I've lived here long enough that I'm used to the summer heat and enjoy it; I enjoy, especially, walking through the city, once you get away from the monuments and the concrete federal buildings (both of which are empty environments, places especially conducive to heat), and reach the neighborhoods. You can sun yourself over the asphalt and under the low, featureless buildings, and pause in the shade of the little gardens in front of townhouses and listen to their tiny, barely trickling fountains. So that's summer. Summer is good here, or at least it will be good until August, when the air grows not only humid but a stale kind of humid, and when the heat only lets up for the rainstorms to come in on the tail end of hurricanes. Fresh summer vegetables are just now coming into season (tomatoes, peas, zucchini); I've been cooking light meals, like trout baked in an olive oil and herb sauce, served with new potatoes and hollandaise and sugar snap peas.
There now -- my inner Thoreau has finished speaking for the week. We watched the soccer game today; Brazil cheated.