I am not sure whether or not I have mentioned this before, but the main reason I am in the SOUTH of France, is that I hate snow. I am already mildly obsessing about what will happen when I go to Belgium and the Netherlands at the end of the month, but this morning I woke up to this.
It was supposed to RAIN today. But instead at 6 am I thought the light through the gap in my curtains looked a funny colour, and sure enough it was snowing. By the time it was daylight it was heavy, and not looking to stop. Now I am guessing most of you would just love this, but not me. All I could think about was the down padded vest I had passed up on buying last night, and the Marseille Airport run I have to do tomorrow afternoon. I was not happy. The fact that it was warm enough inside at 6 am for me to wander around the apartment naked peering out the windows was no consolation. I was going to have to go out in the snow, and I was not looking forward to it.
Ok, have breakfast (I was up anyway), and calm down a bit with some yoga. Shower, dress, faire le macquillage – feeling marginally better. No putting it off any longer. Time to go out. I had to go out because I now knew I needed that padded vest, and the shop would not be open Sunday or Monday. This is me dressed to go out in the snow.
Put the other glove on. Focus. Two tasks. 1. Buy padded vest. 2. Buy berries for guests’ breakfast tomorrow (thank God I did my supermarket shopping yesterday). Both less than a 1 km walk away in Rue d’Italie.
I check out the window – yes still coming down in big drifts – descend the stairs, and out the front door. Not as cold as I expected, but not barmy either. The immediate problem was not to fall over. My new kick arse boots have treads like a truck tire, but the white stuff on the ground looked slippery. And it was everywhere, except for the road crossings, where it was churned up to the consistency of a brown slushy. So I walk, slowly and cautiously at first, but gaining a little confidence as I see others also walking and remaining upright.
So I am out in the falling snow. Last time I did this I was on Mt Ruapehu, more or less properly dressed for the snow, and I didn’t much like it then either. I think I was 22, so that was how many? …. let’s just say, quite a few years ago. But here, all I have is a woollen overcoat that has only one button at the throat (hence the need for the padded vest), and a woollen hat. Wool is good and warm, but snow is wet. Johan, who comes from a ridiculously cold place, assured me that snow was dry when falling, and that you could just brush it off. He is wrong. It is very, very wet. I think he has been in NZ for so long he remembers less temperate climates through rose-coloured spectacles.
I make it to Jott, where they sell nothing but designer padded jackets made locally in Marseille. I should have known my climate expectations were overly optimistic the moment I saw that store. There is a vestibule with the entrance to one side. I shake the snow off my coat, hat and gloves. The shop assistant taking a break outside laughs at the look on my face, and assures me they are used to people tracking snow into the shop. Much to my surprise, at just after the 10 am opening, the store is not packed with people like me desperate for snow protection. I purchase the vest that I tried on last night and head back out.
Not wanting to be a total whimp, I venture a little further along the street to the top of the Cours Mirabeau. It is not an inspiring sight.
No doubt it would have been been if the snow had been falling at night, with the Christmas lights to create atmosphere. Nothing to see here, and I am not keen on walking further in the snow, so I turn back home.
I head for the green grocer, where I quickly make my purchases and begin the home leg. I am slightly afraid my heavy paper bag from Jott will disintegrate and not make it. Anyway, I am awkward with my unaccustomed gloves, and get 300 m down the road before I realise that after putting my change away I am absent a glove. By this time the snow is dropping off my hat and running down my nose, which is also running independently. My handkerchief is wet inside my pocket, as is my remaining glove from continually brushing snow off my coat. But I need that glove.
So back I go, rehearsing how to ask in the green grocer if anyone has handed in mon grant. Lying in the middle of the road outside the shop in a sopping wet brown mess. Yes, it is my Italian leather cashmere lined glove. I am glad to re reunited with it despite its state, and shove my hand back into it anyway. Finally I get across the intersection with Rue de Roi Rene, and the snow is thicker on the pavement where there are fewer pedestrians. I remember the homeless man I passed on the way out sitting in under the arches out side the pharmacy, and stop to exchange comments on the weather and to empty my coin purse into his cup. No one should be homeless in this weather.
As I walk away I think I should have dug deeper and given more, but begging on the streets is something I have yet to come to terms with. Not especially proud of myself when I consider the sum I have just spent on a garment I will probably only wear for the next month. Oh well, he will still be there tomorrow, and the next day. There is time to be more generous.
Soon after I get home, by about 11am, the snow stops. A couple of hours later, the trees are slowly turning green again as the snow melts in great drops and falls to the ground. The footpath is largely visible again. Only the untouched flat surfaces remain white-covered, but out on my deck it feels colder than it did when the snow was falling. The cars out the back remain covered in snow, and many of those driving past still have a load of snow on the roof. I am sending up a silent prayer of thanks for my tiny garage as I type.
But I guess it was not so bad. Maybe I will put on my new vest and venture out again later. Maybe.