a night train/midnight/bags gathered round my feet

Over the past few weeks, the weather patterns in Paris have been so haphazard that it has been nearly impossible to decipher just what season we are in. Last week I could not wear the lightest of cardigans without breaking a sweat the moment the unguarded sun touched my skin, yet two weeks ago there was nothing but tempestuous rain. I thought it was only in Atlanta that the expression, “don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes” was applicable. I guess not.  

And then there was last night: the first night that held the tiniest hint of winter. It was the first night when breath was visible, completely molecular in the air. Outside of a bar at 2:00 AM, I took a breath, and then I exhaled, and with this exhale I saw the release of particles—oxygen, hydrogen—into the Parisian atmosphere. It was such a weird sensation. It was so unexpected. When did it become winter?

Winter, no. A particularly frigid fall night, yes. But still, there was something so serene about this image that even my friends seemed to acknowledge. It was as if we were taking part in this great natural shift; we were witnessing something that had always gone unnoticed. And yet this morning, waking up and drinking coffee with Julia, you could feel the change. You could feel the shift.

All day I have been sitting in my currently heatless apartment, scarf wrapped around my neck, listening to Bonobo and making my way through Jane Eyre, and honestly, I could not feel more cozy. I mean, after last night, the first night of visible condensation—how romantic when put scientifically—I feel like we are allowed to use the word “cozy”. Cozy: such a wintry word, so suited for my current state of being. It doesn’t really fit any other season.

So here is to the months ahead—to Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas and everything else that the first frigid night alludes to.

Oh, and postscript: Happy Birthday, Mimi. I love you.