Not the kind of question I ask myself on a regular Tuesday. But when I’m traveling, questions like these arise fairly regularly, usually when I’m lost, having made two or three misguided attempts to find my destination.
Defying the mid-day sear, the women of Sevilla shoot down Calle Sierpes. They don’t walk, meander or stroll. Stacked heels attack the pavement with the same ferocity they use to verbally barrage their lovers in the cafés at night. “Why don’t they sweat?” I wonder, rolling an iced bottle of Barbadillo across my forehead, attempting to stave off hyperthermia.