Although Spring had just begun, some New Yorkers were already visibly sweating.

In a week of memorable words—“Habemus papam,” intoned an old man in red; “One final one, and then I stop,” vowed a six-time Tour de France champion—some of the most momentous were uttered by New Yorkers.

With Christmas and Hanukkah but a distant memory, the seven days of Kwanzaa finally over, the last Nutcracker performed, and the revelry of New Year’s Eve concluded, New York could no longer ignore the words of the poet: Winter is iccumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm!

It was a week of mixed fortunes in New York.

It was a week crowded with culture, some of it elevated, some not.

By week’s end, New Yorkers were more than willing to heed the sage’s advice to those consumed by regret: Do all you can to mitigate the harm caused by your behavior, and resolve not to be so foolish again.

Although the iniquitous were mostly out of town New York was hit by blows of fire and ice that felt like divine retribution.

The city’s nerve endings were a-tingle as it entered the mad whirl of gaiety that commences with Thanksgiving and ends in the wee hours of New Year’s Day.

Owing perhaps to the scent of blossoms in the air, it was a week that found the city in an unusually revealing mood.