As I’ve mentioned before, I’m from California, where extreme weather is a few days of rain or a night in the low twenties. I’ve always had a romantic idea of winter: the peaceful snow that blankets the city and clear cold night walks when you can look up at the twinkling stars from a scarved and hatted bundle and then go home to hot chocolate next to the fire. There would be snow days when you could frolic in the snow.
Oh boy, did I have a thing or two to learn about winter.
Perhaps I could have enjoyed the snow if my apartment had a lower ceiling, or a more modern heating system, or if I had the proper clothing for snow. But as it was, the advent of snow in Toulouse meant cold like I could never have imagined. Cold that lasts. Cold that gets into your bones. Going outside was miserable even after I figured out to wear seven layers and gloves because you never can cover your nose and the sidewalks got treacherously slippery with ice. Staying inside was miserable because my heater wasn’t powerful enough to banish the seven layers. Frolicking wasn’t an option during my four snow days because there would be no way to dry off or warm up afterwards if I lost the weak flicker of heat I was able to maintain. I felt paralyzed anew after I had finally gotten some level of familiarity with life in France.
On the up side, the snow and ice did give Toulouse a sparkling, highlighted face, and I did get some pretty awesome photos.
Now, after two weeks of abnormally cold weather, the city has thawed and the sun is out again. The sun already seems warmer than ever, and I will appreciate the coming of spring on a more visceral level than I ever have before.
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