They're all water-fronts, and they're all caught in transitory light. Chioggia is mid-summer day, Honolulu dusk, Ancona and Kristiansand both night—yet the descriptions all settle on that ambient, diffused quality rather than stark sun or deep dark. The water itself becomes a mirror in each case, whether it's reflecting sunlight or catching harbor lamps; the surface matters more than what's on it.
The human presence is peripheral or absent. The beaches and harbors are populated, but not busy in the way a city street is—people are scattered, leaving the scene to the water and sky. There's a similar texture to the descriptions: light bleeding, glows, gentle movement. Nothing is being done so much as happening around something being observed.
It's a cluster, though a quiet one. The shared condition seems to be liminal spaces—edges where land meets water and activity thins out—captured in transitional time. Not inherently profound, but coherent: four notices of how a place feels when it's neither bustling nor empty, neither fully day nor fully night. The thing they share is likely just that particular attention to the ambient world, at the edges.