I remember the first days of snow in Geneva, generally a wet November blizzard blown across the lake overnight that soon half melts to slush and promptly freezes in the icy teeth of the Bise howling down from the Alps. Your feet, no matter how well-shod, will inevitably plunge into deceptively deep puddles of slush in the gutters, as you squish and squelch your shivering way onto a crowded city bus or trolley car reeking of damp wool and stale exhalations, the floor slick with mud and puddles, coughing into the crook of your elbow so as not to infect your fellow passengers who have no such scruples and cough boldly into your face...ah, where are the snows of yesteryear, if not in these memories?