Il riposo, from the Italian: the rest.
Sicily, forty degrees. At that hour the island stops arguing with the heat and gives in to it. Shutters come down, conversations trail off, the streets empty for a few hours and nobody apologises for it. The siesta is one of the few traditions I hope we never lose. A brilliant stretch of disconnection, from the body and from the head at once, with nothing asked of you and nothing owed. It is also the hour for dreaming, and for dreaming big, which costs nothing at all.
Dreaming should be compulsory.
Il riposo, from the Italian: the rest.
Sicily, forty degrees. At that hour the island stops arguing with the heat and gives in to it. Shutters come down, conversations trail off, the streets empty for a few hours and nobody apologises for it. The siesta is one of the few traditions I hope we never lose. A brilliant stretch of disconnection, from the body and from the head at once, with nothing asked of you and nothing owed. It is also the hour for dreaming, and for dreaming big, which costs nothing at all.
Dreaming should be compulsory.
