The heat rolls in and turns the wild grasses to straw, and figs burst open on the trees before they stew and simmer over stovetops and are packed into dozens of recycled jam jars of all sizes.
There is a length of road where lavender bushes alternate with rosemary, and the scents of each rise up strong one right after the other.
The bars in Hamra spill open into the streets and blend together. People sit outside and move around talking, drinking, smoking, laughing, dancing into the night.
The electricity is fickle, and generators give out as fans and air conditioners compete for power. Families run away from the city to the beaches up and down the coast, and to breezy mountain homes.
Isla eats eggplant, okra, eggs, bananas, oatmeal, potatoes, spinach, fish, zucchini, passionfruit, collard greens in lemony sesame sauce, but she will not eat peaches. She rolls around on the cold floor tiles and loves to play with a slinking wooden snake the same length as she is. The mosquitoes love her most out of everyone in the house.
We sleep with balcony doors wide open and fans on high, and the orange glow of the mosquito repeller like a nightlight, and we listen to fireworks pop into the night for wedding season. We are cooled down by the time we wake.