Spring has started to put out a few tantalizing flutters of warmth and sunshine in New York City, with everyone on the Upper East Side heading to Central Park last weekend to enjoy an actual sunny day. I joined CityBoy on a perambulation around the Reservoir (or rather, I walked with him up to the Reservoir, and then camped out on a bench, hot dog and Gatorade in hand (thank you, street vendor man!), and enjoyed a few chapters of my latest library pick while he sweated it out with hundreds of other NYC joggers in an orderly counterclockwise circling of that fenced-in mini lake. To continue, perhaps unwisely with this digression, Manhattan is the only place I’ve been where they actually have signs posted to tell you which way to run around the track – of course the tourists ignore these and waddle in path-hogging threes and fours, while the locals veer around them, cursing under their breath.)
I broke out my flats and lighter weight coat this week, and then immediately regretted subjecting my winter-sock-coddled feet to the painful sloughing off that comes from walking block after unforgiving concrete block in still not-broken-in, but super cute flats (I even got a compliment from the ladies at the 35th Street Starbucks, who are not a welcoming crowd). By the time I got home on Tuesday night, after clocking several miles between home and “work” (my volunteer gig) and an evening event, I was sure my shoes would be filled with blood. They felt that bad. Luckily, the weather has turned again (rain this time) and I’m back to nice, thick knee-high socks and lots of bandages to protect my newly blistered feet.
It’s a weird time in the city, with some people still rocking their head-to-toe North Face down coats and furry boots, and others with bare legs and bared throats. It’s pretty surprising how quickly (though grumpily) I adapted to the weather here, with 50 being the new “warm” and much rejoicing when the temp climbed to a whopping 61 degrees earlier this week. I know those of you in Southern California are shivering just reading this. The odd thing is that you don’t really notice how cold it is, with all the walking and shlepping around, unless, of course, your bus is 15 minutes late and a glacier wind is whipping down 72nd Street. (I know, you’re also thinking, “What? She’s waiting for the bus? How sad.” Trust me – everyone in New York takes the bus at some point. I routinely see Park Avenue matrons with their Chanel and Gucci on the bus, though I do wonder to myself what they’re trying to prove.)
Anyhow, spring is in the air, final-friggin-ly. I don’t know how much more winter I could have handled. I just don’t look that cute with a perennially red nose and staticky hair.
Rock on, people.
– Jho
Jho in The City 
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