Winter, Unfiltered

Winter in Almaty does not interrupt life but defines it, from silent bus rides to glowing cafes and overheated apartments beneath watchful mountains; writes Vinod K

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I landed in Almaty last month, when winter had settled in properly—no polite introductions, no halfhearted cold.

The moment the aircraft door opened, the air carried a sharpness that went straight to the lungs and stayed there, like a reminder that this was Central Asia and it played by its own rules. Snow lay thick and unbothered on the edges of the runway, not the slushy afterthought you see in some cities, but the real thing—dry, white, and unapologetic.

Instead of booking a hotel, I had rented an apartment near the older part of the city. It felt right. Hotels insulate you from places; apartments let them seep in. The taxi ride from the airport was quiet, the driver focused, radio low, headlights carving tunnels through falling snow. Almaty revealed itself slowly—broad avenues, Soviet-era apartment blocks softened by fairy lights, and mountains lurking somewhere beyond the dark, unseen but unmistakably present.

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that had clearly lived a life. The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and boiled cabbage. Inside, though, it was warm, almost aggressively so. Central heating hummed like an old friend. Thick curtains framed a view of bare trees and parked cars wearing caps of snow. I dropped my bag, made tea with leaves bought at the airport, and stood by the window for a long time, watching people move through winter with practised efficiency—heads down, hands buried, no wasted gestures.