Let me tell you a little bit about Spanish heat.
When I arrived in Córdoba at 5pm on a Sunday, I went straight to the main square. There was no one there. NO ONE. No businesses open, no small children playing, no elderly people giving me side-eye. And then I stood outside for longer than a minute and realized why. It was a physically painful realization.
I have bought a fan, an umbrella, sunscreen and a hat, but I still refuse to pay for the one euro hostel breakfast. You’ll never get me, suckers!
I wake up and sweat drops of extra-virgin olive oil.
I retain the will to survive only so I can wreak my revenge on whomever chose to build a city somewhere so goddamn hot (the Romans? The Visigoths? The Moors? This city is so multi-cultural).
I paid 30 euros for the Arabic baths “for the cultural experience”; just kidding, so I could soak in a cold pool for three hours surrounded by couples making out. No regrets!
Whether or not the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain, the temperature of said rain is still a pain and I maintain the right to complain. It’s as hot as Bahrain.
I interpreted the siesta as the right to nap from 2-8pm. I am become Spanish, sleeper of afternoons.
Post siesta, I drink approximately five cups of tinto de verano (sweet summer wine for a sweet summer child). Possibly just for the ice that comes with it.
You win Spain, you win.