Ici, tout est calme

In August, Paris is quiet. Everyone (those Parisians who can) has left the city. Every boulangerie in a three-block radius of my apartment has the familiar sign "Congée annuel," or the slight variation "Horaire estivale: Fermé." For the first few weeks of August, there is a sort of yeasty time-share agreement among bakers; not willing to let their neighbors starve, time-slots will be agreed upon and one boulangerie will usually be open on rotation. But for the last week or so of the month, even the iron-clad work ethic of the Sisyphean breadmakers falters. The sign is guiltily scotché to the glassdoor in the hasty départ to the seaside under the cover of night. The following morning, the remaining Parisians can be seen roaming the streets, gaunt and croissant-less, muttering under their smoky breaths that next year, yes, next year, they too shall go ailleurs, loin, très loin d'ici.

But I, on the other hand, already elsewhere in Paris, am filled with the marvel of learning that beautiful new word: estivale.