Benny, the dog, likes to go on a mid-day walk even though it’s too hot and he often has to run for shade to keep his paws from burning. He also seeks out any air-conditioned space, which is how we often end up in the Coach Outlet, where the employees know him and encourage his enjoyment of their cool marble floor. Weather, being a common topic of small talk among strangers, comes up inevitably: because it’s easy; because the dog is so hot; because since 2023, the heat has been relentless.

A pair of red kitten-heeled flip-flops was on the clearance shelf and I asked about my size, passing the time while Benny cooled down. I have a soft spot for red shoes, and I feel compelled to buy things on occasions when the workers are so kind to the dog. “No, they’re sending me boots and jackets now, even though it doesn’t get cold here,” said the sales associate. It’s been hotter this October than it was in August, we agree; we mention that even December barely brings hope of a cool evening breeze. Seasons are part of tropical life even if you wouldn’t know it as a traveler, and I’ve felt them disappear in the six years I’ve been in San Juan. They’ve vanished, slipped our grip.

I don’t know how terrifying it is to the more casual observer, the person just trying to get through life. I pontificate for a living, trying to bring the things we mindlessly accept into focus for those with less time on their hands, who don’t make work out of conversation with strangers. When I read Ariel Samandj writing about Mauritius, I think, Someone else gets it. Lauren Markham on Greece, She gets it. When I read Solvej Balle’s series On the Calculation of Volume, She gets it. 

In this series (the third volume will be out in English translation in just a few weeks), the main character is waking up on November 18 seemingly in perpetuity while, to everyone else, November 18 is the day it is supposed to be, with November 17 having come before and November 19 to look forward to. The character, Tara, has to force herself into change eventually, into Christmas and seasons, by traveling (conveniently, the money in her bank account regenerates each day). 

In October, in San Juan, there’s supposed to be a sense of impending Christmas in the air. Puerto Rico has the longest Christmas in the world, officially starting in late November and reaching toward mid-January, and it marks this cooler, breezier season as much as it does the holiday itself. 

I thought I’d been hallucinating this connection between October and Christmas, until I realized the music in the doctor’s waiting room as I built this newsletter was general holiday muzak (including, interestingly, a soulless rendition of the Pretenders’ “2000 Miles”). After my appointment, in the car taking me to Luca to pick up my 2026 planner, there were radio commercials playing about going to meet with Santa.

The last time I was at the airport, I found myself confused about when May was because I have stopped experiencing time in the right way. There were signs about needing to have the Real ID by May 7, 2025; I was digging in my travel bag for my passport, worried that finally this time it had actually grown legs and walked away. I thought, Well, when is May? Was May yet? I don’t have a Real ID, just a regular New York State license and a Global Entry card. Will these suffice?

This is probably why I love Balle’s series when I’m usually not one for a sci-fi plot (it’s really not sci-fi at all). I think about dates and look at the calendar constantly—my life runs by the calendar; Google, iCal, and paper for different purposes—yet for a moment I didn’t know where I was in time at all. I wear the same clothes in San Juan from January through December; wearing the rest of my wardrobe requires leaving. I’m locked in perpetual summer that no longer even offers its specific reprieves. It’s the stuff of a literary sci-fi plot; it’s the stuff of climate change. “There’s no breeze at all,” a neighbor said at the dog park on October 15, and we were next to the ocean. My sweaty T-shirt was stuck to my torso and I hadn’t put a bandanna in my hair like I usually do in summer—it’s October, I’d thought—so my curls were wet and hot on my neck.

On October 16, after a late-night or early morning rainstorm—whatever you call three in the morning—there was cool air. My husband put on sweatpants to walk the dog; Vaihitiare, at the coffee shop, had a sweatshirt on. They were ready for the nice temperature of 76 degrees; they were acting like it was October again in the old way. I was in my shorts and flip-flops, per usual. I appreciated the breeze, but I knew it wasn’t enough to make the weather right again.