Central Park is New York City’s winter preserve. Whenever it snows here – and it does snow, though infrequently – the snow that falls on the rest of the city remains white and pristine for about half an hour, if that. It is then quickly transformed, by snowplows, into sooty curbside icebergs, more black and gray than white, littered with cigarette butts, gum wrappers, and dog urine. Only in Central Park does the snow remain pristine, and free of trash. Only in Central park are there fields of sparkling white during the days and, at night (my own favorite), little illuminated circles of snow at the base of every lamppost. When it snows I, along with many other New Yorkers, flock to Central Park like pilgrims to a shrine.
The Snow Queen is out now.
