La neige sur Paris

Paris can sometimes be a very magical place. The buildings are sometimes centuries old, so old in fact that the stone is still black from the soot of the industrial era and cole-burning chimneys. Famous authors, politicians, and actors have called this place home, only to be buried underneath Parisian ground. You can sometimes still feel their Paris of yesteryear as you walk through Les Halles (probably the oldest neighborhood in the center of Paris).  And for some reason, Paris holds a very real romance, more so than that of other cities I've been to. I don't know whether it's the wine, the language, or the Seine running through the city, but something in Paris inspires even the most prudish of American tourists to s'embrasser (sem-brah-say: kiss each other) out in the open in such an openly stated PDA that it makes even full-blooded Parisians blush.

I think, though, that this past Friday I saw one of the most magical elements of Paris take place: la neige sur Paris (lah nay-j: snowfall on Paris). For a mere 15 minutes of pure and silent awe, I watched from my bedroom window as a blizzard engulfed the city, leaving almost as soon as it arrived. I know I'm a coastal California girl and am therefore amazed by even a single snowflake because I've experienced so few of them (though, after spending a year in les Alpes snow has admittedly lost some of its luster), but even Parisians seem to be paralyzed with wonder by the first snowfall of the year in their glocally-celebrated town. Seeing the old stone buildings, sidewalks, and trees covered in Christmas lights beign lightly brushed with snow brings a whole new element of beauty to the French capitale (kap-ee-tahl: capital).

Of course, winter in Paris isn't all fun and games. From what I hear, snow may come and go in Paris but the cold hangs around forever. And it really gets cold here! The kind of chilly, biting, unforgiving cold that forces people to stay indoors and become depressed from lack of sunlight and feeling in their toes. Luckily, though, the French have come up with a few key ways of fighting off the winter blues: vin chaud (von show: mulled wine), twinkle lights along les Champs Elysées (lay shamp el-ee-zay: an iconic shopping district in Paris), and a truly devoted love affair to l'echarpe (luh-sharp: scarf). Christmastime in Paris, show me your worst!

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.