I have decided to stay in for these winter holidays, and I find it difficult to keep myself blissfully occupied. I have spurts of wanting to go back home, spurts of wanting to clean up my apartment, spurts of wanting to cook something fancy. Spurts, they are meant simmer and die.
I went to the Christmas market yesterday. Sanitized French air imbued with scents of Cinnamon, butter and roasted nuts. Little wood huts at the city centre selling French delicacies/ banalities - crepes, hot wine, bread and nuts; I bought a crepe-Nutella and no, it wasn't divine. I had trouble eating it.
They have a way of doing the lights here though. Falling drops, starry trees, lights to conjure an endless street... As the light fades, so does the electrical wiring and lights grow. So, when you cross a street in the midst of a French throng, which you do even otherwise, your gait spruces up. There is glamour in crossing the street.
The cold is numbing, and I tend to walk with my chin tucked into the muffler and hands in my pocket. Then, returning home to my apartment of many lamps is comforting, and the light factor doesn't dim. Moving out again takes courage, and it's avoided till restlessness threatens again.
