The Aqua Doors of Summer

San José, Spain in summer.

It’s a different kind of heat, not just the stolid sun that beats on the quintessential cobblestones from dawn ‘til dusk, but of the little fishing village’s vibe itself. Something unexpected, found at the end of a meandering road past the esparto grass that dot the near-desert landscape. A little uncut jewel on the Mediterranean Sea that finds its way into your heart and beckons occasionally on cooler days with memories of its terracotta roofs and easy charm.

When I picture summertime in Europe, I see the colorful umbrellas in Nice, or the white-and-blue dotted hillsides in Greece, or even the sticky pastel of gelato running down the hand and hitting the cobblestones of a Roman side street … Spain was not somewhere that had ever really captured my imagination.

But now that it has, it’s hard to forget.

Like a hesitant first kiss.

We came to San José via Madrid. Spain’s capital offers an understated European taste of eclectic couture and gastronomy, where language itself is a dance—a flurry of expression that’s mesmerizing. Where women pair their dresses with sneakers among the manicured gardens and storied stone and stucco buildings. But you see in Europe, everyone is dressed up—or at least it seems so to a West Coast girl like me. It’s as different as the timetable I normally follow. Here, mornings are late and long, and evenings are where it’s at. Partially due to cooler temps, but all to do with the vibes. Evenings here has an inspiring energy, encouraging one to explore and connect.

But leaving this city is like leaving any city: a breath of fresh air. A seven-hour drive to the Province of Almería in Andalusia on Spain’s south eastern coast weaves through olive groves and past the soaring mountains of the Sierra Nevada. Even here, a wayward Canadian could find her spot to ski if it was the season for it. But in summer, these southerly giants reflect a cloudless sky of piercing blue.

And then eventually, after driving down a dirt road between tomato fields and that twinge of we must be going the wrong way, no? There she is, San José.

Where the bar owner still knows the bride’s mother from childhood.

Where businesses still close for an afternoon siesta.

Where dinner isn’t served until eight-thirty p.m. when the sun starts to dip and shadows begin to play against the white walls of the tiny fishing port.

San José is a true setting. The backdrop to weddings, honeymoons, first baby steps and anniversaries. Morning cappuccinos and long days with family at the beach. Returned to each summer, like the local fisherman casting their nets to capture its people back again every year. It’s quintessentially home, a place that remembers the past steadfastly.

Perhaps that’s what drew the filmmakers of Indiana Jones to its shores for The Last Crusade in 1989. The iconic Luftwaffe fighter plane crash involving Sir Sean Connery, seagulls, and an umbrella happened on the nearby coast of Playa de Mónsul. Separating the sandy strip in two is the volcanic formation peineta de Mónsul, and surrounded by the Cabo de Gata Mountains, the dramatic landscape was perfect for Spielberg’s third Indy action adventure.

We’re recommended to a local restaurant, the unassuming Casa Miguel, which when we are seated at the minimalist metal tables on the burnt sienna tiled patio becomes immediately clear reminisces over those good old days daily. The walls bear original framed photos of Indiana Jones’ presence from over three decades prior, as well as Spaghetti Westerns filmed in the area like a makeshift film museum on the way to the loo.

We eat the paella, of course. Rice and seafood and spices that feel nourishing after a long day of no appetite from the all-consuming heat. It’s also now the perfect temperature for football—the original soccer—to be played by local and tourist children alike in the central plaza. Not a thing I would imagine letting my own run off and do at home, at that age. But here … it’s all very Cheers and everyone really does know your name.

It’s why this tourist feels this place is just a pace behind the rest and yet so forward-thinking in maintaining ‘what works’ it’s mind-blowing. The beauty is in the simple pleasures. The—dare I say—mundanity of daily life. Here, it’s a re-set. A reminder of what matters. Color and texture and conversation.

There’s an early morning run around along the outermost—and thus highest—calles. The heat is different than home, even at six a.m. it’s an unrelenting warm embrace, cooled only when un-socked feet hit the tile floors of the hotel.

There’s the peek-a-boo sea view from Hotel Doña Pakyta, our room across the street from the main converted farmhouse over which we can juuust spot the glittering aqua, but boasting a tiled patio large enough to host a wedding after-party. But that view: Good morning and good nights should always be like this.

There’s the worn but bright turquoise wood doors of quaint La Puerta Azul that don’t open ’til after dinner. The sight of which from down the Playa de San José signals we’re almost at our destination and hasn’t left my memory a year later.

A little shop, a seeming heart’s errand that contains the handmade ceramic jewelry of an artist and is in itself a jewel. It’s those aqua doors that get me. Simple. Memorable. Signifying the end of a journey: the marker I’ve reached the apartments I’m visiting, and also the epitome of someone else’s creative journey.

Brick-and-mortar retail is hard these days. Retail of a luxury item? Harder still.

Yet they open only when they want, those doors, just long enough to welcome in the height of evening foot traffic. Another example of how this place just seems to work smarter, not harder.

Within this little port I’ve found moments of being that I haven’t found elsewhere.

The nightly sight of my kids playing a language-barrier bashing game in the central plaza they can all agree they know the rules to: football.

A morning cappuccino with real, whole milk *gasp* from a simple white mug on any patio that’ll have me.

The letting go of what *should* be done and when, because this isn’t my home. My culture. But I’m more than happy to learn as its guest.

The tether to my industry—and my own childhood—on a local eatery’s wall in the form of Harrison Ford’s handsome mug.

The sight of a pretty door that calls to my creative spirit.

It’s a setting for a summer I won’t forget soon.

*Featured image Hibiscus81 (Canva)