Printemps à Paris

Andrew so kindly reminded me that today was the official start of printemps à Paris (prawn-temp ah pear-ee: springtime in Paris), a fact that had completely escaped me due to the emotional winter fog that had been haunting me since all the leaves fell off the trees and the bitter cold and gray skies of Paris forced the entire city into hibernation.

The thing is, Paris is wonderful at anytime of year, but I just assume that Parisians, comme moi (kohm mwa: like myself) are really just faking it until the better weather returns.

Sun is rare, our winter wardrobes are looking run-down, and no matter how many fabulous things there are to see and do, no one ever really wants to leave the house when the thermometer only reads 3 degrees outside (that's roughly 43 degrees Fahrenheit for you Americans).


Printemps, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Today, while walking around Notre Dame and just generally enjoying the spring sunshine, I decided to do something I haven't done since November: I went to a bench and simply sat.

I can't explain the beauty of hearing the bells of Notre Dame chime it's parishioners to mass while French children kick balls back and forth to each other while mispronouncing Harry Potter's name in a way only French children could. Old couples who have probably been living in Paris since WWII scooted by hand-in-hand in front of me (the woman in high heels, bien sûr) discussing the latest films, while tourists snapped photos of the blossoms fragrantly blooming on every tree with the immense presence of la cathedrale (lah ka-tee-drahl: cathedral) as the backdrop.

Having the time to soak up what is really an incredibly common and cliched scene in Paris reminded why I love this city so much: because nine months out of the year, she is full of the poetry of day-to-day life in this capital of Europe. But for those three months out of the year known as hiver (ee-ver: winter)? Well, even the Parisian skyline herself gets sick of the gloom after awhile.