Il neige là-bas?

If you’re on the east coast, you’re probably into your third or fourth inch of snow right now. Send me pictures! It never snows in Paris. That’s one of the first things I learned.

The cab driver who drove me from the airport to my apartment told me that. He would have told me more interesting things, but all I could ask him was, “Does it ever snow here? Do you like driving cabs? Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

The first thing I asked him was where he lived. In a way, I was doing penance for a vocabulary sin I had committed last time I was here. See, to ask someone where he lives, you ask, “Òu habitez-vous?” “Habiter” means “to live.” When I started studying French again in anticipation of this trip, I realized that I had been mixing up “habillez” and “habiter.” “Habiller” means “to get dressed.” Last year, when I thought I was asking people where they lived, I was asking them, “Where is it that you get dressed?” I can only hope I wasn’t leaning in, smiling, or leering when I said it.

My cab driver, who lives—and, presumably, gets dressed—outside of Paris, immediately dispelled the stereotype of the French as cold and aloof. We talked the entire half-hour drive to my apartment, and he spoke slowly and simply. He even complimented my French: “Oh, you speak very well! You’re staying five months? You’ll speak perfect French by the time you leave.” One of the things I was looking forward to getting away from in America was our tendency to blow sunshine up each others’ asses, but I was very happy to be lied to about my speaking skills.

Anyway, snow. Weather.com is predicting snow showers for Paris tomorrow night. They’re predicting that the temperature will hover around freezing for the next few days. I had been gloating since my arrival, knowing that you all were freezing to death in another one of those cold spells that I had to suffer through in December. Perhaps I spoke too soon.

Honestly, I don’t know why weather.com bothers predicting. The winter weather in Paris never changes. Well, "never changes" in that it’s consistently unpredictable. Not that British kind of unpredictable where it hails for five minutes, then becomes sunny and warm for five minutes, then rains for five minutes, etc. Rather, it’s just gray and gloomy all the time, and cold. Not freezing. You need a scarf, but you don’t need gloves. But it always looks like it’s going to rain, and it at least mists once per hour. Sometimes the sun will break out brightly, and you wish you had your sunglasses. Sometimes, though, it just pours for a half hour, and you wish you had an umbrella. When it rains, I’d say three-quarters of the people I see are umbrellaless. It doesn’t seem to bother them. It’s weird—they’re so particular about some things, but they seem to have gotten used to walking in the rain. It’s not so bad—it usually doesn’t rain longer than 15 minutes. Which must be why everyone remains fabulous and perfectly coiffed after the rain.

I’m serious about sending me pictures. The one picture at the Atomic blog is nice, but I need more. Last time I saw that much snow, I had just moved into my house. Two feet fell, it was 13 degrees, and my @#$#@% furnace died the second the first flake fell. Tough love. So it means a lot to see Hampden (or Bolton Hill, for that matter) blanketed in snow.

Someone have a heated whiskey for me. (Speaking of which, guess which kind of Irish whiskey they have here in Paris that they don’t have in the States? Paddy, baby!)