They’re tough times for those of us who love to party. Turns out, the days are now insanely long, and the nights super short, thanks to some summer solstice nonsense that sounds to me like the first course at a pretentious concept restaurant. Summer’s kicked off, there’s still cold beer in the fridge, I’ve got multiple matches a day from the FIFA Club World Cup 2025, and zero desire to work. Don’t expect to find that snarky columnist who loves tearing into everything around him today. I’m feeling weirdly conciliatory. Just bought myself a straw hat, which makes me feel oddly connected to politicians who show up at summer festivals decked out in them, like they’re all farmers. It’s their way of telling the masses they’re “just like us,” even though everyone knows only fools, postmodern dandies, and certain posers shield themselves from the sun with a straw hat. No big deal. The only thing that matters now is the weather forecast.
If I had a ton of money, I’d pack my bags, buy a farm in some remote corner of the U.S., and spend my days hunting raccoons and strumming country songs under a tree. But since the quietest rural spots in America are crawling with millionaire bohemian writers annoying everyone with their banjos, real estate prices are through the roof, and raccoons are apparently endangered, I’m stuck with my trusty straw hat, travelling through Spain like a fish in water. At least this way, I can find my towel when I come out of the sea with salt stinging my eyes. Mine’s the one with a straw hat on it, an iPad hidden inside, and some idiot thief stealing the hat.
Summer has special charm, despite how ordinary it feels to strip down, throw on loud-colored clothes, flop onto the sand, and sweat alongside a bunch of other people doing the same. Still, the sunsets are gorgeous, and even as a journalist and writer—aka permanently “no vacation” status—sometimes the afternoons give you a moment to realize life’s slipping away slowly. No need to get deep or make a drama out of it. The real worry would be if the planet stopped spinning. I guess the sudden jolt would throw everything into chaos, like when a bus slams on the brakes and catches you glued to your phone with both hands, teeth nowhere to be found. We’d probably end up living in China, where our politicians would end up dazed and confused, realizing everything’s banned except for panda bears, who can do whatever the hell they want.
My American friends say Spain’s the only country in the world that completely shuts down from July to September. I detect a hint of jealousy. I doubt the vibe’s much different on Jamaica’s beaches, where hippie communes have been stoned since Bob Marley’s first single. Not that “peace & love” does much for me—I’ve always thought smoking a joint at breakfast contributes about zilch to world peace—but it’s true we get an unfair rap for how we do summer. I’ve been to Italy, Portugal, and France in the summer, and it’s not like our neighbors are dropping dead from overexertion in the first half of August.
In France, they throw these awful music festivals where they blow the French budget on hiring the tackiest stars in the music universe to play terrible music and then spout some nonsense about Donald Trump. The French are naturally cheesy. The language doesn’t help. Their summer festivals feel like they’re organized by a Parisian patisserie and sponsored by a love-lock manufacturer.
In Italy, medieval-themed festivals take over everything when summer hits. I guess everyone leans into what they’re good at, and those tourist-packed events make it super easy for Venice’s pickpocket academy to do their noble work, the true engine of the Mediterranean economy.
As for Portugal, I don’t remember much. The beer was too good, the girls didn’t stand out, I was sleepy, and it was hot as hell.
Europeans love to rag on Spaniards for our reputation as party animals, but that’s exactly why they flock to our coasts every summer to blow their savings. And no, we won’t hold it against them. We’ll keep welcoming them with open wallets, at least until we find Venezuelan-sized oil wells under our waters or come up with a less honest way to make cash than scamming tourists at a beach bar with a trap-paella—which, by the way, they totally deserve for dressing in ways they’d never dare to back home. We call the cleverest tricks for fleecing foreign tourists “picaresque,” because it sounds aristocratic. But we shouldn’t be ashamed: the Italians, for example, just call it the tourism industry. And that’s where all their charm as a vacation destination lies. Well, their ruins might have something to do with it too. But who cares? Italy could have guys with sticks beating my legs as I walk through Rome, and I’d still love Italy.
In short, summer’s here, and we’ve got every reason to be happy. This is what’s quintessentially Spanish, and for one of the few good things we’ve got, we should spread it worldwide. Our thing is the Sanfermines (running from bulls), verbenas (food, drinks, and pasodobles in my grandparents’ time, now it’s cocaine, fights, and reggaeton), and siestas without alarm clocks. Now it’s time for politicians to head to their fancy summer homes so we can breathe, though all of Spain’s hoping Sánchez takes a vacation to prison this time. Either way, as long as politicians are busy obsessing over planting rose bushes in their gardens or the pool temperature, they won’t think up new ways to screw us over. And in September, we’ll get the great economic recovery. Like every year. But honestly, who cares? It’s summer.
Translated by Joel Dalmau.