Last week, as March began, Le Petit Village seemed to be rolling nicely into spring.
All the traces of snow were finally gone. The sun was shining in a baby blue sky and I could feel my love for Provence returning.
Fifty and I took longer walks, and for the first time in months my fingers didn’t freeze because I forgot my gloves. I moved quickly in my spring jacket bopping along to my French lesson on my Ipod.
All seemed right with the world again.The noises ofspring had returned. Birds chirping early in the morning (you know the birds, I’m not a bird person so I don’t know their name. But they make that ‘woo-woo..woo-woo’ sound. I’ll call them disco birds). The disco birds did their disco call along with the noises of house renovations, probably in preparation for the spring arrival of it’s Belgian or Parisian owners.
Le Petit Village was beginning to see the trickle of tourists again, cameras at the ready (perhaps my own personal papparazzi, might just start to act like that for fun).
I’d take deep satisfying breaths and smile as the sun warmed my face, sure thatspring was finally here and the return of my beloved warm weather clothes with it.
And then on Sunday, it freaking snowed again!