Springtime is like adolescence. No one enjoys adolescence.
Once the novelty of winter wears off, the snow gets slushy and all your cute sweaters and coats stop fitting because your pregnant belly is too unwieldy (oh wait, is that just me?) you're left just aching for those first few warm days of the new season. What you wouldn’t give for a little green in the garden. How you yearn for just one colorful flower, for the freedom of short sleeves and sitting on the back patio.
Then, all at once, a whole week of glorious weather opens up a world that you thought you’d forgotten. On your daily hike you see *gasp* a real live fern! Even the grossness of the season’s first tick stuck deep in the dog’s fur is made pleasanter by the subtle promise it holds of a whole summer’s worth of outdoor adventures.
Beware, though, this spring tease.
The following week will startle you out of your happy fantasies of gurgling brooks and daffodils.
It will get cold again. Quite cold.
And then it never. Stops. Raining.
(For the record, I've never been to Paris in the springtime or otherwise, so I really can't speak with much authority on the issue.)