The New York winter is no joke

Last Wednesday, as I tried to prevent my overactive cat from climbing across my shoulders, it became obvious something very bad was happening in Washington DC. The reporters assembled to cover the shift were expecting Trump’s rally to follow the same blueprint as other rallies before it, and for a while it did: a bombastic speech from the orange-in-chief (check), a bit of chanting (check), a lot of red hats and Trump 2024 banners (check), and a bunch of angry people with their fists in the air causing temporary havoc in the streets before getting into cars and buses and making their way home.

As we all know now, it didn’t quite happen that way. Working from home in New York, all my fiance heard from me at the other side of the room as I followed our live-stream of events and he tried to complete calls with clients was: “Oh, wow… Oh my God… Oh my good God… OH MY GOD!”

“She works in the media,” E clarified hastily to the person on the other end of the line.

Like when Biden won the election, it was a historic moment that didn’t feel like one because of our pandemic working situation. Inside my apartment, deals were being made between clients and companies between my oblivious partner and people he knew. Outside, people wandered down the sunny streets of Brooklyn in puffy winter coats and boots, chatting on their phones and chivvying along little “apartment dogs”. On my screen, however, everything and everyone was going certifiably insane.

Photos poured in in real time: the man dressed in fur and antlers, who people on Twitter briefly decided was a member of Jamiroquai, forcing the band member to deny it; police officers clashing with rioters smashing their way into the Capitol buildings after breaching four lines of fences; a man grinning and making off with what his attorney later referred to as “either a podium or a lectern” emblazoned with the congressional seal. In the aftermath, we have now watched the photographed people appear at press conferences with their lawyers, trying to explain away what they were doing. “Yeah, that would be a problem. I’m not a magician,” the podium-carrier’s defense attorney conceded this week, when asked about the photo which had by then been splashed across international front pages.

At the end of that very weird week, E and I ventured out for brunch. New York City is not on lockdown, but only outdoor dining is allowed, so most restaurants now have makeshift semi-outdoor structures to try and get round the rules. Some have set up Arctic tents for people to sit inside, with waiters posting food through the small door and torches hanging from the ceiling for light. Some have transparent plastic bubbles spaced along the pavement; other, more salubrious establishments have permanent greenhouses. As we wandered the streets, however, there was only one thing on our mind: heaters.

The New York winter is no joke, and Sunday morning’s high point was -2C. The restaurants and bars along the road had a heating hierarchy: fully unprotected structures, followed by tables protected from the wind but nothing else, followed by restaurants with small heaters attached to the ceiling, followed by the best in class: establishments where tables were surrounded by cosy standalone heaters fit to warm a king.

Needless to say, everyone had gone out earlier than us and taken every available table except one at a semi-protected, open-air restaurant in Astoria, Queens, where we were checking out possible apartments for the end of our Brooklyn lease. We leaned over to take a look at the better examples of heated spaces, peering at the large hunks of metal and saying to each other, “Cor, that’s a nice one,” like two pervy old men at a college bar. Then we conceded defeat and moved on.

At the open-air table, where the wind rattled the anti-Covid partitions, we discussed the events of the week over shivered coffees and deep-fried French toast sticks with maple syrup – or discussed them as much as you can when both of you are ensconced in orange Edmund Hillary-style hoods attached to heavy-duty jackets – and then conceded defeat. Back to the box where everything happens. The apartment might be a step down in terms of atmosphere, but at least it’s where I can feel my toes.