She Sells Sea Shells By The Sea Shore
I would buy a house, maybe a cottage by the seaside. I would wake up every morning breathing the fresh salt air and feeling the wind whipping my face and the sun beating my face until it feels tight in strange places, a soft shade of red; chameleon skin when pressed with gentle fingers.
Little flakes of skin peeling around shoulders
and only soothed with a thick lotion, serving as a reminder of the importance of SPF.
I would keep goats because they are my favorite domesticated animals and maybe a few chickens.
It would be salty and wild and sunny and beautiful. Toes would dig into warmed sand and life would take on a different pace than what one finds in the city. I could even see the stars. Map out constellations of galaxies as far away and endless as the ocean before me.
Saint Malo is absolutely beautiful. And I mean that in the most sincere way. The ocean is as deep and blue as perhaps a lover’s eyes, and given that it was reconstructed entirely after the second world war, is beautiful. It is the land of great tides and great crepes. Bretagne, with a fierce proud heritage and salty air.
We took the train, my sister and I, 7 am early on Tuesday and by lunchtime we were already digging into a pizza hastily kicking off our shoes. Coming from Paris, where there has been nay a week of sunshine for the entire month, it was fantastic to be able to pull off all the coats and simply just lie there in the sand soaking up sun as we raced against the low tide lapping at the shore’s edge.
Saint Malo is a small town, and clearly a vacation spot – although why there were so many Germans (or at least I think they were Germans; perhaps they were Dutch) at this exact spot on that exact day is a little beyond me.
So even though our hotel was a 20 minute walk from the train station, it was really only about 5 minutes to the seashore, which suited me just fine as the sea-fronted hotels were upwards of 100 Euro a night.
The sun beat down and the sea water got into our hair as sand dug its way under our toes in the colder-than-you’d-expect ocean. And the tides! Oh how the tides change! Nothing like those back at home where the difference is a mere 2-3 meters between low and high tide; these waters come rushing up and swallow the entire beach profoundly changing the scenery. Within an hour it’s not the same beach that it was before and the sea is merciless as it beats against the limestone walls, spraying up onto thoe who would venture too close. The big warning signs are well deserved.
People had told me about it, but I didn’t believe until I saw it with my own eyes.
I hear that it makes for wonderful sailing conditions however.
It’s the sort of thing that makes getting up at 5:30am worth it. And I would see it over and over again because it’s never the same thing twice. The seagulls fly over head and the sun sinks, engulfed by the ocean, and somehow the time has slipped through fingers because when I went to check the clock again it was already well past 9pm.
Skin feeling a little salty and the shops are closed we walked back to the hotel, which was surprisingly easy to find and took a shower in what has to be the best shower (and fanciest too) stall that I’ve ever seen. Odd to find it in such a small hotel/bar locale.
But the beach wears one out and so I slept soundly to wake up early and head into Mont Saint Michel early the next day, dreaming of cottages by the shore. The salt was still in my hair and I dreamt that if I were to ever but a house it had better be well near the ocean because I don’t think I can go so long again without seeing the sea.