Paris was melting.
A record-breaking heat wave had settled over the city, pushing temperatures past 106 degrees and turning even the simplest walk into an endurance event. Sidewalk cafés emptied in the afternoon sun, tourists huddled beneath whatever shade they could find, and air conditioning suddenly became the most valuable amenity in France.
My wife, daughter and I had found our escape.
Our daughter is spending part of her summer studying abroad with Butler University in London, and our trip had brought us together in Paris for a few days. On this particular afternoon, however, cultural exploration had taken a back seat to simple survival.
The Paris Catacombs stay a constant 57 degrees year-round, and descending underground sounded less like sightseeing and more like a strategic retreat from the heat.
As we made our way toward the entrance at Denfert-Rochereau, I looked across the street and stopped in my tracks.
There it was. Indiana.
Not Indiana the state, of course, but a giant red “Indiana” sign hanging above a bustling Paris restaurant.
Four thousand miles from home, in the middle of Paris, on one of the hottest days the city had ever recorded, I had somehow managed to find Indiana.
For a moment, my Hoosier brain struggled to make sense of it.
Was this some sort of tourism promotion? A themed restaurant started by an expat from Indianapolis? A place where I could order a breaded tenderloin and debate whether Larry Bird or Reggie Miller belonged higher in Indiana sports history?
As it turns out, none of the above.
Indiana Café is a long-running Paris chain of American-style bars and restaurants that dates back to the late 1980s. Despite the name, it appears to have no connection whatsoever to the Hoosier State.
No Indianapolis connection. No basketball connection. No racing connection. No connection to Indiana at all.
Apparently, to the French, “Indiana” simply sounded American. Adventurous. Western. A name that conjured images of road trips, open highways and the mythology of America.
To those of us who actually call Indiana home, the name means something entirely different.
It means basketball gyms and county fairs.
Tenderloins and cornfields.
The Indianapolis 500 and Friday night lights.
Home.
There was something wonderfully absurd about finding it here of all places, across the street from one of Paris’ most famous landmarks and moments before descending into tunnels lined with the remains of six million Parisians.
I came to Paris expecting history, architecture and incredible food.
I didn’t expect to find Indiana.
Yet there it was.
Four thousand miles from home and somehow, in the middle of a Paris heat wave, I found it anyway. If you’re ever in Paris, find a small piece of home at Indiana.