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1. An old woman leaning at her window which overlooks the kind of street and square where people linger and talk, walk with their children or their dogs. She keeps an eye on the neighborhood, her afternoon’s entertainment, wearing a sort of apron and housedress that are incredibly typical of Spanish women at or beyond mothering age. They have outdoor clothes, crisp and correct for being seen socially, and house clothes that they dutifully change into upon returning home.

2. A young Spanish woman standing on her tiny balcony high above the street, talking on her cell phone with her back to the passersby, a long diaphanous white curtain in front of her. Perhaps it’s the only place she gets reception, or perhaps she wants some privacy for her call.

3. Teenagers in a group of about 7 or 8 out at the piers of the little harbor in the early evening, talking and gossiping and probably unofficially starting to form into pairs of two. Behind them, another group of teenagers on the stairs down to the water, two dive in and start to race each other. 8:45pm.

4. Wednesday afternoon, 4:30 or 5, dozens of surfers’ bodies bob up and down in the surf. Newcomers arrive, uncover and slowly, carefully wax their boards, change into wetsuits delicately under a towel wrapped at their waist, watch the waves, assessing, and then run down, jogging eagerly and almost cheerfully, all the way down the beach and into the surf, through the breaking waves. Then they are lost to the viewer among all the identical black dots bobbing away, occasionally getting up to catch one of the soft waves.

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