Paris is freezing. I'm in bed.

Alors.  The nearby church bells are chiming half pas six, it's well past dusk, and I have just finished some moderately disgusting instant coffee in an effort to jolt myself out of winter hibernation.  I haven't yet figured out why the bells ring so insistently at this hour, but for me their reverberations have come to indicate the transition from the rushed, harried workday to the evening, when the Parisians begin to head home, stopping by boulangeries to buy their dinner baguettes.  I am snugly wrapped in various layers of wool, cashmere and down, and have recently woken up from a long winter's nap.  Since my day has been far from taxing, the only explanation I can find for this lethargy is the season.

The day after I returned to Paris, the temperature proceeded to drop into the teens and stay there for a few biting days.  Fortunately, the sun shone brilliantly the entire time; the resulting combination of white winter light and below-freezing air was a great (in the sense of "considerable," not "fabulous") shock to the system--akin to being thrown into an ice bath.  As a swimmer in glacial water thrashes frantically about, I was bursting with energy, feeling almost manic.  Since then, I have managed to complete a paper, take a four-and-a-half hour 

exam, go out to dinner with friends twice and Aunt Jane once (mmm thanks for the delicious fish!), do a bit of shopping, complete three hours of English tutoring, go to a wine-fueled party, visit two museums, and make plans to see practically everyone I know in Paris....I've been back for a week.

After a late lunch today, however, I became very cold.  Even tea hadn't warmed me up.  The clouds have been creeping back into Paris, and with them the temperature has begun to rise (who ever thought the Southern California girl would think of 38 degrees as comparatively warm?!).  Nonetheless, I felt a cold seep into my bones this afternoon, and at four p.m. I could not resist crawling into bed.  "I'll just read for awhile, warm up," I said to myself.  I'm currently winding my way through Michael Ondaatje's memoir, Running in the Family (which I highly, highly suggest).  The book takes place in his country of birth, Ceylon, an island off the coast of India, where the temperature ranges from hot to a stifling-I-can't-stop-sweating hot.  Thoughts of orange sunsets and tropical breezes began to envelop me in a cozy, drowsy warmth (with a little help from my gargantuan down comforter), and soon I found myself on the point of m'assoupir (whose translation is "to doze off;" I adore this verb because it sounds like the contented sigh emitted upon finally lying down, and because it always makes me picture someone falling asleep in their soup).

...The next morning...

I woke up to the most fabulous sunrise this morning!  One of the (few) perks of living through a dark winter is that you don't have to wake up at five a.m. to enjoy the sunrise.  Don't get too jealous, however, because the Paris sky has resumed its habitual grayish blue after only an hour.  I'm drinking the last (swiftly cooling) drops of my tea, and contemplating what to do with a free day (exams are finally over!).  Because of the cold, my visits to the farmer's market have slowed.  But my infamous cabbage soup (infamous because I have been known to make giant vats of it, which linger in the garage freezer for weeks, maybe months on end) is calling my name.  Moreover, I have to keep up my reputation in the foyer as being one of the few Americans who can cook.  "You really surprised me," one of the Frenchies said, "because you're American...but you're a good cook!"  I smiled, but I resent this comment nonetheless.  It's like, Hello?!  As long as you avoid hamburger joints, you can find excellent cuisine in all U.S. cities--or at least all of the ones I've visited.  Plus, I've recently learned that putting ketchup on pasta is not uncommon in (even nice) French homes.  For God's sake, buy a jar of tomato sauce!  I digress.  Off to the farmer's market with me, and then perhaps I'll go sit in a café with a pretentious air, pretending to write the next Great American Novel.  Should probably keep my glasses on...

Bisous mes petits chous!