In Virginia the wind was varied. Summers the wind blew warm and humid. Ahead of an August thunderstorm it blew strong and unexpectedly cool. In the winter, like so many places, the wind was cold and miserably wet.
The Vermont wind originated somewhere north of the Yukon Territory, and swept down across the miles until it hit Burlington. If my timing was bad when walking home from classes on a winter’s afternoon, I’d turn down Pearl Street, perpendicular to Lake Champlain, and get the full layer-penetrating blast of arctic wind. It hurt. As an added bonus, the last mile of the wind’s journey was across the lake, which brought the air temperature down by another five degrees.
The East Bay California wind during an summer afternoon of golf was hot and dry. With aromas of Stockton and Lodi, and a hint of the Central Valley, it sucked the moisture out of everything.
On the peninsula, the northern California winter wind was laden with moisture; it was wet and cold.
The other places visited had predictable winds: Greece – hot and dry; Raivavae – hot and wet; Fairbanks in December – dry and unbelievably cold ( minus 40F, never mind the wind chill factor).
Now in La Garde, for the first time, I’ve encountered a wind that is warm and dry. Not hot and dry. Not warm and wet. It’s warm and dry. And it’s barely a wind, really, more of a breeze. It’s most notable in the morning: after walking the kids to school or returning from the market, it is gradually and inescapably upon you. It wraps around your legs and strokes your neck and whatever stupid trouble you’d been batting around your brain is gone. Now the warm, dry wind has got you, and, let’s be honest, shall we? After that breeze caresses you, your new thought is your favorite erotic thought. It is a sensual wind. But we’ll leave it there, because to go further would be in poor taste.
The breeze is usually gone by noon and that’s just as well, otherwise nothing would get done.
Damn, the baguettes here are good.