(This is about Dressing For The Season, as the Spanish tend to do.)
Right, picture this: it’s 23rd November in Spain. The sun is out, the sky’s blue, and every tourist within a 10-mile radius is strutting around like they’re on the Costa del Flamingo in peak August. Meanwhile, the locals — and the long-term British expats who now consider 17°C to be “brass monkeys weather” — are layered up like they’re preparing for a trek across the Arctic tundra.
It’s one of the great sights of winter here. You’ll nip out for a coffee and there they are: holiday Brits. Shorts. T-shirts. Flip-flops slapping away like a pair of wet haddocks. Skin the colour of freshly boiled ham. Absolutely buzzing that it’s “not cold at all, actually.” They’re stood outside a bar at 10am with a San Miguel, telling everyone who’ll listen that it’s “warmer than back home, mate!”
Then you’ve got the other Brits — the ones who’ve lived here a few years and have gone full Spanish in winter. Completely assimilated. They’ve forgotten what a real British winter feels like and now firmly believe that anything under 20°C is the beginning of the Ice Age. You’ll spot them shuffling along the paseo in puffer jackets, scarves wrapped up to their eyeballs, gloves on, complaining that their bones hurt because it’s “so damp today.” These are the same people who once mocked Spaniards for wearing coats when it was “only 15 degrees”! Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
And the Spaniards? Don’t even get them started. The moment the thermometer dips below 18°C, the country collectively declares: “Ya es invierno.” Out come the woolly hats, the boots, and the sort of thick winter coats that would withstand a blizzard in the Pyrenees. You’re sweating just looking at them. They’re shivering like extras in a documentary about penguins.
Meanwhile, round the corner, some bloke from Manchester is still walking down the street in a T-shirt and shorts, licking an ice cream, absolutely baffled as to why everyone looks like they’re preparing for Operation Frostbite.
Honestly, winter in Spain isn’t about weather. It’s about identity.
New arrivals? Summer mode.
Fully integrated expats? Human burritos.
Spaniards? Winter soldiers.
And the best part? You can tell exactly how long someone’s lived here just by their outfit. Think of it like tree rings, but with clothing.
So yes, while Spain enjoys its “winter” — a season which is basically spring with mild attitude problems — we Brits are out here showcasing the full evolution of climate adaptation. From flip-flop-flapping holidaymakers to cardigan-clutching veterans of the Costa, it’s a beautiful, ridiculous sight.
And if you ever want a laugh, just stand outside any café terrace between now and around mid-January, cappuccino in hand, and watch the annual migration of the shorts-in-winter British tourist. Honestly, David Attenborough would have a field day.
