Matt and I popped our beers just outside the bodega on Henry Street, in Brooklyn Heights. He’d chosen a colorful IPA; I’d gone with a Stella. “I always judge people who buy individual beers like this,” he said.
“Yea, me too.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a beer on a weeknight, let alone bought a single can. It must have been on vacation, somewhere warmer, and before the coronavirus flipped everything upside down.
I held my Stella clumsily in a leather-gloved hand. It was cold, somewhere slightly below freezing, and the wind was serious enough for my jacket to be zipped up over my mouth. A cloth mask would have added another layer of protection, had it not been doubling as a damp tissue all night. My cheeks were frozen, my back sweaty. I was happily cold, as I imagine Norwegians must feel.
It was snowing. The forecast had called for a foot by the end of the night, and when Matt and I met up around seven we seemed to be halfway there. Some sections of Brooklyn Bridge Park, with no protection from the wind off the East River, had snow banks well over a foot deep. The promenade could only be walked in one direction without something to protect your eyes from the whipping snow – some kids were wearing ski goggles. Deliverymen rode by on e-bikes, steadying themselves through the thickest patches with their feet grazing the ground like toddlers. People still needed their Thai food. We managed to find a few undisturbed sidewalks, but the neighborhood was fast being picked over and small chinks in the perfection of it all were starting to show: railings wiped clean of snow, brownstone steps stepped on.
Many forces had joined together to create our snow day. For one thing, it was the last real work week before the holidays. My whole office was closing down with an intensity I had never seen – no one had any plans, this being quarantine, but that didn’t stop most meetings from devolving into talk of being away from work for a lip-smacking period of two whole weeks, through New Year’s. By midweek, on the 16th, the long power down had begun: Out of Offices were up and running, Slack was being ignored. The first lucky few would be off the following day.
And snow was coming! All afternoon I watched from the window as the sky turned grayer and grayer, wondering at what point the scales would tip and the sixty percent chance of precipitation would yield some flurries. My final call of the day, around four, felt heavy with anticipation, like the clouds. My coworkers were all dimly lit, waiting for the day to end. They had snow day plans, like me.
Since we’d been sent home from the office, in late March, Matt and I had been taking walks through Brooklyn Heights, DUMBO, and the handful of other neighborhoods surrounding the East River waterfront. At times they were exciting, others a necessity. Sometimes the walks felt onerous. I can’t remember, looking back over the last nine months, which points were which. But finally, after all this time, what we wanted to do lined up with what we were able to do. Aimlessly walk the same streets we’d covered fifty times over.
I had been sitting at my computer, with a wool base layer under my sweater and chinos, for over an hour. I’d been unable, in anticipation of snow, to wait for the end of the day to change, and now the backs of my knees were starting to sweat. The ground outside my window was solid white, and I needed to get out there. Either that or strip down some layers.
Anne was out of town, so I texted Matt for company. “I’m gonna go for a walk at some point if you’re interested.” He was. We decided to meet at seven, by his place, which is roughly a mile into the neighborhood, towards the courthouse. Seven! I made tortellini, or peanut butter toast – some kind of snow fuel – to kill time after shutting off my computer. Absentmindedly stuck my nose in a book.
But I was too excited to stay indoors. In the days following the storm, local news would put words to the feeling, but in the moment I just wanted the cold snow on my face and to hear its soft crunch under my boots. The reward for 4 p.m. sunsets and the impracticality of outdoor dining. The papers just called it acting childish.
So I left my place and began to circle the neighborhood, taking the long route to Matt’s apartment. I had Christmas music on, beneath my beanie, and was self-aware of how it all looked. I had intentionally crafted a very beautiful, winter moment for myself. It didn’t matter.
When we finally met up, we picked a direction and began to wander. We crossed Atlantic Avenue from the north, and then again from the south. We entered the promenade, walking with the wind, and then attempted to go back later, into it. Any re-creation of our route would look insane – it was walking explicitly without purpose, not even for the sake of walking. We were outside to experience the snow as long as we could.
We continued that way for five miles before I suggested we buy some beer. Matt made a joke about apres walk and we stopped into the bodega on Henry. Brought our beers out into the snow and took those first sips, feeling very much like we were somewhere else, doing something other than our normal quarantine walks. We looped back into Brooklyn Heights, down Middagh and Pineapple to some of our favorite neighborhood homes, all of which looked too comfortable, with their reading nooks and lit trees, to be houses at all. Matt took a handful of photos.
Not soon after, it was clear to us both that we should call it a night. The e-bikes had slowed, although just as many people seemed to be out, like us. But at a certain point it was hard not to feel self-conscious about all the walking. We couldn’t possibly have crossed Atlantic one more time, or walked the length of the promenade – we’d seen its white-lit Christmas tree from every possible angle.
So we parted ways. I dumped the last sip of my beer into the snow, and headed back towards my place, Matt to his. At home I made a bowl of oatmeal, which I ate on the couch, in my wool tights, my face still red from the snow.