My head is where most of the population of France is right now—on vacation, Greece more than likely.
I’m camped on the beach, listening to waves thud and umbrellas flap. I don’t hear words such as “double down” or “moving forward.”
My calendar is clear, other than to remind me to stand ankle-deep in surf foam and watch sand crabs burrow.
My tongue slurps around a strawberry ice cream cone while I walk the pier. A radio inside the bait shop plays music from the ’60s-Satisfaction.
It’s August. Everyone should clear their calendar, clear their head. Be French.