Scorched Lemons

                Sweat ran down my face in torrents. Stinging my eyes, dripping off my nose as I trudged slowly up the steep hill. The moon, near full, lit the night, the air still, heavy, heat merciless and without surcease. The south of France was on fire, in some cases quite literally, as Brad and I discovered when we tried to take the train along the Riviera. A wild fire had closed the track beyond Monaco, forcing us all onto buses as we made our way to Menton, a town famous for its lemons and beaches. The delay of several hours as the tracks burned and our subsequent loading onto the road meant our arrival in Menton was pushed back until midnight. A mercy, in this case. The sun was a hammer blow, the night little better.

                As Brad and I set up camp, the grounds rather inconveniently located atop an expanse of hill, affording a stunning view of the Mediterranean to the south, ancient lemon groves to the north, we decided to forgo the tent, and flopped down on our mats. The air was pregnant with heat, as still as death. Sleep was not easy in coming.

                The sounds of the market woke us. That and the blazing orb of the sun, which was throwing its heat at the earth angrily. The meagre shade of the olive tree we slept under offered little in the way of respite. We did what any young men would do. We bought a handful of local lemons, and a six pack of cheap French beer, before making our way to the beach. France may be famous for wine, but on a day of record heat, its beer is to be much recommended. Squeezing fresh lemons into the small bottles, we came to enjoy the sun, stretched out on the rocks. In the words of Lawrence Durrell, we were lithe bodies of the young, in search of a fellow nakedness. Such a day spent in relaxation seemed to us to be what the hot summer in the Riviera was all about.

                Menton was a quiet town. It lacked the frenzied bustle of its more famous neighbours, which suited us just fine. After our morning of libations and bathing, we backtracked up the coast, daring the still smoking train line to return Monaco. The Principality, one of the smallest nations in the world, made a tremendous impression on us. It spoke of wealth, an opulence reflected by the yachts that rode quietly at anchor in the harbour. We walked the grounds of the Monte Carlo, even braved the entry hall, but were permitted no further. Our board shorts and ragged backpacker appearance told the doormen that we lacked the funds to partake in the games held therein.

                Instead, we sat in the garden outside of that cathedral of wealth, and made sandwiches, content. We then explored the harbour, moving amongst the ships. Some, like Prince Rainier’s yacht, the size of cruise liners, others sleek sailing ships of wood. The breakwater sat at the harbour mouth, a tiered wall of concrete. We lay out in the sun, again enjoying the sweat that poured off of us, cooling ourselves by diving into the aqua marine depths. The water was cool, and deep, crystal made liquid.

                The sun, still angry with heat, began to sink to its westward rest. Brad and I climbed up away from the harbour. An ancient embattlement surrounded a garden of fronds. The moon, still blazing near to its fullness, hung over the old stones. We uncorked a cheap bottle of vin du pays. A night breeze stirred the palms, breaking the heavy stillness of heat. We finished our bottle, and made our way down into the tunnels that held the train station. The tracks were again closed due to fire. A bus trundled us to our camping ground. Again we climbed the steep slope, to lie hot and sweating under the stars. A scent of lemons reached me, mingled with the saltiness of the sea. This was a good place to be, on the seaside in the heat of the French night.