When the sun is out, all true Parisians grab a soleil-splashed table at the nearest cafe, absorbing the scene, the warmth and the coffee. When the rain falls, all true Parisians duck into the nearest cafe to grab a dry table, wait out the burst, chat up their own storm, and warm their bones with coffee.
Fortunately for them (and for the ever-burgeoning cafe business), as Winter turns to Spring in Paris, there appear to be only two forms of expression for a schizophrenic Mere de Nature -- downpours and sunshine. Maybe three: occasionally she provides both at the same time.
As the conditions change by-the-minute and I constantly, clumsily fumble to switch between an umbrella and sunglasses (cursing Thomas Edison for not inventing shades with windshield wipers), the Parisians calmly sip their café, changing neither their demeanor nor expressions -- only their rationale for occupying the seat.
And who can blame them?
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