34.3 l'après-midi
I wait until I am completely submerged in the Mediterranean's turquoise water to untie the strings of my bikini top from my neck and back and retie them around my head. Jean-Baptiste stands tall beside me, pushing his torso against the gentle waves. I duck my head under water and wade vigorously, blowing bubbles until the air from my lungs feels completely evacuated. The water is early-season-cool, not yet warmed up from the summer heat, and refreshes deliciously.
The thermometer on the dashboard read 34.3 degrees. That was at 14h.
Mounting the chalky hill to the Barberousse tower that overlooks the bay of Gruissan, the blend of Ricard and local white wine swashing round in my belly conspires with the rays pelting my head from above to render me hazily blissful. The strip of shade extending a few inches from the stone look-out provides momentary relief from the sun's insistence; I press my clammy skin against the cool rocks and attempt to nap standing up.
The heat is assommant. Summer's sensual Mack truck wall of heat has hit Languedoc, and we're languishing in it gratefully.
The thermometer on the dashboard read 34.3 degrees. That was at 14h.
Mounting the chalky hill to the Barberousse tower that overlooks the bay of Gruissan, the blend of Ricard and local white wine swashing round in my belly conspires with the rays pelting my head from above to render me hazily blissful. The strip of shade extending a few inches from the stone look-out provides momentary relief from the sun's insistence; I press my clammy skin against the cool rocks and attempt to nap standing up.
The heat is assommant. Summer's sensual Mack truck wall of heat has hit Languedoc, and we're languishing in it gratefully.
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