Paris

Temperatures have hovered around freezing for two weeks now, skies alternatively blue and the grey of the city’s zinc roofs. When I hear from a niece in Aix-en-Province that she eats her lunch outside every day, it’s hard to believe. It is always hard to believe that the weather is different in the places you are not.

A few days ago we struck out down the Rue de Seine towards the river, across the bridge and through an archway, a kind of tunnel, into the Louvre, and then through another tunnel of buildings into the courtyard with the pyramid. A man played the accordion, people took photos, but there were no lines to enter the Louvre, and almost no languages other than French—an Italian or two—being spoken. We struck out into the Tuileries, down the river side, around the bottom and back up the Rue de Rivoli side where a series of playground spaces—some trampolines, a jungle gym, a merry-go-round—were dotted with children. It was almost closing time, or maybe suppertime for them; their parents were issuing 5-minute warnings. The carousel played its last tune. We walked on, back across the bridge, resisting roasted chestnuts: it was too cold to pick at them with bare fingers.