How To Keep Your Cool, And Your Marriage During a French Heatwave

Budgeting, baguettes and blowing cold air: An expat summer survival guide

As the designated control freak of this marriage and CEO of Spontaneous Life Decisions That Aren’t Actually Spontaneous, I took full responsibility for finding our future French dream home while we were on “vacation.” And by vacation, I mean I turned every night into a HGTV marathon in my Minnesota hot tub while my kid slept and my husband quietly judged me from inside like a deeply suspicious raccoon.

Yuri hated the hot tub. Which was great. Because it meant I could scroll real estate listings in peace like a delusional suburban oracle. I had a list. Oh boy did I have a list. A long, juicy, Pinterest-soaked, full-blown design fantasy of a list. I had already mentally moved in and was arranging imaginary throw pillows.

But alas, Yuri also had a list. A very sensible, reasonable, painfully boring list.

• Double-paned windows (he fears drafts like they’re haunted)

• Dedicated parking (he refuses to circle the block like a sad Parisian)

• Fully remodeled (no charming fixer-uppers for us)

• Three bedrooms, two full bathrooms (non-negotiable because we are old, dramatic, and fancy)

• First floor only because we are not trying to reenact a Rocky training montage at 80

• And above all else, THE HOLY GRAIL: air conditioning.

Which brings us to today’s post, where it is currently 196 degrees outside. Celsius? Fahrenheit? We don’t know. We don’t care. We are one brisk walk away from spontaneous combustion. I feel like a visa holding rotisserie chicken.

Now, I knew my husband was heat-intolerant. The man is made for cloud cover and sad indie playlists. He is personally offended by UV rays. I, on the other hand, love the heat. Well… not thisheat. Not this “Satan’s breath on your neck while you cry into your underboob sweat” heat.

But Yuri? He believes air conditioning is a human right. Like water. Or croissants. And I, apparently, am the Supreme Court of Denied Comforts because I’m also frugal and not trying to pay a power bill that looks like a ransom note.

I keep reminding him, very calmly and Frenchly, that most French people do not have AC. I tell him Europeans have survived for centuries without it. He looks at me like I just said “we no longer need oxygen.”

We do have AC. And he is turning it on like it’s a damn red alert situation every time the thermostat breathes above 78. I, meanwhile, am over here with a fan blowing directly at my face and a frozen bag of peas down my shirt like it’s totally normal.

I moved here for the wine, the cheese, the baguettes, and the general aesthetic of pretending I’m in a perfume ad.

He moved here to sit in air conditioning and not be disturbed. He can’t be bothered. So French of him.

To be fair, I did not anticipate summers that feel like we’re being gently broiled in a convection oven. We are nothing but salted French butter slowly liquefying on the warm toast of Southern France.

It’s been 90-plus degrees for three straight weeks and we’ve now entered the “I regret everything” portion of summer. We’ve had three days in a row over 100. I’ve stopped checking our energy usage. What’s the point? I’ll just sell a kidney in September.

The Aude

When it’s this hot, we can’t even open the windows at night for that classic Mediterranean cross breeze everyone raves about on expat blogs. Nope. We live in full medieval panic mode. At 9 am sharp, shutters closed, doors locked, curtains drawn like the end of a dramatic play where everyone dies in the second act.

Except it’s not the end of the day. It’s just beginning. And I’m already sweating.

Our Survival Hacks, or: How Not To Die in a French Heatwave

We do this thing we call Zone Chill which sounds sexier than it is.

Basically, during the day, we shut off the bedrooms and let them transform into low-budget saunas. All of our energy goes into cooling the kitchen, dining, and living areas with the AC. Then at night, we flip it: bedrooms get the AC, and the living room is sacrificed to the gods of heat and bad decisions.

But oh—if the temperature drops to 60 at night? The windows fly open like we’re in a Jane Austen novel, and that breezy crosswind sweeps through the house like a beautiful ghost that forgives everything. These are the good days. The magical days. The “maybe we won’t actually move back to Minnesota in shame” days.

