From Saint Laurent to Louis Vuitton, the talk of the first day of men’s Fashion Week in Paris turned inevitably to the weather. No, not the usual idle front-row niceties, but the scorching heat wave that has settled like a dense cloud over the City of Lights. Temperatures soared to just shy of 100 degrees Fahrenheit on Tuesday, the first full day of shows here. And worse, there was no relief in sight—just endless days of blazing sun, record-breaking temperatures, and continued weather warnings.

“Horrific,” is how the British editor and stylist Dan May put it, noting that he had to stop into a local Cos while there to pick up some shorts to help combat the dreadful state of meteorological affairs. Or, as my friend, the content creator Jake Woolf, so charmingly described it: “A nightmare from hell.”

The Paris heat wave was so intense that Dior and Rick Owens had to move their shows earlier to avoid the midday temps. Grown men carried around whirring little electric fans in an attempt to stir up the stifling warm air. And, most telling of all, some showgoing dandies had to dress down—way down, to filmy t-shirts and linen shorts—in lieu of their usual ornate peacockery. To make matters worse, Paris is a city known for many wonderful things, but air conditioning is not one of them.

But I have something to admit: I love the heat. Bring it on. Ignoring the existential dread of a perilously warming planet, there’s something unifying and slightly humorous about watching the fashion cogniscenti come face-to-face with the elements. Some men chose to still wear their natty suit jackets or to show off carefully-planned ensembles that included artful layers of lightweight knits or overshirts, but you could see it in their wilting faces and panicked eyes—the heat was getting to them.

Not me. In the days leading up to my trip, I checked Accuweather obsessively and decided to bring a stack of barely-there T-shirts, most of which I acquired on eBay and are so worn-in they’re practically transparent. I brought only two pairs of pants and loaded up on shorts, numbering a half-dozen and ranging from big to the skimpy workout variety. Yesterday I landed and made my way through the baking city, and, while it was indeed warm, it was also wonderful. The light was golden, the streets were (relatively) unoccupied and certainly unhurried, and there was an unmistakable feeling that we’re all in this together.

I chalk it up to my Hawaiian background, but I think summer in a city is a combination of the best time of year and the best place to be for it. The heat, even when it’s at its most stifling, is a feature, not a bug, of the season. There’s something primal about it, elemental, and deeply temporal. It reminds you that you are in a body in a way few other things can.

I love the forced simplicity of it all, when one is obliged to strip down to the barest of essentials. When all is said and done, is there a better outfit than a T-shirt and loose pants? I think not. Aren’t we all on the hunt for that perfect, airy tee that feels like next-to-nothing on the body, or a pair of pants that has the just-right swishy drape and flow?

Designers and editors are in love with presenting some heady idea of reality on a runway, but shy away from it when it actually comes a-knocking. What’s more “real” than an outfit chosen to just get by on a hot summer’s day? One built on necessity, not the whims of fancy—that’s where one’s real style shines through. Crinkled linen, drooping cotton, a glistening brow, or a damp spot left at the chest or back from too much time in the sun? That’s real life! And I think it’s beautiful, even elegant, in its way.

And, of course, you can’t deny that summer is, above all, sexy. As funny as it sounds, fashion can be a bit divorced from sex, especially in menswear (we’re still much more comfortable with presenting women as sex objects, not so much their male counterparts). And whatever carnality the runways may lack, the streets make up for in spades: All those limbs sticking out, all that exposed dewy skin, all those bodies finally revealed after months hidden under layers of chunky sweaters and swaddling coats. The streets of Paris are awash with humanity in all its forms, and it gives the city an electric charge you just won’t find in gloomy January.

Maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot here, as the temperatures today and tomorrow are expected to top 106 degrees Fahrenheit, bringing the Paris heat wave to a frenzied peak. Maybe I’ll change my tune when work requires me to be out all day, running from un-air-conditioned showroom to un-air-conditioned metro car and back again, ad infinitum. So you can send a prayer my way if you choose, but chances are I won’t need it.