Late Saturday afternoon a mighty wind of change blew in, slamming windows and doors, rattling the glass. The temperature dropped, and by 10:30 pm I was actually cold in the breeze.
And let me tell you that even in my hot and crabby moments, after the endlessly soggy June and July that was DC, I've enthusiastically embraced the sunshine of Southern Spain. It's glorious. It's happifying. It's delicious.
And it's up for like 30 hours a day. It's bright and spectacular, if a little relentless. It is wonderful.
I say this as someone who goes to the beach slathered in high SPF sunscreen, with a long-sleeved swimmy shirt and a hat and sunglasses.
But I love the sun. I love it so. It makes me feel alive.
Sadly, however, I am pale and freckled and did all kinds of skin damage in my youth in the Indian sun. So I'll take the random looks.
Nobody is all, "Oh? You're American?!?" No. They are all, "Hi foreigners!"
But in a really friendly way.
The beach is an interesting study in bodies. You see all ages and sizes, states of firmness, and degrees of undress--tending toward less rather than more.
We are the only ones all covered, anyway until 6 or 7:00 pm. Yesterday evening Nick hadn't yet arrived with the bathing suits and the kids were clamoring to go in.
So I let them run into the waves all nakey-nake and delighted.
In fact, Jordan's privates have been chafing and so a couple times at the beach I've let him take off his bottoms. Spidey swimmy shirt protection on top, his little bottom bare and white as the driven snow.
Nobody cares. No pasa nada.
Our beach has super white, soft sand and a very gentle slope and low,
warm waves. It's basically perfect. (Except, of course, for all the
salty water. And the waves. And the nutsack-chafing sand.)
Before we came Olga and Santi both had mentioned to us that there would be a lot of women with no tops on. I assumed they were concerned that I might be offended, because every time we go to the pool I am covered neck to stomach to wrist.
So I assured them that my shirt has nothing to do with American modesty and is
entirely about wrinkles and skin cancer. And vanity.
I mean, let's be honest. If I weren't worried about the aforementioned afflictions and hadn't done so much breastfeeding, I'd be running around boobs a-blazing.
And now Real or Not Real is one of my new favorite games.
Here I am, Peeta Mellark at the beach.