Rethymno at the hour nothing is urgent. Empty café chairs lined up under the palms on the seafront, a lane of Venetian houses with a tattoo parlour and a lobster board, mint-green taverna tables waiting under a tree, a woman in polka dots deciding slowly about a bracelet while her husband waits in the shade. Shutters half-closed, the light hard enough to cut. Nobody’s rushing because there’s nothing yet to rush toward. The old town saves itself for evening.