I am so cold.
I went outside today in long socks, jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, a cotton turtleneck, a woolen jumper, a knee-length jacket, gloves, a scarf and a hat. I was freezing.
Earlier this evening, my friend Nathalie and I visited the Christmas market along the Champs-Élysées, where there happened to be four outdoor heaters spread along the street (not evenly, unfortunately). Every time we reached a heater we rushed to it, like moths to the flame, and stayed for a good 15 minutes until our hands and faces were warm again. Each time we reluctantly dragged ourselves away, knowing that if we didn’t we’d never leave.
I can’t believe it’s only November. Tomorrow the mercury is expected to drop to -6. I don’t know what I’m going to do in January and February. I already feel like the Michelin man in all of my clothes, and I already have four blankets on my bed.
That being said, there is one good thing about the cold weather . . .
On Friday it snowed – beautiful, fluffy flakes that floated in the air like feathers. I gasped as I left the metro at Grands Boulevards and laughed to myself as I walked to my class in the 2nd arrondissement, ignoring strange looks from blasé Parisiens.
After class, some of the other teachers and I went to Belleville for Vietnamese, and the snow started again. I ran down Rue de Belleville with my arms outstretched, catching large flakes in my hands and trying to catch some of them in my mouth (this is surprisingly difficult).
Don’t laugh. I’m Australian. For me, snow is awesome and unusual.