In the morning, the ocean moves like a thousand gemstones in the sun, waves lapping gently at the shore like liquid diamonds. A gentle breeze stirs yesterday's patterned beach towel hanging from the balcony, while giddy beachgoers below traverse the tiny street alleys, anticipating a day with no plans. The sound of clinking coffee cups, the turning pages of a novel, and the innocent sounds of a scooter’s horn pass by.
At night, clouds drift through a sultry, cobalt sky as the cicadas begin a symphony. Wine glasses clink, as the ebb and flow of conversation moves from whispers to laughter to cheerful cries and back again, until the town decides to take rest once again.
Time feels different here.
The magnificent beauty of the natural world, how it focuses our attention on the little things, often thought to be mundane. Like the delicate cracks in mosaic tiles, laid in the four walls of buildings older than we can fathom, using materials and shapes we could never imagine. Or the gentle whir of a cafe ceiling fan, the soundtrack to accompany our first, second, and third sip of espresso.
Perhaps doing nothing is actually doing something: noticing.
Something conscious. Something present. Something that makes us believe in magic.
These magic moments of doing nothing. Il dolce far niente.
