E-Mail to God on the Washington snowfall

Hola: saludos desde Washington!

Dear God:

As a (senior) Latin American living in Washington I had grown increasingly frustrated about the lack of "white Christsmasses" and the apparent impossibility of drinking a cognac while looking at the snow falling in the park, as in the best of Margaret Truman's best Washington novels (one or two). I had even traveled to West Virginia looking for the white stuff , only to find that it had been artificially generated.

Meteorological reports consistently added to my frustration. I often heard over the radio or saw in TV that there was a major storm coming our way. I would rush out to buy salt, shovels, flashlights and plenty of red wine, only to find out, at the last minute, that what really fell were three or four flakes, due to "an unexpected change in the track of the storm" or similar excuse of the flunkies who report locally on the weather.

I was seriously considering moving to Rochester or Buffalo, where real winter occurs year after year. I felt I could not be really identified with the U.S., unless I shared a real winter sorm with the citizens of this hospitable country.

And this week, suddenly, withouth anesthetics, I have gone through not one but two storms in northern Virginia, where these things are not supposed to happen. The first one deposited 26 inches of snow on the ground, covered cars, made driving very difficult and uprooted trees that had been there for decades. Thousands went cold in the dark.

When I had survived the first one and I thanked God for fulfilling my wish, what? another one hit us. And this one was worse than the first, as it was accompanied by high winds and blizzard conditions. Going outside was out the question while remaining inside probably meant freezing your butt.

In the condo where I live the only way to get out was in an ambulance. So far, I have not yet dared to call one in order to get some bread and milk at the market, although this would be creative Venezuelan thinking ( I have not discarded this move).

What I wanted to say to you, dear God, was: Please forgive me. I did not mean it that way. Please bring back the blue skies.

Yours,

a disoriented and terrified Latin American.