Mediterranean Sea

The first (and only) time I saw the Mediterranean Sea, I ran down the pebbled shore to the ocean, rolled up my jeans, and waded out into the sea. 

It was one of the very few times I left Lille without a solid plan, or a hostel reservation. I arrived at night and took a taxi to the hostel to find there were no beds left. I distinctly remember the drive, the taxi, and the hostel that turned me away. I can't really remember where I ended up staying that night. While living in France I had made it my goal to see as much of France as I could. Unlike other students who traveled often to other countries, I only occasionally did this. Focusing instead on seeing France well because I did not know if I would ever return. Southern France and the Mediterranean was a must-see on that list. I don't know how or why I settled on Nice, but I did. It was one of the more adventurous train rides in my time there because it was just a little too close, with too many transfers to be easily be an overnight train ride.

In the early morning, I headed out for breakfast and the beach. The rest of Nice could wait. I remember walking down the street toward the sea. I was surprised, and disappointed, to find the rocky shore. In my mind I had always imagined the Mediterranean to have perfect sand beaches. I also mistakenly presumed that Nice would be warm, even in November. 

I waded about in the cold water, looking across the sea toward Africa. I was struck while in France how much closer the whole world felt to me. Russia was just a train ride away. Africa was just across this spot of sea. I loved feeling closer to the rest of the world. 

I wandered out of the water and sat on the shore watching the sea. Because it was November, the beach was empty except for one woman. She approached, and in perfect American English, asked if I too were American. Laughing, she said she knew I was American by the way I ran out to the ocean and splashed about. She said only Americans did that. 

Her head was covered and she wore a long, loose dress. She sat down beside me and began to talk about her home in California. The memories of her home and her family felt far away. To talk to me of America eased her homesickness. Not much older than me, she also told me that she had married an Algerian man and was leaving France to go live with his family in Algeria. She had converted to Islam and planned to live out her life in Algeria.

I was completely flabbergasted. Married? To a Muslim? Moving to AFRICA?? (Remember, I was nineteen, and a very sheltered nineteen).

We sat on the beach and talked for an hour or so. I don't remember her name. I do remember her soft face, and light brown hair. Over the years I have thought of her often, wondering how her life has turned out. Thinking about the ways the world has changed since we sat together on that beach. I have often wondered if she is happy, and safe, and what her life has looked like.

Today I sit and look at the map of Spain. I ponder another trip to the Mediterranean. This time, Africa is even closer. Even more tempting. And I think Nic and I will try to pop over the slice of the sea to see it. As we navigate the details of that trip, I can't help but think of all of the people who risk their lives to cross that same slice. The people who drown leaving Africa. The people who risk everything to escape their lives and start again. 

My privilege feels heavy. Yet, I still want to go. I want to see the world and the lives of other people. I believe seeing these things helps me appreciate the wonders of my life. It helps me understand the world better. It makes me a more compassionate, and grateful human being.