Later this week, that breeze returns. So I’ll be here. Sitting in front of the fan. Covered in frozen vegetables. Whispering to the sky, “Je ne regrette rien.”

Except maybe the electric bill.

But you know me. I love a good persona exploration and today is no exception. So without further ado, I give you my household in peak summer survival mode:

The Climate-Control Queen (my husband)

He requires “wind movement” to sleep. Not prefers. Requires. Anything over 24°C is officially a medical emergency and must be treated with urgent air blasts and the clutching of imaginary pearls.

Doesn’t matter that Sonia is sleeping like a heat-loving French angel. He’s uncomfortable and therefore near death. Where are the car keys? Is the ER open at midnight for temperature-related anxiety attacks?

He says things like “It’s not hot. It’s oppressive.” And adjusts the thermostat like he’s piloting a commercial flight through atmospheric turbulence.

Me: “Honey, are you okay?”

Him: “I’m fine. Just dying slowly in this oven you call a home.”

The Frugal Furnace (me, obviously)

I’m Gen X. I grew up on fans, open windows, and the phrase “shut the door you’re letting the cool air out.”

I’m the only one in the house who checks the EDF app like it’s the stock market. I watch our electricity usage graph go up and down like I’m betting on Bitcoin. I compare trends. I yell “PEAK HOURS” like it’s a war cry.

I’ll wear the same tank top for two days just to avoid running the washer. I smell like effort and principle. French men stink anyway. They won’t notice. They’ll just assume I’m local and using some sad bergamot deodorant from the Monoprix bargain bin.

The Heat-Hardened French Girl (our daughter)

This girl was born for the Mediterranean. Shutters shut by 9am. Lights off. Room dark as a cave.

She wears JEANS to school when it’s 34 degrees out like she’s trying to prove something. And remember, school doesn’t have AC. Her only cooling device is an optimistic ceiling fan installed sometime during the Napoleon era.

At night she allows one fan, but only on setting 1, and that’s generous. Her Barbies don’t have AC either. Why should she? Barbie and our child both sleep naked with no shame and no sweat. Unbothered. Moisture-free. Evolved.

The Bulldog (emotional support creature and only one truly thriving)

She’s belly-up on the cool hardwood floor like a heat-exhausted Southern belle…think Blanche DuBois but gassier.

Every time the AC kicks on, she lets out a long, dramatic fart like a sentient foghorn signaling the arrival of blessed relief.

She enjoys daily spritzes of Evian like the bougie queen she is. Her crate? It gets moved throughout the day to follow the AC like she’s a contestant on House Hunters: Canine Climate Crisis Edition.

We are her full-service relocation team. She’s in her AirBnB Era.

Conclusion

Summer in the South of France will test your marriage, your budget, and your ability to pretend you’re fine when your inner thighs are slowly melting into your wicker dining chair. Will my husband ever learn to live without AC? No. Will I ever stop having a minor stroke every time the power bill comes in? Also no.

But together, we will survive in emotional and thermal disharmony.

Because love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love wears socks in a 23°C room and still complains it’s cold.

Moral of the Story

If you move abroad, marry someone with your same temperature range. Or at least one who won’t throw a tantrum when you suggest not running the AC during peak hours.

Love is not about compromise. It’s about strategic fan placement, passive-aggressive thermostat battles, and saying “I told you so” when the electric bill arrives like a flaming middle finger.

This summer, remember: only one of you needs to be cool. The other one can silently seethe in sweaty martyrdom while pretending everything is fine.

If you liked this post, restack, like, subscribe, and follow me on Instagram at (@le_simple_sudiste) where I document frugal air-conditioning warfare, French heat hacks, and bulldog farts in real time. Basically the expat content you never knew you needed.

If you’d like to buy me an ice cold picket of Rosé, well you can do that here. I promise it will keep me hydrated and cool.

Until next time, may your shutters be shut, your fans be strong, and your power bill just low enough to keep your marriage intact.

Bon été, sweaty friends.