Deep in the looming catastrophe that is my closet sits a very nice black wool coat. It does not rest on a hangar. It is folded up on the shelf, a slew of unfolded sweaters piled on top of it. It's already February, the thick of winter, and I haven't used it. I didn't use it last year, nor the year before, or the year before that. I can't, really, because I am not allowed to. The last few years I lived in Manhattan, I experienced the tremendous arc of weather that's almost unlike anywhere else in this country. Summers of what felt like scalding hundred-degree temperatures thanks to the sun bouncing off all of the materials that make up that vertical city. Mild winters packed with wind tunnels and slush puddles splashed around by cab drivers with zero fucks to give. You learn how to dress for the elements rather quickly there. During the summers in the city, most of your retail stores and bodegas keep their entrances open for the public. Which is strange, be...