Summer's come early to Bar�a and I'm really not impressed.
The whole concept of summer is different here. In the UK it brings up images of mown grass and cricket, throwaway BBQ trays and a few fleeting weeks where you can drink outside.
In Spain, all those things have been happening since April (with the exception of the cricket - Barcelona Cricket Club closed down a few years ago due to lack of interest, although it did have the distinction of being the first foreign team to tour Morocco). And if you think I'm showing off about how long my skin has been browning, now is the time for the weather's revenge.
"The summer" in Spain is about as welcome as a locust's stag weekend - and the reaction is about the same. You batten down the hatches to head for the hills, the house in the country or just anywhere else for the holidays. It's too hot to work in August and the country powers down.
Unfortunately, as I said before, summer's come early and even locals are starting to warp like a wax microwave. It's an average of 35 degrees here - too much for me, though better than in Seville where you'd be lucky to see anything at the lower end of 40. As my dehydrated organs currently resemble Sun Maid's finest, I can indeed confirm that you can have too much of a good thing.
The heat is unrelenting - you can't sleep, you can't walk for long and the day becomes a long cycle of showers and sweating. At least in more humid climes they have the light relief of a tropical shower every now and then. It hasn't rained properly here for weeks and there's no prospect of that changing. "They say it might rain on Thursday," say people hopefully, with the tone of the lottery salesman when he wishes you good luck. Meanwhile, I'm trying to learn raindances. I stand on hilltops with copper rods screaming at the deities. Apparently I resemble a bearded Jean de Florette but I don't know, I haven't seen it. Either way, there's not even a bloody cloud and I'm starting to get desperate.
The only escape valve for Catalunyans (which is why landlocked Madrid is even more unbearable right now) is the Med, and lest we forget, Barcelona is a city with 4.2 km of really good beaches. Which means:
a) funky bars (called 'Chiringitos') on the seafront,
b) topless bathers, and,
c) what, you need more?
The beaches are also the only place to head tonight. As there is a saving grace that comes with the weather: for, when summer is nigh and the sweat glands are pumping, it must also be time for Midsummer's Eve.
The longest day of the year may be the 21st June according to the scientists, but that never stopped the pagans celebrating Litha when they felt like it. Then the Catholic Church then stepped in with its traditional cry of "keep on doing what you were doing - we'll just call it something else" and so was born the Feast of St John the Baptist.
It's a wacky time all over the world and maypoles are often involved. The Lats and Liths jump bonfires, Philipinos dress up their pigs, Connaughtians hit each other with sticks,Venezuelans play the drums and go trancing, Murcia prepares for it by jumping over babies, witches head for the kitchen while old-fashioned horticulturalists turn invisible and giggle at you naked.
Never one to miss out on a good eccentricity, a few decades ago Catalunya apparently confused its public holidays for Panini stickers and swapped the feast of St Joseph in March (when it's cold) for St John (when it's not) so they could spend a day off down the beach. Valencia and the Balearics went with them. Lacking in beaches, the rest of Spain didn't quite get it (and Andalusia spends all its time at the beach anyway) so it remains a firmly local celebration of a pagan tradition/religious celebration of St John, depending on who you talk to.
In northernmost countries, the solstice is a sign that the night has disappeared and that daylight will confuse them as they leave discos at 3. Here it's a sign of little more than the Catalans' deep-seated and stubborn pyromania.
With no Guy Fawkes to lighten the mood, St John's beheading seems sufficient excuse to light fires, run around with sparklers and sell fireworks to kids, to see what they'll do. The answer, unsurprisingly, is that they'll light them, smile sweetly and throw them as near to me as possible. All weekend, the city swims in essence of cordite. All manner of gunpowder treats appear on sale with the availability and legal restraint of a Cheng-Du new year. Dogs howl, cats scream and, with no work the next day, everyone stays out all night. It's a deliberate effort to party even harder than usual. Which means it's going to hurt.
One of the clubs is even opening at 7am with a big name DJ for the 'and all day next-day too!' crowd - but I'm hoping they're just the hardcore. In this weather, the general consensus seems to be to spend the whole celebration near the quiet hush of the Med, among the Brazilean drummers, the 'diablo' fire shows and the copious quantities of booze.
Which means that this evening's festival splits easily into three: the evening is for partying at the beach bars; the night is for trying to drown murderous small children; and the entire following day, naturally, is to be spent sleeping on the beach.
Summer may be painful but it also has its perks. Anyone know the Test Match score?
Posted by Andrew Losowsky at June 23, 2003 07:17 PM | TrackBackAccording to my reference, New York's Central Park has a latitude of 40 47 N whilst Barcelona is a more northerly latitude of 41 24 N. Both seem to have enjoyed 33 degrees today, June 23rd. Americans seem to take the hot weather in their stride, whoever heard of New Yorkers observing a siesta. Perhaps its the more widespread use of air conditioning in offices,homes,on public transport and in cars.
Three are far more children out playing in my street in the summer. I always think this is a good thing, some of my happiest memories as a child were of playing all day out doors in the summer holidays. Nowadays children lead much more sheltered lives, driven to school, unable to travel far by themselves from home, increasingly corralled into supervised safe activities. The summer gives them an opportunity to get out more. A few bad days in September and the habit gets broken and they return to their houses for another six or seven months.
I remember travelling as a tourist through both Spain and Greece I would often come across huge bridges built over what I presume were once substantial rivers. Inevitably the river would be a trickle or perhaps look completely dried up, rocks being the only evidence of what was once a river bed. I never hung around long enough to find out if the river returned in winter or whether it was gone for ever. These sights inevitably prompted thoughts of changing climactic patterns, of the Sahara moving north.
I often wondered what endless bright summer days does to your psyche, for artists like Hockney, painting swimming pools in California when they were brought up in England. One good thing about England is you never know what the weathers going to be like, Winter or summer no chance of scorchio here.
Posted by: Richard Hyett at June 23, 2003 10:59 PMHaving spent 30 summers in Ireland, I can find no reason to complain about the summer in Spain.
It's hot. I live by the beach. I can go swimming in the med. I can get a beer at one of the Xiringuitos. It doesn't rain all the time.
Long live summer in Spain.
Visca Bar�a...Visca el verano!
Posted by: arseblogger at June 25, 2003 11:41 PMYou need to get down to watch the Pakistanis playing cricket in Sant Andreu. I've got a couple of Euros on Spain moving ahead of Holland in the world ranking by 2008
Posted by: Trevor at June 27, 2003 05:42 PMExcuse me, a small correction: We are Catalans, not Catalunyans.
Posted by: The Horror at August 4, 2003 03:51 PM