One splendid Thanksgiving, my mom and I ditched the stateside turkey, and flew to Paris for a week. While breaking with November traditions was unexpectedly delightful, what truly enchanted us was seeing Paris reveal her holiday finery.
As we bundled up and tried to emulate the French woman's perfectly imperfect scarf tie, we explored the city which was then covered under a glistening sheet of ice. At times treacherous to travel, the ice looked simply magical as it dangled on Christmas lights and danced on roof lines. Fountains that I had seen gurgling in springtimes past now looked sculptural, suspended in time.
Though Cole Porter taught us to love "Paris in the Springtime," there is nothing more dreamy that Paris in the midst of a deep winter chill.
The tourists who remain in the city are huddled in cafés sipping chocolat chaud rather than clamoring to get to the top of La Tour. The mêtro stations smell of roasting chestnuts instead of tightly packed commuters. One feels inherently more French wearing layers of coats and scarves than milling about in shorts.