There’s a word we have back home that we don’t have here. It’s a sort of softness in the air. A blueish quietude with pinkish-purple hazy edges. It flows like liquid, at the same time thin, like gasoline, and viscous, like the yolk of an egg. It’s the kind of glow that soothes your muscles and levels your head, like sliding into a cold pool on a hot afternoon, or taking the first sip of a dram on a misty hillside.