Long evenings in empty streets

What is it about this part of France? I think the light has a lot to do with it. A summer evening seems to linger forever, while the hot day that preceded it seems like an ill-defined memory. Then there’s the quiet. The streets are filled with it. There’s only the gentle “bonjour” of a passing stranger, the light clack of a wood shutter being cast open, or drawn closed against the slanted light. Or is it the empty, empty streets? There’s something distinct about this place. I’m not yet willing to leave it, even though I’m already miles away.