So last Friday I got all dolled up. Not skinny Barbie-like, but more girl-from-tropics-dressing-for-the-Alps. I borrowed my partner's socks and shoes (we realised I'm just half-a-size smaller than him, and also, his socks are not just thick, but were knitted by his late grandmother). I wore three or four layers of sweaters of varying thickness atop a pair of jeggings I'd bought some years ago in Dubai. I put on the long coat I borrowed from my ex, which he guaranteed was meant to withstand winter in New York, and the gloves I had carried with me from Delhi, hand-knitted by a Tibetan refugee woman, a warm toque that clearly belonged to my sister, and to complete the look, my white Himachali shawl, gifted to me by my Austrian artist friend, Marlene.

I was ready for the 25-minute drive from Tramin. We had decided, in the end, to drive up to Aldein, 20 km away. It had been raining for hours. It was 9am but felt like 7am. It was dark and misty, and the autumn yellow of the vines offered sharp contrast. We drove past the neighbouring Neumarkt and the rain continued to hit the windshield and all around us was its pervasive sound. Until suddenly, we ascended into silence, and I saw snow falling for the first time in my life.
We parked near the town centre and walked uphill to the church, which is perched on an incredible vantage point. In May this year was when I'd first seen the valley from that very location. It was a clear summer day, the antithesis of now. I was awed by the spectacle; the landscape colonised by a monotonous shade of white, sometimes alerting you to bits of colour that lay underneath. We made a joint snowball which we cast into the horizon. We had to be quiet, Mass was underway in the church. We could hear the Alleluia being sung in a tune so familiar that I had to sing along.