" title="Juliane Huang"> Juliane Huang

When It’s Cold

“Now it really feels like Fall.”
“I love this weather.”

…

Something about the sharp turn of the front door barometer makes me feel simultaneously comforted and lonely.  I grew up in Southern California, and arid, summer memories blur together, stretching through my time line as one long and never ending sunny day.  It’s no wonder infrequent moments of chill become punctuated for me.

It’s probably their rarity, their minority status in my day-to-day encounters, that make cold days stand at the forefront of my attention.  Distinct memories emerge at will.  I stop to relive the past– just briefly.

I’ve always said I hate feeling cold.  And I do.  Cold fingers awkwardly typing on unforgiving keyboards.  Cold feet tucked in to siphon body warmth.  It’s not comfortable.  And it’s not inviting.

But so far, I’ve collected enough various cold-weather memories that needing a sweater and a down comforter is no longer exasperating.  It can be kinda nice.

Before my brother and I had even hit double-digit ages, my parents were packing blankets in the backseat of our aged, pale blue Honda so he and I could be comfortable during the drives to Big Bear.  My mom doesn’t even like the snow.  She stayed inside the miserable, damp skiiers’ cafeteria all day, dutifully waiting for us to get tired of zipping down blindingly white mountains before cleaning us off and repacking the car for the drive home.

In high school, I had one relationship that lasted a year.  Or almost a year, I can’t remember.  There was a day that students didn’t have to show up for the first two hours or so in the morning.  We met for breakfast at a local brunch place and slid into the squeaky, vinyl booths hand-in-hand.  Thick slices of french toast coated with gleaming maple syrup.  Orange juice that was too sweet.  We lasted a full range of seasons together, yet it’s only when it’s cold do I think back on it.  Its amateur nature unforgettable.

Years after I fell in love for the first time.  I moved out to the desert to be with him, needing nothing except the spinning of the earth and its wide, flat expanse.  Desert winter is something else.  It’s as if the volume gets gradually turned low and everything goes sleepy.  We had just finished eating at some cheap diner that served insurmountably large portions.  Climbing the metal and stone staircase back up to our apartment, I pulled my hair into my sweater to protect my ears from the quiet cold.  I listened to the quiet steps behind mine.

Predictably, years after, I experienced my first heartbreak.  After spending months successfully eluding sobriety at my parents’ house, I bought a plane ticket for a small island across the Pacific to escape the rest.  My first winter in Taiwan was colder and rainier than my second.  At night, feeling small and empty in an apartment that lacked any reasonable insulation, I’d grab my umbrella and gingerly walk down the austere cement stairs, press out the clangy metal door, shuffle down the moist asphalt alley to the neighborhood tangyuan stand.  Sweet black sesame mochi in steaming hot peanut broth.  Flimsy plastic spoons.  Tired, wobbly, fold-up tables.  Gudan hai xinfu.

I feel like moving somewhere far away again.