Anyone who knows Paris will know about the mass exodus that occurs in this city in August. Parisians flee the city in their thousands, heading for anywhere that is, basically, not Paris.
Such movement in summer still seems foreign to me. Because of my parents dedication to the district fire brigade, we didn't do summer holidays when I was growing up. The idea of going somewhere at this time of the year doesn't really feel all that important to me, and so I watch the mass exodus somewhat bemusedly.
I'm certainly not complaining. We're not taking any significant time off in August, and the next month at my place of employ will be very quiet, so I think I should be able to get quite a bit of work done. The streets will be quieter, with more space on the train and fewer people in the shops.
But there is something depressing about watching everyone else go on holiday. I am excited for them all, but I confess that I feel slightly bitter that I'll still be working every day, while everyone else is heading off to kick up their heels.
That said, I'm sure we'll be gloating in December when Sylvain and I go to Australia, shorts and tshirts and thongs packed in our suitcases, with everyone else left behind, shivering in their winter coats.
This knowledge is more than enough to keep us both going for the next few months.