Desperately seeking shade

When even walking a block in Paris feels like an existential crisis

I just took a cold shower, and I’m already a sticky, sweaty mess. The high temperatures throughout France have climbed into the 100s, and there’s no end in sight until Sunday.

People are miserable. Animals are suffering. Flora and fauna are dry and wilting.

And yet, boulangeries are still churning out croissants, restaurants and cafés are still serving three-course lunches, and booksellers are still selling 1950s movie posters and dusty old books along the Seine.

Life goes on. It goes on with portable fans and brumisateurs. With hats and parasols. With people sprawled out on grass and hunkered down in leafy squares.

Everyone is just trying to make it through this obscene canicule.

This past weekend, Jason and I took our books over to Les Editeurs and sat on the covered terrace with a pichet of rosé on ice, olives, and peanuts for sustenance.

One of the managers who is unfailingly cheerful, even in record-breaking temperatures, was wearing bright red lipstick. I complimented her in my half-assed French, and she seemed genuinely pleased that someone had noticed.

Did I mention she was also wearing black pantyhose? In 95 degrees. Seriously. I marveled at her composure and the stamina it takes to run around serving people in the sweltering heat.

That’s what I think about when I’m feeling sorry for myself. I think about all the people going about their daily lives—the construction workers, the bus drivers, the moms and dads schlepping around crying, red-faced toddlers.

I saw an old man with a cane slowly crossing the road and worried he wouldn’t make it to the other side in time. He did, but just.

I worry about the dogs who aren’t getting enough water or whose paws are getting burned on the sidewalks. I worry about the unhoused population who have nowhere to go for relief.

I worry about the birds who can’t find shade. I imagine them chirping to each other in disgust about what the dumb humans have done to create this mess.

I marvel at the elderly people who insist on wearing tweed caps and scarves, and the young women who walk around in knee-high leather boots because, well, fashion.

I can only imagine what the woman on the left is thinking.

This morning, I got up at 6:30 and high-tailed it to the gym while it was still only in the 80s.

It was blissfully quiet there, and there was some semblance of a/c. I spent a ridiculous amount of time on the treadmill, knowing that it would likely be my only movement of the day.

Afterward, I went to one of my favorite boulangeries, Leonie, and picked up a Tourte de Meule. It was stifling, and both of the women working there looked visibly uncomfortable.

One of them is a young American named Kim. She was on barista duty, and we chatted while she cranked out hot cappuccinos. I could sense she was barely holding it together.

I asked her if they had A/C.

“Yeah, but all the hot air blows into the second floor where we keep everything stored, and the bathrooms are unbearable.” I nodded knowingly.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” she said. “I know you’re a writer, and I was just wondering if you might know anyone who is hiring. I have my master’s in sustainable business and connections really matter here.”

I suggested she look at some international NGOs, but otherwise, I didn’t have much to offer. She was about the same age as I was when I worked as a barista in Chicago after college. Maybe a little older.

I understood that feeling of desperation, of sending out resumes and getting back nothing. Of wondering how I’d pay off school loans and get a “real” job. It took me a year of working at Starbucks, a bagel shop, and Limited Express before I landed my first editorial assistant job.

I knew that for Kim it would be harder.

I wanted to be useful to her. I wanted to be the kind of person who had someone to call. But I’m not that person yet. I’m still figuring things out myself. My own projects go in fits and starts, and I have more moments of self-doubt than I care to admit.

I walked home with the hefty loaf, thinking about all the lives around me, the struggles and the small moments of personal connection.

I couldn’t give Kim a contact or a job lead. All I could offer was empathy and a promise to keep my ears open.

In a heatwave, everyone is looking for relief. Shade, a fan, a job lead, a kind word in bad French.

Some days, that has to be enough.

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