Living in Spain in August: 24 Hours, Two Pomeranians and One Electrifying Gym Disaster

Michel attempts to conquer the Costa del Sol before September—only to discover that surviving a Spanish summer requires less rushing, more poco a poco and absolutely no Andalucian adolescent with access to the national grid.

Why 24 Hours Are Simply Not Enough

Someone, somewhere, needs to reorganise time.

A week of seven days is hopelessly inadequate, and 24 hours in a day is frankly designed for people with no ambition.

I need at least 36 hours, a nine-day week, roller skates and three fully functioning Michels.

Michel Number One can conquer the world by September.

Michel Number Two can deal with the painters, the pool man and the seemingly endless procession of handymen who announce, “Llegamos a las diez,” but fail to specify which day, month or year.

Michel Number Three can stand at the front door, handbag ready, shouting:

Nobody will listen, obviously.

This is Spain.

Tranquila, Michel. Mañana.

The most dangerous word in the Spanish language is not peligro.

It is mañana.

It might mean tomorrow. It might mean next Thursday. It might mean never. Quite often, it means: “Please stop asking because I am having coffee.”

Living in Spain in August Requires a Different Operating System

August in Spain is not simply another month.

It is a completely different operating system.

Spain does not work through August. Spain survives it—beautifully.

The shutters come down, the fans go up and sensible people retreat into the shade. Lunch becomes longer, clothes become smaller and nobody willingly begins anything energetic while the sun is directly overhead.

At two o’clock, the streets empty.

The blinds close.

The dogs disappear beneath tables.

Even the flies look exhausted.

The Spanish understand that August is not the time to fight the heat. You surrender to it with dignity.

You move slowly. You drink water. You eat late. You conduct important business beneath a sombrilla with an ice-cold drink in your hand.

If something can wait until September, it waits until September.

And if it cannot wait until September, someone will explain that it must wait until September anyway.

“Hace demasiado calor, mujer.”

It is far too hot, woman.

Meanwhile, the mad Englishwoman is outside at midday, marching across a car park with two Pomeranians, a handbag, a Red Bull Light and a list of 47 urgent tasks.

Less Phileas Fogg, More Poco a Poco

I know I said I wanted to pack as many adventures as possible into my new life, but I am beginning to make Phileas Fogg look unambitious.

He had 80 days to travel around the world.

I am attempting to do it between breakfast and my first appointment.

Perhaps the August heat has slowed everyone else down.

It has not caught up with me yet.

I am still flying around the Costa del Sol, powered by caffeine, lipstick and a wildly unrealistic to-do list.

The roads are packed, the roundabouts have become survival challenges and finding a parking space is less likely than spotting Antonio Banderas outside Lidl shouting:

By the time I find somewhere to park, I have crossed three municipal boundaries and could legally claim to be on a mini-break.

But despite clients, builders, dogs, traffic and my plan to conquer the world before September, I recently had a foolish thought:

I should start taking care of myself.

Teddy and Gracie looked horrified.

They had assumed my health regime of Red Bull Light, tea and custard creams had been officially approved by the World Health Organisation.

Following my recent birthday, that famous line came back to me:

Yes, I am sixty-four.

And what I really need is more time, a new set of knees and somebody to feed me biscuits while I lie down.

Nevertheless, I asked for recommendations for local gyms.

Within minutes, I was inundated.

Until then, I had assumed all gyms were the same: slightly smelly chambers of pain filled with machinery designed by people who had suffered terribly at school and wanted revenge.

How wrong I was.

Welcome to the Costa del Sol Catwalk Gym

The first was what I would call a conventional gym—although there was nothing remotely conventional about the people inside it.

Everyone looked ready for a night out in Puerto Banús.

The Lycra had been stretched into places I did not believe were legally accessible—and that was just the men.

The women were immaculate: full make-up, perfect hair, designer gymwear and stomachs so flat you could serve tapas on them.

No wrinkles.

No stretch marks.

No cellulite.

Nada de nada.

I searched everywhere for a normal thigh.

Not one.

They all smelled fabulous too. Not a trace of old sweat. Just clouds of Chanel, Dior and whatever fragrance makes a man smell as though he owns a yacht.

Most astonishingly, nobody appeared to be exercising.

They were photographing themselves exercising.

Every machine had its own mobile-phone film crew. Every mirror had someone posing in front of it.

Phones were raised everywhere.

One young man spent so long finding the correct angle that I believe his telephone completed more repetitions than he did.

A woman carefully adjusted her ponytail, sucked in her stomach, lifted one buttock towards Marbella and photographed herself holding a dumbbell.

She then put the dumbbell down and left.

Entrenamiento terminado.

Workout complete.

My Changing-Room Photograph Was Purely Evidence

I was the only person taking a photograph in the changing room—but mine was certainly not destined for Instagram.

It was evidence.

Purely evidence.

If I were to depart this world after my gym session, I wanted my surviving relatives to have proof of my final known whereabouts.

The photograph would establish that I had entered the building voluntarily, wearing sensible footwear and with my lipstick fully intact.

Yes, I knew better than to wear high heels.

But the lipstick stayed.

There are limits, darling.

More importantly, the photograph would prove that it was not the Red Bull Light, the caffeine or the custard creams that had finally carried me off.

It was the supercharged, Endesa-shareholding Andalucian adolescent, armed with a wet straitjacket, several live wires and unrestricted access to the national grid.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

That ordeal was still to come.

First, I had to accept that I would never achieve the look of the beautiful people in Gym Number One—not even if I travelled back 30 years, married the world’s greatest plastic surgeon and spent the intervening decades living on lettuce leaves in La Zagaleta.

So I moved on to something more modern.

An electric gym.

EMS training.

Electricity and exercise together.

