The golden hour in Mariscal

There's a short window, late in the afternoon, when Mariscal beach stops being scenery and becomes a spectacle. The sun drops behind the hill and light sweeps the headland in layers — amber, pink, copper, lavender, blue.

A tourist sees it once and takes a photo. A resident sees it every day and stops photographing — because they understand the golden hour can't be saved, only lived. It becomes ritual: the walk that always ends on the same bench, at the same hour.

Living facing this means trading the screensaver for the window.