Some towns are built around a square. This one was built around a view.

August 7, 2024. I climbed a stone stair above a harbor I didn't know the name of yet, and stopped where the path opened onto the whole bay at once. Pastel houses stacked toward the water like sugar cubes left out in the sun. Small boats freckled the blue, and rocky islets sat just offshore, patient as old dogs. Someone's garden spilled over the wall in front of me — grapevines on wire, red flowers I couldn't name, a few shrubs catching the wind off the water. One core thing I want to remember: the town was built looking outward. Every roof, every terrace, every vine angled toward the bay. You don't get a view like this by accident. You get it because generations of people decided the sea was worth turning the whole house toward. Tomorrow, we dance. Today I just sit on the wall and let the harbor do the talking.