the spiny evergreens are powdered with fat snowflakes

the snow of two days ago was kosher salt pelting woolen shoulders, pebbles bouncing on soft soil or exploding against sandstone.

these mountains used to be at the bottom of the ocean. as the water gave way to a new era, the floor of the sea dried and cracked and melted away into monstrous alien pillars poking out of the valleys of Bohemian Paradise.

our czech guide, mischa, has short yellow hair twisted into a spiky knot at the back, straight panels in front hanging over her ears. her pale eyes always look like they've been crying, maybe from laughter. her wide smiling mouth rests on a pointy chin. her voice is sensual, warm and intimately she rolls her tongue over her words. her face is innocent, the way her eyebrows are always lifted. the slight sag in the rear of her pants and the outward flare of her brown sweater are charming.

today's snow is a constant. none of the faltering of the previous days. it falls heavily, many flakes forming teams and dropping together in fat clumps. the resistance of the world beneath the white blanket is waning. more is hidden until every flaw is masked by a smooth and simple blinding white. it's relentless but gentle. its softness can be compacted to a dangerous slickness. smooth and silky enough to slide across with terrifying ease. especially a heavy gray tourist bus coated in grime and full of american students.

the bus slid easily across the narrow way. it would have kept sliding but for the tree it caught in the midsection. the window became a crackling web of plexiglass and the girl below it screamed, then immediately apologized for screaming. everyone reached for their cameras.

we became a horde not contained within the walls of the bus, a sprawling, slipping mass of colors and bottles and backpacks, squeals and laughs and complaints. down the mountain we went. the snow was no longer magical. it clung to the soft fibers of my wool coat, created a cap of a blonde girl's rounded bangs.

now in the train station waiting room, seven feet by fifteen, the red rubber floor streaked with mud and melted snow, we sit and stand, open and close the door. it's 10 AM. we open the bottles we were saving for the bus ride home. we take out snacks and put them away and take them out again. everyone asks each other the same questions. we're about to catch the first of the two trains passing through the town today.

and now that we're done walking through it, of course, the blizzard has ceased and the sun is shining mockingly.