JOURNAL N°6
The Art of Wilting
I’d heard the rumors about heat in Italy and France for years, filed neatly under “someone else’s problem.” Turns out the problem has been personally reassigned to me. I never pictured myself as a woman who wilts, and yet here I am, wilting, with great enthusiasm, mastering what I can only call the art of wilting.
Nothing prepared me for embracing full-blown summer this early. “How will I survive actual summer here?” has become my internal monologue on loop, playing over scenic rooftops like some cursed tourism ad.
Then in late May, a heatwave rolled in and nearly took my breath away, and my dignity along with it. I set off to explore a charming little village like a normal, composed adult, and came home looking like a tomato that had given up on life: red as a beet, glowing with sweat, and yes, even my chest had fully joined the sweating party. Nobody asked for that. Least of all me.
Which brings me to the two questions currently entertaining my brain: how does one survive in a place where some homes have AC, some don’t, and mine, mine, happens to be firmly in the “don’t” camp until a replacement unit graces us with its presence sometime at the end of June… and how, how, does one simply walk outside in this heat without wilting on the spot?
I have been wondering what July will look like. As I take a deep breath in and imagine it’s winter somewhere else, and somehow I’m there too.
Lesson One: Hydration & The Ocean
The reality is the heat in France is no joke, and lesson one has been simple: take care of your body, rest, and drink lots of water. I’m missing the botanicals I’d normally reach for to bring the body back into balance in this kind of heat. For now, hydrating water will do, but not just plain water. Water with freshly squeezed lemon, and a pinch of Sel de Guérande IGP, because apparently even my salt needs official French paperwork.
And some mornings, instead of a walk, I head to the beach. Arriving early in the morning while the beach is quiet and peaceful. There’s nothing like an early walk for two plus hours with the ocean breeze, cool, salty, and still gentle, before the sun turns the whole beach into a frying pan. By the time everyone else is arriving with their umbrellas and coolers, I’m already packing up, delighted and refreshed for the day ahead.
Lesson Two: The House
The first thing that surprised me here was the shutters. Walking around, I noticed so many were closed. My first thought was, “let the light in.” France has these long, beautiful windows, the kind that are just stunning, and I couldn’t imagine not letting the light in and enjoying all that beauty around you.
Turns out, the shutters are doing exactly what they’re supposed to: keeping the heat out and the cool air in. Genius, honestly. Except… I need light. I cannot live in a cave, however chic the cave. So the real question became: how does one keep a home cool without sacrificing the will to live via total darkness?
Here’s what I’ve landed on so far. Step one: be awake by 5:30 a.m., before sunrise. Open every window and head out for a long walk, somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half, while the world is still cool and blissfully quiet. It’s honestly the best part of the day and a beautiful morning ritual.
When I get back, windows still open, it’s prime cooking time, before the heat fully commits to ruining everyone’s plans. Then, by 9, every window gets shut to trap whatever cool air we managed to capture. I don’t bother with the shutters, but I do close the curtains in my bedroom, since that room exists for one purpose only: sleep. And if you don’t have AC, congratulations, you now have a fan. A fan that runs full blast, 24/7, like it’s training for something.
Lesson Three: Clothing
Then comes the part where you pray that nobody knocks on your door, because chances are you’ve stripped down to a cami and panties and called it a day. Nothing worse than carrying on your day and forgetting your just in a cami and undies and opening the door, or even worse getting on a zoom call.
Showers help too, a quick one after the morning walk, another before bed, and depending on how aggressively the thermometer is behaving (we’re talking high 90s some days), possibly one more squeezed in somewhere during the afternoon so you don’t wilt.
And then there’s linen. I’ve always loved linen, my wardrobe is probably 90 percent linen. Now I can’t imagine reaching for anything else. Linen and thin cotton is everything. Thin, flowy cotton dresses or blouses, breezy linen pants or dresses, anything light and loose. If it doesn’t move and flow when I walk, I simply don’t want it.
So there you have it: my crash course in surviving a French summer, taught entirely by trial, error, and an alarming amount of wilting. Some days I genuinely feel like I’m starring in my own slow-motion melodrama, dramatically fanning myself with whatever’s nearby, a magazine, a menu, my own hand, anything that moves air.
But here’s the thing. Despite all the early mornings rituals. Despite living in a cami, praying nobody knocks at my door. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s something wonderful about slowing down. Moving with the day instead of against it. And yes, laughing at myself along the way.
July, I see you coming. Bring it on. Worst case, I wilt a little more. Best case, I finally master the art of looking effortlessly cool while internally melting. Which, I’m told, is basically a summer French specialty anyway.
À la prochaine, from someone who’s a little wilted but still in good spirits, here in France.
Until we meet again, may this bring a smile to your heart.
With love from France,
Jubetsy
