Un clin d'oeil

If I could hand down one piece of advice, it would be to keep your yeux (you: eyes) wide open, because everything seems to change with a clin d'oeil (kleen d-ow: blink of an eye). The bleak grey ciel (see-yell: sky) of a Parisian winter suddenly turns into blossoming, muggy spring days and before I know it those blossoms have disappeared and l'été is only a month away. Beloved animals slip away from my life, friends disappear to corners of the globe to maybe never be seen again, and in a little over a month, my current life in Paris will be a distant memory.

Time has a stubborn way of continually moving forward, and for some reason this year is no exception. Yet I'm somehow always shocked—SHOCKED--when I find myself at the end of yet another year, trying to get myself into a bargain with Father Time to roll back the les horloges (layz or-loj: clocks) a bit, even offering to sell my soul for an extra few days of weekend, but Father Time is a stubborn old fool and never gives in.

So, here I am, at the end of another printemps (prawn-temp: spring). I've got to start packing my valises (val-eez: suitcases) and say my goodbyes to Paris. Sure, I still have a little over a month left, but if past experiences have taught me anything, it's that as soon as there's a clin d'oeil, it will all be over, but that's alright: it just means a new adventure in San Francisco is about to begin, and knowing that Andrew and my family will be waiting for me when I get home makes the impending goodbyes a little easier.

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.