25 July 2014: Pits of Despair

pits of despair

It has been said that the French are the cleanest people in Europe—I assume that means they take lots of showers, and after all, they did invent the bidet (better known as "the crotch fountain").

However, if you've spent any time in a crowded metro car with any number of sweltering French people—old, young, shaven pits or au naturel (yes, that's still a thing)—you might notice that the majority of your fellow travelers may want to up the shower quotient.

Deodorant, it seems, is favored by some, though not all, of this city's chic inhabitants. While sometimes it seems like an age thing—it's rare that I'm slapped in the face by a wall of pit odor when a young adult pushes past, versus an older woman trailing so much perfume and pit odor that she could fell a farm animal—I'm sad to report that the idea of universally slathering one's underarms with the chemicals necessary to help you win friends and influence people (and not kill them with your stench) has yet to reach even the stylish populace of Paris.

I used to think the prevalence of weaponized underarms was perhaps a fault of the shops—they must not stock the stuff, so poor Parisians have had to wander around the city having just taken a shower, yet smelling like they just ran a marathon (to be fair, those taxis are hard to flag down). But I've now perused my fair share of pharmacy aisles and the beauty department at Monoprix (the French version of Target) and I've discovered that lack of access can't be the issue—there are more sticks, rollerballs, antiperspirants, gels, creams, sprays and natural brands than you could—well, shake a stick (of deodorant) at. So what's the stinky secret?

Having now spent the better part of two summers in this odiferous metropolis, I think I've got it figured out: you can shower and slather all you want, but nothin' beats the heat when it's wetter than a sauna in the shade.

When someone asks, "How's the weather?" and they immediately follow it up with, "I hear it's humid this time of year," you either want to punch them or lock them in the bowels of the metro during rush hour in a wool sweater. Preferably both at once. To say "It's humid" is like saying, "Puppies are cute," or "Crossfit is silly"—both are true, but the amount of understatement is absurd. 

Paris in the summer is wet, even when spontaneous cloudbursts aren't pouring down on your head—only to reveal beautiful sunshine the moment your suede shoes are officially ruined. You're in a constant state of stickiness, and that fabled "glow" that makeup brands promise isn't hard to come by (in fact, "dewy" and "you look like a drowned rat" become frighteningly synonymous). Thus, no matter how many coats of deodorant you apply—and no matter how many black shirts you ruin with those telltale white marks—there's just no escaping the icky, sticky, stanky mess of it all.

While summer might feel like the "pits," there is a silver lining: you always have an excuse for gelato.

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