It’s been raining in Paris today. When I read the screen as I type those words it makes me feel like I’m talking about the Asian Monsoons. Rain in Paris spells winter, so I suppose it’s not far off. But the downfall is not quite as strong as the Eastern rains, I dare say. Not quite as strong, but emotive all the same. When the winter rains arrive in Paris, the smell of decaying leaves always seems to mix in the air with the scent of fresh baguette and ground coffee and the perfume of some elegant woman walking by. To me, that’s the smell of Paris by winter.
It’s turned off cold here in Paris. The streets glisten with rainbows and shining shadows. Windows are marked by the traces of nature’s tears and Parisians find themselves once again on the path toward chilly winds and grey skies. Before moving…
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