It’s hot in Paris. And not hot in the I’ve-been-waiting-all-year-for-this kind of way, but rather an I-sweat-the- second-I-wake-up-until-the-second-I-step-into-the-shower-before-bed-at-which-point-I-sweat-again kind of way. You see the situation. The merciless sun covers the city in a blanket which is both suffocating and uncomfortable, no room to breathe.
Save for super markets, banks, hospitals, museums and a handful of boutiques, the city is free of that progressive Yankee technology and rife with profuse sweaters (and subsequently body odor sufferers, inflicting their misfortune on the innocent bystander). As I sit here typing, the bubbles of sweat are forming on my brow, my hands feel sticky and my glasses continue to slip off my nose.
It’s all anyone can talk about as they are concerned it will turn into another deathly heat wave. I strategically make pit stops between errands in air conditioned establishments too cool off and mentally prepare myself for the remainder of my blazing journey. Fans are more or less futile and air simply does not circulate.
The French don’t believe in air conditioning, it’s to be avoided and discouraged at all costs. Their reluctance to embrace a technology which is, admittedly, only necessary between the months of June and August, is an indication of their…
