Shoulders of the bronze soldier from WW1 down on the main square were dusted with a white sprinkle. He had certainly seen snow, winter, and cold before. I knew that from the layers of uniform that the sculptor equipped him with. The rest of the neighborhood was not so well-prepared for the forecasted snowstorm of last night.
On their way to work, people moved like dolls in a puppet show—slowly and carefully, all on the verge of looking like a Michelin man. Except for two teenage girls holding each other not to fall on the slippery pavement, ready for salt—they were too cool for warm clothes.
Snow is forever unexpected in Paris, and coming from a place where winter failed if there was no snow, I am always grateful to wake up to the silence and purity that this frozen water brings us. Snow makes me playful; I write messages in the snow—something dee…
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