Snow, Not By Orhan Pamuk

A very Busan way of dealing with the snow. After all, what problem can't be solved by squatting with a scoop?

We’re back in Korea now and the city’s obliged us by coating itself in more snow than anyone can remember; all the frigid alleyways of this undeniably hideous place have been hidden beneath the purest frost imaginable, with the hawked puddles of ajosshi phlegm rendered up as gleaming rivers of ice in the cold, and all the lifeless leafless trees and lifeless artless concrete plastic buildings cured of their ashen complexions with as much powder as any aging actress could ever ask for.

For a New Englander, a winter without snow is a long grueling torture, and you only really realize it when your stark bleak surroundings are suddenly blanketed in the same snows that horsedrawn sleighs sing over in folktales and Christmas carols and Russian novels, bells ringing deep into the night, seats packed with ice princesses and mummers who still wear false red noses even though their faces are flushed from exposure to the same great chill that makes the stars shiver.

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