A breath of spring

Spring lasts several months in Paris--actually, almost half the year. Many plants are already in full bloom here, and yet summer won't arrive in earnest until the end of June.

Paris is a solid equivalent to a USDA Zone 8b, like northern Florida or the middle of Texas, in terms of average minimum temperatures. It never or rarely gets really cold here. But, it rarely gets hot either. Air conditioning is practically unknown in residential buildings. Even many rather large stores don't have it, as it only gets into the upper 80's to low 90's for about a week. You could say Paris has a climate somewhat resembling that of coastal Washington state. Right now, the sun is still low in the southern sky (Paris is very far north), but already the light suffuses the streets with a new tenderness.

Plants, of course, love this kind of truly temperate climate. Camellias and all manner of rhododendrons flourish here, as do all the sorts of plants I could only dream about growing when I lived in the continental climate of the midwestern United States. And the ornamental growing season really continues year-round. Pansies, erigerons, wallflowers, artemisias, primroses, and other cool-hardy bedding plants are set out in the innumerable planting beds of public areas in the late fall. Now they're beginning to flower. And Parc Monceau, just a few steps from my door, is full of "winter"-flowering shrubs (see Plants in Profile for a selection of them) in full bloom. Their fragrance can be detected even out in the busy Boulevard de Courcelles which bounds the park on the north. And when you smell flowers in the air, it's hard not to believe spring has sprung.

But, while we've had an amazingly sunny January, I'm sure the city has lots and lots of gray, rainy, and even cold days in store for us. It wouldn't be Paris if it didn't. Once, on a vacation here in mid-April, I was admiring the tulips and forgetmenots outside of Notre Dame when a wet snow started falling. Snow is rare here, even in midwinter (I think I saw about two flakes this season), and as a tourist, I was ill-prepared. "April in Paris!" I had thought, and packed flimsy, springy clothes and shoes. Shivering in the wet snow, I looked enviously at the sensible Parisians, cloaked thickly in their perennial, mostly black woolen coats and scarves. Parisians never shed their winter garb until the beginning of May, when on a warm day, they become inordinately giddy, throw caution to the winds, and emerge into the streets in shirtsleeves and sleeveless dresses.

I'm sure that its seemingly endless spring is one of the things that makes this the most romantic of cities. Spring is a capricious season, especially in Paris. It's not unusual for the sky to change suddenly from scudding clouds with cold rain showers to such a brilliant, scrubbed, innocent blue that you're sure it'll remain sunny for the rest of the day. So you duck into a store for 20 minutes, and when you come out, it's pouring. Spring is capricious, tentative, hot and cold, and full of false confidences, advances and retreats. No wonder it makes us think about love.

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