You haven't experienced a city until you've been there in a heatwave

A love letter to cities in the sunshine

I’m walking the streets of Paris. It’s late June, 2026. The temperatures reach up to 40°.

I booked the trip for early summer, expecting a toasty but manageable 25°. I had seen the city during spring before, trees regaining their leaves, café seats dusted down after a winter spent redundant, pale arms glistening in the sun, ready to replenish their depleted vitamin D levels.

I considered cancelling the trip. Headlines of record-breaking temperatures in France and the rest of Europe reached Ireland. It was hot here too, 26°, about as hot as it gets. I struggle on my commutes to and from the office; I can’t imagine another 14° added to that number.

Reluctant to lose out on the money already spent on flights and a hotel, I power ahead. Landing in an unbelievably sweaty, furnace of a city.

Our original plans changed. The museum we had pre-booked is closed because of the weather, and the train to a town we planned to visit is cancelled, also because of the weather.

We have no choice but to be flâneurs for the weekend - how fitting.

Walking around, I feel feverish, delirious. I lock eyes with most people I pass. I study people’s clothes. Especially other women. ‘What are they wearing to stay cool?’ ‘Can I learn from them?’.

The rules of urban life shift. The evenings are never-ending; at 10pm, when a city is usually winding down, new life appears. Finally, it’s bearable enough to stretch your legs; the pavement has cooled down enough for dogs to place their paws on it.

It’s a time I know I’ll talk about in years to come. I was there for the great Parisian heatwave of 26’. I’ll tell my grandchildren about it, though at the rate the planet is heating up, I probably won’t have grandchildren. It feels unfair to bring new life into the world.

I survive the weekend, just about. Though there are half as many pictures as usual in my camera roll. My behaviour is altered; I’m different.

Two weeks later, back in Dublin, the city I’ve grown up in, that I know like the back of my hand. I’m walking through the city centre on a Thursday evening to meet a friend for dinner and drinks. I don’t recognise anyone; they behave differently too. I know Irish people, how they dress, how they move. I could spot a big Irish head a mile off. But I don’t know these people I’m seeing on the way to eat pizza. They don’t seem Irish, they seem European. I could be anywhere.

I’m filled with curiosity. The same curiosity I had in Paris - where are people going? What are they wearing? Bodies slink around me. Inhabitations are lower; guards are down.

I lock eyes with people - there’s a kinship in the heat; we all know exactly what the other person is feeling. The buildings dance around me. I notice restaurants I’ve never seen before, people eating al fresco; I think to myself, ‘I must try there sometime - it looks nice.’ I might be biased, but there is no better place in the world than Dublin when the sun shines.

Ireland did nothing but rain for the first three months of the year. You might think I’m exaggerating, but Dublin experienced its second-wettest January since records began in 1941.

Those months moved by in a blur. Darting from place to place as quickly as possible to avoid the rain, hiding under an umbrella, staring at the ground until I was back indoors, where I could be dry and warm. I took nothing in during that time. Not like during a heatwave, when I have no choice but to move slower, doing anything to preserve energy. With that preservation comes observation.

Summers are seared into my memory. I was born during a heatwave in July 1995. I don’t remember that one, on account of being a newborn. But everyone else around me does, despite it being 31 years ago. I’m told I didn’t wear clothes for the first month of my life. I remember warm summers as a child, they felt never-ending.

Can I tell you a secret? At times, when the heat is unbearable, I wish for it to be winter. I bat the thought away as quickly as it arrives. I will regret that in 4 months, when it’s too cold to function. When my hands are too frozen to type on my laptop, I will dream of a hot summer’s day, when people are open, friendly, and happy.

That’s the beauty of it. You know it will end. Summer is fleeting, so you better make the most of it while you have it. Before you’re hiding under umbrellas and avoiding eye contact with strangers again.

I will never forget that summer I went to Paris in a heatwave. I experienced the very best of the city, in very challenging conditions. Humans were kind to one another; waiters brought us water to fill up our water bottles, strangers I caught eye contact with on the metro empathised with me, “C'est chaud, eh?” - Oui, tres chaud.