Bob Dylan wrote a “love below zero.” “I’m on fire and I’m… cold” Manolo Tena sang in his group Alarma in the 80s before he fell for shells. Paraphrasing, this is what that group of scholars informing in real time of the centuries-old cold wave that we are going through must think: “I’m laughing and I’m cold.” I don’t know since when temperatures below zero have been associated with human well-being. Maybe I’ve missed something or I didn’t go to class that day but I don’t understand that happy face of the generalist newscasters when they tell us that we’re going to be colder than in Pingu communion. Maybe they have their eye on the masochistic collective that enjoys ice slabs on sidewalks eager for old hips, pouring hot water on the windshield of their car when the sun has not yet risen or setting the alarm clock half an hour earlier so that they give time to put on all the warm layers like human lasagna plus the corresponding gadgets. Or they may be big fans of “Fargo.” Although the most plausible thing about that little bastard’s smile is that it is directed at the myriad of correspondents (most of them very young) who, scattered throughout the country, inform us that it is very cold in January. It makes me even more perplexed that these kids scattered in mountain passes, El Bierzo, or in a remote part of Soria also smile. Smile when they throw a pineapple into an icy fountain and discover before our astonished eyes that water at low temperatures changes from liquid to solid. Smile when they put a leg in and the snow reaches the knees and the chill to the soul. Smile when the blizzard bends the umbrella to Boris Johnson. Smile when they wade through streams of icy meltwater. Do they get stoned (nitrous oxide or “laughing gas” was quite popular at one time, especially for dentists)? Are they inoculated with the rabies virus to produce the involuntary “sardonic smile” or has the absurdity of such withdrawal of resources to cover the obvious made a dent in their reason? I do not know. But rest assured that tomorrow while I curse the cold by putting on my socks, a couple of smiling presenters will announce new drops in temperatures with the same jubilation as Nadal’s last victory at Roland Garros. So the sun rises in Antequera.
