Paris. Tuesday. Afternoon.

The first time I set foot in Paris was at the end of July 1983, during the final stretch of my first of two Interrail adventures through Europe.

I was an almost twenty-year-old guy with a head of curly brown hair, on my way back to Sweden after a month-long journey that had taken me from the Ouzo-drenched beaches of Corfu in the southeast, through the hovering clouds of ganja at the Montreux Jazz Festival, to the teeming lanes and countless pubs of Camden Town in London.

I only stayed in Paris for a couple of days that time. My money was almost gone. But I still wanted to see some of the classic places before boarding the northbound night train to Copenhagen.

I photographed the monuments and eventually collapsed each evening into a cheap bunk bed at a backpacker place somewhere near Gare du Nord.

By pure coincidence, Charlotte and I are now spending a few nights near that same iconic railway station.

Forty-three years have flown by, and much has changed. Obviously.

Paris has retained its timeless, elegant forms, but the social landscape has shifted considerably.

There was certainly poverty here in back in the summer of ’83, but nothing resembling the enormous amount of homelessness and the number of beggars lining the boulevards today. Not even close.

Just as in 1983, Paris is currently held in the suffocating grip of an extreme heatwave. At the time of writing, just after four in the afternoon, the mercury has climbed all the way to 36°C.

Early in the morning, the city is relatively manageable – you get a brief, deceptive reprieve before the sun takes full command.

After lunchtime, something changes, and the heat becomes almost threatening. The sun literally cooks the concrete pavements and the seemingly endless asphalt streets until the heat presses against you from two directions: like a radiator from the ground and a blowtorch from the sky.

It is like navigating the inside of a convection oven. The air is heavy, thick, and almost completely still.

But the heat does not stop street life. With my camera around my neck, I look for those fleeting encounters and scenes that appear for only a few seconds. Sometimes, when a face catches my eye, I step forward and ask:

“Excusez-moi, je suis photographe, je peux vous prendre en photo ?”

The answer is often positive. Most Parisians – whether they are on their way somewhere along the pavement or lingering in the shade outside cafés, bistros, and brasseries – are remarkably accommodating. Young and old alike carry themselves with a distinct, innate sense of style and pride. They are surprisingly often happy to stop and offer a pose.

Perhaps it has something to do with the historical weight of fashion here – a deeply rooted understanding that to be seen is to exist, and that being captured in a photograph is a compliment, not a personal intrusion.

Paris is extraordinary for many reasons, but even when the heat bears down on the city, it proves that street photography is alive and kicking.

Just as it was in 1983.

C’est ça.