The baker didn’t say good morning. She just put the bread down, still hot, oil pooling on the paper, and went back to work. I liked her for it. There is a particular kindness in not performing kindness. The focaccia here is different from what my father makes. Flatter, saltier, the crust almost giving way before you even press down. I tore a piece and the steam rose like it had been waiting.
Monterosso at nine in the morning is a different town from the one you’ll find at noon. The beach umbrellas were going up across the street, a man in a white undershirt unfolding them one by one with the slow precision of someone who has done this ten thousand times. No tourists yet. Just him, and me, and the sound of the espresso machine behind the counter doing its small, violent work.
I shot two frames. One of the bread, one of the street through the doorway. The Leica sat on the table between the plate and the cup, collecting a fine dust of flour. It belongs there. Some mornings, the camera doesn’t feel like a tool. It feels like a companion who also happens to be quiet.
I keep thinking about how different this coast smells from the Brazilian coast I grew up visiting. There, the salt is sweetened by something tropical, fruit and sunscreen and rain on hot concrete. Here, it is mineral. Clean. Mixed with rosemary from someone’s windowsill and diesel from a boat engine coughing to life down at the harbor. My cappuccino went cold while I sat with that thought. I ordered another. The baker looked at me like she understood. Piano, piano.
