July 18: A Different Kind of Beautiful

Photo Credit: Douglas Ridloff

My narrow definition of the perfect beach burst wide open that evening in Nice.

My beach experiences up until Nice boil down to two primary defining locations: the Bahamas and the Hamptons.  I spent summers as a little girl in Nassau with my great aunt, who lived there.  Now every summer Douglas and I flee to the Hamptons when life in the city turns into a hot fetid swamp. My definition of a perfect beach was pretty narrow: powdery sand, lukewarm aquamarine water.  Anything but was no good.

Photo Credit: Douglas Ridloff

  

We stumbled upon the beach, sort of.  The beach was written off quickly when we read about the pebbly beaches of Nice--the original plan was to return to the hotel after dinner and veg out at the rooftop pool.  This was only a quick stayover--we did not have the time for beachgoing.

Maybe it was the sun setting, maybe it the abundance of cheery yellow architecture or maybe it was simply a case of a-too-full-stomach-gotta-walk-it-off but regardless I had a change of heart.  I wanted to walk to the beach.

Oh my.  The pebbles were hypnotic.  The numbing number of pebbles that sat on each other, stretched out for miles.  The soft monochromatic colors of the pebbles went with the sea, with the sky that was slowly darkening.  Everything looked bluish-gray.  The pebbles left a powdery residue on our skin.  A different kind of beautiful.

Levi gathered as many stones as he could (we brought them home).  Douglas skimmed the flat ones across the surface of the sea.  I held the smooth stones in my hands, holding onto this wonderful moment.

10

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

--E.E. Cummings