The rooftop hour

One chair, one glass of water, and the forty minutes before the swifts come out.

Almost every place I have stayed in the south has had some version of it: a flat roof, a terrace, an outside staircase that goes somewhere nobody bothers to lock. This is the best room in the building and it is usually empty.

Go up at seven. The rooftops hold the day's heat and give it back slowly, the church tower does its unreliable bell, and the light moves from gold to rose to a blue that makes everyone look kind.

I write the day down there — not properly, just a few lines about what I ate and who I spoke to. Those notebooks are the only souvenirs I have kept.