Everyone has their own holiday memory. Mine happens to take place on a beach.
I think I was seventeen or eighteen and my friend Laura and I went to the beach on Christmas Day. Mostly because we didn't celebrate Christmas and therefore had nothing else to do, unless we wanted to partake in the customary Jewish tradition of Chinese food and movie. We sat on the beach, soaking up the sunshine (long before we worried about the horrors of cancer and premature aging) listening to "Feliz Navidad" on the radio. I remember thinking to myself...why would I ever possibly live anywhere else?
And then I did. I couldn't resist NYC...the grit, the dirt, insert your own cliche here. I moved in the summer, oohed and ahhed through my first encounter with fall leaves and then...it was winter.
And boy was it. I had never owned a pair of boots before unless you counted my white ankle-high ones with fringe I paired with my white denim jeans in high school. And that is something that is worth forgetting.
I quickly learned that while snow appeared fluffy and soft it was actually wet and quickly turned grey. All the leaves dropped off the trees and stayed that way for like, forever. I also learned important lessons such as, just because the sun is shining doesn't mean it's warm.
You would think after more than 15 years here, I would have learned to like the cooler weather. Or at least, not hate it. My northern friends roll their eyes as I start complaining, usually around November. Usually around this time I start to contemplate moving somewhere warmer. My northern friends say "I would miss the change of seasons." And I say "I wouldn't." But I would miss New York. And so I stay.
But don't expect to get me on a sled. Or excited about the first snow. I will admire the white stuff from the comfort of my couch, hot cocoa in hand, dreaming of the palm trees.