Does it get any hotter than this?

Good day, everyone!

Bella here, reporting barely alive from hot, sunny Spain.

Can anyone say sweltering heat which leaves you dehydrated and one step away from heat stroke?

Whoever said it was sunny in Spain was not jesting, folks.

I’m certain no one, and I mean no one, suffers from a vitamin D deficiency in this country.

You’d think throwing on a hat would help, but the sun is so bright, that a full blown Mexican sombrero wouldn’t make a bit of a difference.

Most days I want to walk through the streets with an open beach umbrella, and if I hit people on the head or poke their eyes out, then it’s their fault.

After all, they should be walking with an open umbrella of their own.

When the lovely Spanish ladies Señora Allnut and Sacramento said it was hot here, they weren’t kidding.

However, I hold them responsible for not warning me to bring an oxygen tank which would allow me to walk more than five steps without feeling like I’m going to pass out.

And given Javier Bardem is not available to give me mouth to mouth resuscitation, this is a catastrophe I want to avoid until he is located.

Hence, the only thing I can do is walk around with a liter of water, a fan, and an ID bracelet.

After all, the hospital staff should know whom to contact in the event I fall and bonk my head, become delirious, or start hallucinating that I’m in the Sahara desert.

The police should also have emergency contact information in case I start removing my clothes to streak through tourist populated streets.

As for the Spanich locals, I’m certain they’ll laugh from their shaded doorways, having come to expect this type of behavior from amateur visitors who cave under the heat.

So what’s a woman to do given these circumstances?


Walk around with a liter of sangria water, the European emergency number 112 on speed dial, and huge Jackie O. sunglasses.

Because don’t think for one minute you can leave the premises without a pair of shades.

Unless you want to be blinded by the sun, develop permanent wrinkles from squinting, or walk around with only one eye open.

(The later allowing the non-working eye to take breaks.)

Yes, Spain is not for the faint of heart.

It’s hot, there’s no humidity in the air, and did I mention it’s hot?

But it’s beautiful.

And sometimes, that’s all that matters.

Where are you spending your summer?

Wherefore art thou Romeo?

Ever since I read Romeo and Juliet, I’ve been enamored with balconies.

I have yet to pass a beautiful balcony and not think of how Romeo and Juliet exchanged love vows while he stood in the orchard beneath her window, and she stood on her tiny balcony.

It matters not how small or large it is; a balcony is always cozy.

Perhaps this is why it’s the chosen place for men to serenade women, for couples to exchange declarations of love, or for lovers to conduct their trysts.

Yes, there’s something utterly romantic about a secluded space that faces the east or the west, and where people come together to rejoice in their love or intimacy.

I think this is so because balconies are a place where one can escape to.

It’s where I go with my cup of coffee when the noise inside is too overwhelming or when I want to be alone.

Balconies can also be a place where beautiful things grow.

Many people take pleasure in decorating their balconies with assorted blooms. This makes them a lovely place where one can retreat to after a hard day of work.

Moreover, plenty of people sit on their balconies to people watch or soak up the sun’s rays.

I’m convinced it’s the best room in the house.

It can provide you with a great view or it can overlook your neighbor’s yard.

Either way, it inspires drama.

You can stand on your balcony, close your eyes and feel the sun and wind on your face, or you can look down at the hottie who lives two floors below and ogle him as he sunbathes.

It’s a win win.

This afternoon I went around the neighborhood snapping photos of balconies that caught my fancy.

When I got home, I showed them to the Significant Other and said, “Balconies are so romantic! Do you know how many beautiful and passionate scenes have taken place on balconies?”

And he replied, “Do you know how many people have plunged to their death from high-rise balconies? Or how much bird poop lands on people who sit on their balconies? Or how traumatic it is to witness the fat guy who lives on the first floor sunning himself in a Speedo?”

It’s official. The man doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.

Do you have a balcony, and if so, do you love it as much as I love mine?

What do I spy with my little eye?

As I walked Roxy this morning, I was delighted by the flowers of the neighborhood gardens.

Everywhere I looked, there were bursts of color.

Eager to share this with all of you, I quickly made my way home to grab my camera.

Upon returning however, it dawned on me that some people might not like the fact that I was lurking taking pictures of their homes.

Nevertheless, spurred by the fact that there are no privacy laws in this country, I snapped photos of the gardens and façades I found to be most charming.

And more than once, I found myself saying, “Oh my goodness!” out loud.

Here’s what prompted this reaction:

However, while the phrase “Oh my goodness!” can be used to express delight, it can also be used to express dismay or shock.

Here’s one of the gardens that caused me dismay:

And here’s something that caused me to say, “Oh my goodness!” a little louder than I intended:

The moral to this story? With the good comes the bad.

When was the last time you saw something that made you say, “Oh my goodness!”?