Rain is the same everywhere in the world. It may vary in intensity and emotion but it still falls from the sky. It fuels growth and rebirth but like any part of turning something tiny and fragile into something strong and vibrant it can be unpleasant. Rain during travel can be just that, unpleasant.
There is an old adage that there is no poor weather only poor clothing choices. There is some truth in that adage but it is also wrought with folly. No matter how one dresses rain will impact your day, only you can determine how. I have pressed on through all sorts of weather and had great adventures doing so.
That day however I was having none of it. We had stood outside in the rain waiting to get into the Louvre and shuffled through the masses of damp people feeling damp ourselves. It was summer in Paris and even though it was raining the temperature inside was beginning to climb. Any higher and steam would had started to rise off all the tourists wet clothes.
It had started as a refuge on a rainy day. By the afternoon when we had decided we had thoroughly visited the grand halls, at least for that visit, we stepped outside hoping for the forecast clearing. It was not to be however. The skies were just opening up and the deluge was starting.
We ran. Without a goal in mind we quickly arrived upon a café and ducked inside. It was warm and steamy inside like the Louvre had been. Somehow in the heart of Paris we had stumbled into a café full of locals taking a mid afternoon drink and meal. As we tucked into a booth dripping wet my view of the atmosphere began to change.
It was still steamy and warm but not in an awkward way involving the shuffling of wet tourists. It was steamy and warm in a way that weary wet friends dry out over a coffee or glass of wine. It was not loud and boisterous though it was people bonding together in hushed tones. An intimate gathering where everyone in the room still felt at home.
The perfect accompaniment came later. Croqué monsieurs. On the surface these sandwiches were not terribly different than a North American grilled cheese or a British toastie. In that place however, with wet clothes and warmth penetrating our weary bodies the melted cheese and béchamel sauce only contributed to a general overall feeling of warmth and togetherness.
I struck me as we continued to dry and everyone around us leaned into a conversation with their table mates that this was certainly a Parisienne experience. Inside that refuge in that grand city it was an experience just familiar enough to be comforting but distinct enough to leave a lasting memory. A memory of Paris that could not have happened anywhere else on any other day.
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