A blast of hot air greeted me when the guest opened the
door. As I complain regularly, foreigners believe air conditioning spreads
disease, so when someone falls ill, they turn it off. They dress for the heat,
but I wear a suit and tie. Asking them to turn on the air conditioner is like
asking a Moslem to eat a hot dog, so I pretend nothing is amiss and go about my
business ignoring the sweat soaking my shirt.
Most of the year, I have no objection to leaving my car
a few blocks away to avoid the hassle of hotel parking. I don’t do this when it
rains, but rain is rare in Los Angeles. Summer is guaranteed; I dislike making
the walk in hot weather and regret it even more if the guest has turned off the
air conditioning.
Beaches exist in Northern Europe, but they’re chilly
with the sun not much in evidence. Southern California beaches seem more
inviting, so Britons, Germans, et al relax, doze off, and acquire gruesome sunburns.
Summer is my busiest season. The phone wakes me three or
four times per week, but I don’t mind wee-hour visits. Parking is easy, guests
are grateful, and with no office waiting I can take a nap whenever I want.
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