![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9GUW4NeKc0jZNKmzq_8ObSB0Q27EBjEkmRiRBvaFXH7d96_MFLFe0IlBtPQGgqf9vRSpmgyoIJmeMRR17S6StTVQAK4ZiEhJmACb6Dx_wLMHOksjvv2WjsYfAex11HJBDFTLfB9g-oc/s320/nyd+rock+center.jpg) |
Rockefeller Center |
"The true city is the winter city. The woolly enchantment of a population swaddled and muffled, women and men in long coats, eccentric boots, winding scarves; steam sculptures forming out of human breath; hushed streets; tiny white electric points on skeletal trees! The icy air like a scratch across a sheet of silver, the smoky chestnut carts, the foggy odor of hot coffee when you open a door, a bakery's sweet mist swirling through its transom, a glimpse of rosy-nosed skaters in the well of the Rockefeller stelae, the rescuing warmth of public lobbies
—New York in January is a city of grateful small shocks."
Cynthia Ozick, Quarrel & Quandary