Paris, when it fizzles...

Day, what...five? It is a blur. One day sort of flows into the other in a fog of time-change and jet-lag. By now, you would think it would have worn off. But, no, it hangs on in a grey haze.
And today, it is raining. Drizzly, grayish, overcast rain, and wind to punctuate the matter. It does not accommodate the little grey cells and thus, there is no great and profound writing taking place. What has taken place is a couple of jaunts into Paris, where I ended up overheated and hobbling. No matter what the time of year, I cannot get the hang of dressing for this city. And why do I have so much trouble when the climate is really very similar to Seattle; sun breaks, wind, rain, mild temps...but, alas, I start out bedecked in my jacket, a stylish scarf tossed around my neck, dark jeans and a rather sound pair of shoes. I head out the door, decent into the metro and by the time I emerge and am treading the streets of Paris, I am breaking a sweat. Not just a light sweat, but a sticky-I am in Florida-kind of sweat. My forehead is glistening, my shirt is sticking to my back and my feet a sqwinching in my shoes. How un-french of me!
So, as the wind blows my hair all over my head and into my face, and my feet go on sqwinching, I try and take on that way of walking that Parisian women do. They walk boobs first, and by this I mean they hold their shoulders back and keep their bosom level with the horizon, while walking rather soundly on their heels. I try this, I thrust back my shoulders, but after about half a block, I am back slouched forward, shoulders rounded, bosom level with my navel, shuffling rather than clicking on my heels. I am like a marionette with slack rigging. And, of course, I know they are all staring at me and sniggering "Elle est tres americane!!"
What I need, I have decided, is a third leg. I have noticed that the elderly of the french female race, (and I mean very elderly) walk about smartly dressed in support hose, sensible shoes, a rain coat or well tailored fall coat and a cane. Yes, a cane! That is what I need. If I had a cane, I could prop myself up, as they do. The little dears do not hunch over with a cane, oh no, they have canes that are over half their hight, so that the canes actually make them stand erect as apposed to stooped. I need this. Maybe two canes. Maybe a cane stuck in my jeans to keep me upright.
So, here I am, in Paris, a woman of a certain age, neither young, nor old, but sort of plopped into this city with no reason d'être. I wish I could just let loose a little. I would if my feet would stop sqwinching!