I remember the summers of my childhood as astonishingly long and dull. We never went on vacations, we stayed at home, and the days at the beach were exceptional and scarce, since my parents weren’t enthusiastic about wasting time on a sandy shore, not swimming or sunbathing, as they did. Perhaps that’s why I grew up so bound to the sea.
If we decided to head to the beach in the afternoon, we would leave the house as early as 5:30 p.m. or 6:00 p.m. to reach the shoreline around 7 p.m., in Galicia. We were equipped, mind you, with swimsuits that smelled of last year’s sea, floaties, diving goggles, and other aquatic gadgets. There was also a need to make a potato tortilla, breaded fillets, and buy a can of pineapple and another of peaches in syrup. An expedition planned from the morning.
But on the days when there was no beach, which were the majority, the afternoon dragged on very slowly. Especially if there was no siesta, in a house that stayed in shadow to brace against the heat. Until 7 p.m., the hour to take a stroll, grab an ice cream, or play, the hours passed gradually, measured by the ticking of the living room clock that echoed through the silence. As a solitary and peculiar girl, I learned to observe every little detail. I could guess the exact hour by the shadow the terrace blind cast onto the dining room, while taking advantage of the absence of people (there were ten of us at home) to rummage through drawers and cupboards. Without a doubt, the boredom of the summer afternoon made me more observant, thoughtful and curious.
I have returned from a vacation lived to the fullest, in which, nevertheless, I missed a bit of boredom. I am the sort of person who, out of sheer necessity, avoids some plan on organized trips to give myself a break, to be alone, to do something off the script, or simply to “be bored” while sitting in a bar studying the locals. I’ll tell you more, to seal my reputation as the undesirable travel companion: I sense a strange charm in seaside holidays, or those designed in the old-fashioned way, masterfully portrayed in the film Death in Venice (1971). Going every year to the same place, seeing the same people and doing the same things each day can have the effect of a mantra, repeated to exhaustion, a vehicle for thought to free the mind, sharpen focus, and reach deeper states. “The boredom of the oyster yields the pearl,” declared the writer José Bergamín.
