When I arrived in Paris in mid-April two years ago, I assumed I was in for a lovely spring in the City of Light, followed by a graceful transition into a pleasantly mild summer. I had left both my early winter and deep winter coats behind in New York and packed only a leather jacket, a light puffer jacket, and a wool sweater to keep me warm. I figured that would be enough. I was wrong.
I spent the first two weeks of my time in Paris waking myself up with my own shivering, running to the space heater to turn it on, diving back under the covers with my sweater on over my pajamas, and curling up in a fetal position until I summoned the courage to get out of bed a half hour later. Leaving the house wearing my sweater, puffer jacket, and leather jacket one on top of the other made me look like an Oompa Loompa and yet did not keep me warm enough, even in the sun, which rarely made an appearance.
Most days, the default Paris setting was gray skies, punctuated by maybe an hour or two of sunshine at some point in the morning or afternoon. I started thinking of the sun maliciously, like it was a stuck-up tease.
When summer came, not much changed apart from a slight increase in the temperature and a toning down of the sky’s tint from gray to milky beige. The sunny days lasted longer but they were still too few and far between. Everything just felt… bof.
I realized then that Paris has somehow avoided the reputation that London has for cold, rain, and gray, but it nevertheless follows the same general weather patterns. And I am not a fan of those weather patterns in the least.
Until the fall.
Though the scientific data does not in the least back me up, I remain certain that there are far more clear blue skies from September to December than there are during the spring. And even when it is objectively cold and gray, Paris paradoxically wears its shitty weather so much better in fall and winter. It’s not a popularly held belief, but I truly believe that the off seasons are the best seasons. Continue reading