Who loves the sun?
This winter, it has not rained or snowed or sleeted or shined in Paris. For three months, it has drizzled.
We’ve had snowfall, but never more than a couple of centimeters. It rains practically every day, but never heavily enough to put an end to your vacillation over whether or not to take an umbrella. Showers dampen your mood, snow dampens your shoes, and the slightest glimmer of sun - a rare occurrence - is enough to get you sticking your head out of the window in the hope of absorbing an errant ray. Our “snowpocalypse” occurred not out in the elements but inside a Eurostar tunnel under the Channel. The season is administered almost homeopathically - in doses calibrated to chip away at your patience slowly, rather than provoke disasters. By mid-February, there’s only so much more you can really take.
But the worst isn’t the wind or the wet or cold. It’s the constant darkness. It’s dark when you wake up, and it’s dark when you leave your office; it’s even dark at noon because of the clouds and the fog. I’m very sensitive to these things - I even bought a SAD lamp in college, convinced that light, at the right frequency, would put an end to my sophomoric histrionics. In retrospect, there was no need - New York winters, though cold, are light and bright and inviting. You need sunglasses when it snows. In Paris, you need a flashlight.
Today was the first sunny day in several weeks and I can’t remember the last time I felt this lighthearted. I was supposed to be sad, I suppose, celebrating Valentines day over Skype and not in person, but with the sun shining I felt like an addict who had been waiting an interminably long time for her fix. I went to the market and smiled at the chicken man, who, smiling back, told me he wasn’t going to charge me for part of my purchase. I walked six kilometers to Montmartre and ate a chocolate crepe up by the cathedral. The crepe vendor was a tall black man with remarkably flexible wrists; as he spread the batter evenly over the hot plate in one brisk circular motion, I wondered if his wrists ever gave him trouble, and how exactly one would explain crepe-related joint damage to a surgeon. The pancake came out perfectly - huge, warm, and gooey - and I burned my tongue on the filling twice before sitting down on a doorstep and letting it cool. Eating chocolate crepes alone is awkward - there’s no-one to tell you if you’ve got chocolate all over your face - but there’s nothing quite like a hot crepe on a cold day, even if you do have to check your reflection in a rearview mirror. I finished it and walked home, six more kilometers through Paris on a Sunday. Tomorrow will be dark and wet, I’m sure, but it sure was nice while it lasted.
