by Kerry Dougherty
There was a time when I was fluent in Celsius. Today I have to turn to Google to translate.
But back in the summer of either 1982 or 1983 I remember a headline in The Irish Press that was something like this:
“Dublin Sizzles In 22-Degree Heat.”
I was living in Ireland’s capital city at the time and when the mercury climbed to 22 — that’s 72 Fahrenheit — I was finally able to venture outside without a jacket for the first time in two years.
I thought the front page was so funny that I mailed it home to my parents who were cooking in temps near 100.
My Irish friends and neighbors were truly perishing in the heat. Everywhere you looked, the natives were red-faced and panting. Dublin buses, which were already a fetid mess what with smoking allowed on the second deck, became unbearable with sweat added into the mix.
At the time I lived in an old house south of the city center with three apartments. One afternoon during Dublin’s “historic heat wave” I spied one of my neighbors sitting in our front garden — in full view of the busy street — in just her panties and bra. She was fanning herself and listening to music. Continue reading.