It’s easy to think that way when you’re relaxing on the Italian sand in a nice hotel where they kept you satisfied and Frank’s there fussing over me and almost everything is right with the world. Except it’s not easy. Frank and I live from job to job, making more money than most, and more than the effort we put into it, but less than you might think. We scrape by in a one-bedroom apartment and watch what we spend. Italy was the first trip in all the time we’ve worked together. Frank thought about putting it all on a stolen card or two, hacking a travel site, doing something to save us some money. But we played it straight. We didn’t even take anything from the hotel, not even the pens in the room, or the slippers they give you for free. We lived like honest men for a week, taking a total break from our usual lives. Well, almost.

Frank still read all the time, his philosophers, you know, concentrating on the Italian thinkers, Marcus Aurelius, Giambattista Vico, Antonio Rosmini-Serbati, and Benedetto Croce. He even brought along a copy of The Annals by Tacitus. “Location as organizing principle,” Frank said, admiring his small stack of books. He read and read and read some more. And when he wasn’t reading, he talked about what he had read, and if we were back at the hotel room he talked with the TV turned up loud in the local language. “You can learn a little of the language,” he said. I never learned anything. It was almost like being deaf for me, like not hearing anything.

There was an old British couple who sat at the table next to us at dinner at the hotel. They were just retired, not that old, I guess, but old-school. They dressed for dinner, with him in a suit and tie and her done up with jewelry and makeup and her hair properly set. We were out on the patio, our tables overlooking the sea, with the small waves flashing silver against the nighttime sea. The beach was still crowded, even at night. Tourists trudged up and down the steps leading to and from the parking lots, the sand, the sea. They came and went with no consequence. It was all at a safe distance. Everything was quiet and tranquil. And then the Brit spoke.

“This is what I like,” he said, “sitting at a table and watching people go by. It does something to your outlook on life.”

Frank and I nodded but didn’t say anything to encourage him. We watched the waves, the lights off in the distance. Frank closed his eyes and held his face up to catch a warm breeze.

“It comes up from Africa,” the man said. “It will be hotter tomorrow.”