To Be Cold or….(Not to Be Cold). There Is No Question

It has been five weeks since my suede Zara wedges touched French soil. Since my arrival in the land of wine and cheese, I have been freezing my royal Rastafarian nay-nays off (please note the Cool Runnings reference from the one and only Sanka)! Some may argue that the French detest radiators because of their aversion to all things modern. Perhaps their dislike of heat comes from the need to resist certain appliances that the American culture fully embraces (and most certainly uses in excess). Others may even argue that the lack of heat is due to the extreme price that comes with living the fabulous Parisian lifestyle. While the latter is correct, I would like to argue my personal opinion, which is the French refuse to turn on any form of heat because, it reflects their somewhat cold mind-sets. The French are by no means known for their overly warm and welcoming personalities. (Stay tuned for my post on Ann Lawson’s Guide to making French Friends!)

In the corner of my room, fixed to the wall, there is a small white electric heater. This modern, lifeless savior is merely 2X2 feet and is my only friend in the battle against the Parisian cold. Secretly, I turn the heater on full blast, or to the point where it becomes so hot that the heater begins to smell like burnt toast. For the first two weeks my plan was phenomenal! While the rest of my host family’s apartment was a frigid 16^o C (around 60^o F) my room was nothing short of a full-blown sauna that had the added plus of smelling like toast. My plan worked for about two and a half weeks. Then Sylvie, my beloved host mom, walked past my room as I opened the door to leave for French class.

Usually I time my door openings to when no one is in the vicinity. However, this particular time, I was careless thanks to the fabulous pair of Dre Beats upon my head, which obstructed my hearing ability. Sylvie became almost hysterical. “QUOI QUOI QUOI?!? Your room is so hot!! Why??” She immediately began to explain to me, in French, that I was no longer in the United States and that I could not just simply waste precious energy like most Americans do.

The jig was up. Ever since, I have been a victim of the heat police. If I left my room for more than five minutes… “Ann, you turn off heater right?” Which she deliberately said to me in English, so that nothing was lost in translation. If that was bad, mornings are a nightmare. As if waking up at 7:30AM for French class isn’t enough of a struggle for me, waking up at 7:30AM to the weather common in the South Pole is incredibly painful. I rush across the hall, or as I call it the frozen tundra, to shower. When my splendid eight minutes of overly heated liquid bliss is over, I pull back the cheap, blue shower curtain, to the rush of cold air that hits my fair skin like pins and needles. Luckily, after complaining under my breath about the Icelandic temperatures, my host mother dug up an incredibly small electric heater to place next to my shower. Beggars can’t be choosers.

But it is not only the apartment that’s cold. It’s everywhere in Paris. My night class in the Louvre-cold. Boutiques-cold. My programs studio space-cold. Restaurants-cold (unless you sit outside where there are heaters…ironic no?). And of course, my French class, which is also cold.

I think what bothers me the most, besides having to change my habits, is the different French people telling me that it’s physiological. Ok, fine...Me being cold is a psychological issue. My French professor, Stephane, had enough of my moaning and groaning about the lack of heat in his class.  His first attempt for me to shut up was to simply ignore me. Well, if anyone knows me in the slightest, it’s that I hate to be ignored. So I became more vocal about the cold. His next attempt was the classic American beat down. “Oh you Americans and over-heating spaces, so typical.” Still didn’t deter me of my goal of a heated paradise. Stephane’s last attempt was telling me that my chills are due to my mind-set, that if I pretended to be warm, then I would be. False, buddy. I’m cold because this room is too cold to even sustain life.

For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid winter lover. I am convinced that I was a polar bear in my past life and ever since my Moon Boots purchase, I am prepared for the next snowpocalypse. But after this past month, my mindset has changed. I have come to realize that I love snow…when I look at it from inside a cozy room. I love to watch winter winds whip through the trees…as long as there is a heater blasting. I love leisurely walks in winter wonderlands…if I am wearing my  Moon Boots and an incredible coat that is accessorized by leather gloves and a fur hat. And sleet? Adore it! As long as the surrounding air is a toasty 72^o and as long as I am off any roadway.

But to conclude, this constant battle with the cold and the heat police has forced me to realize my incredible need to be warm is not only excessive, but it forces me to come to terms with the importance of conservation. I am certainly no tree hugger, and the hippie lifestyle is one I would prefer to avoid at all costs. But now, my heater is on low and it is off while I sleep and while I am away from my room. Besides, wearing my fabulous vintage green coat and fur vest indoors just gives me another reason to look amazing every minute of the day, even when no one else can see me.

Ciao!