The Transition Artist

It’s raining again.

The weather has become a popular topic of conversation these days. When I pass the cleaning man in my apartment building as I head out for a run, and he asks how I’m doing, I smile and tell him that I’m doing well, and himself? And he tells me he’s well too, happy even. “The sun is out today,” he says, and I smile and we spend a minute talking about how nice it is to see the sun again. When I walk to the nearby coffee shop and exchange hellos with the baristas that work there, the manager I see all the time asks how I’m doing before pointing towards the window and saying it’s good that I arrived when I did, as the weather turns quickly from sunny to a heavy downpour. When friends invite me out for a drink, we ask each other via message if it’s supposed to be nice out. We make plans to meet outside, but come up with a back-up meeting place in case it rains. When I leave the house, it’s never without an umbrella.

There’s something strange about passing an almost sunless summer in Paris that seems to put everyone a little on edge. A man walking down the street yesterday didn’t even take off his headphones before he started yelling in French, “It’s RAINING again! It rained yesterday, it rained the day before, it rains Thursday, Friday, Monday, and now it’s raining again today. IT’LL PROBABLY RAIN TOMORROW, TOO!” An outburst like that on the street in Paris would normally be met with strange glances and plenty of people who intentionally look away, but everyone around him seemed to feel his frustration. He turned to look around and a few people looked at him and nodded, solemnly acknowledging the truth in his statement.

While I too am frustrated that the rain keeps coming down day after day, there’s something about it that feels somewhat fitting, macabre and cathartic, for the time we live in. As the already waterlogged city continues to drown in increments, inside closed doors there are other common topics of conversation that Paris murmurs about: terrorism, threats, shootings; violence that continues to unfold all over the world. People wonder if it’s safe for them to go watch the Euro, an event that France is incredibly proud to host, in the fan zone by the Eiffel Tower. They’ve heard about the threats. They know there is the possibility of danger. They decide not to go and blame it on the weather. Meanwhile, others talk about the recent shootings, empathizing with the feelings of those present, expressing compassion for the victims and their friends and families. Paris knows the silent grief that creeps in as one mourns the loss of lives. All the while, droplets of water streak down the windows, sometimes one after the other, sometimes all at once as the sky unleashes every ounce of water it holds.

Every now and then, though, the sun comes out. For an hour or two, Parisians fill the parks. They have their lunches on the stairs in front of the church by their offices. They call their friends and meet for a drink on a terrace. They go to the free concert the opening night of the Euro. They celebrate. For an hour or two, the city smiles and rejoices the coming of the sunshine. After all, the rain can’t last forever.