When it snows, it’s an event. How could it be anything else, when silence settles on rooftops in glimmering powder? Even your steps grow solemn, tiny geisha steps, and you and the stray puppies draw gasps at every slip backwards on the slush, like rocking horses.
“It rains all the time in London, doesn’t it?”, small talk when I return home. It would be no use to tell them – the ones back home – that it’s beautiful after it rains, that the puddles on the Strand are afternoon mirrors, that the sky itself seems to emanate steam and that the gargoyles seem close to touching it, the sky, as they drip drops from their balcony perches.
When it snows in London, I think I’m in a Bucharest of an alternate universe. Surely black and white. Surely antebellum, in an alternate universe. I don’t know why, I just know that there is no language in which the word for ‘snow’ isn’t beautiful.