Real Indian summers take place in November where I’m from (New-England, USA). I remember experiencing the most odd feeling of uncanny softness of the air, driving in a car with windows rolled down and knowing – but hardly believing – that you were sandwhiched in between two icy moments, with snow storms looming on the horizon like clockwork…
A New-England Indian summer has the gift to fool you, to disorient you, to make you believe that winter is never going to set in, ever. The warm, temperate air is not even like velvet. It is like angel’s skin. And then, Bang! Next thing you know, you’re schlepping through mounds of snow on the streets of Cambridge and Boston – and you just remember the miraculous sensations of before.
Here in Paris, the expression is used loosely, or differently, and it mostly means a long summer into the fall season. Yellow tree leaves fall in full, warm sunshine pools. There is none of the magical stillness of a true Indian Summer, that moment of universal harmony before the tempest.
With the new, crazy weather though, you also get to experience sandwhiched moments minus the supernatural. It’s been never ending actually this year. It’s living the life staccato. One moment this, another moment that – and here you go again. Seasons are sick and coughing out all their phlegm.
Get inspired by this new Editorial L’Ete Indien a Paris by Corinne Rollin.
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