The City of Light has gone dry. Faced with a sweltering heatwave that has already claimed lives across Western Europe, Paris has imposed an emergency ban on alcohol sales. The move, announced by Mayor Anne Hidalgo’s office this morning, prohibits the sale of all alcoholic beverages from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. until further notice. The decision comes as temperatures are expected to hit 42 degrees Celsius, and the French government scrambles to avoid a public health catastrophe.
British tourists, many of whom have flocked to Paris for the summer, are now being urged to reconsider their plans. The Foreign Office has issued a travel advisory warning that the combination of extreme heat and sudden alcohol restriction could lead to “serious health risks.” Dehydration, heatstroke, and alcohol-related accidents are all more likely when the mercury rises. Yet the real question is not whether this ban is necessary, but why it took so long to implement.
One cannot help but see the ghost of Rome in this panic. The Romans, masters of aqueducts and public baths, knew that a city’s survival depends on its water supply and the discipline of its citizens. When the empire began to rot from within, it was not barbarians at the gate but internal decay: excess, decadence, and a refusal to face hard truths. Today’s Europe, with its endless summer festivals and binge-drinking culture, is repeating that pattern. The heatwave is a natural event, but the vulnerability is man-made.
Consider the statistics: heatwaves now kill more Europeans than any other natural disaster. The 2003 heatwave caused 70,000 excess deaths. In 2019, another spike killed 2,500 in France alone. Yet we still treat these warnings as inconveniences. The alcohol ban is a band-aid on a broken system. We should be asking why our infrastructure is so brittle, why our public health messages are so ignored, and why we have allowed a culture of immediate gratification to supplant basic survival instincts.
The British tourist is a special case. They arrive with pale skin and a determination to enjoy their holiday regardless of the conditions. The notion that a beer on a café terrace might be dangerous is alien to them. This is not just ignorance, it is a kind of intellectual decadence. We have convinced ourselves that technology can insulate us from nature. Air conditioning, cold drinks, and suncream have made us forget that the human body has limits. The Romans knew that when the sun blazed, one retired to the shade and drank water. They would have laughed at our modern idea of sunbathing.
But let us not pretend that this is only about heat or alcohol. It is about national identity and cultural resilience. The French, with their long tradition of wine, are now banning its sale. The British, with their pub culture, are being told to go thirsty. These are not minor adjustments. They signal a deeper shift in our relationship with pleasure and risk. We are now a society that responds to every crisis by restricting freedoms, yet we rarely address the root causes.
What would a Victorian commentator have said? He would have pointed out that the British Empire was built on discipline and duty, not on cheap holidays and sangria. He would have seen the parallels with the late Roman empire: declining birth rates, loss of civic virtue, and a preference for panem et circenses over hard work and sacrifice. The heatwave is a test, and we are failing it.
So, I write this to you, the British tourist: do not be fooled by the charming facade of Paris. The city is in crisis. Drink water, stay indoors, and for once in your lives, obey the authorities. But more importantly, ask yourself why we are so unprepared. When the next heatwave comes, and it will, we will not be saved by bans or pleas. We will be saved by a change in our culture. Until then, be careful out there.
The fall of Rome did not come with a trumpet; it came with a whimper on a hot summer day.
