Coney Island in the Snow

On February 22nd, a blizzard dumped historic snow totals up and down the East Coast. It was not the first storm during our unusually snowy winter, but it was the one that got the most attention. Official snow totals in Central Park reached 19.7 inches; I live in Washington Heights (at the northern tip of Manhattan in a neighborhood I once heard described as a "upstate Manhattan"), where our haul was 22.1", bested only slightly by LaGuardia Airport's 22.2".

I have always loved snow. I grew up in Northeast Ohio, so I'm no stranger to seasons (or weather extremes), but living in New York has only increased my love of wintery weather. I have a car, but I don't have to use it regularly, and thanks to a lucky confluence of holidays and storms, I didn't have to move it for street sweeping for more than a month.

When the flakes start to fall, I don't feel the need to hibernate under blankets with a book; I pack up my camera bag, pull on every item of clothing I own (The rule of 3s has never let me down: three pairs of socks, three pairs of pants, three tops, and three winter accessories: scarf, hat, gloves), and go exploring.

Three days after the blizzard (and after an endlessly frustrating attempt to enjoy the post-snow splendor in Central Park's North Woods alongside seemingly every other person in New York), I boarded a D train and headed out to Coney Island. I had never seen snow on a beach before, and I figured if any activity was going to mend my now-disgruntled relationship with the city and snow, it would be walking in solitude from Coney Island to Brighton Beach on a snow-covered boardwalk at sunset with the Atlantic Ocean in the background.

It worked.

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