Yesterday, Friday, was the first cold day of early winter. The first big coats of the season are being dusted off and worn since the last throes of winter tapered off in late March. It's pre-festivity winter, which isn't much fun. Nobody's got Christmas or New Year decorations up, the gutters are choked with brown leaves from the ginkos and Chinese elms. It gets dark around 5:30, the dry winter wind gusts up your sweater when you step out of the subway, street vendors are putting on gloves and heaters are revving up.

Tomorrow, I'll have been here for a year. When I arrived it was already much colder than it is now; winter's come a bit later. Jet-zoned and time-lagged, I was actually waking up at proper hours of the morning and exploring the city. The fruit vendors, ice-boxes packed with tentacled critters and signs I couldn't read were exciting and new. The season reminds me of that, but I'm adjusted and leading a life here that I couldn't have predicted in those first chilly weeks here.

It rained Wednesday night and some Thursday morning. I walk past a small park every day which has been golden for some time now: Ginko trees are simply gorgeous in the spring and fall. They turn aspen-tree yellow and shuck their leaves on lazy spiraling paths. Wednesday afternoon some old people were sweeping up the two streets that border the park with straw brooms. After the rain the streets were yellow again and the trees just that much barer.

On the hills, where dirt paths wind around through trees for nice views of the city, are small gazebos where in the summer months old people and students gather to drink soju and chat. The cold has emptied the hills of leaves and people. I walked up to the top of the one closest to my apartment watching my breath gather in lung-sized clouds.