Today has been magnificently hot. Like if I was one of those types who enjoyed the heat, I would find myself in glorious bliss right now. I am not, however, one of those types. I prefer cool breezes, even a bit of snow, to anything above 75 F, and it is currently 97 F.
From the refuge of shady spot between the Seine and the Tuileries, I can see the buildings of Paris glow like the embers of a sweltering fire. And while the foliage in the park seems lush and supple, the leaves directly overhead are dried and crisp like potato chips. Feeling hydrated and satieted by iced tea and macarons, my attention is more attuned to my other senses. I hear the steady hum of traffic, mixed with an alternation of ravens caw-ing and seagulls… making whatever sound they do, distant cries of joyful children, and the occasional rustling of potato chip leaves. This breeze is far from relieving, if anything it’s like being in a convection oven, the wind just moving about the hot air. Yet I cannot help but find visual delight. The faint scent of cigarette smoke heightens the “Parisian” scene. This is a moment I would like to remember. The expanse of the gardens, dotted with sculptures (who must not be bothered much in this weather because they’re nude), ahead, a backdrop of the classic architecture, the combination of sounds, even the heat, and the promise of my lifetime’s fill of Impressionist paintings from the Musée d’Orsay. These are all things I would like to distill into a singular potent memory, to keep in my bar and infuse into my life as needed.