She stands on the curb, in the narrow break between two drifts, separated from the cab door by a dark moat of slush and grime. "Thirteen hundred North Astor, at the corner of Goethe--or Gothie," she says.
Who needs winter? We do. And the occasional burst of cold or snow? Doesn't count. While TV weatherpeople gush about the mild temperatures, the nasty truth is waiting to spoil the party.