At some point this summer, every self respecting Parisian will be departing, closing their building, shuttering their homes and business and leaving the City of Lights all to the tourists. Paris becomes a rather interesting locale in my opinion. It’s a little like Washington DC in August where only mad dogs, disgruntled politicians and looking to score points with the White House for having to even be at work in the summer and other strange sorts like tourists who seem to enjoy haunting the attractions and wandering about our fair city in confused amazement. Given that Washington was built on a swamp, our summer weather is the usual cool 95 degrees in the shade and the humidity is guaranteed to drive the heartiest to their knees. Yes, it’s a fun time in our little heat island by the Potomac. I’m usually that poor SOB dressed in a wet summer suit carrying a bulging briefcase, pounding the pavement going from one meeting to another believing that what he is doing can and will save his country from inevitable doom or stabilize the price of chicks on the open market or perhaps improve his company’s bottom line and along with it his chances for a year-end bonus.
To get a sense of appreciation for the angst that can exist amongst the July and August vacation crowd, I spoke a while back with Brigitte a chain smoking, rather pouty young lady dressed, shall I say, for the summer weather and who was beside herself and definitely upset with the prospect of her upcoming July holidays. I mean to tell you, she was smoking as if it were her last day on earth and I lost count after the first pack; then there was coffee then, maybe a beer, vous etes tellement gentil monsieur! Then more cigarettes. She stopped pouting for a moment and admited, well yes, she was excited and was going to Corsica with her new boyfriend a garagiste/mécanicien that her parents strongly disapproved of. I remember Brigitte telling me what really troubled her was the month of August. You see, she said, everybody who was anybody in her circle in Paris left town, I mean vanished, finis, gone, poof, parti for the month of August; to add insult to injury her very dark tan (a stamp of summer success) would most certainly have turned a milky coffee color, hardly the right color if one wanted to be seen in public. I reached deep down and summoned my best expression of concern and typical of me, and probably lots of men like me, came up with some helpful suggestions including better planning for next year, alternative sites for sunbathing while still in Paris, and my best one, disappearing somewhere at the end of August for a weekend and returning all crispy and crunchy along with the rest of the August crowd as they madly inched along the autoroutes furiously beeping their horns and shaking their fists all the way into Paris. I was rather pleased with my clever consulting prowess, I had assessed the situation and suggested practical short and long term recommendations. As I said, I was rather pleased with myself but no one else seemed to be. When the blue fog finally lifted, she had taken her leave undoubtedly off to see the young garagiste.