Port Grimaud, France, 17 July 2015: Plein air

There is the heat. Air conditioning is not a thing here, at least not the way it is at home. Some restaurants have fans, and the ones that face the yachts in Saint Tropez sport misters that play havoc with your hair every minute or so, but by that point it’s already hopeless anyway, so you’re just grateful for the fleeting evaporation. I can understand why body odor would be a part of many people’s impressions of their trips to France, but honestly we don’t notice. I can’t say whether this is a result of the success of the hygiene industry’s Gallic marketing efforts or simply because we smell as bad as anyone.

The closest thing we find to air conditioning is a cross-breeze. To encounter one requires that doors and windows remain open on both sides of the house, and even then they are capricious things, given to teasing you and then dying out just as you lift your arms to channel the zephyr through your sleeves. Given the choice between closing the shutters and mooning the neighbors after my shower, well, I don’t know these people. After all, this is a place where you can lie face-up on the beach in only a thong, but then you won’t be allowed on the water taxi without a shirt. I’m not sure which rule applies to keeping your towel on after a shower. I just know that I’m too hot to care.

The heat adds a new dynamic to sharing a bed. On the up side, blanket-hogging is pretty much a non-issue. On the down side, snuggling is not welcome when merely resting your hand on your spouse’s hip is enough to leave a five-fingered sweat print.

Sleeping with the windows open is a pretty cool experience for a Southerner who, when home, finds the lack of air conditioning between the kitchen door and the car almost too much to bear. Waves lap, breezes blow, seagulls call. Also, the big yachts start in with their grinding, whining bow-thrusters around 8:00 AM. The super-rich truly are heartless.

There are mosquitos. I may be imagining that their buzz is more nasal than the US variety, but they are no less hungry, enjoying 3-hour multi-course blood meals in the cafes and then, I imagine, lingering on a glass of rosé. By day 7 our kids finally realize that their mosquito repellant cartridges are mounted upside down in their little electrical diffusers. That would explain all the red spots. When I get home the thing that will strike me as the most different turns out to be the dry, canned, cool air filling my house. It blows on my head, but never through my sleeves.