Siesta or sloth

I’ve been here over three weeks now and I still haven’t acclimatised to the heat.

It’s not a topic that will get much sympathy from anyone in northern Europe, although I hear the sun is rumoured to have recently come out for 5 minutes in Woking.

Here, the daily 12-hour baking seems unrelenting. The deeper we plunge into the infierno (hell) of summer, the worse it gets. It’s taking some getting used to – not just the heat, but the way it forces you to adapt your lifestyle.

In the UK, where (for most of the year) daylight hours are rarer than hen’s teeth, I run around trying to make the most of my time. Try running around here, and you’ll break into an instant sweat.

The sun forces you to live at a more relaxed pace (anyone who knows me well will doubtless reckon this is a good thing). Some afternoons, it’s so impossibly warm that lazing in a darkened room is as much as you can manage. In my first week, my language classes were conveniently in the afternoon, meaning I could find shelter in the air-conditioned inner sanctum of the school.

Recently I haven’t had this luxury. In general, air conditioning (particularly in private homes) is far less common than in the US. I think this is a good thing, though. Constantly changing temperature between blast furnace heat and a chilly 16 degrees never does your hypothalamus any favours.

Nevertheless with only six weeks to get under the skin of this city, this country, its people and its language, I have to work fast. But it can still feel like I’m not making good use of my time here. Every day I walk the precarious tightrope of energy level management; do too much and I risk utter exhaustion. It’s simply impossible to spend all day on your feet, running around in the sunshine.

As a solution, I’ve started giving in to the temptation of the siesta... the first step on the slippery slope to a destroyed body clock, no doubt. I’m far from having perfected the art, but so far I think the optimal length is around 2 hours. I figure that the siesta exists for a reason – living the Spanish way (up early and late to bed) is impossible without one.

The heat is as dry as a sauna, so madrileños are mercifully spared the perpetual stickiness of more humid climes. But it still saps energy, traps you indoors, and obliges you to keep your lips permanently glued to bottles of cold water. I even bought a sun hat this weekend, in Europe’s largest flea market, ‘El Rastro’. Apparently I look like an extra from a 90s boyband. Drastic steps.

I’m adapting to this slower rhythm of life, but only time will tell if I find the perfect balance before I leave.

Less rambling and more scribbling to come...

Spanish of the Day...

no tener pelos en la lengua - to be a straight talker. (Lit. 'not to have hairs on your tongue'.)

un quisquilloso - someone who is picky, moany or pessimistic (particularly relating to work).