Heat

When I was really little, I would scream my head off if the temperature of my surroundings was one degree hotter than what I liked. I think that now JesusAllahBuddah is making me serve my punishment for torturing the poor souls who had to deal with the screaming.

It's hot as Satan's armpit after a 4 hour work-out here in Alcala de Henares, minus the humidity.

Pardon the graphic description.

This week, we got up to 50 degrees Celsius. In American speaking, that's 122 degrees Fahrenheit. Granted, if you're from Arizona, you're used to that. In fact, I thought that as a sort-of Alabama native, I would know how to handle my heat.

My experiences with the measly 100 degree (37.7 to you Celsius people) 100% humidity have lead me down a path of deceit.

Mornings used to be pleasant. Now that July's hit, my 1.5 mile (2.4 kilometer) morning walk to school has me covered in a sheen of sweat that makes me question why I even bothered showering and why I didn't think to bring a bottle of ice cold water? One morning, I'll remember...

Not that I love love LOVE air conditioning. My ideal temperature is around 75 degrees. I must also emphasize how much I hate the abusive 60 degrees at which most American locations set their thermostats. But I feel you can agree that once the temperature creeps up into the mid-hundreds, it's time to re-evaluate the necessity of this invention.

Ironically, the Spanish don't seem to believe in ceiling fans.

My way to beat the heat: staying in the pool, which my host family claims is still too cold to use. Lies. 50 degree water is like Nirvana in my dry-heat hell.