The Changing Season

It is amazing how much earlier it gets dark now than when I first arrived here. When we roused ourselves from the comfortable chairs in the Jardin de Luxembourg yesterday it was almost sunset. We were looking out across the lawns in front of the Senat, where a deep ring of vibrant flowers encased the grass over the summer. Now the fading plants were being dug up and the soil turned in time for its winter slumber. It was getting cold, too cold to carry on sitting under the gathering night clouds, and in any case the police were starting to gather at the park gates in preparation for closing time.

Falling temperatures have not emptied the parks during the day as perhaps they might have done. Parisians are made of sterner stuff and it is not uncommon to see ladies sitting, book in gloved hand, with carefully draped pashminas around their shoulders, keeping them snug. In the Square du Temple, people have started to seek out the warmer, sunnier benches, where before they had sat and watched the ducks from the longed-for coolness of the shadier spots. Subtle wardrobe changes help protect against the elements, too, with fleece-lined boots and attractively knotted scarves now ubiquitous amongst both sexes. From the narrow pavements of the Marais to the broad paths of the Tuileries, the little dogs are now going for walkies in little coats.

Many trees have already lost all of their leaves, providing a soft carpet over the sandy gravel pathways in the parks, but some are just starting to assume the copper hued mantle of the advancing season. Looking out towards the Pantheon, the browns and oranges at the margins of the tree-lined Luxembourg avenues frame the view perfectly. In the beehives the insects sleep now more than they forage for nectar, while on the balconies overlooking the Jardin retirees don't stop to linger over their afternoon tea, preferring to have their shutters closed before dusk.

A cold wind often sweeps the quaysides of the Seine, catching the unwary skirt wearer and buffeting the unstable cyclist as they cross the famous bridges. At corner cafes on the Ile St. Louis tiny trays with neat little clips are required to stop the bills from blowing away into the river. The queues for ice cream no longer stretch across the island, but people still flock to the cafe terraces to enjoy hot chocolate. My own particular favourite (and I have been conducting thorough research into this across Paris) is the "chocolat chaud a l'ancienne", a foaming jug of hot milk and its diminutive yet otherwise identical counterpart filled with thick, dark, syrupy chocolate, to be combined according to the taste of the consumer. A good one will produce at least two cups full of sweet, comforting goodness to keep you company as you watch the world go by. The street life unfolds before you as you sit and stir with your tiny spoon.

The boutiques on the streets surrounding our apartment are now filled with heavy coats and knitwear, their windows lit up when we return home in the evening. The ticking of the clock and the turning of the earth cannot be stopped. The courtyard must now be swept of leaves and the mopeds carefully covered to resist the rain, the thick morning dew and the frosts that will soon threaten. As the year continues its slow but unrelenting journey to its close, the Parisians refuse to ease the pace of their own progress onward through each day. The skies may darken early and the artfully lit monuments stand out stark for longer against the night, but the streets still heave with endless bustling activity and are never truly silent.