Early bird gets the snow

Sometimes, being up before the sun certainly pays off. While other New Yorkers blissfully snoozed below their fluffy quilts, I was walking to the gym during the first proper snowfall of the season. It was a spine-tingling experience. From the gym's window, I could see that it continued to snow outside. And as I walked home, I smiled at the white powder had begun to collect on cars and shop awnings. But by the time I left my apartment once more for work, the snowing had stopped. Snooze and lose, right? Witnessing the snow falling and my own excitement at the event, reminded me of last winter, my first in New York. Each time it snowed then, I was transformed into something of a five-year-old. I loved catching snowflakes on my tongue, but it became embarrassing, because I couldn't seem to keep my mouth closed when it was snowing. And I am almost 30. Not surprisingly then, one of my best days spent in New York was a lock-in snow day, last February. It was a Sunday, but the snow had begun to fall in earnest already on Saturday night. I was out on the town with some friends, and the white stuff had been coming down heavily since early evening. By the time we were ready to go home, the roads had all but iced over and the cabs were refusing to drive on it – I think I managed to catch the last willing driver, and we were slipping all over the road. Safely tucked in at home, the snow fell all through the night and when it was decently late enough to be getting out of bed, it had reached waist height. I was in awe. The news reports said it was the heaviest snowfall in New York since the 1940s. Imagine the neighbourhood you live in, but covered in snow so high you can’t see the cars. My friends and I began to play. Running through it, falling into it, trying to forget that beneath all this pristine snow were the putrid streets of New York’s East Village. Back inside, we tucked into a lavish brunch and played indoor games all day. I had spent the previous night with friends and now it was time to head back to the West Village. As I began to walk home through the (heavenly) silent streets at twilight, the fresh snow was shimmering in the fading light. It sparkled like powdery glitter, and had an ethereal blue-ish glow. I had never seen anything like it. By the time I stopped marvelling at it and grabbed for my camera or phone to call someone to come see, the light had faded and the effect was almost gone. A few minutes later I saw a young man on skis, pushing his way along the deserted night streets with his stocks. Do you think this what they mean when they call for environmentally-friendly, alternative modes of transport?

Life’s a game on the grid called Manhattan

This morning, I had a good commute. It’s always a good start to the day. Subways came without much delay. I didn’t manage a seat, but nobody stepped on my toes. No creepy guy rubbed up against me, and nobody let too much of their crazy out. Already, this would be considered a pretty good ride. When I left the subway station, the newspaper hawker noticed that I already had the paper and didn’t hassle me to take another (rare!), the coffee guy didn’t mess up my order or try to burn off my taste buds and I didn’t have to wait long for the lift to take me upstairs. Lately, I have started to play a little game with myself, as I move through the city to work. I judge my mornings according to specific variables, using a personalized scoring system. I suppose it’s a means of bringing a small amount of comical self-reflection to a routine that is at great risk of becoming mundane. This way, life becomes a game. For early mornings, I ask myself this: Was it hard to get myself out of bed for the gym at pre-dawn? Did I get a good shuffle selection on my ipod? If I was planning to do a cycle class, did I manage to arrive at the gym before all the bikes were taken? Then there’s the challenge of getting myself showered, dressed (appropriately for the weather) and out of the house in as close to 45 minutes as possible. This task carried a degree of difficulty of about seven. I could go on, and you might think I am a little nuts. But at least I know I am not alone. Recently, I have heard that other New Yorkers indulge in similarly private mental city games of their own. Ever wondered what kind of an environment would lead people to frequently use the phrase, “Hey! I’m walking here!”? Well, imagine what it’s like living on an island about the size of Sydney’s eastern suburbs with 1.5 million other people. Now add the 1.3 million who commute into Manhattan everyday and you have a somewhat crowded playing field. Thus, depending on your outlook, the effort it requires to navigate and manipulate an everyday life under such conditions can either be a game, or a war. Imagine Fifth Avenue at Christmas time, the streets are packed with tourists, gawking and stopping for photos outside pretty department store windows. It’s cold. All you want to do is walk a few blocks from some appointment to the subway, but you’re being blocked on every third step. This is where the game comes in. You immediately cease to be a pedestrian. Instead, you are now a race car driver, taking the turns and avoiding the obstacles. You’re weaving and ducking, thinking three steps ahead and anticipating that tourist’s next photo-op, even before they do. Stepping off the curb, you face down a delivery truck, and walk boldly across its path (“Hey, it’s my light!) Race down the subway stairs, swipe your Metrocard and leap through the closing subway doors. Success! It’s a triple high score. But what about when you are off your game? Well, that can be messy. Sometimes, I slip into a funk, and collide with three different pedestrians on a single block. My navigation is off. Clearly I’ve lost my mojo. On a night like this, I’ll typically go on to spot a few rats (ew!) and maybe even step in some dog poo, that another player failed to scoop up. If you can recognize a day like this, it’s best to cut your losses and head home. GAME OVER. Try again tomorrow.