There are two types of Americans in Paris. Those who go home the month of August and those who stay. Although I secretly envy those who can binge on a month-long ice cream headache of Americana, my summers are a more local affair, doing a mini Tour de France of friends’ vacation homes throughout this fine country.
I’m pondering what France’s summer traditions are, but I’m blanking. Oh, yeah the month of August not at home, fleeing to everywhere but here? Merguez on the grill? Spritz on a terrace? Summer reading and late dinners? A bottle of chilled rosé on ice?
Ok, these new traditions work just fine for my developing adult tastes. But I still can’t help but miss those sticky childhood summers at home in Chicago: the twinkling bell of the paletas guy selling my favorite ice pop arroz con leche, shucking the golden husks off sweet corn hot off the Weber grill, the self-inflicted pain of watching daytime tv all day long and the call of arms when the ice cream truck roll through the neighborhood.Although I come from the Klondikian school of frozen treats, the Magnum bar is my good-to Euro replacement. I quickly learned last summer that “A Magnum-a-day keeps the bikini bod at bay”. But every now and then, it’s the only thing that will do the trick. Happy Summer!