A Few Lonely Snowflakes

photo, empty corona terrace

Falling in our frigid air, snowflakes too small to see.

And a Couple of Movies

Paris:– Thursday, 5. January 2006:– We are having pesky Orange Alerts again but as usual they do not concern anywhere in or around Paris. I think they are put on to see if we're paying attention, but there's a danger that 'wolf' will be cried too often and while we are looking the other way they will sneak one in for here – like, 'freak heatwave in January!' and we will miss it by hiding in a cool cinema.

Today if you looked at the sky you would have seen it from edge to edge, as solid gray steelwool. The temperature was low and random snowflakes were floating about, as if to say there is a hair–trigger here and one false step will plant us in snow up to our nostrils.

The outlook for Friday is much the same, with interesting variations. Through the middle for the country, from north to south or vice versa, there is to be a band of terrible gray weather, called by Le Parisien, 'rotten.' On either side it will merely be very cloudy, with some fake hints of sunshine, and it will be cold again with a forecast high of 2 degrees.

Exactly the same thing has been predicted by tonight's TV–weather news forecast for Saturday. The centre band of terrible rotten will be wider or have wiggles in other places, butphoto, reserved for members otherwise, it will resemble Friday's. But the temperature is expected to increase by 100 percent, to 4 degrees. Le Parisien calls it, 'dogs.'

Reserved for you.

Tranquility arrives on Sunday with a flat gray cover over the whole caboodle. At least, with a temperature of 5 degrees, we will be able to enjoy this weather by staying in with our eyeballs glued to TV, with its usual program of sports, variety, sports, variety and more sports. As Le Parisien comments, 'mediocre' says it all.

Club Non–dates

The club's secretary will be helping 'Ed' to rebuild Metropole over the next several weeks, in anticipation of Metropole's 11th birthday. There will be no meetings on 19. January, 26. January, 2. February, 9. February and 16. February, all Thursdays every one of them.

Thursday, 23. February, is not only a Thursday but it is also the exact date of Metropole's anniversary. We can have a party at the club's café, wear funny hats, and cut each other's ties to shreds with chainsaws, because it will almost be Mardi Gras! Don't miss it.

The 'Few, Lonely Snowflakes' Report of the Week

The last thing I want to do today is go to the club meeting. My longjohns said they were going out for a minute to the laundry last winter and they haven't come back yet. They probably like it there because it's warm, or somebody is treating them nice.

A glance out the window suggests there is a blizzard over the cemetery but it is mostly dirt on the glass, and a few flakes floating around in indecision. I guess it was a 'light' snow, with somephoto, club view, quai, institut de france of the tiny flakes floating up. Tonight's TV–news will say that France is still having a drought and that we should forget any idea we have that snow contains water. That's right – what you think is snow is really cold puffs of steam, sort of frozen.

The outside we are not out in, if we are in the club.

But on the way, going past the actual cemetery, those flakes I saw were hiding. I made it all the way to the Métro at Raspail without seeing one snowman. Then the exciting ride underground began, and was over all too soon, at Odéon.

Paris is a great place when it's cold. The stone blocks on the Pont Neuf have a warm color when they are not glistening wet. And there was a cold breeze blowing upstream from the Musée d'Orsay which I expect will be blowing downstream from the Hôtel de Ville by 16:00 when I am sitting high and dry in the club's café.

In the main I scoot straight along to the club's café. When I arrive the entire crew are glumly looking at their entire collection of clean, empty glasses. Chairs are sitting around with nothing to do and the lady of the kitchen cubbyhole in the cellar is having a siesta.

The grande salle, in total contrast to last week, is occupied solely by the old man reaing his paper, while his table holds up his bowl of beer. The emptiness of the large room is stunning. The fronds, with nobody present to enjoy their languid waving, are limp. It is two minutes to forever.

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