The World Outside

The world outside the house is blanketed in snow, a monochrome of white interrupted only by the dark, wet trunks of trees, the red brick of chimneys, the occasional green of shrubs poking through. The roads are unbroken expanses of smooth white, no one is out yet, no footprints track their way through the snowy sidewalk.

The world outside is the same as it was last night, before the snow began, and yet, it feels totally different. Extraordinary. As if the whole town of Athens, all of us, our streets, our buildings, our lives had be transported elsewhere, as if we were all on some great holiday in another part of the world.

Even in places where snow is routine, where snow turns black from cars, piles in shopping centers and chokes street corners all winter long, there is something special about that first day of snow -- a reminder that the world is transmutable.

When the world transforms around us we transform ourselves. I could, on any given morning get up and walk through the neighborhood, down to the main street and get a cup of coffee at one of several coffee shops. I don't. But throw a little snow on the world -- a little novelty -- and suddenly it seems natural to break your habits, do something new.

The snow crunches under our feet, a rim of ice has already formed on the top, a thin sheen of water that makes everything look like a frosted cake. Halfway to the coffee shop we noticed others. Groups of people approaching from every nearby neighborhood, some carrying sleds or trash can lids, some with dogs and children in tow. Everything is different and new, everyone wants a part of it.

The snow was on the ground for a week, longer in the shady slopes and shadow of the trees. Several nights later we were at a friend's birthday party, standing outside in the snow, gathered around a fire for warmth. Even at night, even when it's well below freezing, novelty draws you out. Cold is a small price for a new world.