word.: the taste of summer

I despise being hot.

I dislike that sticky, sweaty, I-can-never-get-clean feeling that permeates un-air-conditioned summers. Unless I'm lying on a beach somewhere, with an ocean or a swimming pool within spitting distance, I have no desire for sunshine and heat. I can get my vitamin D from a glass of milk. Generally, Paris is a pleasant city for this temperament. Its months of rainy, gray, 'bluh' weather are familiar and soothing to a former Chicagoan. However, soon enough, the clouds burn off, and I must cope with the sunny season. My defense mechanisms have been noted on this blog before, and I am now adding another: my new boyfriend, Grom.

I had thought that I had found my cold treat of choice this summer - my homemade iced coffee. Which morphed into homemade iced green tea a couple weeks ago. Alas, I got bored, and I got hot, and I left my house. And, wandering through the tourist armpit that is St. Germain, I ran into Grom. He was unassuming, clean-cut, approachable, Italian. I'm usually a little leery of Italians in France. They strike me as out of place - in-your-face, overbearing, flaunting their goods, and then leaving you feeling ill and spent. But Grom was smooth and delicately sweet. He felt divine in my mouth - a clean, soothing coolness with a little bit of texture. He satisfied my yearning and left me wanting more. A lot more. In fact, now we make out several times a week. I've heard he's amazing in gelato, but I'm a good girl. I stop at granita. Lucky for me, Grom's almond granita is better than any gelato I've had, and Grom is only offering it until September. He isn't in it for the long-term. But that's fine because I was planning on breaking up with him as soon as the weather turns, anyways.