Texas isn’t an especially popular vacation destination for New Yorkers. (Many Democrats, you may recall, viewed President George W. Bush’s choice of hot, arid Midland for summer vacations as proof of his poor judgment.)
Strolling around the pretty Spanish plaza at the heart of Old La Mesilla, Texas, watching children play and families chat in the public square, I thought: Why aren’t there more places like this in the U.S.?
The last time I saw the sun, it was setting over Tucson, Ariz.
Oggi and I started our cross-country drive in sunny Los Angeles. But somewhere in western Texas, we awoke to a cold drizzle, which turned into a week of rainstorms and unrelenting gray skies that we managed to follow, thanks to the jet stream, all the way to Boston. Where, as I write this a day after our arrival, the rain has just turned to — you guessed it — snow.
Few of us welcome snow in New York, where it perhaps looks picturesque for a half-hour in the park — but then mostly just snarls up commutes, collects in dirty piles on the corner and fouls up sidewalks with slush.