This winter was undeniably, documented-ly miserable. Temperatures dipped so low that they were deadly; five-foot-tall piles of ice and snow, black with exhaust and debris, clogged the city's intersections; piles of dog poop peppered the sidewalks. To put it mildly, that shit sucked!
But I'm sorry to report that after the brief and glorious reprieve that was False Spring, we are officially entering the very worst stretch of the year to be out and about in New York City—when the cold snaps back into place, open-toed shoes must be shoved back under the bed or into the closet, and it is somehow always, always, wet outside.
It's mid-March, and things are about to be gross for the foreseeable future.