What could possibly go wrong?

Enter the Endesa-Shareholding Andalucian Adolescent

I arrived during the midday heat because only an Englishwoman and her two mad Pomeranians would go out in the full August sun to be electrocuted voluntarily.

Los ingleses están completamente locos.

Waiting for me was a very handsome Andalucian boy.

I use the word “boy” deliberately.

He looked about fourteen. I glanced around for his mother, his schoolbag and possibly a responsible adult.

There was nobody.

Just me, the adolescent and enough electrical wiring to power Fuengirola during feria week.

His voice had only recently applied for permission to break, yet this child appeared to have been placed in charge of my entire nervous system.

He handed me an electronic questionnaire.

Of course it was electronic.

Nothing in this place was going to function without being plugged into the mains.

I signed various documents, presumably confirming that if I exploded, the management could keep my Lycra suit.

My young torturer then handed me a black, skin-tight outfit fresh from its packet.

I put it on and returned looking like a malnourished cat burglar preparing to rob a very small bank.

Then the real fun began.

Wet Lycra, Live Wires and Twenty Squats

He wrapped wet strips around my body.

A combination rarely recommended by sensible adults.

Then came a tight jacket.

Then another layer.

Then what appeared to be a damp straitjacket.

By this stage, I could barely move my arms, legs or eyebrows.

Finally, he attached the wires.

I immediately thought of Frankenstein.

Not the monster.

The doctor.

At least he had qualifications.

My Andalucian adolescent plugged me into the machine with all the confidence of a major Endesa shareholder and announced:

This was a lie.

The first electrical pulse shot through me and rearranged several internal organs.

“¿Bien?” he asked brightly.

No, cariño. Not bien.

He turned up the power.

I began to wonder whether the meter outside was spinning backwards and providing free electricity to Mijas.

Then came the first instruction:

Twenty squats.

By Squat Number Three, my nails were threatening to spring from my fingers and embed themselves in the ceiling.

By Squat Number Seven, I could hear my ancestors.

By Squat Number Twelve, I was prepared to confess to crimes I had not committed.

Then came lunges.

“Pierna derecha. Pierna izquierda. ¡Vamos, Michel!”

Right leg. Left leg. Come on, Michel!

¿Vamos dónde?

Where exactly were we going?

Because my legs had already left without me.

Next came waist twists, arm raises and a sequence of movements apparently designed to discover which part of my body would detach first.

Every time I thought I was becoming accustomed to the sensation, the supercharged, Endesa-owning Andalucian adolescent smiled sweetly and increased the voltage.

“Un poquito más.”

A little more.

Never Trust “Un Poquito Más”

There are three Spanish phrases no Englishwoman should ever trust:

It does not hurt.

It always hurts.

The ordeal lasted 35 minutes and removed approximately 35 months from my life.

Eventually, the electricity stopped.

My young torturer looked completely refreshed.

I looked like I had been rescued from a faulty sunbed during a thunderstorm.

In his innocent Andalucian tones, he asked:

“¿Estás bien, Michel? Do you think you can do this every week?”

When I finally regained control of my tongue, I replied:

I took one final photograph.

Again, not for social media.

Purely proof.

If I were to depart this world during the night, I wanted my relatives to know precisely what had happened.

It was not caffeine.

It was not the Red Bull Light.

It was not even 64 years of custard creams.

It was a supercharged Andalucian adolescent with a wet straitjacket and access to the national grid.

In August, Do It the Spanish Way

As I staggered outside, I met a lovely Spanish couple.

They looked at me with genuine concern.

The señora crossed herself.

The señor appeared to be searching for the nearest defibrillator.

“¿Necesitas un médico?” they asked.

Do you need a doctor?

“No,” I replied bravely. “Solo un café.”

They stared at me.

Clearly, they thought caffeine was the last thing I needed.

Then they explained what the Spanish already know and the English refuse to learn:

When living in Spain in August, you do it the Spanish way.

You do not charge through midday as though you are being pursued by Interpol.

You do not schedule 14 appointments, chase three tradesmen, visit a gym and attempt to reorganise your entire life before lunch.

You retreat.

You rest.

You wait until the sun has stopped treating the Costa del Sol like the surface of a grill.

After seven, you emerge looking refreshed—not like a boiled prawn carrying a handbag.

You take a gentle walk along the paseo.

You greet everyone.

You stop to discuss the weather, the neighbours, the government and at least four different women called María.

You walk another 50 metres.

You stop again.

You complain about the traffic, the tourists and the price of tomatoes.

Then you continue slowly until you reach a chiringuito, where exercise is rewarded with dinner and something cold in a glass.

Así se vive.

That is how you live.

No electricity.

No squats.

No wet Lycra.

No Andalucian child with his finger on the voltage control.

Just a gentle paseo, good conversation, warm evenings and the understanding that life is meant to be enjoyed—not completed like a list before Friday.

The Spanish Secret to Enjoying Life

The Spanish do not try to cram 36 hours into every day.

They make more life out of the 24 they already have.

Perhaps that is the lesson I am supposed to learn.

August in Spain is not asking me to stop living.

It is simply suggesting that I stop trying to complete an entire lifetime before lunchtime.

But I am Michel Doing Spain Solo.

I am on a mission to fit as many adventures into my new life as Phileas Fogg—and preferably finish them all before September.

So, was the electric gym worth it?

That is, if tomorrow arrives—and if I can get out of bed when it does.

For now, I have clients to meet, painters to chase, a pool man to locate, three handymen to interrogate and a world to conquer.

I still want 36-hour days.

I still need roller skates.

But perhaps—just occasionally—I should listen when Spain whispers:

Little by little, Michel. There is no hurry.

Although if Spain could possibly hurry up while telling me that, I would be extremely grateful.