Nothing to do with it

Writing in the local paper. Local Issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

Just as the bartender put down our cañas, my companion somewhat skeptically asked, “But how is it possible that you, a Canadian, are complaining about the cold here in Spain?” And he was right on two fronts, I am Canadian and indeed I had been complaining about the cold, but I persevered, “After having lived abroad so long, I’m not sure how much ‘Canadian’ is left in me but even that last little bit is sick and tired of winter, especially as it is technically now spring!” A temporary truce was called when our tapas was served and as I enjoyed my morcilla (blood sausage), I got ready for the next volley. “Really, down here we can’t complain. Look at how they getting punsished just north of here in the mountains and beyond.” And once again, he was right, the images on TV were terrible reminders of my frozen childhood back in Canada. But then I thought, even though I share some empathy for those suffering the wet feet, frozen fingers and slippery streets, that’s one of the biggest reasons that I was standing here in Caceres and the bar and not shoveling snow elsewhere, I hate the cold and long ago decided to avoid it as much as possible. The fact that it was cold elsewhere really had no bearing on the fact that it was still cold here in the run up to Semana Santa (Easter Holy Week) and it shouldn’t be. For someone like me who would be happy to be in sandals 365 days of the year, the few months a year of cold that we do have here in Caceres was dragging on too long and now the added travails of the forthcoming incense fogs and suddenly cut streets paraded by hooded penitents was worsening my mood, no matter how good the morcilla was. “First of all the rain, then the cold and now the crowds of suddenly fervent people who lose all semblance of Christian goodness when you try cross a procession on your way home, it almost makes me want to swear,” but then I remembered that the Spanish courts were investigating people with renewed vigour for blaspheming and saying things like that and stopped short. “You would have been killed in those Arab countries that you lived in for saying something like that,” smirked my companion as he ordered another round. And once again, he was right but that’s just the point. Not only had I chosen to live somewhere without snow but also somewhere where I thought you could speak your mind. Comparisons can be odorous and in these cases, odious.