Coming back to Paris after a debaucherous NYC weekend can often be a real downer. Not only are you jet-lagged and liver-lagged, but faced with the dark French attitude toward life, the return of daily annoyances, and often a gray drizzle. But not this time my friends. Today is the first day of spring. Am I a bit daring to make such a bold statement? Perhaps. Or at least I would be if this were western New York, where there are many trick first days of spring and winter is never totally gone until mid-May. But here, spring is a sensorial explosion that is difficult to suppress once it starts. The little buds that I noticed when I was heading to the airport last week have pushed out their first yellow-green leaves. Our garden must have instituted an affirmative action program, because the bird species are diversifying rapidly, the aural entropy multiplying exponentially. Floral fragrances precede the visual birth of the blooms and transform the smell of cigarettes from that of a stale carcinogen staining the lobbies of buildings and swirling around bistrots to a sign of enthusiastic Parisians moving out from behind close doors onto the sidewalks to witness the arrival of Paris's most famous season. The white, drab buildings are transformed into golden edifices that remind you that it is time to fall back in love. I choose the sun itself as my lover, streaming through my window and warming my whole body.

Remember that recent post where I said I forgot how to feel? It doesn't have anything to do with age. it is the weather. Every year I forget. Be sure to celebrate pagan-style on Sunday.