That’s easy — the sunrise. I was never an early riser, but since moving to this little fishing town in Spain, I find myself up before the sun. Every day, I watch the sky put on a show as the sun makes its way through it — from oranges and golds to purples and reds, each morning feels brand new.
I live right on the beach. Not “near the beach.” Beachfront. I cross the street and there it is. In all my life, I’ve never had an unobstructed view of nature, so to see the sun rise over the water with nothing in the way feels like living at the edge of the world.
What still surprises me is how quickly it happens — just a couple of minutes from the first glimmer to full daylight. The brightening sky hints at what’s coming, offering soft pastels in summer and deep, dramatic hues in winter. Then, all at once, it peeks over the horizon — a brilliant orange point of light trailing a path of glistening gold from sky to shore. She takes her time, setting the tone for the day in her own slow, deliberate way.
Shadows stretch behind trees, railings, café tables. A gentle warmth brushes your skin, waking every cell and coaxing a deep, steady breath. You close your eyes. The surf moves, birds call, the breeze slips past your ears with a whisper.
Within minutes, she’s above the waterline. Not so bright yet that you can’t look at her, but bright enough to stir the town awake — a fresh set of hours to spend however you choose.
From my bed, I can see the water. On mornings I don’t walk downstairs to take pictures, I lie still with the curtains open, letting that peace seep in. It’s a peace you don’t describe so much as absorb.
Before Spain, dawn was a stranger I met only by accident. But here, the sunrise is a friend — one who greets me daily with a warm, unhurried hug, and sends me out into the day with a new sense of gratitude.
And that’s what I love about where I live.
A summer sunrise over our Chiringito.
It's Fine, I'm Fine, Everything's Fine 