La neige à Paris

The streets of Paris are almost deserted.

It is almost 10pm on a weeknight in January, the slowest month of the year. There is a stillness to the streets that is surprising compared to the commotion and bustle of London, where we’ve just taken a train from. I stare out the window, perched on a wooden stool in a cleverly hidden cocktail bar, half-listening to the bartender give my Boyfriend recommendations for modern French cuisine. Every so often a person passes by, bundled up and hunched over from the cold. I turn to my drink, belly warm from the alcohol, and sip slowly. As I lower my glass, my eyes widen.

Snow.

We drink deeply, pay the bill quickly, then stumble onto the quiet side street. There is a thin layer of snow dusting a row of motorbikes, and I feel a flake gently kiss my nose. The streetlights illuminate the flurries as they swirl slowly, gracefully, only to melt instantly once they greet the ground. The ancient architecture is enhanced by the snow, making the breathtaking buildings all the more elegant. The air seems lighter, brighter, as if suddenly alive. I breathe in deeply. Could this be anymore idyllic?

I turn to my boyfriend, who is smiling, snowflakes clinging to his beard, cheeks rosy from the wind. Our first night in Paris. He takes my hand in his, and we walk the slick cobble streets slowly, aimlessly, no plan in mind, with only the sweet-smelling snow as our guide.