Coming from the US to France: out of the frying pan, into the fire. Heat wave –
canicule, in French – refers to dog days, which even Homer wrote about in The Iliad:
Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky
On summer nights, star of stars
Orion’s Dog they call it, brightest
Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat
And fevers to suffering humanity.
The landscape is tinder-dry; pine needles are so emaciated, thin, dropping their long sharp nails to soften paths. Rings of fires rage now along the Atlantic coast, the Mediterranean whistles through its teeth, biding its time. France is facing its fourth canicule.
You could say that the image of France as a place of alluring summer is done. (In domino effect, myths of the US is done, Israel is done.) But France is stubborn. A town like Aix-en-Provence will get sultry and suffocating. But under the classically elegant platane trees, nothing could look quite so French as those shaded, effortless drinkers. Aix’s golden-hued limestone buildings are centuries old; the cool blue shutters on their windows older than the ages of most friends added together, and taller than four standing on each other’s shoulders. What are people doing? Eating, drinking and talking. Eternal stuff.