Sun sneezing, also known as the photic sneeze reflex or Autosomal Dominant Compelling Helio-Ophthalmic Outburst Syndrome, is the genetic tendency to begin sneezing uncontrollably when exposed to bright light. It happens when going into the sunlight after having spent a long time in a dark place. It runs in families, hence the term autosomal dominant. About 25%t of the population suffers from this condition, and they mostly have ancestry that originated in cold climates.
Some scientists have speculated that sun sneezing might have evolved when humans lived in smoky, soot-filled caves and huts that lacked ventilation and were polluted by cooking and heating fires. Those living conditions make people prone to respiratory infections, and a sneeze can help clear the sinuses.
I’m afflicted with this condition. I sneeze almost every time I walk into sunlight; it happens almost instantly and is uncontrollable.
Every morning, I ride my bike a few kilometers on streets that are shaded from direct sunlight by buildings. Toward the end of my bike ride, I come out from a side street next to a metro station on the boulevard Saint-Germaine, and here for the first time during the day, I’m exposed to direct sunlight, and here for the first time during the day, I sneeze.
On a Saturday morning a few months ago, I was to meet my girlfriend Laetitia and her parents there for the first time at the metro station.
My high school American History teacher was lazy and rarely lectured us on American History, but he sometimes advised us to meet our girl’s mother before deciding to keep her. That is how she will turn out, he cautioned. She will act like her mother and look like her. If the mother is fat, the girl will get fat. If the mother is nasty, the girl’s temperament will turn bad. He never outright said it, but he believed that most women don’t have the self-control or self-awareness to be their own people or to achieve self-actualisation. Instead, they are 100% a product of environment and genetics, much like a chimpanzee. He didn’t have any marital advice for the girls. Around two decades of girl friends later, he has been reasonably accurate as far as looks and obesity go, but not so much with personality.
I was dreading meeting her parents. First impressions count a lot, and that first meeting can affect the future relationship with both them and her. I already did not like her father, and I hadn’t met him yet. I had, however, overheard several of Laetitia’s speaker phone conversations with him. He was always impatient and short tempered with her, and his voice was tense and demanding. Afterwards for the rest of the day, she would treat me the way he had treated her. I didn’ know much about her mother except that she was frail and in poor health despite only being in her mid 60s.
The night before, I had been feeling some anxiety about meeting them. To cope, I took some morphine. I no longer use it every day, and what was once a normal baseline dose turned out to be strong. I had trouble falling asleep.
I hate alarms and do not use them. That morning, I awoke and immediately checked the time. I had twenty minutes to get to the metro station where I would meet them and had gotten only two hours of sleep.
Although I had only five minutes to travel the two kilometers between here and there, I still had hope. It was only five minutes by bike, versus ten by taxi, twenty by foot, or thirty by subway. I would ride my bike, a Surly touring bike I had shipped from California. Also, she was usually late so I hoped that she would be a late.
I ignored my mild headache and got ready. I dressed quickly, brushed my teeth, drank some water, and, skipping breakfast, I rushed out of my flat, going down the seven stories two steps at a time. My building is more than two hundred years old and does not have an elevator. The courtyard was chilly, and the air still smelled like night and spring plants.
My bike was parked in a rack hidden behind some holly. As I approached, a bird hopped away and went under a rose bush. I unlocked the heavy Arbus brand U-lock and realised that the place I would have to leave the bike would be in a touristic area where there is a lot of theft and pickpocketing. Indeed, I’ve seen dozens of homeless people selling high-end bicycle wheels. Most of these homeless bicycle wheel sellers usually looked like they were not in a good enough physical condition to even ride bike, and I doubted any of them had the bike that the wheels belonged to hidden in their grocery carts or bundles of luggage. To be safe, I took a second lock, a heavy chain with hardened links advertised to resist bolt cutters and other common bike thief tools. I keep this chain at the bike rack, and I would use it to secure the wheels. I carefully removed it from the daffodils that were blooming next to the links.
I glanced at the time on my phone. Two minutes had passed. I walked my bike through the courtyard, and at the end where it meets the street, the aroma of freshly baked bread attracted my attention. My mouth was watering, and I was hungry. I had better eat, or my blood sugar level will crash. At the entrance to the courtyard is a bakery. It makes the best croissants in the area, and it’s the same boulangerie where Ernest Hemingway bought his bread when he lived in a building on the very same courtyard as myself. I buy a croissant there every morning. There was a line, but the bakery girl wrapped a croissant for me as soon as she saw me standing in line without my having to ask. I paid her and left.
By now, I was a minute late, but I didn’t worry because Laetitia is usually late.
My phone buzzed. She had texted me, “we’re waiting for you. Hurry up!!”
My assumption that she would be late was wrong, and I now had the impression that she was not be in a good mood. Her father was with her.
“On my way,” I responded.
