When the heat makes you rethink everything

I woke up at 6:00 this morning, which is becoming a pattern here. Not because I'm particularly disciplined, but because my body seems to know that the early hours are the only comfortable ones left. The forecast is showing 33°C today, and tomorrow it jumps to 36°C. By Sunday, they're predicting 42°C.

Forty-two degrees Celsius in Paris.

I sat at the same café as yesterday morning, and the owner gave me a small nod when I walked in. No words exchanged, but he brought the coffee without asking. These tiny moments of recognition feel significant when you've been moving for 294 days.

The weather alert on my phone keeps buzzing. Yellow warning for thunderstorms until midnight tonight. Then a yellow warning for extreme temperatures starting tomorrow. The practical part of my brain is already calculating: which museums have the best air conditioning, which metro lines go directly there, how early I need to leave to avoid the worst heat.

But there's another thought sitting underneath all that planning.

I've been in Paris for almost two weeks now. Fourteen days in one city. That's not like me at all. The old pattern would have had me restless after four days, already booking transport to somewhere else, anywhere else. But I extended my hotel booking twice. Then I booked that flight for October 7th – still months away.

Something has shifted, and I'm not entirely sure what it is.

This morning, I walked along the Seine before the heat became unbearable. The plane trees were casting long shadows across the embankment, and I stopped to photograph the way the light filtered through their leaves. A jogger passed me, then circled back.

"Vous allez bien?" he asked, slightly out of breath.

I must have been standing there longer than I realized. I told him I was fine, just taking photos of the trees. He looked at them, then at me, with that particular French expression that manages to convey both understanding and mild bewilderment. Then he jogged off.

I kept walking until I reached that small park near Pont Marie. The same bench was empty, so I sat down. It was only 8:30, but I could already feel the temperature climbing. A woman was setting up a portable fan at a nearby café, testing it, adjusting the angle. Preparing for the siege.

That's what this heatwave feels like – a siege. The city is bracing itself.

I've been thinking about my bucket list. Bali, South Africa, Peru, Iran, a road trip through the USA. All these places I wanted to see before I turn 51. I still have 206 days left, which sounds like a lot until you start counting the places and calculating the distances.

But sitting on that bench this morning, watching Paris wake up and prepare for the heat, I realized something. I'm not in a hurry anymore. Not in the way I was when I left Kristiansand. Not even in the way I was a month ago in Japan.

The restlessness is still there – it's always there, like a low hum in the background. But it's changed frequency somehow. It's not pushing me to move. It's asking me to pay attention.

I stayed in the park until 9:45, then walked back to the hotel as the temperature continued to rise. The streets were filling up with tourists, all of them moving slower than usual, already feeling the weight of the heat. I passed a pharmacy with a digital thermometer display: 27°C at 10:15.

Back in my room now, the air conditioning is on full blast. I've got a bottle of water from the corner shop, and I'm trying to decide what to do with the rest of this day. The sensible thing would be to stay inside until evening, maybe venture out after sunset when the temperature drops.

But there's a part of me that wants to experience this. Not in a masochistic way, but because this is real. This is what's happening in Paris right now, in June 2026. The extreme heat, the warnings, the way the city adapts and endures.

I'm thinking about Versailles. I went there last week, early morning, and the gardens were extraordinary. But I'm thinking about going back, maybe at dawn tomorrow before the heat becomes dangerous. To see how the gardens look when the city is holding its breath.

Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just stay in this air-conditioned room and write and think and let the heat wave pass.

I've learned that I don't have to do everything. I don't have to see everything. Sometimes staying still is its own kind of movement.

The thunderstorm is supposed to come tonight. I'm looking forward to it – the break in the heat, the drama of it, the way the city will smell afterward. Fresh and clean and ready for whatever comes next.

206 days left. An extreme heatwave starting tomorrow. A booked flight in October. A bucket list that suddenly feels less urgent than it did this morning.

I'm not sure what I'm learning here, but I'm learning something.

Maybe that's enough for now.