I am conscious of the fact that we are in the middle of a hot Summer day right now, but as my best friend told me the other day, when I might have mentioned that I am knitting a scarf, I am a little bit crazy; but I can't remember exactly...
In hope for a cold winter day I started reminiscing my fist cold season spent in Bucharest. And the conclusion that I reached after 3 months in hell is that this city is the worst place to be in when it snows. It's dirty and muddy and sinister. You leave the comfort of your warm home for a scenery that creates repulsion. When you look down, it's dirty, the snow is stained, it's dark from all the dirt, it's already half melted(but not enough to not be there) and full of footprints and paw prints. It's dark and ugly and slippery.
If you look up, you are greeted with bare trees, no leaves, no life; they seem to want to touch a sky that's gray and dark and clouded.
You left your home for this sight that is sad and pitiful, you left that warmth to be shoved, sworn at, pushed, ambushed, to fall, to get dirty; for the smells and for the noises.
You wish you could be on an isolated land, where the snow is untouched, pure and white, where there is no mud or dirt. You want to make snow angels and look at a white and luminous sky that reminds you of a long forgotten childhood, with a pine forest in the background that is neither bare nor lifeless and a small house, a home that has smoke coming out of it's chimney. Then it starts snowing slow and pure and everything is quiet and perfect.
And then a car honks at you to move, because its passengers are in a hurry. And you do just that, because you have to face rush hour at the subway, and to get to college on time, in a desolated Bucharest.

[photo: www.jacketflap.com/megablog/index.asp?blogid=568]