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Hottest town, summer in the city: New York heat makes me want winter back Hottest town, summer in the city: New York heat makes me want winter back
(34 minutes later)
Despite what it says on the desk calendars at Kinkos copy shop, there are really only two seasons in New York City: summer and winter. They’re both completely unbearable, sadly, with an all-too short reprieve between them. “Spring” and “fall,” we call those fleeting dreams, laughing at ourselves for momentarily believing in them. Then we sigh.Despite what it says on the desk calendars at Kinkos copy shop, there are really only two seasons in New York City: summer and winter. They’re both completely unbearable, sadly, with an all-too short reprieve between them. “Spring” and “fall,” we call those fleeting dreams, laughing at ourselves for momentarily believing in them. Then we sigh.
As you know from watching Seinfeld, New Yorkers are a famously complainy lot. One detects a type of civic pride in the kvetching you hear here. (“You think you’re schvitzing? I schlepped all the way from Brooklyn, and the AC on the F went kaput!”). In choosing to live in New York, we choose, for some reason, to live in unpleasant conditions: traffic, crowds, extreme weather conditions and catastrophic amounts of dog poop. Why do we do this to ourselves? A masochistic streak perhaps. Or something about wanting to build character: “If I can make it here,” etc.As you know from watching Seinfeld, New Yorkers are a famously complainy lot. One detects a type of civic pride in the kvetching you hear here. (“You think you’re schvitzing? I schlepped all the way from Brooklyn, and the AC on the F went kaput!”). In choosing to live in New York, we choose, for some reason, to live in unpleasant conditions: traffic, crowds, extreme weather conditions and catastrophic amounts of dog poop. Why do we do this to ourselves? A masochistic streak perhaps. Or something about wanting to build character: “If I can make it here,” etc.
Enduring it all is worth it, apparently, as long as we get to gripe.Enduring it all is worth it, apparently, as long as we get to gripe.
This past weekend marked the official start to summer. But we hit 80F (26.6C) degrees on 18 April this year and we’ve been complaining about the heat ever since. I have at least. I’ve been singing “Hot Town Summer In the City” to myself for more than two months already. The back of my neck stays dirty and gritty. I go from sweaty to sweatier. It’s miserable.This past weekend marked the official start to summer. But we hit 80F (26.6C) degrees on 18 April this year and we’ve been complaining about the heat ever since. I have at least. I’ve been singing “Hot Town Summer In the City” to myself for more than two months already. The back of my neck stays dirty and gritty. I go from sweaty to sweatier. It’s miserable.
The other day I was standing on a fetid platform deep within the underground toilet bowl that is our subway system. My shirt was soaked, my train was late, it had been a long day. A horde of fellow perspirers were encroaching on my personal space. I was wondering why God made us suffer so when the train came.The other day I was standing on a fetid platform deep within the underground toilet bowl that is our subway system. My shirt was soaked, my train was late, it had been a long day. A horde of fellow perspirers were encroaching on my personal space. I was wondering why God made us suffer so when the train came.
After the few departing passengers pushed their way through the doors, the inward crush swept me aboard and I ended up pinned between the middle-aged mother and twenty-something son of a family of four visiting from what I guessed to be the Midwest. I couldn’t reach a handrail or a pole: it was only the other human bodies keeping me upright as the train lurched forward. As my chest pressed against the woman’s back, I could feel my sticky skin rub against the sticky cloth of my shirt, and through that, the sticky cloth of her shirt, and through that, her sticky skin, wet with her own sweat. If this sounds at all sexy I am describing it poorly.After the few departing passengers pushed their way through the doors, the inward crush swept me aboard and I ended up pinned between the middle-aged mother and twenty-something son of a family of four visiting from what I guessed to be the Midwest. I couldn’t reach a handrail or a pole: it was only the other human bodies keeping me upright as the train lurched forward. As my chest pressed against the woman’s back, I could feel my sticky skin rub against the sticky cloth of my shirt, and through that, the sticky cloth of her shirt, and through that, her sticky skin, wet with her own sweat. If this sounds at all sexy I am describing it poorly.
My face was a grimace. The woman, though, was remarkably chipper (this is why I guessed they were visiting from the Midwest) and she laughed and turned over her shoulder and said to her son and her husband and her daughter: “It’s a good thing we’re a close-knit family!” This is a joke I might have found funny in slightly different circumstances. If I had been in their family, say, or if my sweat was not currently commingling with theirs.My face was a grimace. The woman, though, was remarkably chipper (this is why I guessed they were visiting from the Midwest) and she laughed and turned over her shoulder and said to her son and her husband and her daughter: “It’s a good thing we’re a close-knit family!” This is a joke I might have found funny in slightly different circumstances. If I had been in their family, say, or if my sweat was not currently commingling with theirs.
Summers weren’t always like this. According to long long time New Yorkers, those folks who remember when bagels were smaller and crustier but far better tasting than those of today, the old dogies who paid 50 cents to see Joe DiMaggio play center field for the Yankees and a nickel for an egg cream, there was a time when summer was associated with happiness and fun, and spring and fall lasted their allotted three months each. But those days are long gone. Summers weren’t always like this. According to long long time New Yorkers, those folks who remember when bagels were smaller and crustier but far better tasting than those of today, the old fogies who paid 50 cents to see Joe DiMaggio play center field for the Yankees and a nickel for an egg cream, there was a time when summer was associated with happiness and fun, and spring and fall lasted their allotted three months each. But those days are long gone.
Thanks to global warming (a phenomenon aggravated by a human population explosion represented all too well by our packed subway cars) our summers are getting longer and longer and hotter and hotter and hotter and hotter. Not just here in New York, but everywhere. We set a new global heat record last year. This year, we’re on pace to blast ourselves past it.Thanks to global warming (a phenomenon aggravated by a human population explosion represented all too well by our packed subway cars) our summers are getting longer and longer and hotter and hotter and hotter and hotter. Not just here in New York, but everywhere. We set a new global heat record last year. This year, we’re on pace to blast ourselves past it.
Climate change is making winters more extreme, too. The last two winters in New York have been legendarily bad. Record cold and snow, accompanied by record complaining about cold and snow. All rational conversation in our bars and around our water coolers seemed to stop midway through February, with every argument or joke or bit of commentary on world news replaced by a monotone gasp: “When will it end?”Climate change is making winters more extreme, too. The last two winters in New York have been legendarily bad. Record cold and snow, accompanied by record complaining about cold and snow. All rational conversation in our bars and around our water coolers seemed to stop midway through February, with every argument or joke or bit of commentary on world news replaced by a monotone gasp: “When will it end?”
Funny. Right now, as I sit here with my back stuck to my t-shirt stuck to my chair, the smell of urine and rotting garbage still in my nostrils from my morning walk to the corner store, I long for those days! Make me an icicle again, please! I can’t wait to be able to complain about snow and ice and restaurants not having adequate space for everyone’s stupid big giant Canada Goose parkas again.Funny. Right now, as I sit here with my back stuck to my t-shirt stuck to my chair, the smell of urine and rotting garbage still in my nostrils from my morning walk to the corner store, I long for those days! Make me an icicle again, please! I can’t wait to be able to complain about snow and ice and restaurants not having adequate space for everyone’s stupid big giant Canada Goose parkas again.
Anything would be better than this.Anything would be better than this.