Summer is over. It always surprises me how the transition between seasons never fails to arrive on time. We’d be in the middle of a 40-degree heatwave, in an empty Madrid as locals have completely given themselves over to their vacaciones. It would seem impossible that the next season would remember to take its turn. That shopkeepers would return to take down the “cerrado” signs on their doors and update their Instagram pages with, “Ya estamos de vuelta“. That you and your friends would once again be in town at the same time, making plans. That the nights and eventually even the days would regain that crisp chill in the air. That my boss whom I hadn’t heard from in two months would once again start rolling out Google Sheets of lists and logistics for the coming school year. All of that comes to a gratuitous pause in summer. In a culture that takes rest seriously, the silence really does make it feel like the season could stretch on forever. But come the first of September, like clockwork and in the snap of a finger, everyone and everything turns the page.
Summer is my favorite season. I can say this after three years of living through all four (the Philippines, where I’m from, only has two: rainy and dry). And so I tried to hold onto it as best I could. On the very last day before cloudless, blue skies gave way to rain, I spent the afternoon at the pool with a friend.
I tried my hardest to stay sad about the change—to be dragged kicking and crying through it, like some form of loyalty to the golden days. But I could feel even my own body, mood, and mind being lifted by the drop in temperature. Even I am moving on. Today I looked at cloudy skies, felt the damp wind in my hair, and smiled at the thought of getting my first hot cappuccino in months. I got two invitations to travel in September, but I ignored them. Madrid has come back to life and so have my plans and the version of me that thrives in a landlocked capital city.
Albania, Dubrovnik, Cadiz, Jaen, Barcelona. Their waters felt like the very essence of life just a few weeks ago. But as I write this in my leather jacket, hiding from the wind in a cafe in the barrio of La Latina, my adventures in these places now feel distant. I always crave the sea during summer, but I’ve never made any effort to live near it—not even in cities by the beach. I find that big bodies of water have a relaxing effect that I love in the short-term, but not in the long-term. I need energetic, highly structured, and dynamic environments that require me to be solid, fast, and most importantly, sharp. To some people that might sound stressful, but to me it feels like a potent shot of life. I will go on countless adventures, indiscriminate of landscapes, but concrete jungles are the only places I’ve ever been happy to commit to. And come September, despite myself, I actually feel invigorated to return to these commitments.
But I will miss summer, especially in the dead of winter when I’ll be weighed down by cumbersome layers of fabric.
There’s something about feeling the heat on my skin that makes me come alive and feel golden. I love crystal-clear bodies of water. I love watching bikinis dry on the clothesline as I read a book after a day at the beach.
I love seeing people’s bodies. I’m not even saying this with lust, just a pure appreciation for how people in Europe are at ease with the flesh that they live in. If they have curves, they will work those curves. If they are lean and skinny, they will work that tightness. Women in Spain make it a point to display pride in their bodies, even in winter. It is common here to see the shape of a woman’s legs and a hint of her skin even as temperatures plummet. And once they are no longer limited by the bitter cold, all of that glory breaks loose.
Skin here rarely feels like a show for the other (at least not primarily), or a special occasion that merits the coining of slang terms such as hubadera. Everyone has skin. It is beautiful and normal. I once drew a haphazard picture of myself in a bikini in front of my 4th grade class. I was explaining what they had to do for an activity about clothes vocabulary in English. I realized too late how awkward it was that I, the teacher, was drawing myself in a bikini in front of these children. But no one laughed or reacted. They proceeded to draw themselves in their own outfits for different seasons and occasions. Several girls, following my example, drew themselves in bikinis as well.
Skin is normal and it is worn with ease. That is the first ingredient. The second is personal choice. There are many reasons why someone chooses to wear what they do. Most of the times that I choose not to wear a bra, I do so because I don’t want to sweat through an extra layer of fabric. If I’m traveling, lugging around bags, and rushing to make transfers? No bra. That’s just a waste of underwear; an extra sweaty garment. It makes zero sense to me.
Pleasure and beauty are also reasons. You want to feel yourself. You want to look hot. Whatever the reason is, here choices are worn with complete ownership. If there is pleasure to be had, the person who is first in line for this indulgence is the wearer herself. If a spectator happens to like what they see, that is their happy coincidence. They can let it make their day, but they never forget that they are not the owner. In Madrid, people just get this. Most of the time, no one cares what you wear. And when they notice or are even a bit turned on, they keep walking. They don’t bother you. If someone stops to ask for your number or to flirt with you, they do it in a respectful, non-threatening way. It’s supposedly not a radical concept, the body-owner being the body-owner.
On one of the last days of the heatwave, I caught a glimpse of a woman in my apartment complex, wearing nothing but a pair of cheeky pink panties. She was on her patio, with her back turned towards the building’s interior courtyard, walking around barefoot with her long, brown curls and her curves like it was nothing. All the neighbors’ windows were facing her direction, but she didn’t seem like she was putting on a show. She was just living her life in the day’s chosen garments. She was beautiful.
A few days earlier, I was watching a YouTube video of an apartment tour back in Manila, and they mentioned having opaque blinds so as not to give the neighbors a live show. Once upon a time, I would have been able to relate. But now it struck me as a little over the top. I still care about things like privacy, and so does Europe. In a lot of ways, they are even stricter about it here, especially when it comes to data, of which images are a form. But I’m a lot less uptight about my own skin than I used to be. I am never trying to flash unsuspecting audiences. But if I ever unintentionally am someone’s naked neighbor, I expect them to either move on or to respectfully count their blessings in silence. And I hope I pull it off as well as the woman downstairs did.
All of that goes away in winter. None of us have bodies in winter. It truly is a form of temporary death. Right now it is still hot enough to walk around the house in silk shorts, and to wear flowy floral dresses. The day I slip on pants will be the beginning of the end. Golden, glimmering skin and the scent of freedom will once again be scarce.
And while I enjoy my regular life in Madrid, I know it’s only a matter of time before I start itching to see other places again. Spain has enough holidays to allow travel throughout the year, but no season caters to this like summer. Summer is so indulgent in this sense that it nearly detaches you from reality.
Albania, Dubrovnik, Cadiz, Jaen, Barcelona. They now collectively feel like a hazy dream. But when I try recalling a bit harder, I remember that they were very real. I was there, swimming in their waters, living an extended, alternative life in the sunshine, far away from home.
Te echaré de menos, verano ☀️❤️
Cate
Madrileña from Manila 