Perhaps it's because I hadn't experienced this until my arrival in France, but I do hope that I will forever be able to retain this childlike appreciation of when it snows...
The thrill of seeing falling snow still rushes through me like a lightening bolt and I press my nose against the windowpane and try to think of an excuse to go outside. It is too much for me - I don't need an excuse, even at 10.30pm - so I race out the door and am overwhelmed with the feeling of tiny little flakes of snow on my face and in my hair, even as I shiver in my tshirt, jeans and birkenstocks.
When it snows, the world seems to slow down. The noise from the busy streets is muffled, and everything appears to move slower. Even my feet, crunching softly on the thin layer of white, seem to belong to someone else. I can almost imagine myself to be all alone - not surrounded by millions of people in this big city - with a veil of delicate snowflakes falling in my hair and on my outstretched hands.
When it snows, I'm sure that magic can happen.