A Ride on the Polar Express

O N E

O N E

The air is heavy with a gentle silence, the one that always accompanies a freshly fallen blanket of snow. It fills my soul with a vast sense of satisfaction and inner peace, and I sigh, my breath forming a crystalline cloud that hangs in front of me for a long moment before dissipating into the almost-morning air.

In an hour or two, the streets will be filled with tourists, building snowmen and taking photos and going for strolls in this winter wonderland. This town was specifically built to be a winter tourist attraction, after all. It's the epitome of holiday spirit. Every tree in the plaza is wrapped in some sort of lights. The ones around the outside, like the one I'm sitting under, are draped in strings of colorful reds, oranges, greens, and blues; the smaller ones in the middle display a plain but angelic white; and the huge fir in the middle is wrapped in the kind of yellowy lights that can't be described as anything except cozy.

There's at least six inches of snow on the ground, too, most of which are fresh. The footprints and tracks from yesterday are erased, replaced with a blanket of pure snow that catches the lights from the trees and scatters it everywhere. There may be no light coming from the sky—the sun is far from coming up, since it's so early in the morning and sunrise comes late at this time of year, and thick clouds obscure the moon's glow—but the plaza is almost as bright as it is during the day.

I treasure this time of morning, the time when it's still serene and peaceful. Before the chaos commences. Don't get me wrong, I love interacting with the tourists and seeing the joy on their faces—there's a reason I choose to live and work here, after all—but having time to myself is just as important. It's the morning when I do all my thinking, when I can truly take the time to appreciate everything I have in my life. Like the fact that I get to live in a town that's about as perfect and picturesque as can be, especially during the holiday season.

A sudden shiver jolts through my body as snow starts to fall, and giant, fat flakes land on my exposed skin. One flake in particular comes to rest on my nose, and when I bring my hand up to wipe it off, my fingers come away wet. Which certainly doesn't help me warm up at all. It's far below freezing, and if I wait around outside for too much longer, I'll have icicles on my eyelashes and the tips of my hair. Even my two shirts, three jackets, scarf, and hat aren't a match for the cold. I take that as a sign to get up and head inside for the morning.

My shop is located on the other side of the plaza, on the second floor of a quaint Bavarian-style building. There's a whole row of dormer windows that overlooks the plaza below, and the small triangular roof over each window is lined with a string of yellow lights that casts a cozy glow onto the outside wall of my shop. For me, the holidays are all about basking in the magical, enchanting feeling in the air that makes the atmosphere feel almost electric. That's where I find joy.

The first floor of this building is a bakery, which I absolutely love since I always have amazing smells drifting up the stairwell, and a steady stream of customers as well. I don't sell any kind of food, though—I'm unfortunately quite lacking in the cooking skills department. Instead, I sell small, hand-crafted souvenirs. Ornaments, paperweights, bracelets, earrings, keychains, and even napkin rings. I make them all.

I like to think that when a customer buys one of my souvenirs, they're taking a small memory capsule back home with them. Something that will hold the key to remembering their experience here during the holidays. Something that will make them happy whenever they see it. I know that for most people, it probably won't hold that much sentimental value, but there's something exhilarating about believing that I can have that much of an effect on someone.

I greet Carmen, the head baker of the shop downstairs, as I head up. She waves and shoots me a friendly grin, but she looks super busy, so I don't stop to talk. Not that I blame her. Not one bit. We're all swamped during the holiday season around here—we have more people come through our shops during the three weeks surrounding Christmas and New Year's Day than we do all summer. It's absolute insanity, and I live for it.