Usually, by cinco de mayo it's warm and wonderful, with all things weather hinting fiercely at the arrival of summer and all that portends: full tables on sunny café terraces, the challenge to find empty chairs at Luxembourg garden, empty Velib stations, longer days and later dinners. By May, the worst of the winter and wetness of spring are behind. Usually.
Not so today as the wind whipped like a wild thing and forced us to bundle in heavy (though fashionable) coats and scarves and boots. Oh, the sun gave hope, but offered little warmth. Summer feels as far away as ever, but for the bags of fresh mint that lay waiting to be mortared and pestled into that hot weather favorite, the mojito. Nor could we imagine a rosé; drinking the pink today would be like wearing white before Memorial Day.
Wearing white, of course, reserved not even for the seis de junio - but for our favorite damn day of the year: seis de julio. Ya falta menos.
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