It’s summer, and from what I hear from many of my friends outside the Oregon coast, it’s been a hot one.
I remember hot summers. Probably the hottest was the summer I spent in Madrid, Spain, with my father, sister, and best friend. It was 1992, the summer of the World’s Fair in Sevilla and the Summer Olympics in Barcelona. We traveled a lot that summer, but my strongest memory is of passing out on the escalator in a metro station in Madrid. I’ve never handled extreme heat well, and it was 110 degrees that day. The metro wasn’t much cooler, even though it was underground, and it had no air conditioning. Needless to say, our plans for the day were derailed by my fainting. Although, thanks to one aggressive Spanish taxi driver, our adventures were far from over. But that’s another story.