We’re having a bit of a heat wave here in New York. Heat wave, as in, instead of my usual three-sweaters-and-two-pairs-of-tights-plus-thick –socks-under-heavy-boots-and-puffa-knee-length-parka, I can wear just the odd pair of tights, light jumper and jacket. Incredible, really. The temperature hit double figures today (I still think in Celsius and adamantly refuse to figure out these weird Fahrenheity numbers) and while I was strolling down the street, revelling in the feeling of the wind on my less-than-three-layered skin, I heard the delicious sound of trickling melting snow. Oh, the joy.
This means those big blocks of ice that continue to harass me as I walk the streets with trepidation, eyes down as I navigate my delicate, Australian-pedicured but boot-clad toes through blocks of black slushy disgustingness, are now spreading into muddy puddles that I greet with joy. I gingerly place my industrial-strength boots in each puddle, checking for consistency – after all, they could be the enemy, Black Ice, creator of broken legs (yes, me, in 2004); a harmless, splash-worthy puddle, or the worst: that slurpee consistency that straddles the barrier between good and evil, representing black ice tomorrow morning if the night turns cold, or a lovely puddle to splash in by lunchtime if we get some sunshine. It really is too confusing for me, and this is coming from a girl who is all too familiar with Melbourne’s four-seasons-in-a-day and happy to dress accordingly, sniff the air, and advise tourists.
So this evening, as I was admiring the growing puddles and forgetting to be irritated at the chocolate-slurpee slush, it hit me: all this melted snow would be creating a helluva lot of extra water somewhere. Which would mean that the dams, wherever they are in this big land of concrete that doesn’t showcase a hint of natural resource, kinda like a lady with eyebrows plucked out and painted back on again, must always be full. At least, in wintertime.
Which would explain my flatmates/relatives/coworkers penchant for leaving taps switched on at their every whim, until crazy Aussie lady (that would be me) switches it off by explaining that it “hurts me”. Kinda the way Carrie Bradshaw’s sobbing in her bathroom with the tap running had to be fast-forwarded when my girlfriends and I had a girlie SATC DVD night.
So can someone back me up on this? Do the research and I will nod and say “oh”? Do the natural reservoirs in snowy countries, like, never dry out? Please advise.
This has been, tales of an expat in New York City.
