Barcelona is a city that knows how to turn up the heat. In the clubs. In the politics. In the football. But come summer, it turns it up a bit too much – like the uncle at a wedding disco who takes off his shirt halfway through “Livin’ on a Prayer”.

There’s hot, and then there’s Barcelona hot. A kind of heat that doesn’t politely warm your cheeks, but marches straight in, sits on your chest, and refuses to leave. It’s the kind of heat that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made, especially the one that involved moving to the Catalan capital in 1995.

Locals are used to it. They’ve been heat-trained since birth. You’ll see them in long trousers and leather shoes, calmly sipping vermut at a terrace café while you look on enviously in shorts and a damp vest, melting like a candle someone left on a windowsill.

The problem is, Barcelona summers don’t just arrive. They ambush you. One day........

© Catalonia Today