On Blizzards
If it has be cold, let there be snow. Let there be a lot of it, and let it stick. Let it not melt the very next day, so the good people of the Tri-State area have time to admire and fiddle with their snowman creations and angel impressions for days to come. New York City sees on average 29.8 inches of snow annually. Last year, it saw just 7.5 inches. The year before that, 2.3 inches. After such meager totals the past few years, I cannot tell you how badly I yearn to trudge through the middle of a blizzard in Central Park. Because believe you me, there is nothing like being swept up in a New York City snowstorm’s wild, silent fury.
In the 15 years I’ve lived in New York, I’ve been through two major blizzards. The first was February 25, 2010 (20.9 inches), which, for me, has gone down as a 24-hour tale from hell. I was supposed to catch a flight out of JFK to Karachi that morning. Since it hadn’t yet been canceled—and since I did not have the money to call a car (Uber wasn’t around yet)—my only option was to walk to the G train. On a nice day, walking from my Greenpoint apartment to the subway station took 20 minutes door-to-door. In the middle of a snowstorm, hauling my carry-on suitcase through through more than a foot of snow down the middle of Nassau Avenue (the sidewalks were completely snowed in), it took twice the time.
Vincent van Gogh, Winter (The Vicarage Garden under Snow), ca. January 1885
The G eventually delivered me to Court Square–23rd Street station in Long Island City, although this didn’t really matter since my connecting train, the E, was out of service. I pulled out my phone to check on my flight status—still scheduled to depart on time. Mother fucker. So, I bit the bullet and hailed a cab. That ride, no fault of the driver’s, was atrocious. When we weren’t slipping and sliding, we were turning around and following detours due to road closures. After half a dozen or so of these road closures, it became clear that there wasn’t a fucking chance we were reaching the airport by car. The cabbie dropped me off at the nearest working subway somewhere in Queens, probably a J or Z station—it’s all very hazy. Finally reaching the Sutphin Boulevard–Archer Avenue–JFK Airport station (a mouthful, I know), home of the JFK AirTrain, I immediately located and combed through the Departures screen (always check the Departures screen!). And what do you know—my flight was canceled.
With no reliable way to get back to Greenpoint, going home felt immensely daunting. I sat on the floor, joining dozens of other travelers sharing my predicament, and wondered to myself what the fuck to do. There was only one thing to do, and that was to find my way to Karachi. Back on my feet, I purchased an unreasonably priced AirTrain ticket and made my way to Terminal 4, where I rebooked my flight for the next morning. I spent the night in Terminal 4 tucked away in a strange hallway, avoiding a creepy man who refused stop following me or looking for me (the woman’s plight). But early morning came, and despite all the shit the blizzard had thrown my way, I boarded my flight and got the fuck out of New York City.
Bedford and North 9th, Brooklyn, 📸 January 24, 2016
The second blizzard started January 23, 2016 (26.8 inches). Although this one had more snow and the weather conditions were considerably worse compared to 2010, my personal experience was so much better and less dramatic. I went bowling with friends that night. Afterwards, we staggered home in the wee hours of the morning, laughing and throwing snowballs and whatever else people enjoying themselves during snowstorms do.