When news of the impending snowstorm broke a few days ago it felt like Christmas was about to arrive early. I’m a native of Sydney, Australia, where snow is something that happens in the movies and in storybooks. This is my second Chicago winter. I have fond but foggy memories of frolicking around the streets of Chicago last winter, feeling like I was center stage in my very own snow globe.
A couple of days ago I decided it was time to gear up for the coming snowfall. I own two pairs of gloves, so I spent the week hunting for the elusive second glove in both sets, before giving up and buying a new pair (nice practical shade of cream), and placing them next to the front door, hoping that they wouldn’t wander off. I sang “Let it Snow,” and glared out the window at the dreary rain.
But when I looked out the window this morning and saw the thick blanket of snow I felt a sudden surge of panic. I realized that my snow globe vision was a false memory that my subconscious had concocted to help me forget the trauma of last year’s snow commute.
This morning I steeled myself, stepped out the front door, and gingerly used someone else’s deep footprints to walk down the stairs to the sidewalk.
Where the hell was the sidewalk? It had disappeared, and I would have to walk down the middle of the street instead. I plowed on through to the road, stepping straight into a pile of slushy, icy water cleverly hidden under a thin layer of powdery snow along the way. Why the hell didn’t I buy those snow boots I kept talking about last year? I belatedly remembered to roll up my now soggy jeans, exposing pathetic little cotton socks.
I walked down the streets, dodging slow-moving SUVs and thinking that if I could just find a sleigh on eBay and commandeer some yuppie’s Malamute I would OWN this town. Finally I spied a trail that someone else who was smart enough to buy snowboots had blazed down what used to be the sidewalk, and I trudged over to it.
I could see my bus pulling into the bus stop, and I was about 20 feet away, but I might as well have been a mile away at the rate I was going. Why couldn’t the CTA take its cues from the airlines out at O’Hare and shut down for the day so we could all stay home? I made some desperate sign language to the driver, and mercifully he waited for me as I duckdived my way through a few more puddles.
My bus deposited me at a Starbucks, and I gratefully dived into the evil corporate chain store, emerging with a fortifying $6 grande peppermint mocha. I was just starting to feel better when a City of Chicago Streets and Sanitation truck thundered past, drew up three inches of dirty water from the gutter (which was apparently still clogged with leaves left over from the fall), and deposited the murky brown water all over me. Flustered, I tipped my too-full cup of peppermint mocha all over my suddenly not-so-practical cream gloves.
In high dudgeon, I pushed past the vendor trying to hand me a copy of RedEye (couldn’t he see I already had the New York Times, the Chicago Journal and an overflowing peppermint mocha to contend with?)
The ends of my hair were dripping under my hat (that’s another thing, why don’t you people use umbrellas when it snows? I pulled one out during a snowstorm last winter, and everyone made fun of me.)
Anyhow, I got on the train, and as it lurched forward, I slapped my gloved hand down on the metal frame of the seat in front of me to regain my balance and heard the sound of my plastic Chicago Card Plus breaking in my tight fist. Finally I arrived at Yo’s offices, 40 minutes late, to the amusement of my colleagues.
But now it’s a couple of hours later, and my jeans and hair are dry. I’m gazing out the window at the starkly gorgeous white branches and the soft powdery roofs of houses, and I have to admit that I’m captivated by the beauty of Chicago after a heavy snowfall. So all is well again in my little snow globe-world.