Coldfoot

by Bob Neubauer Philadelphia is just plain hot in the summer—a sticky, muggy heat that creeps inside your clothes and plasters them against your skin, making you fidget uncomfortably as you walk down Broad Street, yearning for a decent patch of shade. Needless to say, I'm less than eager to venture outside for lunch. So as I brooded in my fifth floor office one recent August day, eating my ham sandwich and gazing with pity at the pedestrians below, trudging through the 100-degree heat, I couldn't help dreaming of places I'd rather be. Cold places. Places far north of here.