Ice Ice Baby
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re still in Tallinn, the charming, beautifully-preserved capital of Estonia, where summer has well and truly ended. I wrote this in early August, when much of Europe was still struggling with one heat wave after another.
Ice Ice Baby
I submit that what Europe needs in a sweltering hot summer is more ice. I love Europe—really, it’s my most favorite continent—but my deep, abiding love of ice is the most American of my unshakeable Americanisms (well, ice and smiling, but that’s another story). I swirl it in my glass, I chew the cubes (do not lecture me about how bad it is for my teeth—I KNOW), and I swallow down the melty remnants, relishing the slither of cold down my throat.
But Europeans, for reasons that I will never understand, have some kind of animosity against ice. Whhyyy? Why do you hate my beloved ice?
When we were in Moldova, where it was 88 degrees and so muggy my eyelashes were limp, I tried every day to get ice.
Me: Still water with ice, please.
No-nonsense server: The water is cold.
Me: But do you have ice?
Server: The water is very cold. You don’t need ice.
Needless to say, ice was not forthcoming. *sad face*
Thailand, which is definitely tropical, puts ice in everything. Iced coffee, every kind of juice you can think of, iced tea. (Have you ever had Thai iced tea? It makes southern ‘sweet tea’ look borderline savory).
In Malaysia, too—possibly the hottest place this side of Hades—ice is in everything, in copious amounts. Here in Central Europe, I’m having to be uncomfortably persistent to get even a few measly cubes. When I do manage to get some, it always comes in a highball glass: six or seven cubes, and a spoon, because I’m meant to dole it into my water glass, one cube at a time. I usually just dump the water into the ice. It’s still not enough.
A bazillion years ago, I started (but in full disclosure, didn’t finish) a mildly insane long bicycle ride in France. That was 2003. If you read much of anything about this summer’s heat wave across Europe, you may find out that the most deadlyheat wave in French history was—in 2003. The heat ‘broke’ (sorta) on Thursday, before the ride started on Monday. That weekend before the start was so hot my mother-in-law (she came along as my invaluable support/rescue/extraction person) and I slept with our hotel room door propped open, hoping for a hint of a breeze.
At a rest stop about twenty hours into the ride, I tried desperately to fill my water bottles with ice. There were five thousand riders (that’s the actual number, not my usual hyperbole) and all the languages, and things were a little chaotic. I found a very kind woman who understood my mangled French, and jumped into action:
Is it for your knees or your shoulder?
It’s for my water bottle—please!
Oh, no. No no. Not for drinking. Have some wine.
Seriously, y‘ all: I was hot, dehydrated, exhausted, riding on the absolute edge of my endurance, and the choice was wine or soup. Needless to say, I eventually DNF-ed. That’s sports-speak for Did Not Finish.
Perhaps some ice would’ve helped.
From my writer’s notebook:
The Monuments Officers are coming back. The first class of a new Army Reserve group graduated from training in August. They are art/archaeology/monuments professionals who have gone through a specialized program, preparing them to be deployed whenever the US military needs expertise in a conflict zone. The goal is to have a permanent team that can help protect humanity’s cultural heritage anywhere, any time.
Take care,
Lisa
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