First Snow

This morning we woke late, having stayed up watching DVDs of our favorite TV show, and there was something different about the light outside. It evoked something far away and yet familiar. When we got out of bed to open the curtains, we understood. It was snowing outside, our first real snowfall this year.

Paris is charming in the snow; it even seems oddly fitting, as if it belonged here. Paris should be photographed in black and white, and the snow only makes me feel that more so.

The Parisians, however, are anything but fit for it. The traffic crawls through the streets and the pedestrians huddle under umbrellas looking vaguely anxious. One man announced to me, after he’d surveyed admiringly the fine snowman (bonhomme de neige) Charles and I had made. that “snow was fine in the mountains, but in Paris it is a disaster.”

Of course, he is right, they are not equipped for it, like we Canadians. Charles was out-fitted in MEC snow pants and ski jacket so he could slide through the snow, always ending in a happy heap. Snow seems to give us permission to fall on the ground, to give in to gravity’s pull and simply flop. This is a pleasure that holds no allure for me until there is at least a foot or more to cushion my middle-aged joints, but at any depth you must have right clothing. The Parisians do not.

I also had my fleece-lined gloves on, perfect for fashioning snowy missiles to launch at Charles or throw to the dog to catch – with my best toque keeping my ears warm. The dog, as always, was ready for anything. We walked to the park, made our bonhomme and threw many snowballs. Max rolled and pranced about. He has always liked snow. All in all, the three of us gave winter a hearty Canadian welcome.

For all of us, the first snow is a celebration, especially so this year because it reminds us of home, which some of us are missing. By March and April, it loses its charm and I haven’t forgotten the frozen crud the snowplow barfs up across your driveway, blocking your exit or entrance after you’ve already cleared the way to the street.

But for now it is welcome, whether at home or here in Paris. It brightens things up during this dark period of the year. And at least pre-Christmas, it gets one in the mood for holidays and fun. Unfortunately, Paris doesn’t want it and so it never stays, usually melting away the same day or the next. Sometimes I think this is maybe for the best. No shoveling required, and if you really want to ski in it, there are always the Alps. But today, I’m hoping it stays around and Charles is even dreaming of a white Christmas.