Probably in Paris.

Who can let winter approach without a nod to Paris? It only takes a light, passing flurry of snow in Ireland to fill my cup with melancholy and send me to sit on the terrace of a cafe under the arcades that surround the Place des Vosges. 

The noise of the city is kept at a safe distance behind the buildings that protect the quietness of the square. I'm wearing a heavy coat against the cold and beside me a sputtering gas heater sends sporadic waves of heat in my direction. Gusts of cold air push snowflakes in under the arcades but they are no match for the monster heat trapped under the vaulted ceilings and they don't last long. 

I'm probably sitting alone, taking ages over an espresso. I'm more than likely waiting for someone, some odd character who keeps budgies and makes a living selling books down by the river and recites his own poetry in a café at night with no-one there to listen to his verse other than the bored waiter and a few ghosts from the revolution.