Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Interesting... all through December I longed for snow to brighten the winter darkness and bring a bit more Christmas spirit to Stockholm--but snow eluded me. Instead, I was bombarded with rain, cloud cover and a general feeling of malaise. My Christmas spirit was diluted by rain and rude behavior.

And then on Saturday the air began to smell like snow. It's hard to describe the scent of snow, the way the air smells just before snowfall... but the feeling it gives you makes you feel alive. You revert to childhood and the giddy anticipation of snow and sledding and hot chocolate and all the things that made you happy when you were a kid.

I love snow. I love how it transforms Stockholm and blankets it and makes people slow down just a bit. I love watching the ice-skaters in Vasaparken as I sit in my favorite café and write. I love taking evening walks and hearing the snow crunch under my feet. All those things remind me of why I love Stockholm.

What I hate is the aftermath of snow--slush, ice, delayed commuter trains, falling. Yesterday when I was on my way home from another celebration of rejection at Belgobar, I sprained my ankle when I slid on a patch of ice. Last night, my ankle was swollen and painful, and the Ace bandage I'd inexpertly wrapped around it wasn't helping much in the way of support.

I spent a good part of the evening, mentally ranting and bitching about ice, snow removal, and stupid people who bump into you (which was partly why I slid on the ice in the first place) and just general nasty thoughts about winters in Stockholm. My mental rant included haphazard plans to "fly south for the winter" and escape the chaos that is Stockholm after snowfall. Let's be honest here--it snows every year here--for thousands of years snow has fallen every winter in Sweden, and yet without fail the city of Stockholm always seems unprepared for it. But that's a bit of a digression...we're talking about my ankle here.

And it's the same ankle I sprained back in 1997 during a trip to Vienna. The same ankle that has plagued me since then--which the evil nurse at Vårdcentralen told me was nothing serious. (And in the grand scheme of things, she's right--a sprained ankle is nothing compared to cancer, gun-shot wounds, stabbings, etc.)

So I suppose I can't complain too much. Having this sprained ankle is forcing me to slow down. It's forcing me to do things like look out my window and muse over how lovely it is to see snow coating the pine boughs and fairy lights on my balcony railings.

And it makes me wish I were still a child, with a sled and a snowsuit and making snow angels in the park.

I hate being slowed down by my ankle. I don't mind being slowed down by snow.