I jokingly asked a B&B proprietor in Victoria once if he owned a snow shovel and he just looked at me blankly and said no.
I spent four years attending undergraduate college in New Hampshire, and got my fill of snow. (The skiers loved it, of course.) Since then, I've gravitated toward warmer climes. Still, nature can pitch you an occasional curve ball.
I was once in Vancouver when it snowed. For all of about ... let's say ... 30 minutes, light flakes fell along the waterfront. We tourists took it in stride, but the locals seemed mesmerized by their winter wonderland. Then the precipitation turned to (very cold) rain. We tourists were really miserable, but the locals took it in stride. Then the sun came out. Fin de "storm."
One morning in Santa Fe, New Mexico, my wife and I woke up to discover two inches of snow covering the outdoor wooden stairs leading down from our second-story (storey) extended-stay hotel suite. I grabbed a plastic coat hanger from the closet, and used it to clear them before we walked down to go to the main building for breakfast. By the time we had finished eating, the snow was gone, the sun was shining, and the outdoor temperatures demanded nothing more than a light jacket. By lunchtime, even that was too much.
Here in the Washington, D.C. area, we're more-or-less accustomed to snow. We get
some every winter, and occasionally we experience
a real deluge. Doesn't seem to make any difference: whenever it snows, our traffic―already notoriously awful―typically grinds to a halt. Some would consider that an appropriate metaphor for our politics.