And it starts again

Today is Saint John's Day, and like every year, last night I received a ton of messages toasting the coming summer. For some reason, This title (from a novel of mine published in 2013) struck a chord with readers who share this weakness for the night of San Juan.

After so many years, then, we continue to raise our glasses and toast the summer that is beginning. And the more time passes—and life gets steeper and everything seems so complicated and the future is so bleak—the more I feel like making this toast. Because the years and some experiences have made me grateful, and I've learned that there are things that can't be taken for granted. That summer begins again every year is a true miracle, an infinite consolation, a sharp and unqualified joy.

And with summer come the sunsets and the calm to contemplate them without haste; the day after the main festival, with the town square still full of confetti and crumpled streamers and that hangover silence; Summer showers, the sound of water tapping on the roof, the drops that remain ecstatic on the leaves of the trees for a long time after the rain; the rainbow and the children dancing and jumping in the puddles without anyone scolding them for fear of catching colds; the ice creams of every flavor we'll eat at dusk, freshly showered and showing off our tanned skin; the sand we find between the pages of the book we brought to the beach and the salt on the skin of the little ones; the suitcases, bags, and backpacks piled up in the hall; the flip-flops, the sandals, the espadrilles; the long, long conversations after dinner; the friends; the solitary fishermen in the darkness on the empty beach; the older couples playing Parcheesi or cards; the teenagers holding ping-pong championships.

Summer will return, and vacations will return to the usual place, the reunion with the rest of the vacationers, the shared memories; and the trips will return, the hellish hours at the airport, the excitement of getting to know a new city or exploring an exotic landscape; choosing the books we will read during the holidays, perhaps a great classic of those eight-hundred-page books or the most frivolous novel we can find; visiting museums with an enthusiasm we had forgotten during the winter and filling ourselves with painting, sculpture, photography, history; seeing with the naked eye the images we have fixed in our memories: the Eiffel Tower, Trastevere, Etna, Big Ben; the Little Mermaid and Manneken Pis—how small!; Iguazu, the Great Pyramid of Giza; the white and blue beaches of the Caribbean; Formentera; the crowds, the queues, the exorbitant prices, the heat, the lost luggage.

For the luckiest of us, summer will return with love. Summer loves. The hidden glances; the complicity; touching each other's skin for the first time; the smearing; laughter at everything; the excitement of having the same tastes; plans for the future (if any). And it will bring back the sadness of the last days of August, The end of summer, That we adults say in Spanish because it's how we invoke the simplest and most exciting song of all time if you're experiencing your first summer love. With that drum that keeps beating and beating, so that it's clear to you that you can't escape the end of summer.

But today we're just getting started.