Every end of summer, I can't shake the habit of visiting Formentera.
Back when the closing parties that wrapped up Ibiza's summer were over, I would take the boat to this island and, quite literally, give my soul a good wash.

After a whole summer of being soaked in thunderous noise and the energy of huge crowds, my mind and body were more worn out than I realized. And yet, strangely, on this island just one strait away, there are no giant clubs or VIP tables. Night falls in total darkness, the starry sky is wonderful, and my heart is cleansed.
All I hear is the sound of the wind and the waves.
Do nothing, see no one, don't look at a clock.
After spending a few days like that, the bass that had lodged itself deep in my ears finally drained away, and there came a moment when my body, before my mind, was convinced that "summer is over."

In Robert A. Heinlein's *The Door into Summer*, the cat Pete makes his owner open the doors of the house one by one every winter.
There are eleven doors leading outside, and Pete never doubts that one of them must lead to summer.
His owner, Dan, never once scolds him for it, and is himself searching for a door into summer.
Eventually betrayed, Dan sleeps for thirty years in "cold sleep," time-warping from 1970 to 2000.

Spending a few days on Formentera without looking at a clock is like a modest cold sleep: when you wake up, summer is over.
What you need is not a time machine, but just a boat across one strait.
Whether it is the future or the past, I can't tell.

On this island, the Ibiza of twenty years ago still remains, and rental scooters and bicycles are the main means of getting around. Since 2019, a cap has been set on the total number of vehicles allowed on the island during the summer: the quota for four-wheel buggies is zero, and entry by campervans is restricted. There are only 50 taxis even at peak season, and beyond the rows of low, white-plastered houses, fig trees whose branches are propped up by many supports and fields divided by stone walls stretch on endlessly.
You walk down sandy paths through the pine woods to reach the beach, and at lunchtime everyone is still in their swimsuit.

Once, "summer" in Ibiza and Formentera meant July and August. Now it has stretched to a full five months, from mid-May to mid-October. Ibiza's closing parties, which used to be mostly over by the end of September, now continue into the second week of October, owing to climate change and the expansion of capitalism, and the "door into autumn" recedes further every year.
Even if I leapt thirty years ahead in cold sleep, the summer I woke up to would surely be longer than today's.

In late-summer Formentera, the light is soft and the sea is still plenty warm.
The temperature is a high of 26 degrees and a low of 24.
I used to come to this island as if to clean up after the roar, and I still can't shake the habit of coming to enjoy the departing summer and that time-warp feeling.