You guys know this picture, right? It's Alfonse Mucha's "Les Saisons." From here.
I like winter, generally. I mean, I get tired of the snow and the cold and the sodden feet, but I like complaining about it, too. I like wearing so many clothes that my family can't recognize me. I like running in the winter (when there is no ice). It's a season. It's a good one. Necessary, and all that. And in Boston, we know how to do winter.
Because this weather we're having in Paris? You know, in early February, the month of moping and sitting inside and eating comfort food? Yeah, this isn't winter. There are flowers blooming on the balcony across the street. I regularly go outside in jeans and a sweater. That's what I wear in the summer at home (well, sometimes when it's cold and rainy). This is mid-April weather. This is sailing weather. This is not winter.
On one hand, it's kind of like "great! Springtime!" We don't really get spring the way normal people do in Boston either - it's a couple months of mud and ice-melt, a week of lilacs, and then mosquitos and sunburns. It'll be nice to have a proper spring for once - one with balmy weather that isn't too hot and not too much rain and wildflowers growing in the parks. On the other hand, it's like "wait, it's February. What did you do with my seasons?" Just to clarify, I've never went to school on Valentine's Day in high school. Not once. Because we had snow days every year.
Just wait until my family gets here from Boston, which has like six feet of snow. I wonder what they'll think!