Paris in Autumn: 50 Shades of Yellow
Why are autumn people so very obsessed with autumn? 
They start wearing corduroys and big orange scarves, they wax poetic about chai tea, they display a cornucopia of gourds on their front porch, and generally look drunk with glee as the temperature drops.
I'll tell you why. Autumn brings out the introvert. Even if you swing toward Extrovert on the Introvert-Extrovert scale, the cold winds quiet the mind... and I think the cold weather makes hot beverages taste better.
Extroverts clap with glee when summer arrives. Hot weather brings out their inner Kenny Chesney. It's all sunhats and cold drinks. But autumn? Ahhh, that's all tea and cinnamon.
It's fun to step outside (in your pants for the first time in months) and take photos of autumn.
Glamorous lady in yellow.
The other day I received an order for a Paris Letter in my shop from a Jeanne. It was for her mother, also named Jeanne. At the same time I was fulfilling the order, another Jeanne made an order. Jeanne is also my grandmother's name. Since my latest health scare, I've had a loss of faith about whether or not there is anything beyond this world. Going under during surgery was such a blank space that I wondered if, when we die, it's all Lights Out Tits Up. But, when I received those orders, I did have an inkling... a little renewed spark... that possibly something else is out there lighting the way.
The days are also getting shorter, but you don't even mind because you're inside sipping tea and making pompoms for your hats.
Hey nature, nice framing.
You start sitting on benches that you ignored before, just to listen to... nothing. Autumn is quieter than that loud extrovert Summer.
You actually start craving warm foods and being open to eating things that you despised in Spring.
And huddling together just makes evening more fun.
You dig out your yellow bag to match the trees.
And boots are back!
I'm so obsessed with walking to Buci News that I included a sketch and photo in A PARIS YEAR.
"It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason I have not yet been able to fathom. I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it. I am." Henry Miller
