It snowed today in Nuremburg, a gentle powder that added to a scene instead of imposing any need for layers. I've only seen first snowfalls in Canada, which on occasion would match the benignity of Nuremburg's first snowfall but often would not. I never liked winter much. It rendered many things much harder, and I wasn't allowed to do the things it unlocked. Skiing was dangerous, snowball fights were violent, and yes snow was pretty, but aesthetics lose their luster after five months of 4pm sunsets and preparing for war every time you want to take out the trash. The Nuremburg Christmas market opened the day after we were meant to leave. With dinner plans foiled, snow lightly dusting our faces on the walk over, I found a little restaurant styled in — I kid you not — the medieval times, well reputed for their *mead*. We sat down on pelt-covered long benches, sharing the oak table with four Germans who clearly knew the reputation of the establishment. As we read the menu (dad thought it was Latin; mom thought it was *hieroglyphics*; it was just English in medieval font) a feeling of warmth flitted around my body, beating out the winter that had burrowed itself deep into my bones, as travelling has done before.