Destinations

If we can just make it until tomorrow, the sun will come out! I'm not sure if I can do one more day of 37 degrees that "feels like 34," according to the weather people. How do they decide how warm it feels as opposed to how warm it actually is? I think they're wrong. It's 37, but it feels like we've been stuck in Dante's inferno of never-ending misery, but without the benefit of the flames of eternal damnation, for months. We never even had a fake spring to get our hopes up. It's abnormal, really, that my moods are so tied to the weather. I once read a short story by Ray Bradbury that took place on Venus, where it was rainy all the time. The sun came out once every seven years and one student somehow got locked in the school and missed the sunny day. The end. I'm still haunted by the story and angry at Mrs. Alexander for having us read it without warning us of the graphic nature of the plot. This spring, I'm beginning to feel like I'm in a Ray Bradbury story.

I lived in Paris the spring of my 9th grade year (March to June), and it rained a lot. Rain in Paris is romantic and beautiful and fun. Everyone has an umbrella and the city looks like a Maurice Prendergast painting when there's a downpour. The puddles refect 16th century architecture and the grey sky makes the Mansard roofs and cathedral spires look magical. There's always a tiny bookstore or obscure museum or, best of all, a fancy patisserie to duck into if the shower becomes a downpour. I keep telling myself that this spring is just like Paris. (It's my American optimism!) It's not exactly the same, but I do have the stunning mountian views and spring flowers to edify me. Besides, it's much better than the image of Ray Bradbury's Venus story. I bet there are no pastries on Venus.