Michelle, 68, got up early this Sunday morning. Each day, since the beginning of May, this retiree from national education has been having an end to the same ritual, supposed to lower the temperature of its T5 by a few precious degrees. It opens up its French windows. Back to framing, it places an air refreshment, an imposing fan that must be nourished regularly with ice cubes to spit a small kiss. “It saves me 2 degrees.” It opens the blackout curtains, too much to prevent the reverberation from warming up the atmosphere, but enough to let go of fleeting gusts. An air flow crosses the living room and moves her gray hair cut with a square. Michelle sits on the sofa. A short respite.
He is 24 degrees outside, almost 30 in his apartment. The air is increasingly heavy, drops of sweat peel on the forehead, in the back and under the armpits. At Michelle, there is no shutters or controlled mechanical ventilation (VMC). The reinforced concrete of its building built in the 1960s acts as a can. Soon, at 3 p.m., when the Dru sun is starting to lick its balcony and hit the tiles, it will be worse. The temperature in his apartment, on the second floor of a Cité Cochennec city building in Aubervilliers (Seine-Saint-Denis), can reach up to 40 degrees when he makes 30 outside. This Monday and Tuesday, the weather forecast announces nearly
