Sitting on a simple plastic chair in his white vest, he calmly, placidly smokes a thick cigar, always at the same time, always in the same place.

The years go by and nothing seems to alter his ritual. He keeps inhaling, in the small village by the sea which is his home, among bougainvilleas of every colour, whitewashed houses, in the sea breeze.

The setting couldn’t be any more perfect: in the background the cicadas sing, and further away, the murmur of the waves.

I’m not a smoker; I’ve only enjoyed a few pipes in my life, but I can tell you I wouldn’t have minded sitting there with the guy, relishing his pension and his life, accompanying him in his tasting of time and pleasure.

Small great pleasures that turn into rituals. What are yours, the ones you feel you could admit to?

Hugs and kisses,





Alex Rovira