Somehow I ended up in Santa Pola at the hottest part of the day. The high, narrow streets were shut up against the sun, the display on the municipal clock flapped between 27 and 28 degrees, leather-skinned drunks sat at plastic tables, captives in the shade.
The beaches were wide, the marina sweeping and the sun, as familiar as a clock face, moved somnambulantly through the sky, but the heat lent a shabbiness to the place: olive-green water under fishing boats, cigarette ends and dog shit on a cracked-up promenade, everywhere the smell of sea salt and rotting fish.
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