The First Hour



The First Hour


It was the hour of the street cleaners. 

What hour would that be, I hear you asking. 8:00–not that early, but not late either, as far as rising goes. But this is a subjective matter. In New York the streets would be popping, bustling like a bee hive. But here, the day has barely begun–just a few waiters are balancing coffees for the early birds overlooking the sea. Most restaurants haven't opened yet...an Italian-owned café down the street from me has just enough space to see some feet under the shop shutters, still getting things together.

How bizarre it is to pass by a place that has become fixed in your brain at a totally different time. I am used to Santa Catalina with the slow stroll of tourists or an elderly cane-bearer, but also to the zigzag of last minute crossers and the rumble of vehicles carrying people and goods. I have even crossed the square at night, heading home after a rehearsal or an event happening there or simply for an evening walk. But 8:00 in the morning was a rare event for me.

Just a street over the ocean was lapping at the daylight and wading feet. I made my way back via the boardwalk a half an hour later, and thee was more busy-ness being done there. The street cleaners were washing away the sand stuck to the stone. Never had I seen so much sand on the brick lane...but then again, I couldn't remember the last time I had ventured along the boardwalk that early. I figured the tide must have been so broad as to spray over the metal railing, bringing grit with it. Had the walls foolishly tried to contain the sea splashing over them? And did this happen everyday?

There were also the morning runners–girls dressed in black shorts and a sports bra baring their midriffs. I recognized a blonde one–a lovely girl from the U.S. who I had met along the boardwalk before. Some people I had come to know as "regulars": maybe they defined me in the same way.

I most admired the wave-goers: a group of intrepid adults dotting the water as their waking ritual. I didn't dare go barefoot because the wind and weather had taken me aback, but there they were...swimmers and straddlers with their feet in the first inches of foam or leaving footprints across a strip of malleable sand.

 


Text and  Photo: Kristen Mastromarchi

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