It's the tourist equinox, the out-of-season/season cusp.
Saturday influx, tentative but obvious.
And now they come. It is Saturday 11am and the Electra Palace Hotel has its new season flock. 20 mins ago just me and the fisherman. Now, in twos, fours, and now sevens and eights, treading on sand 'n' pebbly beach like they're on the moon. First, tentative steps, checking the gravity, the footing – they may float off or sink in. A few sunbeds finally off their sides, their six-months anti-spooning becomes hybrid-missionary, accepting swim and seared sleepers and hatted sunglassed readers. Rare kid, spitter in the sea; checking what? Its acceptance or rejection of same or different (a foreign agent or a common element) – maybe the whole sea is spit. And piss. And sweat.
How long 'til a few bars open? I give them 20 minutes, 30, tops.
Old local woman prowls, senses photo opp. Practiced disregard – give em what they want. Mars icecream trucks urgent. Trucks with fresh new plastic outdoor furniture – urgent – on a mic!
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