what i would do for some heat right now- we are in the midst of a san francisco summer-thanks mark twain for putting it so simply- i had forgotten. and for the brave souls in places where humidity is on speed dial- this one is for you. . .
Heat. You long for it. You desire it. And then it comes in waves so unbearable that the game of toss and turn at night begins. Because this Victorian is not built for heat. I am not built for too much heat either. In my redone attic where my bedroom rests the heat rises to the top and calls my room home-it’s permanent residence- the lease forgotten. At first it feels great until, until the one leg comes out and the tossing, tossing and turn. Oh the heat. I have a love and hate relationship with you I do. I want the sun to shine on my face and my body preferably in a bikini near a beach or pool or in a park. I want the sun and the heat. But then it is too much; too much when the heat surrounds me in a bubble I can’t break. Cold showers I began to take them when I realized what real heat was. Because the mini waves of heat in San Francisco is nothing compared to the humidity of the bane of my existence in the east coast.
A northern California transplant in a foreign city. The first time I felt it. The humidity. I said to my friends. My friends. What is going on? Why does it feel this way? I remember I was sticky and sweaty and miserable and hotness permeated from the sidewalk the cooked egg done in less than minute. It seeped out of my armpits and crotch and face. I was miserable. I gave them my puppy dog beach desiring west coast greens and they said Kate it’s humidity and then they laughed. Laughed. Because see. They hadn’t had the luxury of heat without humidity but I had. I have. They were midwestern folks so they were well aware of the springs and summers friend and companion of humidity.
The heat killed me that first summer. It did. Nothing I could wear without sweating through. I had go from the T to a school site back to the T back to the office. Smoldering humidity cloud followed me everywhere until the reprieve of the over air conditioned box of the train or the office again. My only refugee then was the nights- the warm nights of running around and seeing my first fire flies- I thought they only lived in my books my parents read to me at night- fiction like the rest. The nights without a sweater and playing as a child while becoming an adult in a place where I could be anyone. My other refugee was dunkin donuts. I had tons of vanilla iced coffees- they poured the coffee, the ice, the milk and sugar to your liking. The heat of the night and coldness of the iced coffee got me through.
The heat. The heat was the worst right after I finished grad school and with no job in sight meant there was no air conditioner in sight either. On my fourth floor upper west side on the color line next to Harlem apartment, it cooked. I had a fan. But a fan can’t cool off heat like this. Humidity like this cooked in the sprawling repetitions of building and asphalt and movement hitting you in your face. I took cold showers and put ice in my armpits and swore to remember this. This that when I had money, when I had money I would buy an air conditioner. And the luxury of the heat and the humidity and the relief from it would be like the test drive of my new vehicle one day.
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