PAUL CHRISTENSEN

I’m writing at the burnt edge of Europe, right here in the glowing embers as the big heat dome from Africa moves grudgingly away from our little patch of vineyards and almond trees to the east, to Berlin, I believe, where the prospects of a dreadful beating by the sun awaits the innocent, fair-skinned pleasure seekers trying to relax after a long winter and uncertain spring worrying about Covid, inflation, the war in Ukraine, shortages at the local Spar shops, and rising rent

We’ve had two small heat waves since I arrived here in southern France in mid-June. Neither was terrible, neither quite made it to the level of a canicule, a blistering heat bloom usually starting out its career in northern Africa and drifting down onto western Europe where it stagnates over the red-tile roofs until streets start to melt, the stone sides of houses begin to heat up like pizza ovens, and the old folks sit under a mulberry tree and ply their paper fans until the