Fresh from Miami, a tough lesson about winter in Boston

By Noah Bierman, Globe Staff

I spent my morning pecking away at ice with a plastic shovel, trying to free my puny Toyota from a dense cocoon. As I threw down the shovel and went to raise my weary arms to hail a cab, I contemplated why I moved to Boston from Miami three months ago.

Two storms' worth of ice had been compressed into a solid wall and crammed against my defenseless Toyota Prius. I could only open the car doors a crack, forcing me to squeeze into the driver's seat. I never wanted a gas-guzzling SUV so much in my life.

There were many errors that led me to this debacle, all of them predictable.

First was the initial parking job. I should have left the car in a garage Saturday night when I knew snow was predicted for the second time in three days. But my hubris and cheapness made me parallel-park on my street.

Second was my delay in shoveling. I had to drive to work Sunday (to cover the snow and ice storm for the Globe. Irony!), so I took my wife’s car because it has snow tires and was better positioned for an easy getaway. I did not dig out my own car even though I knew temperatures were expected to dip below 20 degrees that night and harden every bit of liquid in the city.

The fortress of ice around my car grew 1 foot, 2 feet, then 3 feet high. It became wider, denser, and darker as drivers and plows piled excess snow against my car. On Monday, I put off reality again and took the bus into town.

This morning was my moment of reckoning. I put on a pair of gloves, pulled out a shovel, and began searching for vulnerabilities in the ice wall.

I asked the opinions of passersby, who looked at me with pity. I told them I had just moved from Florida, hoping that might explain my cluelessness and, perhaps, inspire them to rush home and get a plow.

"Welcome to Boston," one guy said, laughing. "You might need an ice pick."

I tried different methods: Assaulting the bottom of the pile, I hoped the wall would tumble of its own weight. I tried chiseling. I tried kicking. I tried driving into it, only to smell the futile odor of burning tires.

After 45 minutes, I had carved out a decent runway, but my plane wasn’t taking off. The car would not budge and I was gasping.

My mother had warned me about this. All of her friends up North who tried to shovel snow got heart attacks. Don't do it, she said, certain that I have the cardiovascular health of a 65-year-old man.

Finally, in a breathless state of fugue, I walked up the street and found a taxi. The cabbie had some advice for me about Boston living: Don’t drive.

When I made it to work, a former colleague at the Miami Herald sent me an e-mail, asking about the weather. I could imagine the satisfaction in his voice as he described the conditions there.

"I had to wear a sweater today," he said. "But I think I might take it off now."

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