Wesley Mattson Writes

He knew that the sky was no bluer in one place than another, but sitting on an old stone bench gazing at the low skyline of the Fort District, he felt Galle must be the exception.

Its architecture resisted hyperbole; nothing jutted, no building taller than the tallest palm. Walls painted a sensible white or beige to repel heat, walls that severely chipped on less-trafficked roads. Porticos that shade dining tourists. This was a port through which money passed, but did not stay. Behind him was the wall of the fort which doubled as a sea wall. Blue ahead, blue behind. To his left came stumbling a handful of teenagers having too much fun. His perfect moment of noticing was over. He, too, has passed and will not stay.