Mediterranean happiness. A Philosophy of slow coastal life

The glass arrives clouded with condensation.

Almost immediately, a thin line of water begins to run down its side and gathers beneath it on the table.

I move the glass into the shade.

Across the promenade, a child is trying to persuade his father to buy an enormous inflatable dolphin.

The dolphin is almost as tall as he is.

The father shakes his head.

The child places both arms around it.

For several seconds, boy and dolphin remain locked together in silent alliance.

The father looks towards the mother.

She laughs.

I turn away before I discover who wins.

The sea is brighter now.

Not yet white.

Not yet motionless beneath the full weight of noon.

It still has colour in it — deep blue farther out, green where the water thins above the sand, flashes of silver whenever a wave turns towards the sun.

A little later, all of this will change.

The streets will empty.

Metal shutters will come down.

Curtains will be drawn against the heat.

The day will enter that strange Mediterranean stillness when even time seems to seek a patch of shade.

But not yet.

For now, the coast is still moving.

Bread is being carried home.

Tables are being laid for lunch.

Wet children are returning from the sea while dry ones hurry towards it.

Tomatoes arrive at restaurant doors.

Someone repairs a sandal.

Someone waters flowers above the street.

Someone breaks a pastry in two.

And the morning, without ceremony, gives itself away piece by piece until almost nothing of it remains.

I finish my drink.

When I lift the glass, a perfect circle of water is left upon the table.

The sun reaches it before I stand.

By the time I pick up my bag, half of it has already disappeared.

Chapter 7. The Stillness of Midday

By midday, the Mediterranean gradually ceases to be a landscape.

It becomes light.

The blue is still there, but it seems to recede before the almost white radiance pouring from the sky, settling upon the water, the stones, the shoulders of swimmers, the silvery leaves of the olive trees. Outlines soften. Shadows retreat to the foot of the houses. Even the colours seem to breathe more slowly, surrendering to the quiet authority of the sun.

I walk a little farther along the sand.

Morning invites you to move.

Midday asks you to stay.

The waves come ashore without hurry. They no longer need to wake the beach. Everything is awake now. The day has reached its full ripeness, like a fruit that has stopped gathering sweetness because there is no more sweetness left to gather.

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