I love Paris in the the Springtime.

I love Paris anytime, but it’s best in the spring. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Maybe it’s because everything, everything in the city is in bloom.

Maybe it’s because the parks begin to refill with not just plants but also people.

Maybe it’s the profusion of pretty pastel shades you see truly no other time of year.

Maybe it’s the sweet bursts of sunshine that are by no means guaranteed, making them all that much sweeter.

Maybe it’s the way that tourist season hasn’t started in earnest and you feel like the city is just yours to hoard, to secret away.

Maybe it’s none of these things.

Maybe it’s all of them.

Whatever the case, Paris, je t’aime.

Achromatique

Winter travel in Europe is equal measures frustrating and magical. You could have an adorable town, the eaves of all its snug little houses lightly dusted with snow, looking like a perfect gingerbread village… or you could have sideways rain trying to frostbite your nose. It’s the luck of the draw.

There are two distinct advantages for American tourists, to wit:

• CHEAP flights. (SO CHEAP. You can get a JFK-CDG flight a week out for less than you’d pay if you booked a June flight a year in advance.)

• If you’re not a big traveler and you’re weird about being pickpocketed, it’s much harder to do when you stuff is shoved under a heavy coat.

For Northeasterners, the weather is really a wash—perhaps slightly warmer in fact—but if you’re a weak blooded California girl (like me), pack a scarf. Or five.

You also ought to resign yourself to lifeless gray skies and nearly monochromatic photos.

I ended up leaning into all of that, with a jaunty red wool hat, long black coat, gloves (the whole nine, really), and a look of grim determination. I hopped back on the Métro and made my way north to the Porte de Pantin, right on the Boulevard Périphérique, the ring road demarking the boundaries of the city.

My goal? The sublime form of the Philharmonie de Paris.

The building was an unexpectedly transcendent delight, strangely fluid and organic, basket-woven aluminum crumpled lightly like the folds of a discarded shirt. It was the sweeping vistas down to the minute abstract details, a play of light and a glossy reflection of the wintry skies.

It seemed so perfectly parisien, nestled in the Villette Park, a modern stunner alongside wonderful museums, large grassy expanses perfect for summertime picnics, and the 19th century Grande Halle – today a cultural center, but once a massive abattoir (leave it to the Parisians to make even their slaughterhouses beautiful).

I rarely find myself more than a quick walk from either the Seine or the Canal St. Martin (my typical haunts being decidedly slanted towards the third, tenth, and eleventh arrondissements), but visiting the Philharmonie meant seeing a wholly different side of the city.

Paris never fails to surprise.

And that – after all – is why I love it best.