“Hot Hot Heat” or “French Girls Don’t Sweat”
It is officially summer here in Paris. And I’m sweating. Like if I walk a half mile there might be a bit of moisture on the back of my T-shirt. Miraculously, none of the French women around me seem to suffer from this same affliction. I’m amazed. This is part of the magic of the French gene pool - their women don’t seem to a) gain weight b) sweat or c) have to pee. ever.
Me, on the other hand, I do all three easily and regularly. Perhaps that’s too much information, but let’s blame it on the brain in my head that’s currently frying up like my imported morningstar veggie bacon (smuggled in for me by my father on a recent visit). As I sit here in my steaming, top-floor flat, nearly stripped down to my underpants and fantasizing about the window-sill airconditioning units I used to loathe back in Cali . . . I can’t seem to keep my train of thought. I’ve never before suffered a heat wave in a land-locked city, let alone one which is as dismissive of airconditioning as America is obsessive.
Summer for me doesn’t seem right without the brambles and beers of my youthful days. Without the endless burritos and pitchers of margaritas and hikes along long stretches of river. A city summer is a new thing for me. A Paris summer, even newer. And I’m not sure how to approach it. I feel like this is certainly a new opportunity to create my own Parisian summer rituals, different from all those i’ve previously loved. I can replace livestock shows and has-been/cover band concerts (lest we forget the “Starship” reunion of 2006) with . . . picnics? check (those are a year-round event here, weather be damned). with strawberry mint sorbet? check. with cold beers on a sunday with the hubby? check. with wandering through the bois only to happen upon a hopping gay cruising scene? check and check. These activities are fun, certainly, but somehow are coming up short in comparison to cold, clean american river water (that is to say THE American River in northern california) and the antics of local crazies. I’m missing late night hot-tubs and pulling ticks off the dogs and ruminating over the slow growth of a garden full of flowers and branches heavy with peaches. I miss home.
This is why i haven’t written in so long. I’ve been feeling as if this blog should do nothing but playfully and expertly recount my many adventures in Paris, never losing a curious enthusiasm. But this enthusiasm, I’ve had to grapple with of late. The challenges of moving abroad often outweigh the excitement - for me at least. My friend Kim (see http://unlockparis.blogspot.com/) encouraged me to not limit my blogging to what i think my audience may want to hear. So, I’ve decided to re-take the reigns and blog anew - ugly frustrations included.
So, I’ll conclude this sweat-soaked admission by stating that I am jaded. How do I know I am jaded to the wonders of Paris? On the metro yesterday it took me a full four minutes to even notice the man in front of me somersaulting while suspended from ceiling-mounted hand bars. Gymnastics upside-down, on the metro. Amazing. And to think I barely turned my head.