New York — The blizzard hit New York on Saturday, and I decided it wouldn’t prevent me from following my morning ritual. I went out to have watery coffee at a nearby Korean grocery and buy the Times. The desolate streets were basically empty of cars and other walkers. Though I did see maintenance workers wearing layers 
of clothes shoveling snow in front of NYU’s buildings (a Sisyphean task), and emergency vehicles, red lights aglow, slowly moving thru the snow-bound streets to rescue stalled cars. As the bitter, 50-mile-an-hour winds roared, and the drifting snow sometimes blinded one, I ran into one old woman walking haltingly, even tottering a bit, but when I offered her a hand, she rejected my help as if I had insulted her.
Like me she may have been out walking in the blizzard, proving to herself that she was still self-reliant, and could handle adversity. That age and growing infirmity would not stop her from trying to live fully. Nevertheless, I also know that I displayed a touch too much hubris and was somewhat foolish in taking that early morning walk. For there was a moment when I began to slip and slide, because a layer of black ice lay beneath the mounds of snow. But despite that warning, I plan to go out again today.
It’s Sunday, and the city is struggling to recover from the blizzard. I can hear the whistling sound of heavy winds through my window in the very early morning. Still, I head out again, a bit later, for the Sunday Times 
(which was nowhere to be found). The sun is out, the winds have died down, and the streets are filled with people 35 and under. The comfortable, upscale French café I have my latte in is buzzing with the same youthful clientele that I see walking on NoHo’s streets. It’s not my world, but I like the fact that I’m able to sit there drinking my latte unbowed by the weather. When I walk out of the café, the streets have been cleared, and some traffic is rumbling through the gray slush. Still, walking on the sidewalks is slow going—crossing the streets means maneuvering though narrow cuts in the banks of snow on each corner. I get home safely — a minor accomplishment — but as I get older a meaningful one.
