Summer in the City

In the winter, swathed in blankets and layered clothes, it's easy to forget that Granada is in one of Europe's southernmost regions. But then May rolls around, and the meters-thick snow on the Sierra begins to disappear, the scarves are packed up, and short sleeves and sandals make their first appearances. By June, the heat has come to stay. From nine in the morning until nine in the evening, temperatures hover above 30 degrees (85 F), and even at night the heat can still seem stifling. In the afternoon, the city is dead, the true utility of the siesta finally apparent: when it's close to 40 (100 F), all you can do is sprawl sweating on the sofa, hoping that the open window will catch a breeze. The few people who are out cling to the shadows like vampires, cooling themselves with fans and lingering before the air conditioned storefronts. All is quiet; all is still.


In the heat, social taboo fades. Bare legs make an appearance (and not just among the teenage crowd), young men sweat shirtless on balconies, and flip-flops (once relegated to the beach) become the default footwear. Among females, attire can perhaps be best summarized by the Regina Spektor lyric: "Summer in the city / means cleavage, cleavage, cleavage." Propriety is a word gathering cobwebs in the back of granadino brains, to be pulled out and dusted off in mid-September.

Until then, there's not much to do but sit back, sip a cold drink, and, when the sun starts making its downward slope toward the horizon, take a leisurely stroll to the nearest ice cream shop and get yourself a scoop. You'll be in good company.