Yesterday we had 18º C. When I took Pepi for a walk in the morning I realised it was too cold for flip-flops. So I put on a real pair of shoes and spent a lovely summer day under light grey skies. The evening news bemoaned the absence of "real summer". The desperate meteorologist was telling us to brace up - heat was not to be expected in the next few days, and as likely as not, we would have to put up with mild weather until the end of the season. They didn't predict torrential rains or frosty mornings that would damage the crops. No, the bottom line of this tragedy - delivered in a morose, mournful tone - was that instead of the tropical 35º C, the temperatures were to stay closer to the pleasantly warm 25º C.
Apparently, the general public regards the global warming as something of a blessing. Like there's something seriously wrong with having to put on a light sweater after sundown in July. Unless you're bathing in sweat from May to September, you're not having fun. You can't call it summer. I remember seeing a TV report about German holiday-makers in Mallorca; the reporter was interviewing people on the beach and asking them if they were using suntan lotion. When they asked a young man whether he was afraid of skin cancer, he merrily replied: "Scheiss egal, hauptsache Urlaub!"*
Am I to be considered a party-pooper if I'm unwilling to bake till melanoma? Is it possible that only few among us are not willing to live in a sauna for months on end? That we prefer not to be surrounded by smelly, damp people in public places? Where does all this masochism come from? Since when is it uncool to wish to maintain a certain bodily dignity?
The heat fetish is pushing me to the opposite extreme. I dream of Finland. I find pleasure in watching movies set in Antarctica or the Himalayas. And needless to say, I'm relieved and overjoyed by the prospect of a cool summer.
* It doesn't sound nearly as idiotic in any other language. Let's say, "I don't give a shit. Holiday is all that counts."
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