10.

THE SIESTA

Busy though the Romans were putting down the barbarian hordes and putting up triumphal arches, we are told that they still found time for one of life’s small luxuries. Sexta—the sixth hour of the day, or noon, according to Roman timekeeping—was the moment to slip out of the body armor, escape from the heat, and take a nap. Ever since then, the siesta has been part of daily life in those Latin countries blessed by a long, hot summer.

But not, alas, for the Anglo-Saxons, regardless of the weather. Their attitude to the siesta over the centuries has been one of disapproval, probably dating from the era when Britain first colonized the tropics, bringing their habits with them. Ignoring the local climate, they dressed for a brisk winter’s day on the moors, in layers of thick broadcloth; heavy, close-fitting hats; and stout, frost-proof boots. They disdained the effete practice of taking a snooze in the shade, preferring instead to go out in the midday sun and do something energetic. Many years ago, Noël Coward observed that “Englishmen detest a siesta,” and there is still some truth in this today. It is well known that the Englishman en vacances, determined not to waste a second of sunshine, is likely—unless restrained—to spring up from the lunch table and bound onto the tennis court, risking indigestion, dehydration, cramps, and heart failure in 85-degree temperatures.

Like many customs that have endured in hot climates throughout the ages, the siesta makes sense, as we can see from the way in which the traditional Provençal working day was organized. It began at dawn, when the fields were fresh and cool. The day’s main meal would be taken at around 11 o’clock, followed by a few hours spent well away from the sun. Work in the fields resumed in the evening, and continued until nightfall. It was a practical, healthy way of dealing with conditions that could fry a man’s brains. Now, of course, machinery has largely replaced manual labor, and the siesta is no longer regarded as a physical necessity; in fact, some consider it a decadent indulgence. This should not be allowed to inspire guilt. Instead, it should only add to the pleasure of a well-spent hour or two of tranquil rest after lunch.

I have consulted several authorities—men who have made an art out of indolence—on the finer points of the siesta. Their views and advice, developed from years of horizontal trial and error, represent a useful guide for beginners. Englishmen, please note.

  Although winter siestas have their own cozy charm, the ideal siesta takes place in the summer, out of doors, where breeze and shade combine in a most soothing way to cool the brow and induce a feeling of languorous well-being.

  The principal item of equipment must be full-length. A doze in a chair is only half a siesta. The legs must be given room to stretch out, and they should be more or less level with the head, allowing the blood to circulate evenly throughout the body. This is very good for the digestion.

  While there are some admirers of the fixed and rigid chaise longue, the true expert prefers a hammock slung between two trees, for a number of reasons. A hammock conforms instantly to the contours of the body, and at the same time provides a high degree of lateral security. As any sailor will tell you, it is virtually unknown for even the most restless sleeper to fall out of a hammock. Another advantage is the soothing side-to-side motion that can be set off by a slight movement of the hips, giving the hammock’s occupant the sensation of floating on currents of air. Add to this the hypnotic effect of watching the changing scenery overhead as patches of sky and leafy branches sway slowly back and forth, and you have the perfect natural soporific.

There is a wide range of optional extras, from books and lavender-scented pillows to cigars and straw hats. Or there’s always music from an iPod, although I prefer the sound effects provided by nature. The scratchy chorus of cigales, the rustle of a lizard in the grass, the plop of a frog jumping into a nearby pond, the occasional soft surge of air through the leaves—this is enough of a lullaby for me; at least, while I’m still awake to appreciate it. Bonnes vacances!