Wrote this mid-trip sitting on a bench at the Tate Modern.
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Even though there are obvious downsides, like the physical discomfort, I find I like visiting places in the winter better than during other seasons. Anywhere can be beautiful in the spring, with its easy-on-the-eyes greens and new life.
But in winter, the veneer is gone. That new life has passed away, and the world has to work a little harder to make you love it. To be charming, it must compensate. The cold of the snow, for instance, is — at least in moments — outdone by its beauty. The gray of the sky works to give everything else the opportunity to seem brighter.
Not everything takes advantage of the opportunity, of course, but the occasional burst of color or energy takes strides toward making up for the drab melancholy fighting to overtake one’s soul. A tossed snowball and the accompanying laughter becomes the final advance of happiness and hope against the void.
Filed under: memoir, travel
