Goodbye, Go Home, You Never Belonged Here

This summer, I arrived in Paris during a brief period of cold and rain sandwiched between two canicules (the fetching French word for a blistering heat wave). This story, however, is from another summer in Paris, another canicule, when our life in Paris was just beginning.

My family touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport in August of 2018 in the midst of what was then a historic heat wave—107 degrees Fahrenheit. We were moving to Paris from California. We’d never seen our apartment. We’d never even seen photos of our apartment. We were taking a leap of faith.

I cannot, in hindsight, pretend that this was a wise decision.

Having boarded the plane in San Francisco, we were dressed in jeans and sweaters. We quickly shed the sweaters but couldn’t get into our apartment for several hours due to a mixup with the keys, so we walked around in jeans and boots, searching for water and a place to sit in a city where most establishments close for the summer, and everything closes between 2:00 pm and 7:30.

Eventually we found a place called L’Annexe, a bar and restaurant—but mostly a bar. There were no customers, just a few sweaty staffers standing around smoking inside. We sat down and ordered un carafe d’eau, Coke, and burgers well-done. The burgers were basically raw, but we were happy to be able to sit down and drink water. I gathered that l’Annexe wasn’t really open for food service, but I think the bartender took pity on us—with our jeans and boots and halting French, our jet lag, our utter exhaustion, our obvious despair.

The French recognize despair. To despair is a national pastime.

For the next couple of years, I kept thinking I’d return to L’Annexe in a less shocked and despondent state, equipped with marginally better French and an acquired sense of Parisian cool, but I never did. By the time we left Paris, L’annexe, which had closed during the pandemic, had reopened under new ownership. A sign was draped over the awning. I can’t recall what the sign said but in my imagination it declared, Au revoir, rentre chez toi, tu n’as jamais été à ta place ici. (That is google translate for “Goodbye, go home, you never belonged here”).

By now, you probably know that the French don’t (or didn’t until recently) believe in air conditioning. Most Paris apartments and public buildings don’t have AC. That’s because the French believe that air conditioning makes you sick. They are as obsessive about their fear of AC as they are about their love of scarves.

The French recognize despair. To despair is a national pastime.

Being slightly obsessive myself (coffee, books, bodies of water), I appreciate the French penchant for grabbing onto an idea and not letting go ever no matter what.

On our second day in Paris, in search of something familiar for our son, we walked the half mile from our apartment to Champs Elysees. What we didn’t know until we got there is that Five Guys on the Champs is one of the best-kept air-conditioned secrets in Paris. It was worth the thirty-euro burger, fries, and milkshake just to sit on the upper floor, in the chilled air.

You find the things that get you through. For us, that summer, the thing that got us through was Five Guys.

If you find yourself in Paris during the canicule, and you find yourself near the Champs, I highly recommend a visit to Five Guys. During the summer, the line is so long that it’s roped off like the most popular rides at Disneyland. You can order your burger in English and your hot dog au boeuf in Franglish, but we quickly learned you need to know the name of every condiment in French, because they’re going to ask and they’re not going to ask patiently…

Don’t forget the milkshake, which is mostly self-explanatory. By the way, Five Guys is one of the few places in Paris that will do an actual milkshake. If you find a Parisian establishment that will make you a “milkshake”—a rarity—expect it to be mostly milk with a little sugar and a dollop of ice cream stirred in for good measure.

After you order, wait in the big holding area beside the soda fountain machine and watch the chaos of dozens of workers yelling at each other, mostly amicably, while leisurely making “fast” food. This is great people watching, because you’ll see as many locals as tourists—which can’t be said for any other spot on the Champs.

Once you have your bag in hand, take the stairs up past the second floor landing and the third floor landing. On the fourth floor, grab a seat by the window and sit there for a couple of hours in the chill, quiet room (no matter how busy Five Guys gets, the upper floors are often empty), watching the people below.

Go to the inspiring Musée Yves Saint Laurent, which is small and manageable and delightfully air-conditioned. This museum would have never been on my radar were it not for a fashionable friend of mine who was visiting from California one summer—merci beaucoup, Holly!

If you can’t get to Five Guys, and if your hotel doesn’t have AC, and you can’t get a ticket to the YSL museum, just lean into the heat and treat yourself to a refreshing Kir Royale at a sidewalk cafe, or an ice cream on the Seine. And don’t forget, tap water is always free in Paris. Just ask for une carafe d’eau, or fill your water bottle at any of the public fountains.

And a note on my new book, six years in the making: my espionage novel set in modern-day Paris is forthcoming from Grove Atlantic. I’ll do a proper cover reveal soon, but in the meantime, curious birdies can find it here and add it to Goodreads here. In the coming months, I’ll be sharing more stories of life in Paris here on My Fiction Obsession.

Thank you for reading My Fiction Obsession!

À bientôt,

Michelle