Can you be chic and warm, as in Warm-with-a capital-W? I balk at the idea that a wool coat is enough and am in awe of those who seem to do just fine with thin knits and a puffer—the kind more fashion than function—and walk through the streets unafraid of oncoming traffic or the cold. Perhaps I’m simply fighting against my true nature and should accept that I thrive in heat and hibernate at the first hit below 60 degrees. Only New York could coax me out in the middle of winter. Single-digit weather dictates cuddling indoors, but the promise of people-watching, hours at the Guggenheim or the Met, and potential discovery is too enticing to pass. The city is where I feel most alive; a compatibility I’d like to attribute to shared energy—but it’s also possible that it’s the cold that gave the illusion of exhilaration. Below freezing temps, after all, will invigorate the soul down the the bones. But New York! In the winter! My favorite city in the world, at the most magical time of year. I would brave the cold for adventure and for once, a step count over 10k. To survive as a wandering vagabond is to come…