Post-modern white man's burden

Mediterraneans like the sun and claim to be happier in summer than winter. The Frenchman who coined the simile “a meal without wine is like a day without sunshine” must at least have come from the south of that country; the basic assumption is that both are good things.

Lebanon claims to be a country with four proper seasons, certainly the weather changes around the quarter days, but I would describe the seasons as early summer, high summer, late summer and then there are finally a couple of months of cool-and-a-bit-rainy-rather-like-Springtime-in-Yorkshire making up the fourth.

The first full summer season spent here, I noticed that the sky was blue. Yes, we all know that, but what I mean is unrelieved, “not a cloud in the sky”, blue in all directions, for day after day after day. After a few weeks I used to get up in the morning and immediately go from one side of the apartment to the other, looking hopefully out of the windows for the hint of a fluffy white thing in the sky, even a little one would have done. As the days clicked past, I began to feel more anxious, checking morning, lunchtime and in the evening. Finally, after four months, I saw one, a little whiff of cumulus out over the sea to the West. It seemed that every cell in my body screamed “YES!” at the same time.

This year things are different, I see clouds every day, and from all directions. For example, today’s were altocumulus coming in from the North East, the result presumably of Turkish moisture condensing over Lebanon's mountains. I think it is just as well since so many are saying that it’s the hottest summer they can remember and asking me how, in my white skinned Englishness, can I possible stand it. Well I’d rather be here than in Moscow with the temperature there standing at thirty-nine (yes, in Centigrade) earlier this week.

I stand it fine thank you very much and the reasons are simple. I play at being a vampire during the day, trying not to let a single ray of sunlight hit my body. In years gone past, this was achieved with an ‘Englishman abroad’ linen jacket, over a white shirt with linen slacks. Now I just wear T-shirts and stay in the shade. Oh and I don’t go to the local swimming pools and beaches very often either. This is not completely the result of eccentricity, but rather a bit of a scare that an oh-nasty had to be removed from my right hand; the biopsy confirmed the suspicion that sun-damage was the root cause. But I digress.

Now I used to be embarrassed about the whiteness of my skin. I wanted the olive complexion and the easy tan rather than the freckles with the pink-stained alabaster look. But I’ve made a discovery, albeit a bit late. Oh how I wish I’d known this as a young man. Women worry and fuss over me, they strike up conversations, ostensibly to be sure that I’ve got enough factor 500 in all the right places, they want to make sure the umbrellas are giving enough protection and that my hat is shading not just my face but neck, shoulders and, well, wherever. Apparently all that paleness in strong sun-light brings out the motherly, big sisterly concern for my welfare.

Well, guess what, if I’d known that forty years ago, maybe I’d have been better able to share the Mediterraneans’ love of sunshine.