REUTERS

IT rained in Manhattan on Christmas morning last year. Cold rain, pouring in gunmetal sheets onto the gray sidewalks. Then came the sleet, icy water slashing across the windspattered streets. And finally, in mid-afternoon, the snow. It drifted down from the heavens, little white nothings floating across your windows, settling on lamp-posts and windshields. And it didn't stop. The snow kept on falling, and falling, and falling, till the streets and the awnings and the parked cars were covered with it. What had started as a wet Christmas had ended as Bing Crosby's old dream, a white Christmas — the whitest in New York city since 1909.

I was indoors trying to finish a book I was writing, watching the freezing rain from the warmth of my study, hearing the gale-force winds howling outside my window. As the day wore on, the snow accumulated on the streets and traffic slowed to a crawl. Cars were slip-sliding across the ice. The number of pedestrians jacketed and mufflered against the whipping winds dwindled to a brave or reckless handful. The city's two airports shut down, unable to handle the storm. A hundred-mile stretch of the New York State Thruway had to be closed as well. As night fell, more than five inches of snow piled up in Central Park.

The worst of the weather had come on a holiday, with offices and most shops closed, and people already indoors, at family celebrations. New York City is rarely quiet; there are cars and crowds, bustle and hustle on any thoroughfare at any hour of the day or night. But the combination of Christmas and a cloud-laden northeaster reduced even Manhattan to something approaching tranquillity.

My girlfriend and I ventured out around 8 that night. We thought, in that slightly giddy way that afflicts people who do not often see a lot of snow on the ground, that it might be fun to walk through it. We were wrong.

Whoever dreamt up the expression "pure as the driven snow" lied. The driven snow is mainly slush. Every street corner was awash in it, a cold and slimy mix of congealed ice, melting snow and street dirt. Our destination, a cineplex, was 10 short blocks away; within two, our feet were soaked through from stepping into the half-frozen muck at every corner. Though we were bundled up as best as we could manage, we were quite unprepared for the chill wind that cut through our coats as we half-walked, half-stumbled our way on icy feet across the snow-crusted sidewalks. We gave up our movie plans.

Since we were outdoors anyway, we thought we would walk a bit more, looking for a well-heated restaurant. The streets were almost deserted. On one corner a Sisyphean young man with a shovel kept pushing snow off the front of his building. Each time he tossed off a shovelful, the winds deposited half of it back again at his feet. A little further ahead, another man operated a snow-blower on the sidewalk, clearing a path but raising a small ridge of snow and ice alongside. A giggling young couple, hand in hand, tripped across his path. One of them picked up a handful of snow and, as the other ran, tossed it at her. Their laughter could be heard above the motor of the snow-blower.

We trudged, our steps slippery and uncertain, toward a row of restaurants on Third Avenue. It was a forlorn quest. The yellow headlights of a solitary car shone on shuttered storefronts, then swung away. Not a single restaurant we knew was open. The 24-hour supermarket which had pledged to welcome customers most of Christmas Day had instead closed earlier than announced, to allow staff to beat the snowstorm home. The pizzerias, the McDonald's, even the ubiquitous nail salons had all put up their shutters. Only the Korean deli was open, but then it always was, and that didn't make it any more inviting.

A mound of cardboard shivered near a wall, and we saw it was a homeless man, huddled above a grating for warmth, ripped cartons his only blanket. The lights of the city twinkling above him were too high in the sky for warmth. The steam rising from the subway beneath him provided his one measure of comfort.

Ten unsteady paces away was the only eatery open for as far as our eyes could see, a Chinese noodle house. We looked in through the window at its handful of patrons, those unfortunate few without a home-cooked dinner this Christmas. One East Asian family, by the window; a middle-aged Jewish couple (the man wore a yarmulke) further inside; and three single men, each eating alone at separate tables. My friend and I looked at each other, and almost simultaneously shook our heads. This was not for us.

I turned to head back home. "Wait," she said. "I have an idea." She stepped in to the restaurant.

"Take out?" I followed, rolling my eyes.

She ordered a hot soup, chicken wonton. The steam was still rising from it as the restaurant staff pressed a plastic lid onto the container.

We walked back, our wet feet freezing in our shoes, until she knelt in the snow and offered the hot soup to the homeless man.

"Merry Christmas," she said.

In the desolate cold whiteness around us, the city had been christened anew. We did not say a word to each other the rest of the way home.