A while ago friends went on a trip to Budapest, Vienna
and Munich. It was great following their journey, with photos of castles and
meals. But something perhaps a little mundane struck me about the reportage.
On their return to Virginia, one posted to Facebook that
she was happy to be back in the land of ice cubes and air conditioning.
To which I say, amen.
I’ve posted before about being grateful for the civic
institutions that ensure that pretty much all of us in the United States (except
in extraordinary circumstances like the wake of natural disasters) do not worry
about water-borne diseases because we
have potable water delivered to the insides of our homes.
The combination of indoor plumbing and taxpayer-supported
water districts is not enjoyed by large parts of the world’s population. And I
know this because I’ve lived in a place that did not.
I realize that not having air conditioning and ice cubes is
more of a first-world problem than the potential for cholera or malaria in my fruit
punch (which I used to make to disguise the taste and brown color of the water
purification tablets). But I’ve also lived in a place where both are considered
surplus to requirements, and at times I struggled with that.
I come from Los Angeles, where anything older than 20
years is marked for destruction and replacement. So structures that have been
around for centuries are pretty impressive to me. But it’s one thing to admire
them and another entirely to try to sleep through an August night in a
fourth-floor London flat with no air stirring and nothing but drunken pub-goers
outside to distract you from your thoughts.
Or a hotel room in Antwerp, or Bayeux, or anywhere in
Europe, really.
I mean, it’s like those Euros are waiting another century
or so to see if this air conditioning thing will outlive the fad stage.
(Also—what is it with window screens? Why do they not put
screens on their windows so you can at least stay on the opposite side from
flying insects? If you’re not going to invest in AC, put up a few screens, will
you?)
A trip in July to Vienna was particularly
wonder-provoking. I stayed at the K+K Hotel Palais, a four-star jobber. There
was a window AC unit in the guest room, but nothing in any of the public places—lobby,
breakfast room, bar, corridors. So I did no lollygagging anywhere there after
breakfast time.
Also—you’ll perhaps recall the international legal-moral
fracas about the return of a Klimt painting, “Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer”?
It was looted by the Nazis and kept by the Austrian government for decades
after World War II, until they finally were forced to give it back to the remaining
Bloch-Bauer heir in 2006. I was over the moon when Maria Altmann won her case
against the Austrians because they’d been displaying the painting in the
Belvedere Gallery (one of the Hapsburg palaces with which Vienna is littered)—and
it was not air conditioned.
They had twelve thousand signs warning you to keep off
the grass outside, and they threw a hissy fit about the size of my shoulder bag
(which held three cameras, a journal and my AmEx card), but they had all those
amazing works of art in the Baroque equivalent of a sauna. It seemed to me that
for that reason alone, the entire contents of that palace should have been
trucked somewhere with climate control.
As for ice cubes—how on earth are you supposed to make a decent
cocktail without them? Or have iced tea? Or chill your bottle of Bolly?
The phenomenon was most interesting in the UK. I’d go
into a pub, and if I wasn’t drinking bitter for some reason, I’d order a Diet
Coke or a mineral water. The barman would twig to my accent and ask me slowly
and carefully, “Do you want ice in that?”
When I’d allow as to how I would indeed like ice in my
drink (which would have been in a mini-bottle sitting on a shelf, not in a
refrigerator), he’d ceremoniously open an ice bucket, withdraw one or two
cubes, and drop it/them into a glass. The liquid would go in and he’d consider
it a job well done.
After a while I just ordered a [whatever] and a glass full of ice on the side. Those bottles
of soda were still stingy, but at least I’d get my drink cold.
Maybe eight or ten years ago the Wall Street Journal ran a story about how commercial-grade
ice-making machines were beginning to sell across the continent. Some American
was breaking into the market big-time by selling Hoshizakis (I think).
But, if my friend’s heartfelt first words on landing at
Dulles are any guide, there’s still room to grow in their use.
So, as I sit here in a third-floor flat in the Valley
They Call Silicon, where temps outside are in the 90s, I am very grateful
indeed that my 20-year-old AC unit is cranking away to make it 82 degrees inside, and I’m swilling glasses
of iced tea, which I periodically top up from the automatic ice-maker/dispenser
in the refrigerator.
