Reverse Culture Shock

London looks pristine in the snow — for about ten minutes. Then, the parade of pedestrians and barrage of buses turn it into a sloppy grey mess.

So when Londoners wake up tomorrow, I imagine they’ll see a scene like the one I photographed here on High Street Kensington nearly three years ago. It will look wintry and charming, until a slippery walk through slush to the tube will scupper any cozy and pleasant sentiment towards the snow — especially when the traveler discovers that the tube line they want has been driven out of service by the sloppy weather, regardless of whether or not the snow has completely melted.

From a distance, though, when I read forecasts calling for “a heavy blanket of snow,” I get nostalgic for the undisturbed, pristine fluff. I didn’t see it often during my seven and a half years living there.

In fact, it feels as though more snow has fallen on London in the year since I left than the whole time I lived there. That makes it easy to romanticize what will be an epic and potentially dangerous commute for Londoners.