Benidorm in June felt like a beach resort that had accidentally overslept through its own party. The skyscrapers were still standing tall and confident, like they hadn’t gotten the memo about the apocalypse, but down on the beach everything was quieter, slower, and strangely polite. The sea was doing its usual impressive blue thing, completely unbothered by global events, while humans tiptoed around it like guests who weren’t sure if they were allowed to stay. Sunbeds were spaced out as if they’d had an argument, beach bars whispered instead of shouted, and every cough anywhere within a kilometer triggered a full-body paranoia scan. Walking along the shore felt oddly cinematic — palm trees, warm sand, a perfect horizon, and just enough people to remind you this wasn’t a dream, just a very weird chapter of reality. It was a vacation with sunscreen, masks, and the constant feeling that you were doing something slightly illegal, even though you absolutely weren’t. And somehow, that made the sunsets better, the swims calmer, and the memories stick a little harder.