Why I love August in Paris
+ A few reading and listening recs
August in Paris, the most elastic of times. With so many residents gone, having fled all the concrete and responsibility for European beaches or exotic adventures much further afield, the days go slack. There is no urgency. The city unclenches, as do I.
This once-a-year palpable slowdown is a lazy trance I forget I desperately need until it arrives. Emails have slowed to a trickle, my WhatsApp chats have largely fallen silent, and my calendar cleared itself as if by force, give or take the occasional drink or ice cream date with fellow staycationers or Juilletistes— the July vacation crowd who stay put in August. This small-town-in-the-big-city feel is deeply needed by the eighth month of the year, even if initially off-putting.
By the time my husband flew to the other side of the world to rock climb with his buddies in early August, I was fried. I needed time and space to reset. In fact, everyone I know was feeling brain dead and couldn’t fathom soldiering on with the usual emails, school drop-offs and pickups, and Zoom requests for one second more. For those who can take a step away or at least slow down, August is our collective system reboot.
It’s when I remember how to idle. I’ve worked a little bit each day to finish up a project, but mostly, I’ve been able to mellow. I’ve read a slew of books, deep-cleaned my shower, discovered the joys of the 8-10 minute NPR Book of the Day podcast, and gotten back on my bicycle (the Mario Kart experience of cycling has temporarily ceased, and it is COVID lockdown style bliss to ride again). I’ve worked on my sumo squats and deadlifts; tried the Bamboo Forest cocktail at Le Mary Celeste, made one-night-only by the head bartender from Kyoto’s Bee’s Knees speakeasy; and pondered sculptures in the Luxembourg Gardens I had somehow never stopped to look at.
I’ve seen solo diners reading everything from Kafka to Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence; overheard Parisian specialty coffee buffs at Tiba talking about their holiday plans to New York City but bemoaning how far off a cliff the city’s coffee game has fallen (le niveau à Paris est nettement meilleur quand même), and nodded along; and clocked a paunchy elderly gentleman on the half-empty metro, unironically sporting a beret and an illustrated black and white tee that read, j’habite chez mes chats. I saluted him.
I am far from ready to fire up the engine —my TBR stack requires more of my solitary time, for one. But I won’t lie: I’m looking forward to having more than a few solid dinner options within walking distance. (And to this!)
READING & LISTENING
I never miss a Simon Kuper column in the FT but this one on the French town of Saint-Antoine-l’Abbaye being crowned one of France’s most beautiful villages was particularly good, full of the kinds of quotes from sources a journalist can only dream of:
Tourism helps keep these businesses alive. But some villagers have long sulked about “overtourism”. Longis confides: “Part of the population — maybe 20, 30 per cent — is against everything. They don’t want people to come, they don’t want to spend money on buildings.” They worry, she says, “about visitors coming into their bathrooms”. St Anthony, a desert hermit himself, might have sympathised.
I also read everything writes, including her latest missive about her recent visit to the Normandy American Cemetery.
.America is having a problem projecting itself right now. Our dysregulated leader, elected by a majority who knew him well enough to know better, changes his mind every ten seconds. What he does put out there, in all our names, is memecoins and jazz hands—empty things of tangential value. American leaders have not all been models of sobriety or exemplary vectors of the common good, but most have had some sense of their place in history. Now that we’ve under-educated and over-entertained our own people for generations, squandering all that hard-won prosperity, too many of us don’t even know what we’re missing.
There’s no mistaking it when you visit that cemetery.
If you liked The New Paris, The New Parisienne, and generally enjoy this newsletter and are interested in sharp commentary on the legacy of Americans in Paris, you’ll want to listen to this episode of Critics at Large with guest star (thanks for the shoutout, LC!). Spot on!
OVERHEARD IN PARIS
“What do you say to yourself, spiritually, when you’ve spent all day in front of a screen, huh?” — a mother to her adolescent son, walking by me on my street. 11th arrondissement, August. 1
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(This overheard in will become more regular! I proposed it as an idea in the subscriber chat and many of you thought it could be fun!)