The french love the springtime. If you ask them about it they will shrug and say, " Il n'y a plus de printemps. " which simply means " There are no springtime anymore." Period. The french are pretty adamant that in the natural and normal cycle of seasons, Winter advances directly into Summer.
Yet, if you drive through " la campagne francaise" which is really only the french countryside, but it immediately sounds so much better in french, you can see things like this :
little tiny flowers which are called ' paquerettes " which are tiny adorable daisies about a quarter of an inch, adorable. And paquerettes are a sign of Springtime.
And you can also see other interesting things like this ;
that is when you typically freshly plough the soil, to sow your field,
and that is also a sign of Springtime,
and then you can see also this remarquable sight :
and if you really look at this splendid photo, you can see some yellow forsythia on the top of the hill, that the Reporter couldn't approach, because the soil was a bit " détrempé et trop meuble" and that just means something like soaked and too soft, and that dear Reader, is another indisputable sign of Springtime.
But ask any frenchman, and he will shake his head from left to right to left and right again, and he will say " non, non, il n'y a plus de printemps." And honestly, you'd better not ask a third time.
It is because, every frenchman has his own notion of what le printemps should look like. And since his notion of Springtime, is not at all the notion of whomever else, and certainly not the vision of Mother Nature, then there is no more Springtime in france, whatsoever.
So the Reporter decided to say good-bye to her friend in the country, who said to her, while she was packing her small trunk, " C'est quand meme un drole de printemps." Which meant in fact, "Still it is a funny spring." So suddenly it seemed like Spring had temporarily reappeared in france, but now it was funny. Which shows one more time how the french are all about subtlety.
We, Americans, we say, " It is Springtime !" and our voice carries a lot of gaiety, and enthusiasm, and we all have those idiotic smiles at how happy this time in the year is, but that is because we americans, are very rude.
Then the Reporter closed her trunk, looked around with her usual happiness and joie de vivre, and her eyes fell on something particularly cherished by her host :
because the french may not believe that there is a Spring season any more, but the wooden toys of childhood is one season in which they will always believe because, true at heart, " Ils sont toujours des enfants." Which is they are still children at heart. Not to be mistaken with the emblematic french sentence, " Les Américains sont de grands enfants." Which is " The Americans are tall children."
Which, in itself, is such a complex subject in the mind of the french that this blog page is now too short to debate such a thing on this day.
So the Reporter reached Paris again, and in her stroll pulling her trunk, she stopped to admire this wonderful little store, which made her think that after all Spring was in fact, here, arrived in Paris :
and with her usual idiotic smile, she continued her stroll.
With all love,