It’s five am. Not long till K gets up. There is just a hint of cool in the air – enough to make pulling the single sheet over myself less ridiculous. I allow myself this little luxury; it reminds me of my native climate. Any earlier and it would have clung to my wet skin.
It isn’t particularly quiet; all around town the late clubs are closing and their customers are weaving (wobbling) their way back to their hotels and apartments through narrow little streets in the casco whose stone walls amplify their exchanges. It turns out that people on their annual holiday aren’t that big on considerateness. There are no attempts to keep voices down. The antique little town is awash with addled conversation, argument, laughter and singing; giggling, squealing men and sandpaper-voiced, roaring women.
Spanish, Italian, German, Scandinavian – in August they’re all here, and they all pass beneath our window at around 5am. I can’t say that they wake me up – I am rarely asleep anyway in the stiflingly humid heat. When they finally quieten down though – towards six – and there is that little bit of freshness to the morning, I get some shut eye. More