*Hot town, summer in the city
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty
Been down, isn’t it a pity
Doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city*
The Lovin’ Spoonful’s 1966 classic pop song, Summer in the City, was always the soundtrack to my summers in New York City in the 1980s and ’90s. The Greenwich Village-based band perfectly captured the experience of living in a densely populated, airless heat trap during the hottest days of the year, when the footpath would melt under my feet and the subway platform was as sweaty as a Bangkok alleyway.
And yet, I loved summers in that city. It felt like the whole five boroughs had up and decamped to the shore and mountains, leaving the city to the tourists, essential workers and me. Even the kids went to summer camp.
It was as if the city had taken a big, fat chill pill. The streets shook off their traffic jams. There were fewer lines in the delis, supermarkets and bus stops, and less honking of horns. Tables in restaurants with months-long waiting lists freed up. And there were beaches, on the piers along the Hudson River. Sand, sprinklers and Adirondack chairs were brought in. We didn’t have to drive to the beach. We walked.
It was the same when I lived in land-locked Paris. The French abandon their capital completely in August, leaving it to the tourists. Local boulangeries and bistros are closed, the small boutiques hang fermée on their doors, the trains less frequent, but the parks are blooming, the water fountains are splashing, and the banks of the Seine turn into concrete beaches, with Berthillon ice-cream on hand.
When I was a child, our family fled the suburbs of Melbourne and its relentless heat each Christmas. We’d head off to Noosa via inland routes, joining the coast at Byron Bay, which was a sleepy beachside village then. My father would pack pillows into the back of the old Holden, and my sister and I would sit there as if we were on thrones, while we drove north for 2000 kilometres, Dad pitching tents along the way.
Childhood summers to me were public swimming pools in hot inland towns, fresh flathead sizzling on the portable grill, the night sky under canvas tents, and the scent of naphthalene flakes, which my mother would sprinkle around the house before we left, in case there was a plague of moths while we were away.
But I can’t get that back now. These days, the coastal communities resemble suburbs, the beach car parks are crowded, and the rat race moves to the seaside in summer. When I can, I choose to spend my summers in the city. The cities are blissfully quiet for a beautiful, fleeting moment of time, starting before Christmas (when the school holidays kick off) and lasting until the end of January. In Australia, the very best time, though, is Boxing Day through to the second week of January, when there’s barely any traffic away from the city beaches and people behave as if they were in a coma. There’s a flurry of activity around New Year’s Eve but everyone sinks into exhaustion afterwards and those days are particularly peaceful.
Sydney skyline
(Photo: Destination NSW)January is always poignant for me because I have a birthday in the middle of it. It’s the Curse of the Christmas-January Child. I’ve spent my life not having birthday parties because no one is around. Even so, it’s the best time of the year and I am virtually guaranteed good weather. Because I travel often, staying put in Sydney is the greatest luxury. Nowadays they call it a “staycation” but in fact it’s more of a “mindcation.” I rid myself of the clutter of airline schedules, airport lines, taxi ranks and hotel check-ins. I don’t have deadlines. I have glorious days of nothing ahead of me, where I can clear my mind and open it up to the year ahead.
For some people, a holiday is physical relaxation. For me, it’s a very necessary mental reset. We live in a world that’s confusing, exhausting, demanding and sometimes distressing. We carry unresolved things around with us hoping they’ll magically dissolve. And we keep adding to the pile. I’m no self-help guru but I find the mind is self-cleaning, if you give it a chance.
Those two weeks are sacrosanct. I spend them lying around reading books, something I rarely allow myself time to do during the year. Often I don’t go further than the bed, with the window open, overlooking a shady, tree-lined street where there are more birds than passing cars. I roll out of bed and stroll down to the park. I go into the CBD, which is mostly deserted, except on sale days, and enjoy the novelty of wandering streets free of people in suits. I hang out in cafés, dreaming.
The long days mean it’s a lovely time of the year to take a ferry ride, to travel across Sydney Harbour just for the heck of it. The city beaches might be crowded but at least you don’t have to hire your spot of sand or umbrella, as they do in Europe. There are 44 rock pools and ocean baths from Woolloomooloo to Palm Beach.
And, far from being desolate wastelands, the cities are full of music, art and dance at this time of year. It’s the season of festivals. Sydney Festival. Midsumma Festival in Melbourne. Tasmania’s Taste of Summer. And sport. The Australian Open. Test cricket. Golf. True midsummer madness is thinking of being anywhere else.
