A Better Season

You feel it, walking down the street. There's a buzz. Everyone's out. Café terraces are packed with people. All of Paris has moved outside. It's warm enough to wear a light jacket, or even just a sweater. The light lingers later into the evening. Summer is close. Sure, it's just the start of spring. There's time yet for a brief but brutal reprise of winter. But I don't think it'll happen.

But the real clue is this: Sebastian's opened up the front doors. There's an unhindered view of the street. The better season is upon us.

Hurry back.

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Cinco de Mojito

This is a day where you're more than certain to hear us whistling our favorite countdown tune: uno de enero, dos de febrero, tres de marzo, quatro abril.  cinco de mayo...where we stop and cheer before June and July get their due.   

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.

After the Boys of Summer Have Gone

Sadly, the summer season comes around to a close. It flew by too fast, but all the good summery things that are part of our Paris summer came to pass. Rituals were re-enacted, like champagne on the Big Roue at sunset, followed by the wild ride on the swings and a late dinner at Pipos. Kirs were ordered. Leffes were replenished. Once there were even Coca-Colas commanded from those corner bar stools, in homage to the previous day's activity. A weekend brunch stretched from just after noon until nearly midnight, on more than one occasion.

There were pheromones and trains. Navel to Spine. A perplexing bench, finally removed. Pedro Páramo. An American was coming to dinner. Dunk and Squat. A room full of kittens. Whites were washed and worn and washed again. Renovation scheduled and unscheduled and rescheduled. Memories were made and lost. An American came to dinner. Did I mention that?

Okay we had to endure a knucklehead or two. A few aches and pains dampened the party - backs and ankles didn't always cooperate - but we kept our good humor and twittered something pithy.

Summer sped by like the TGV. And while I readily welcome the return to more peaceful days of children-at-school, a quick glance back over the shoulder at the last three months of fun, foolishness and fiesta confirms that life could be a whole lot worse. And honestly, it couldn't get much better.

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