The Rhythm of the Year
Four years into life in France, I finally understand the rhythm of the year and the seasons. (Okay, fine, I'm writing about the weather.)
It’s been so beautiful in Paris lately that I forget, for hours at a time, how much I have to do.
It feels like someone flipped a switch and turned the lights on outside.
There’s spring pollen in the air, smoke curling above crowded terrasses, and 8:30 p.m. golden hour light spilling down the buildings like honey. Coats are packed away. Sunglasses return to every face.
We all collectively unclench. In the sunlight, Paris feels like a different city.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the rhythm of the year—how time actually feels as we move through the seasons.
Living in France makes that rhythm harder to ignore, partly because I was completely out of sync my first few years here.
In France, there are cozy seasons: with fires, raclette, lazy weekends sleeping in, and weeks when no one leaves their arrondissement. And then there are seasons when it would be absurd to stay inside, when the city empties out entirely as people take the TGV to the coast.
I was dropped into this calendar four years ago and had to quickly get up to speed. The first few years, I was constantly off rhythm. I didn’t know when to faire le pont—to take a Friday off when there’s a Thursday bank holiday—in the long May and November weekends. I didn’t understand why May and June felt so packed before the August slowdown, or how bleak February gets when you haven’t seen mountain sunlight. I was always surprised when our office manager would announce that, actually, Monday is a holiday, so don’t come in. I even learned about a sometimes-holiday.
But now—four years in—I get the rhythm. I slow down when it’s dark and speed up when the light comes back.
Paris winters are long. It’s different from the bright, sharp cold of New York that demands sunglasses even in February; Paris winter is flatter. It’s grayer, as if the color drains from the city for several months a year. Even the Haussmannian buildings, which are beautiful in every other context, start to feel numbingly symmetrical and all too beige.
It’s easy to forget what the rhythm of a day feels like. In December, when the sun rises at 9:30 a.m., I can’t wake up properly. I can’t fall asleep properly either. (I now take high-dose American vitamin D starting in September and don’t stop until March. It helps.)
It also helps me to lean into what each season has to offer.
In the grayness, I read English gothic novels and horror stories. I see movies with friends and live on melted cheese (tartiflette, raclette, croziflette, the list goes on).
And then, one day, the lights flip on. Usually right after daylight savings.
The sun sets at 8:30 pm. The weather report says sun every single day, with brisk lows in the single digits and highs of 17–22°C (63-72°F).
Every terrasse and park is full. I’m running after work, because it’s still light out. I’m bringing books to read on benches outside. We’re bringing croissants and pain au choc to the park on weekend mornings. We’re taking the long walking route home from dinner.
This beautiful stretch just hit—and I’m so grateful.
So, while, sure, it’s cheesy to write a post about the weather, it’s all I’m thinking about! I haven’t been able to stop taking pictures of the spring thaw and the blooming trees and life teeming out of every open window and doorframe.
Here are a few moments from the past few weeks that capture this optimistic transition for me—and the way it feels when the whole city comes alive at once.
We made it.
I am from China and I saw the spring in France from my phone💕
I feel this! Beautiful photos. I tackle my most dense novels in the winter time (The Magic Mountain for example.) Next time we'll have to swap book recs! Until then, enjoy the sun!