There are a lot of adventures packed into a very small window of time before we leave France–making sure we adequately say goodbye to everyone we're not sure we'll ever see again, checking out the last few bits of undiscovered Nancy territory. I'm a bit overwhelmed, but let's be honest: I'm enjoying the affection.
I was invited to a friend's house yesterday for a great, summery lunch (with fresh cheese made by her friend, fresh berries picked on Sunday...) I wore flip flops for the first time this year, and they rubbed the skin off of my feet, including a spot on the bottom near the thong-y spoke thing, before I arrived.
After a good lunch with my friend & her incredibly kind, welcoming mother, we headed to the outdoor pool–a pool that is bigger than any I've ever visited. I wish I'd taken my camera. If nothing else, you'd be able to see me in a swim cap, which are a required part of the attire.
Apparently, it is also required that men wear tinier swimsuits than you'd ever see in the States. I laughed at how out of place Joe would seem in his almost knee-length swimming trunks. One man, roughly age 55, had taken this too far: a thong Speedo. There were many screams and gasps and stares of shock for boys & girls alike.
We spent most of our time "bronzing" ("bronzer" is the French verb for to "lay out" or tan). My friend finds pale skin sad & rather unappealing. I find my pale skin my natural state and a sign that I will, if I don't tan it to leather, have a lower chance of skin cancer. I slathered on the sun screen while they were (while admittedly looking lovely & bronze) soaking up the oil.
The sunscreen didn't seem to help. By the time I got home, I was completely burnt, & it looks ridiculous. I sat Indian-style (excuse me, "criss-cross applesauce" style) most of the afternoon, so the burn follows all the lines of my sitting and swimsuit. I'm not quite lobster level, but it's painful. It feels like the bones and muscles were burnt, screaming from strain when I bend or twist or walk.
I gave myself a cold shower when I got home–something that never quite feels good to me, but that I knew would help me a bit. I smeared moisturizing lotion on, & I got ready for the opera.
To cover the burn, I wore my pencil skirt & a nice, flowing shirt that wouldn't have to touch my poor chest. Walking through the 90 degree weather to the opera, we calmed ourselves by the thought of air conditioning and cooling down before the performance began.
False. It's France. We were roasting, and we were tucked in tiny seats with no knee room (the stadium seating put the women in front of us two inches from my feet)–and tucked between a family that frequented the opera to the left and a group of elementary school girls to the right. The repeatedly explained to each other that they couldn't see anything; they had no idea what was happening; they were hot; they couldn't see.
The opera is beautiful; the orchestra played beautifully; the costumes were beautiful. But Joe & I are not opera fans. Maybe it was the heat or the claustrophobia or the fatigue we felt in the dark space. Maybe it was the frustration of trying to read the French translation of the Italian opera while also trying to catch what was happening stage left, the spot with the most action & the most people blocking our view.
We appreciate the experience, but between my sunburn ("coup de soleil" in French–a hit or cut, as if the sun smacked you and left a red mark) & my low heat tolerance I wasn't willing to go back into that room. Joe wasn't putting up any arguments. He got an ice cream; I got a large water and we walked through the park on our way home in the cooling night air.
Joe was kind enough to get groceries today while I "clean the apartment" (since that's clearly what I'm doing. I refuse to put clothes on until I have to work today. I refuse to turn the stove on. I refuse to close the window. I refuse to think about the fact that this day marks our last week in Nancy.
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