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A dozen Cinquecentos parked along the main road by the seafront. Parking is quick, no parking meters or electronic gadgets. You get out and in just a few steps, you're on the beach or on the rocks if you prefer. There's not much traffic on the road, your mental state is not disturbed. The Mediterranean scrub generously covers the coastline, offering shade for those who prefer it. Pines, olive trees, dwarf palms. Green and then blue in various shades dominate the scene.
You claim your little spot, being careful to keep a respectful distance from the large family on the left and a group of young people on the right. You lay out your blue and white striped towel. You apply sunscreen, lay back, and take all the time you need. You gaze at the horizon and more. Then you decide to take a refreshing swim, a light breeze brings you relief from the heat. Afterward, you decide to take a walk towards the imposing white cliff. The sand, given the time, no longer burns your feet. The thoughts that assailed your mind when you were at home seem to become more and more intangible until they fade away completely.
You see people talking while looking into each other's eyes and gesturing. No one has strange gadgets with antennas in hand. There are no group photos with forced smiles. The true stars are tambourines, balls, and four-hundred-lire soccer balls ready to be punctured at the first thorn. What happened on that beach will remain there, the marine sounds, the words. In an endless refrain, annoyingly beautiful.
The sun has begun its descent phase, which will lead it to disappear into that seemingly infinite blue expanse. It will return to visit you tomorrow... before death.
If you think that chillwave is not a small English dog breed, names like Tycho and Four Tet already sound familiar to you, and you believe summer should have a pink soundtrack that emanates the scent of argan or coconut shampoo, then you must come here and listen to “Waves.” Then you can pack up the umbrella and go shower to wash off any residual saltiness.
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