush in Canada—I came by my rouge naturally. (Now we’re settling into smug Canadian territory, aren’t we?)
And I particularly loved all this because I feel I’ve grown soft living in the climate where I do, where the cold never lasts too long and where I can easily get by with my Technica après-ski boots. I haven’t had a proper pair of snow boots since, oh, 1990!
But of course, all my snowplay was aided by the fact that Boston—the flat of Beacon Hill, anyway—is a perfect walking neighborhood.
There were a few hours, though, when I was wishing for cross-country skis. I could really glide down some of those residential hills and take a few laps around the park. Perhaps the ducks might even join in.