Playa Espadilla

Despite the majesty and mysticism of being in an entirely foreign, rural country, time runs slow. The dogs lie on the gravel, waiting for the afternoon sun to pass overhead. Men lounge in creaky wooden rockers, their draped shirts dripping from the sweaty tops of corrugated metal roofs. A vulture watches from a lamp post; an iguana crouches on a rock for one, two, three hours. Although our toes skim the edges of the same Pacific that touches off of Golden Gate Park, and runs down toward Huntington Beach, the waves wash in a different sentiment. Even the seashells come in pearly wholes; battered, not crushed.

There's a certain loneliness in watching the sun set.
There's a certain loneliness in drifting and waking on the beach (as the waves wash in and out, high tide or low, despite your inattention.)

I am reconnecting with America by reading The Atlantic, The New Yorker, Ruth Reichl's wordpress-

and in a way, I think it's silly.

Time is time, no matter where you experience it.