Paris Is Burning

Not kidding, actually. It was 35C here today damnit. That's 96F or so. Freaking hot. We were sitting in a cafe that was 'Salle Climatisé,' (air-'conditioned'), and sweating over our dim sum (yes, I know, dim sum in Paris...) There were probably two hundred or more Frenchies and tourists frolicking in the Chaillot/Trocadéro fountain near the Tour Eiffel today despite signs promising swift and severe punishment for people who walked on the grass around it, let alone took a dip in their underwear.

Nearby police units, presumably on guard against a terrorist attack at the upcoming "Sports-Extreme!" wannabe Bluetorch event at Chaillot, couldn't do more than mop their foreheads and cry a few warnings not to jump from one level of the fountain to the next. We watched the young'uns at play and soaked our feet. It felt wonderful.

Then we went bargain hunting at a designer-seconds shop in the 17e for a little black dress and some strappy sandals for Katja. No go. It was just too hot. On our way back from a much needed Croissant and Café break, we felt a few droplets and observed the gathering clouds above us with little, if any concern.

In the time it took us to get from Rue de la Pompe back to Maubert-Mutualité all hell had broken loose at ground level. Those few wisps of atmospheric condensation we'd observed earlier had called in reinforcements and coalesced into dark, sinister, charcoal colored masses that were pouring forth from their maw, a deluge fit to send Noah running for his galoshes. There were peals of thunder so loud our ears were ringing and a wind, from the very throat of Aeolus himself, threatened to tear the 300 year old sconces off of the buildings past which we ran.

We wearing tank tops.

And sandals.

And there was lightning. A lot, of lightning.

This being Paris, and we, being tourists... what do you suppose we did? Yes, that's right.

We went to dinner.

(See previous post for latest foodie details).