If you come to the U.S. from Europe, one thing you might find hard to take is just how cold it feels in most public establishments in summer. Not too many Americans wear sweaters to dinner in the month of August. It's an odd look in these parts, to say the least. They just don't use air conditioning that much in Europe, and probably think we're all a bunch of wimps. My girlfriend felt like a side of beef hanging in a butcher shop for a great deal of the time she spent here during summer. Even I'll admit they crank up the AC excessively in most restaurants. But I'm used to it.

One thing I do enjoy is a chilly room when I sleep, especially in motels. One night while we were staying at a state park inn in Indiana, I had the AC blowing quite liberally. There I was, sleeping blissfully, when awoke to a rustling beside me. Soon after, the air conditioner was switched off.

"What's wrong? I grumbled, in a still slightly somnambulistic state.

"I'll be dead by morning if that thing blows on me all night!" she grumbled back.

"It's not that cold." I knew that wasn't a wise thing to say before I got all the words out of my mouth. "It feels nice."

"You're trying to kill me with the air conditioner, aren't you?"

Many more grumbles were exchanged back and forth, until we each grumbled our way back to bed. I think part of the reason I like an AC running at night is because, over the years, I've developed a problem falling asleep in a silence. I have a mild case of tinnitus, which drives me a little crazy if it's not drowned out. All through the year, I sleep with a running fan.

My girlfriend fell back to sleep in a very short time, while I entertained myself listening to the ringing in my ears. I was still grumbling on the inside.

She still suspects I tried to "off her" that night. She can't come up with any reasoning to explain why, at that particular time, I'd consider such a heinous act, but she has become been very leery around air conditioners. I'll admit, the thought briefly crossed my mind as the roles reversed that night, and I lay there roasting like a pig on a spit. Hey, I'm not perfect.