Before coming to Paris, I lived in central New England for six years (btw, I think we are missing a term in our language -- grad school is really a separate category from 'living' as most people know it.) There, autumn was signalled by road-side farmstands selling pumpkins, a visit to the u-pick apple orchard (for hot mulled cider and freshly made cider-donuts), and the changing of the colors of the leaves into a brilliant array of red-yellow-gold, colors seemingly designed to warm the soul as the temperatures dropped. I moved there from southern California, so it was quite fresh and enjoyable the first year, but the second year was associated with foreboding about the bitter cold of winter. In the end, I think I took it for granted, or maybe even resented the 'leaf-peepers' jamming the expressway coming and going between Vermont and New York. But now, unbelievably, I miss my grad school home. My fiancé's parents, visiting him in upstate NY and planning on doing some leaf-peeping themselves, asked me on the phone how the change of seasons was here. All I could think of was that, a couple weeks ago, I got hit on the head by a falling chestnut pod while sitting in the park. It did seem to me that Paris is just not that pretty right now. Then I thought: That can't be right!
That thought merited a Sunday afternoon detour to the Tuileries Garden. Of course, the Tuileries garden is still pretty, even in autumn, when most green stuff is turning brown and dying.
So, I sat for a few minutes and watched ducks dodge sailboats in the fountain. I felt a kind of pleasant calm, sitting there, soaking up the warmth of the sun. Rather then worrying about the cold, damp, dark winter coming, I just drank in the happy glow of the Parisian Sunday afternoon, forgetting all about the foliage of New England.
