Still April in Paris

It officially became summer in Paris this week, but up until a few days ago you wouldn't have known it from walking outside. Sure, the trees are in bloom, people fill the outdoor cafe tables (as they do almost year-round) and the tourists take up what little sidewalk space remains. But the warm weather we had been looking forward to since arriving in January just hasn't taken hold.

Weather takes on added significance when you're somewhere new. It can make or break a vacation -- or, in our case, amplify the highs and lows of life in a foreign land. When the weather's nice, even a short stroll for a baguette is a joy. When it's not, we grow restless inside, warily eyeing our French homework and the e-mails from family and friends piling up in our inboxes.

It's not like it's been cold. But it almost has been. Last weekend, the temperature was stuck in the low sixties, and I wore only pants and long-sleeved shirts. Saturday night, as I was crossing the Seine, the wind gusts were enough to make me wish I had on an overcoat.

I've noticed numerous references to harsh French winds in ex-pat literature. In A Year in Provence, Peter Mayle writes of his first January in the South of France, when the Mistral "came howling down the Rhône valley, turned left and smacked into the west side of the house with enough force to skim roof tiles into the swimming pool." I just expected les vents to have subsided by now, giving way to sun-filled days ready-made for picnics in the Luxembourg Gardens and strolls through the Tuileries.

And that is the problem. It's difficult to come to Paris without these romantic visions, especially if you (like us) have read Mayle's tales (and those of Child, Gopnik, Hemingway...) of life in France. And we have in fact had our share of these experiences, despite the lack of consistent warmth. But those books are distillations of what's best about la vie francaise; the day-to-day reality is something more prosaic. In the end, these experiences may be so special not because they happen every day here but because, like at home, they are seldom. Plus, the historical average high in Paris in June is only 70. It's no wonder the city waits until July to set up the artificial beach along the Seine.

Our problem also is that we arrived in early January, in the depths of an especially cold Parisian winter. Warm weather was to be our reward for all the work we did acclimating -- settling into our apartment, starting my new job, making new friends -- during those cold, dark months. (And dark it was -- Paris is farther north than Montreal.)

If this weather trend persists, we may have to wait until the end of July, when we head to Provence for a week, to be rewarded. We'll just have to hope that the Mistral isn't summering there too.

-- MBB