I walked the bike through the arched passage leading out of the courtyard and onto the street. The tire pressure was a little low, but it would be okay for a short ride. Mont Çetard is the big hill between where I live and where I had to be. I mounted the bike and rode fast up the hill., the cobblestones shaking the croissant which I held in one hand against the hand grip of my bike. By the time I had climbed to the hilltop, I was almost feeling warm from the exercise. I went across the hill and around the Pantheon. The city stretched out miles into the morning haze, and I could see the Eiffel Tower. I turned down the side street next to the Lycée Henry IV, the most prestigious and oldest high school in Paris. It was founded by King Henry IV hundreds of years ago.
My alcoholic father was a chainsmoker, and his doctor’s opinion was that the combination of smoking and drinking caused the cancer that killed him. His chainsmoking also happened to damage my own health when I was a child. I was sick so much that missed more school than the kid who died of cystic fibrosis. Needless to say, I don’t have a positive opinion on the habit.
French students have school on Saturday. The students were in between classes, and a number of them were smoking tobacco cigarettes in front of the school. I’m still shocked when I see normal, healthy looking people doing that.
I turned onto the street that directly leads to the Thermes de Cluny and the metro station in front of it. The Thermes de Cluny is a thermal bath complex that was built by the Roman Empire. Some of the building complex is still intact, and it now houses a museum.
The cold wind blew into my partially open coat and chilled me as I sped down the hill. The whole way, I had been eating the croissant I held, and flakes of it would break off and get blown back against me and fall into my coat and stick to my sweater.I took the last bite, a big one as I went down the last stretch of hill past the Roman baths.
I was still far away when I spotted Laetitia and her parents who were standing on the sidewalk next to the Metro exit. I stopped on the street next to them and unmounted the bike. I swallowed the last of the croissant while I approached them.
The French have a custom of kissing on the cheeks as a form of greeting. It applies to strangers as well as friends and acquaintances. Refusing to do it is considered to be extremely rude. It’s my least favorite French custom. Unless it’s my lover I don’t like touching people. I don’t like the moisture on their skin and lips, their dandruff, their smell, their breath, or the way their bodies feel. Germs and microbes are gross. Shaking hands is hard enough, hugging makes my skin crawl, and I do not do “high fives.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
Laetitia gave me a dirty look. Her father was scowling. Her mother smiled.
“Hello hello,” her parents said.
Her mother smiled and extended her cheek for me to kiss. Her features were soft and had a gentle look as though she had often smiled during her life. She was thin and indeed looked frail.
She was standing in the sun, and as I approached, I stepped into direct sunlight to kiss her cheek. Until that moment, I had been in shadow since the day before. That photic sneeze reflex is lightning fast, and there is no warning. Before I knew what was happening, I sneezed violently. My mouth was within inches of her face, and the remains of my croissant sprayed from my mouth.
Her face and coat were covered with chewed up bits of the bread and saliva. There had been significantly more food in my mouth than I had thought there was.
to be continued
Some scientists have speculated that sun sneezing might have evolved when humans lived in smoky, soot-filled caves and huts that lacked ventilation and were polluted by cooking and heating fires. Those living conditions make people prone to respiratory infections, and a sneeze can help clear the sinuses.
I’m afflicted with this condition. I sneeze almost every time I walk into sunlight; it happens almost instantly and is uncontrollable.
Every morning, I ride my bike a few kilometers on streets that are shaded from direct sunlight by buildings. Toward the end of my bike ride, I come out from a side street next to a metro station on the boulevard Saint-Germaine, and here for the first time during the day, I’m exposed to direct sunlight, and here for the first time during the day, I sneeze.
On a Saturday morning a few months ago, I was to meet my girlfriend Laetitia and her parents there for the first time at the metro station.
My high school American History teacher was lazy and rarely lectured us on American History, but he sometimes advised us to meet our girl’s mother before deciding to keep her. That is how she will turn out, he cautioned. She will act like her mother and look like her. If the mother is fat, the girl will get fat. If the mother is nasty, the girl’s temperament will turn bad. He never outright said it, but he believed that most women don’t have the self-control or self-awareness to be their own people or to achieve self-actualisation. Instead, they are 100% a product of environment and genetics, much like a chimpanzee. He didn’t have any marital advice for the girls. Around two decades of girl friends later, he has been reasonably accurate as far as looks and obesity go, but not so much with personality.
I was dreading meeting her parents. First impressions count a lot, and that first meeting can affect the future relationship with both them and her. I already did not like her father, and I hadn’t met him yet. I had, however, overheard several of Laetitia’s speaker phone conversations with him. He was always impatient and short tempered with her, and his voice was tense and demanding. Afterwards for the rest of the day, she would treat me the way he had treated her. I didn’ know much about her mother except that she was frail and in poor health despite only being in her mid 60s.
The night before, I had been feeling some anxiety about meeting them. To cope, I took some morphine. I no longer use it every day, and what was once a normal baseline dose turned out to be strong. I had trouble falling asleep.
I hate alarms and do not use them. That morning, I awoke and immediately checked the time. I had twenty minutes to get to the metro station where I would meet them and had gotten only two hours of sleep.
Although I had only five minutes to travel the two kilometers between here and there, I still had hope. It was only five minutes by bike, versus ten by taxi, twenty by foot, or thirty by subway. I would ride my bike, a Surly touring bike I had shipped from California. Also, she was usually late so I hoped that she would be a late.
