Fondre

There comes a time every hiver (ee-ver: winter) when everyone's had enough.  This is no less true in France: the snow-covered sidewalks and chilly days followed by even chillier nuits (nwee: nights) means that the berret wearing old men with their baquettes (bag-ett: bread) shuffle around with frowns instead of sourires (sor-ear: smiles) on their faces, cars won't stop for pedestrians on the street because they're just too damn grincheaux (green-show: cranky), and everyone clenches tightly to their manteaus (man-toe: coats) because there's no knowing when a cold day will get even colder.

Then, while laying in bed at noon under three blankets next to the heater that's on full-blast for the upteenth Sunday morning in a row, comes that most welcome morning when you look outside the window and see that the sun is out, the birds are chirping, and the thermometer no longer reads below freezing.

Fondre (fond-ruh).  It means "to melt", and luckily for me the snow has melted away completely in Grenoble and my bitter mood has melted right along with it  For the first time in three months I was able to walk to le boulangerie (luh boo-lahn-jer-ee: the bakery) for my ritual Sunday morning croissant (kwa-sant) without wearing a jacket and without being freezing.  That makes for one very happy fille californienne (fee kali-forn-ee-an: American girl).  

I know that the snow could fall again at any time, blanketing Grenoble in yet another white haze of winter and despair.  I mean, it's almost guaranteed to come again, right?  It's only February after all.  The French at least, experienced with cold winters and equiped with blood lines of pessismism stretching back as far as the creation of cheese and wine, refuse to believe that le printemps (luh pren-tomp: spring) has made an early entrance.  Even though it's 65 degrees outside, everyone's still bundled up as if they're about to go on a ski trip.

I, on the otherhand, am a bit more willingly naïve about the whole situation.  For the first time since novembre (no-vembruh: November) a cold, winter-induced fog has been lifted from my brain.  All the stress and emotions from months of trying to keep warm while working, traveling, and grocery shopping have seemed to melt away with the promise of a warm, sunny day.  It's no longer too cold to smile.  Instead, the higher temperatures have seemed to make me giddy.

I feel like I'm stuck in a Norman Rockwell painting: a pearl necklace-wearing American girl with dark brown curls in her hair smiles foolishly while galavanting around sunny French streets in high heels, thankful for life, love, and the French-American way.  With this in mind, maybe it's not so bad if winter sticks around for a bit longer.  I need some bitter cold temps (tomp: weather) to knock some sense back into me.