A breeze rang the terraza chimes as I sat in the living room reading Mavis Gallant’s Paris Stories, and it came to me, a memory.
A window pane might rattle.
And if you waited an hour before stepping outdoors, you’d feel the cold air come down suddenly from the north.
Cold fronts rarely arrive in this fashion where I live now. It’s more gradual, not a sudden wind and bang. The temperature just drops slowly during the night, rarely in the day, and you awake at dawn, witnessing your breath.
Why are there no hot fronts? A hot wind never rings terraza chimes. Warmth comes by a different caravan. It knocks quietly and slowly.
There is such a difference between cold and warm. Cold people. Warm people. Hot tortillas. Cold tortillas. A warm soul versus a cold one.
Warmth is better in people and tortillas. Cold is better, to my way of thinking, for the outdoors. Hot is sweat. Cold is a wool scarf and kid gloves.
My sole trip to Paris happened in 1976. It was October, so it was cool or cold. I don’t recall. It’s been such a long time, and I would love to return.