I ignored my mild headache and got ready. I dressed quickly, brushed my teeth, drank some water, and, skipping breakfast, I rushed out of my flat, going down the seven stories two steps at a time. My building is more than two hundred years old and does not have an elevator. The courtyard was chilly, and the air still smelled like night and spring plants.
My bike was parked in a rack hidden behind some holly. As I approached, a bird hopped away and went under a rose bush. I unlocked the heavy Arbus brand U-lock and realised that the place I would have to leave the bike would be in a touristic area where there is a lot of theft and pickpocketing. Indeed, I’ve seen dozens of homeless people selling high-end bicycle wheels. Most of these homeless bicycle wheel sellers usually looked like they were not in a good enough physical condition to even ride bike, and I doubted any of them had the bike that the wheels belonged to hidden in their grocery carts or bundles of luggage. To be safe, I took a second lock, a heavy chain with hardened links advertised to resist bolt cutters and other common bike thief tools. I keep this chain at the bike rack, and I would use it to secure the wheels. I carefully removed it from the daffodils that were blooming next to the links.
I glanced at the time on my phone. Two minutes had passed. I walked my bike through the courtyard, and at the end where it meets the street, the aroma of freshly baked bread attracted my attention. My mouth was watering, and I was hungry. I had better eat, or my blood sugar level will crash. At the entrance to the courtyard is a bakery. It makes the best croissants in the area, and it’s the same boulangerie where Ernest Hemingway bought his bread when he lived in a building on the very same courtyard as myself. I buy a croissant there every morning. There was a line, but the bakery girl wrapped a croissant for me as soon as she saw me standing in line without my having to ask. I paid her and left.
By now, I was a minute late, but I didn’t worry because Laetitia is usually late.
My phone buzzed. She had texted me, “we’re waiting for you. Hurry up!!”
My assumption that she would be late was wrong, and I now had the impression that she was not be in a good mood. Her father was with her.
“On my way,” I responded.
I walked the bike through the arched passage leading out of the courtyard and onto the street. The tire pressure was a little low, but it would be okay for a short ride. Mont Çetard is the big hill between where I live and where I had to be. I mounted the bike and rode fast up the hill., the cobblestones shaking the croissant which I held in one hand against the hand grip of my bike. By the time I had climbed to the hilltop, I was almost feeling warm from the exercise. I went across the hill and around the Pantheon. The city stretched out miles into the morning haze, and I could see the Eiffel Tower. I turned down the side street next to the Lycée Henry IV, the most prestigious and oldest high school in Paris. It was founded by King Henry IV hundreds of years ago.
My alcoholic father was a chainsmoker, and his doctor’s opinion was that the combination of smoking and drinking caused the cancer that killed him. His chainsmoking also happened to damage my own health when I was a child. I was sick so much that missed more school than the kid who died of cystic fibrosis. Needless to say, I don’t have a positive opinion on the habit.
French students have school on Saturday. The students were in between classes, and a number of them were smoking tobacco cigarettes in front of the school. I’m still shocked when I see normal, healthy looking people doing that.
I turned onto the street that directly leads to the Thermes de Cluny and the metro station in front of it. The Thermes de Cluny is a thermal bath complex that was built by the Roman Empire. Some of the building complex is still intact, and it now houses a museum.
The cold wind blew into my partially open coat and chilled me as I sped down the hill. The whole way, I had been eating the croissant I held, and flakes of it would break off and get blown back against me and fall into my coat and stick to my sweater.I took the last bite, a big one as I went down the last stretch of hill past the Roman baths.
I was still far away when I spotted Laetitia and her parents who were standing on the sidewalk next to the Metro exit. I stopped on the street next to them and unmounted the bike. I swallowed the last of the croissant while I approached them.
The French have a custom of kissing on the cheeks as a form of greeting. It applies to strangers as well as friends and acquaintances. Refusing to do it is considered to be extremely rude. It’s my least favorite French custom. Unless it’s my lover I don’t like touching people. I don’t like the moisture on their skin and lips, their dandruff, their smell, their breath, or the way their bodies feel. Germs and microbes are gross. Shaking hands is hard enough, hugging makes my skin crawl, and I do not do “high fives.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
Laetitia gave me a dirty look. Her father was scowling. Her mother smiled.
“Hello hello,” her parents said.
Her mother smiled and extended her cheek for me to kiss. Her features were soft and had a gentle look as though she had often smiled during her life. She was thin and indeed looked frail.
She was standing in the sun, and as I approached, I stepped into direct sunlight to kiss her cheek. Until that moment, I had been in shadow since the day before. That photic sneeze reflex is lightning fast, and there is no warning. Before I knew what was happening, I sneezed violently. My mouth was within inches of her face, and the remains of my croissant sprayed from my mouth.
Her face and coat were covered with chewed up bits of the bread and saliva. There had been significantly more food in my mouth than I had thought there was.
to be continued
I can't believe this happened. Please tell me they laughed.
