As hot as it is, there’s something really lovely about Tucson in the summer. The initial heat of June is bearable, and it’s still pleasingly cool at night. The evenings are beautiful and meant for being outside. Then there’s a shift in July, when the monsoons typically start. This year, it must be said, has offered precious little in the monsoon department. Accordingly, August is the least pleasant month, between the heat and our approximation of humidity trying one’s patience.
(This is also the time of year when I suddenly become deeply tired of everything in my wardrobe and yearn to wear fall clothes, which, due to our climate, will not be possible until November.)
But one of the nicest things about summer is how the city’s population contracts. The students vanish. The snow birds vanish. And suddenly, the 20-minute drive to work in the morning becomes a 10-minute drive. There are back-in parking spots available all along University. The parking garage at work is blissfully empty.
This halcyon period has officially ended.
The students are back. They’re here with their booty shorts and their tans and their metallic sandals and their midriff tops. (Quelle horreur! How could that latter return?) They’re moving into the dorms, setting up collapsible booths filled with the same stupid posters that were available when I was an undergrad over ten years ago. They’re filled with spirit and hormones.
I love them. I do. But I’d gotten used to the peace and quiet, and was hoping to ease into the semester. Instead, here it is, all in a heavily-perfumed rush.