The curved pale hills of male and female calves. Tattoos snaking past the waistbands of jeans. Shoulders with spaghetti straps. An abundance of skin on this late March day on the streets of Antibes. At the supermarket checkout, a blonde girl in cream shorts and flip-flops. My boots suddenly feel too heavy, too warm, my own calves resentful of their prison of lycra and suede as I head down Boulevard Albert towards the sparkling sea. So very far away, that harsh northern climate with its cold wet winds I am used to tramping through. At the bakery door, the smell of crème anglaise and caramelised apples. A woman hands me a fresh baguette wrapped in a twist of paper, brushes a wisp of hair from her damp cheek. Il fait chaud, she sighs.
sometimes I wonder
where you go to
Note: reprinted from forgiving the rain (Snapshot Press 2012)