When I first arrived in Paris , my metabolism and body temperature were set for Chicago, Illinois, USA . We arrived at the end of February, which is still the dead of winter in Chicago . In Paris , it was snowing, but the snow didn't stick, and it wasn't that cold. Not cold like it is in Chicago, where an arctic blast blows in off the lake, whips down the street, and hits you with a force of sheer brute cold that sucks the air right out of your lungs. I walked around the streets of Paris with my Chicago overcoat, gloves, and scarf, and at the time everyone else was clad the same way. It wasn't until my first day at the office that I realized that the Parisian sense of hot and cold was different from my own,

My commute is the same every day. After a ten-minute walk, I arrive at the entrance to my building. I walk in, and already I feel warm from the exercise. I go through the security gates, and stand in line for the elevator. I work on the 13 th floor of a 15 storey building. No, the French don't seem to have the American antipathy for labeling a floor the 13 th . Anyway, there are a lot of people that work in the building, and if I hit the elevator along with a crowd of other people, the elevator is bound to stop at every floor, making for a long trip.

The first time that I arrived at the office and rode up to my floor, I was feeling very warm just while waiting for the next elevator to arrive. There was a mob of people waiting, bundled up like me, with coats, scarves, hats, the whole winter arsenal. I opened my coat and undid my scarf. That helped a little. Everyone else remained as they were. The elevator arrived, the doors opened, and everyone piled in. I punched the button for 13 and moved toward the back. It was close quarters. The elevator climbed, but immediately stopped at the first floor ( in France the first floor is the floor above the entry level – known as the rez-de-chausée ). One person got out. We were still packed into the elevator like sardines.

Someone pushed the door close button and we advanced – to the second floor. Two people got out. There was a little more room. I took off my scarf and put it in my pocket. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down the furrow of my spine. I looked around. Everyone else was still bundled up as if we were walking into a headwind with snow falling. We climbed again, this time to the fourth floor. Several people got off. With new found room, I discretely took off my coat and draped it over my arm. I felt as if my face was flushed. The trickle of sweat running down my back was becoming a steady stream. It was being joined by a new sweat river that had sprung up on my neck, right at the collar bone. My armpits felt damp. I looked at the woman next to me. She was wearing a winter coat with a woolen shawl draped over the shoulders. She had a scarf elaborately wound around her neck so that no skin was exposed. On her head – a beret. She looked at the floor indicator. I studied her face. Not even a tiny bead of sweat at the lip.

The elevator ascending once more, all the way to 9 th floor. I was beginning to get trickles of sweat at my temples. My forehead was damp, and ready to burst into a torrent of sweat. I glanced at the ceiling. The elevator had halogen light bulbs. Halogen light bulbs! If we didn't have enough heat from all the bodies crowded into the tight space, we had extra heat from the lights above. By now I was hoping that I didn't break out into a full blown case of flop-sweat. As the people for this floor got off, I discretely wiped my forehead with my forearm. The trickle at my back was now a river, being fed by tributary rivers springing from armpits, neck and chest. I wondered how wet my shirt was. I looked at the man next to me. He was wearing a jacket, a sweater, a wool shirt under the sweater, two scarves, gloves, and boots. He looked casually at the floor indicator, and pulled his top scarf a little tighter. We traversed the next floors to the 13 th much as Dante traversed the rings of hell. The elevator stopped at 13. I got off. I staggered to my desk and threw down my coat. I pulled out my handkerchief and mopped my brow. I pulled a piece of paper out of the waste basket and began fanning myself. Sweat was pouring out of every pore in my body. A co-worker came in and went to his desk. He was wearing two sweaters, an overcoat, a hat, boots, and three scarves. I ran to the bathroom. I ran cold water and bathed my face in it. Gradually, I began to cool off. I dried my face. I waved my arms quickly over my armpits in an attempt to dry them. A guy walked in wearing a nice sport coat, underneath which he had a shirt with a wool sweater-shirt over that, and a scarf.

I went back to my desk. After about 15 minutes I stopped sweating. My shirt was damp but presentable. The river of sweat at my back had stopped. I waved the piece of paper occasionally when no one was looking to keep the forehead cool. Things were under control.

Now that I have been here for a while, I am starting to fit in. I'm not quite ready to wear a coat in mid-summer, but I am looking forward to wearing a jacket and a sweater this fall.