We are all too comfortable. Thus reads a note in my notes app from the 8th of January, 2014. What was I doing that day? Nothing, according to my calendar. I was philosophising, thinking about how we tend to tiptoe around uncomfortable issues in “polite conversation”. I was angry that avoiding these difficult topics can lead to societal stagnation. Big words indeed. Too big for a Monday evening, so today I’ll be talking not about abstract comfort, but about physical comfort.

I am most comfortable at this time of year. It’s sunny, but still cool. There’s no rain to soak me or wind to ruin my hairdo. I am a child of the north of England, so I can’t deal with much heat. Which is why I must have listened to my own advice when Sara suggested we head back down to Alicante. Maybe I was feeling too comfortable under my air conditioning unit in Madrid. Perhaps the sticky humidity of the eastern coast was just what I thought I needed.

As with last time, I had a lovely time with Sara. We ate delicious seafood, sampled plenty of cocktails, and even had time to visit Tabarca, a car-free island just off the coast. It was great, but it was all overshadowed by the oppressive clamminess of the Alicante summer. Every step outside of the hotel meant relentless chafing, and every bite of food was followed by wiping beads of sweat from my forehead.

Sometimes, I feel fully integrated here in Spain, but then my body will interpose itself and remind me that it’s Anglo-Saxon blood that runs through these overheating veins. I can’t deal with the heat like Sara can.

But the beauty of retrospect is that time heals all ills, and in doing so, it has successfully stripped all of this discomfort from my memory. I now only think of the lovely restaurants, late-night chats, and our long walk around Tabarca. I smile as I recall our first evening, when we left the hotel and I suddenly panicked, thinking that it was already getting late and we’d no place booked for a meal, to which Sara replied that she’d already gone ahead and reserved a table for us nearby. She can read my mind.

Maybe 19-year-old me was right. Maybe I am too comfortable. Maybe I should delve into the heat of the Costa Blanca a bit more.