Walking down Postiguet Beach, white sand grit gets between my toes. The salty breeze seems to be gently massaging my head, waves tapping to some secret pulse. down with volleyball games when nobody remembers the score, there is laughter down the shore, a kids-versus-dad sandcastle fight. Sunbathers move in and out of small midday siestas like lizards on towels. Soft towels, prickly heat, the distant sound of ice cream carts rumbling along.
Here, people converse in English caricatured by wild, flailing arms, occasionally in rapid-fire Spanish. One fella, tattoo sleeves burning beneath the sun, failed badly but the laughter flowed down the beach like a wave, trying to teach his buddies how to play paddleball. I also catch stories. Right off the rocks, the story of the octopus larger than a vehicle attracted me. Wild, dubious, and maybe overdone, but half the fun is that.
You respond “Yes,” if the water calls. Not perhaps, or later. Falling into the blue, it’s cool enough to yelp and warm enough to persuade you to stay. Fish flutter about your ankles as you wade in, vanish with a flick. Though more often it’s a shimmering sheet reflecting cloudless sky and everyone’s smile, occasionally the water gets moody—a little breeze, choppier waves.
Just as a breeze picks up and your towel begins to spin sand in your face, hunger seizes. Postiguet does not let down anyone. From a dawn, chiringuitos—the ramshackled beach bars—serve you calamari fresh, patatas bravas with that fiery slap, even ice-cold horchata for a cool-off. Weekend the terraces pulse with languid brunches, old friends, new faces, countless rounds of coffee and cava.
Look up; the castle lording over all is a guardian on the hill. The light dumps everything into gold around sunset. Shadows long, everything softened and moved slowly. You see joggers gathering steam, couples meandering around, visitors clicking a thousand phone pictures in search of whatever enchantment life offers here.
Evenings here gradually fall apart. Street artists test their best moves as beachside bands get ready. Some fall dramatically, but always with a tip jar and a wink. That smooth, soft change from family turmoil to nocturnal magic seems like an invitation. Though the stray dogs seeking for scraps are welcome as well.
Postiguet seems to grow to suit you regardless of who you are or where you live. Though not pressed in, it is packed. There is room for the loud, the silent, the explorers, the dreamers. Wander far enough to find someone singing, or perhaps the sea is humming along to its own tune. Sitting there, sandy and sun-kissed, the distance separating visitor from native seems to vanish. For a brief instant everyone belongs—drifting together with the flow.