The resort opens onto a beach below the cliff, reached by a difficult path over rock. A young man in black speedos is making his way down ahead of you, towards a deep pool where a friend is waiting. They are going to cold plunge. For a moment you consider joining them, but the intimacy of strangers in the water makes you continue along the beach, where the sand seems to become quieter the further you go.
There is a sauna further on, occupied by Korean tourists. You pass it and keep walking until the beach almost disappears. Looking up, you see the breakfast room above you, impossibly high, tables and people moving behind the glass as though the morning has been continuing somewhere else.
The climb back.
Your wife gives you her handbag and disappears into the toilet. A waiter begins talking. Then, somewhere beside the conversation, a voice quietly tells you that she trims his facial hair because he will not shave; it hurts him.
You wake with this small piece of knowledge.
Not the cold water, or the cliff, or the young man in black.
The face.
The hand.
Something tender and inexplicable at the edge of the morning.
Notitia — attending to what appears, before deciding what it means.
Notitia Health 
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