Wanted, Sunshine: Waiting for January to be over

To my knowledge, I have never liked January.

It is a little known fact that January is the longest month of the year. And once it is finally finished, the same day repeats 28 times. Of this I am firmly convinced and will not hear otherwise -- no matter what the days look like, February is the same day. Just repeated.

Also to my knowledge, these two particular months, especially February, are not kind to me. There is always some miniature disaster, but mostly just the little things bug the crap out of me.

And yes, I do believe these two phenomenon are related; clearly, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I expect the first two months of the year to be shitty and thus pick out everything that is, leading myself further into the belief that they are shitty. A vicious cycle, you might say.

Well, hey, this year I am in Paris, and I can't afford to mope away two whole months, despite my inherent mistrust of them. It's just that the days

d
r
a
g
.

And it's gray, ugly, spitting rain and cold, and did I mention gray gray gray and uhhhggggglieee.*

*like the way I just wrote ugly.

What hey. I want the sunshine. I was born and bred in Colorado and the western sun good and soaked into my DNA and everywhere I go, I miss it. New York, now Paris. I don't know if I will end up living in Colorado but wherever I am I take the endless blue skies of the west with me and I firmly believe that I'm just more alive when the sun is shining.

That said, it doesn't do so very much in Paris.

Au contraire.

I've been missing it dearly this week, missing the sun. But I've been working hard not to get too complacent and whiny because my time in Paris is limited and I know it. I pay cher in euros but also in time.

(I've noticed these days that no matter how much I dance, it isn't enough. I always thought I should stop moving sometimes, but I realize that I'm just a restless person and I need to be moving, dancing walking, and so these days, especially these days, I try not to sit around too much. I need to do less of that, even still...)

This sunday was one of those patented January days. Not terribly cold at least, but spitting rain, windy. Turns your cheeks red and batters little drops of water against your face. But I couldn't stay inside, it would drive me crazy to sit and stare at the gray sky outside my window...

So I decided to take a walk. Not really knowing where I was going, I turned down a street I'd never been down before. Wandered along, looking at the shops, slowly. A pale, unhealthy sun was trying to poke through and in a few minutes of glory, succeeded, right about the time I found a random tiny little park, with tall green hedges and benches for one people, while a mother and her little girl kicked around a ball. I didn't stay long, but paused for a minute and smelled the green, this wonderful little oasis....

Then moved on. The street took me to another that I knew, the Avenue du Maine, wide and busy. I walked along, noticing my shadow walking alone on the sidewalk, the still pale, quickly vanishing sun. I was heading towards the Tour Montparnasse, I thought, and I knew where I was going.

Le Chien Qui Fume, a well known café run by the friends of my host mom, a place I now frequent. Cute, small, the regulars at the bar. People come in one and twos, meeting friends or reading books. They know me, say hello and a kiss on both cheeks.

I ordered a café express, and then was asked if I wanted a croissant or a pain au chocolat. I hadn't thought of it, but the waitress told me it was the best croissant in Paris, so I agreed finally.

She didn't lie. It was the best croissant I've ever had. With a half package of sugar the express is just bitter enough to make you awake, and I drank it slowly, reading some old bits of writing from the past year, things I keep in my "book of souls", which is not really a journal but acts like one sometimes. The colors of the café, though not garish, were bright enough to contrast sharply against the gray world outside, and the people outside bustled along with their heads down. I watched them, and ate my croissant.

I decided to walk home -- I could have easily taken the bus, but wanted to do something with my life and my energy.

But I didn't want to leave the café -- somehow it seemed like the only thing real. In my mind, I remember it being the only thing that wasn't black and white that day.

I think the moral of the story is that I need to spend my time in Oz these months -- stay away from the black and white of the outside, eat good food, drink coffee, and move. Without the sun, those are the things that keep me alive.