Now I’m not complaining. Well not yet. The French have 12 weeks of vacation a year, most of which is taken in the month of August. Evidently the city becomes almost unbearable between the heat and the tourists, so the Parisians converge on the Southern regions of France to cool their toes in the ocean or soak up the sun on the beach. I don’t blame them, and right now, I wish I were with them.

But no, I’m stuck in Paris, waiting to finish my finals. It wouldn’t be so bad but everything, and I mean everything, is closed. The other day I went to buy fruit at the market stalls around the corner. All the shops were closed until the end of August. I called my hairdresser to make a much needed appointment before I go home. They’re closed until August 20th. The little restaurant I like to go to when I don’t want to make dinner has its doors tightly shut until the beginning of September. Thank goodness the sushi place is open seven days a week and delivers.

The streets are quiet. The traffic is calm. The noise level drops considerably like the whole city is under Sleeping Beauty’s spell. In a way it’s kind of nice because we feel like we own the city for a brief moment. Of course we can’t do anything with it since everything is closed, but the idea is nice.

There are a few brave souls who stay in town and keep their doors open. The little bakery down the street has a line out the door every time I walk by. I can’t imagine what Parisians would do without fresh bread every day. The grocery stores also stay open, but selection is limited and the produce leaves a lot to be desired.

But who am I to complain? I’m living in France for crying out loud!! I have to remind myself of that every once in a while.

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