December arrives in Málaga and the thermometer, with its usual cheek, reads eighteen degrees. In any civilised place up north that would be spring. Here it is a Siberian cold snap that justifies bringing out the puffer jacket, the scarf and that Arctic-survivor attitude we love so much.
The spectacle in the street deserves anthropological study. Along the same pavement walk, in opposite directions, two civilisations. The local is wrapped up as if about to climb an eight-thousander: hat, gloves, three layers and a face of pure suffering. Beside him, a tourist from central Europe strolls in shorts and a vest, radiant, hunting for a sunny terrace to have an aperitif.
They pass. They look at each other. Neither understands the other. The foreigner thinks we’re mad. We think he’s the mad one, about to catch pneumonia, poor thing. And both of us, deep down, are right, because cold, like almost everything in this life, is a matter of expectations.
So no, don’t ask me to give up my scarf in December just because the sun is splendid. One has one’s dignity and one’s inner thermostat, calibrated for eternal summer. Let the Nordic enjoy his short sleeves. I’ll wrap up, complain about the cold at eighteen degrees and feel perfectly content. It is my right as a Malagueño.
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