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.

Let it snow(ish)

I’m writing this from my living room in Granada, the electric heater blowing warm air down on me as I sit on the sofa, bundled up with tights under my jeans and a heavy sweatshirt. Our table wears its three layers of winter tablecloths, and underneath the space heater is chugging away. The windows are fogged up, but if I get up close or crack one open—as my flatmate did just moments ago—I can see the sleet, yes, sleet falling outside.

Welcome to southern Spain in the winter.

The other day I received an email from my best friend’s father, and he said, and I quote: “Baltimore is rainy and cold today-I’m picturing [you] warm and sunny in the south of Spain. You needn’t correct me if that’s wrong.”

I won’t correct him (though he may be reading this, and if so, I offer my apologies), but I think that you all have the right to know the truth: Granada in the winter is not warm, nor exclusively sunny. This city, located in a valley surrounded by the Sierra Nevada, is known for the most extreme temperatures in Spain, according to my flatmate. In the summer, I’m told, the heat is often unbearable, and in the winter, it’s not uncommon for temperatures to dip below freezing.

Though the weather here is positively mild when compared to the Midwest or northern Europe, the almost universal lack of central heating does require some rather creative solutions to the cold. One is the use of long, heavy tablecloths, under which hide legs and space heaters. Sometimes, the heater is built into the table. I’m also a fan of the electric blanket (perfect when switched on fifteen minutes before bedtime), and have taken to going for a run when I need to get the blood running to my frozen hands and feet. When you add to these the ordinary techniques—coats worn inside, tights or leggings layered under pants, laptops lying on one’s lap, cramming onto small sofas with three of your closest friends, imbibing a constant stream of hot beverages—it makes for a rather comfortable winter, overall. Still, waiting while the laundry hangs to dry is a rather long and laborious process.

The sun’s supposed to reemerge tomorrow, and by midweek the temperature’s predicted to reach fifty again: more normal weather for December in Granada. Until then, however, I’ll keep layering on the clothes and tablecloths, and hope that the freezing rain doesn’t make the paving stones too slippery. You can bet they’re not salting the pavement.