Long Summer

They're a long way from the city now, well, it certainly feels like it anyway. They've left behind the expectant feeling of the morning exodus. Roads filled with cars filled with people heading away, all heading to somewhere they'd rather be. The roads are like the silhouette of a tree in winter, thick and solid close to the base, and slowly thinning out as all of the branches head their separate ways, find their own little private space closer to the sun.

But the expectation has left them by this point in the journey, there are few other cars on the road here, the road has turned to gravel, and it winds enough to slow the pace of the driving. It feels like they've already arrived. This part isn't the last of the journey it’s the start of the holiday. Sometimes the road winds itself around a point to a bay scattered with little buildings. Tents are speckled on lawns and families enjoying the sun populate front decks. Boats of all sizes dot the gulf and highlight the distance back to the city, just shimmering in the distance, above the sheen of water.

The car comes over the crest of the last hill and the bay opens up in front of them, a long white sand horseshoe pointing north. There isn't a whole lot at the bay, one or two houses on the periphery, some buildings at the heart of the camping ground, and a sprinkling of tents in a chain along the green strip on the edge of the sand. It's like a picture in front of them, static and pretty, frozen summer imagery. There are other people at the camping ground, but not too many. It's busy enough to feel festive but empty enough to feel remote. And it is remote, the road only goes on for another kilometer or so, then that's it, it stops at the next bay. 

They're only here for a week but after one day it already feels like that much time has passed. It feels like the tent has been standing for at least that long, and the drive up to the bay feels like a lifetime away now that the sun is setting for their first night. On their second morning they wake up to the warmth of sun shining into a tent. The early morning summer sun is white and all encompassing, it's the kind of light that feels eternal. They walk from the tent, down the gentle slope of the beach, and into the water for a morning swim. The actions feel slow, a sleepy ritual. When they're back from the cool salty wake-up they lie on their towels. Out towards the horizon they notice something odd. 

There's a wall of water in the distance, a wave but bigger than they've ever seen. It looks almost still; it could be coming closer, maybe. They both lie back on their towels for a moment, the moment stretches on as their limbs stretch out and absorb the heat that's bouncing back up off the sand, coming from all angles. Nothing is happening, even the sun seems to be shining more slowly. The wave on the horizon has moved closer, its speed slowing. They lie on the beach and feel the summer on their skin, the kind of summer feeling that lasts forever in their childhood memories. The wave slows but keeps moving towards them, growing bigger, inching towards them, an imminent disaster. They don’t feel panicked. It feels to them like the tsunami will never come, not in this ever slowing, comfortable, eternal summer. 

Little Shop

There’s a modest little shop front on the corner. Big glass frontage that shows a tiny café inside, it’s mostly unremarkable. The walls are painted a plain white and adorned with only a few black and white photos in bleached wooden frames. The tables are, again, plain and a bench runs the length of the front window, which is to say that there’s a short bench. The man behind the counter makes coffees all morning, drinking some, tipping others out that aren’t quite right. But mostly fuelling the loose but interconnected community who drift through on a daily basis.

It’s a standard kind of scene on the fringe of the city, there must be countless other cafes just like this one. But it has its special moment. The thing that’s special about this place isn’t the patrons, and it isn’t the cabinet of treats, or even the coffee, although the coffee is very good. What is special about this place is where it is, its little corner spot. Across from the café there’s a side street, a gap in the buildings that line the ridge where the main road runs. Through that gap is a view to the centre of the city. Tall office buildings and chicken coop apartment blocks, and maybe a glimpse of the harbour that the city sits over. A lovely view, but this isn’t what provides the magic for the café. The gap in the buildings across the street, it allows the view, which certainly helps, but it also allows the light. Facing towards the east it has the perfect outlook towards the rising sun. Every day, even when it seems to be wet and cloudy and dim, the sun somehow manages to force its way through that crack in the urban curtain and get itself trapped in the tiny café on the corner.

Over the morning, when the sun pushes in, the café lights up. It warms even in winter and traps the brightness with its white walls and big glass front. Life, the sun gives it life and it breathes as the door opens and closes, coughs as the used coffee is knocked into the bin. The people bump into each other and chat and leave a little bit friendlier as they go towards their lives in the city. The man behind the counter is content in his busyness, the production line is smooth and life just flows on.

People tend to mostly drink their coffee in the morning. The man has a few customers later in the day. He goes through the motions for them, he sweeps up after the rush and he starts to prepare the food for tomorrow. The sun is shining on some other café now, his time has passed, the performance is over. Now he can breathe out. Standing by the window he looks over the street and towards the city, it is still a nice view, a nice place to stand in the afternoon and maybe have a drink as the skyline starts to flicker and the sky darkens. But he knows it would never work as a bar, or a little restaurant serving red wine and pasta. The magic in his place is in the light, and the light comes in the morning.