In a strangely comforting full-circle moment, it snowed in Paris yesterday.
It almost never snows in Paris, according to our French friends. Certainly not enough to accumulate. We were inclined to believe them, seeing as how it’s now late January and the grass is still green and our window boxes are still as colorful as a Ladurée patisserie.
(Side note: when we bought these flowers in the spring, the shop keeper laughed and told us he didn’t think we’d be able to keep them alive. As you can see, they’re doing just fine.)
Anyway, despite the fact that it apparently never snows in Paris, it snowed soon after we arrived last year, more than it had in 30 years. It was beautiful, and Colin and I were glad we were here to see it.
Then yesterday it snowed again. We had a couple inches by lunchtime, and it was coming down in large, thick flakes. It all melted by mid-afternoon, but for a while there it felt like we were right back where we started. It almost felt like Paris was giving me a little pat on the back and saying, “There, there, it’s okay; you can go. You’ve seen everything now.” Which is patently untrue, of course, but I appreciated the little white lie.
(Pun intended, as always.)