The secret of the Mediterranean

It was the time just after the hottest hours of the day.

Quietly.

She noticed a scooter somewhere in the distance
suddenly breaking the silence,
its engine sounding louder than it really was,
as if announcing to the entire town:

Siesta is over.

Iron shutters began rolling upward,
one after another,
reopening the shops for their second life of the day.

The most beautiful hour.

When everything seemed easier after a long lunch outdoors,
accompanied by a glass of wine
and
the gentle rhythm of the sea nearby.

The streets, empty only moments before,
slowly filled again.
Chairs on terraces left in a state of reflection when the voices silenced. 

Shopkeepers greeting familiar faces.
Neighbours exchanging a few words from balconies and doorways.

The mood had shifted, and everyone knew.

The bright intensity of the day had softened into something 
slower, 
warmer, 
more forgiving.

People, unnoticed, had slipped
into
their afternoon selves,

and greetings gradually changed
from
buongiorno to buona sera.

It was the hour of an undefined waiting.
The hour of dreaming about aperitivo time,
lazy dinners under the open sky,
and
long cooling nights scented with
salt,
jasmine,
and distant cooking.

Nothing was rushed.

The day still stretched ahead, 
more generous,
unhurried.

These were the moments you only find around the Mediterranean,
where life seems to understand
that
there is no need to hurry

when the sea,
the sun,
the generosity, 
the love for life,
will still be there tomorrow


She sat there, listening to a far away churchbell,
knowing this was how life was meant to be lived.

La Flâneuze.

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