The tiny, heartbreaking little sign posted on one of my favorite neighborhood bakeries says, “Fermeture Annuelle” – Closed for the ENTIRE month of August.
I’m not sure how I feel about August in Paris. Its hushed streets, tightly closed shops and unusual friendliness are almost unsettling yet it is the only time of year to experience real urban calm. It is both soothing and eerie, refreshing and maddening. Merchants use this time to remodel or close permanently and workers take obscene amounts of vacation, taking most of the cars and attitudes out of the city.
Bakery, closed for renovations
I think my aversion partly stems from the fact that I know my coat-less days are numbered. Or maybe it’s because my favorite bakery takes their annual, month-long vacation leaving me desperate for a comparable replacement to my daily loaves of bucheron. I often feel more nostalgic for home and family when the little comforts I take for granted become inaccessible during the month of August.
The only way to avoid letting this feeling consume me (and depress me) is to become a tourist in my own city. With the streets as bare and quiet as they are, even around heavily frequented areas, it is…
