These holidays I learned to do nothing, and I had everything.

Blank stare, head stiff, muscles relaxed, mouth open: mind completely blank. It's not the result of any yoga session, nor the effect of a guided meditation, nor anything that has to do with mindfulness, like this, in English. It's the product of vacation, of true rest. The kind that, when I take it seriously, rewards me with a fleeting moment like this, of absolute nothingness, in which for a few moments my existence seems lighter, more ethereal, almost imperceptible. Then, the weight of my body is relieved, as if suspended, and if I remain still, in silence, I can come to feel how my atoms and those of the matter that surrounds me—breeze, sea, plants, light—are part of a whole.

Without intending to, I enter a state of maximum awareness, of full attention. My senses are sharpened one by one, and I become, like another beak, an animal. Thus, the contemplative life makes much more sense, because now we are capable of finding the pleasure of contemplation. Suddenly, he even perceives the color of the shadow made by the furrows in the sand when he steps on it, and wastes time guessing what shade of blue it must be, until he comes to the conclusion that it must be more like anthracite. Everything is so frozen in my head that, when I look at the sky, we are aware of both what is happening and what isn't: many birds, dragonflies, dandelions, and no airplanes. I wonder, for another moment, how this blue, which now envelops me, hidden, can be so rabid. In the background, the sea, beaten by the sun. I close my eyes and confirm that yes, the rays of light reflected in the foam of the waves look like small, very bright stars, like glitter.

But I'm not alone. While I'm doing nothing, I look at other people who are also doing nothing, and—for a moment—I feel like part of a powerful, insurgent army, reclaiming the sovereignty of inactivity through passive activism. At rest, my imagination soars, and I imagine us as the last inhabitants of the earth, in that place. A couple embraces in the water; a group of friends gazes at the horizon, without chatting; another person simply laughs with their arms crossed over their stomach. Each scene seems like a still photo, a living postcard, as if the world were moving forward around them while that image remains impermeable, incorruptible. Everyone seems to be immortalized in what they do. Or, rather, in what they don't do. This collective languor embraces me and lets me go, docilely. I finally win over that little voice that tells me I should be doing something with my free time, and I abandon myself to what my body asks of me, which is, simply, to be in this life, to pass through this world.

Vacations can be this too. Vacations don't have to be just another chore: planning, stress, schedules, tiredness. Nor another excuse for the massive and indiscriminate consumption of places, people, foods, activities, experiences. Sometimes, it's okay to return to the places that made us happy, to repeat, to escape the new, to succumb to comfort. And just put the effort into having a good time: preparing a cooler full of food and drinks to spend the day at the beach, cheating and going for a walk when the sun goes down, choosing a good book to immerse yourself in for the entire afternoon. The simple fact that this is such a difficult task—resisting productivity during downtime—shows how transgressive enjoyment and rest can be. So, even as an act of protest, we embrace hedonism.

"This childish concept of summer as the season of all things good. Summer is the season of happiness, of joy, of friends, of the pleasures of laziness, too. But the thing is, spending the summer in Cádiz is a different experience, irreplaceable for me," and one I stumbled upon while I was there, in this corner of southern Andalusia. I don't know if it was the summer, the holidays, that place, or everything else that pushed me, once and for all, to retreat to the exercise of watching life go by, as if I had time to spare and—at the same time—as if this were the best way to spend it. It's a feeling that lasts very little, this feeling of letting the hours pass without regret, but oh, when you catch it... Capturing that moment is essential to be able to go back and contemplate it, to know that it's possible, from the distance of September, of winter, when routine ravages us like a hurricane, making us forget what life was all about.