It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm sitting on a patio chair outside my host family's house in a rural suburb of Paris. The sun is shining brightly: we're currently enjoying temperatures of around 65 degrees. Birds are singing, insects chirping, dogs barking, and an occasional breeze ruffles the leaves of the surrounding trees and bushes. And yet, when I think that yesterday I was on the beach in gorgeous Valencia, Spain enjoying even nicer weather, even this incredible February day in Paris seems just nice at best.
This weekend a group of us from Study Abroad took a trip to Valencia, Spain, a beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast. Forecasts for the past two weeks had predicted rainy but mild weather, and we had accepted that it might not be the sunshine we had hoped for. To our great pleasure, we were sorely mistaken.
The flight arrived late in the evening to clear skies and a beautiful moon. We were cautiously optimistic for some sunny skies the following day. Needless to say we were elated when we arose the following morning to cloudless skies and temperatures already in the sixties.
The day couldn't have been long enough. In my broken Spanish I negotiated the purchase of weekend metro passes, and we made our way to the beach. It was around 10:30 a.m. by the time of our arrival, and I took off straightaway on the Mediterranean hard pack. Something about running on the beach fulfills me.
My pale skin, bleached by the many months under long sleeves, insatiably soaked up the sun, and the sounds of Jack Johnson in accord with the breaking waves served as accompaniment. The fresh smell of sea salt infiltrated my sinuses, and my only regret was having trusted the weatherman enough to pack my umbrella and leave my sunglasses.
After my run, I couldn't resist the urge to dash into the cool Med for a quick dip. The water was cold but refreshing, and it only made the ambient air temperature feel all the warmer. I had to pinch myself as a reminder that yes, I was at the beach in February.
There's something to the beach that always relaxes me. Knowing what I do about myself, I've vowed on multiple occasions to live near the beach. I tend to stress out way to much about life. I take myself and life far too seriously, and something about the beach and the nice weather cuts through all the layers I wrap around most everything and forces me to relax. Is it not, then, important for me to live by the beach?
This is the inner struggle I've been facing for the past few years. Maybe this is just my pride speaking, but I feel that if I put my mind to it, I could be "successful" at many things in life. The trade-off is the quality of life associated with the career path. Some people might be cut out for being doctors. I think I am competent enough to learn the trade, but I'm not sure it's for me.
Fortunately, in society, the variety of interests is as wide as the variety of people. But again, knowing what I know about myself, why shouldn't I find a grad school and finally a job near the beach? Why should I put in the 150-hour work weeks? Is it even worth it? Isn't there more to life than money? I'm sure my opinion on all of these things will change as my circumstances change (when I have a family, when I'm seriously looking at grad schools), but what's wrong with living near the beach if I know it's good for me?
This might seem intuitive to all my friends from California and Hawaii, but I never grew up near a nice beach. Beach days weren't a significant part of my childhood. And yet, every time I'm on a nice sandy beach, there's a new me, a more relaxed me, one where all the troubles in the world just seem to go away, even if just temporarily.
Those who know me as well as I know myself know this about me: there are two personalities inside me, each struggling for control. One side is the responsible, motivated, organized, hard-working Mike. This is the dog I've been feeding almost exclusively for the past 5 years.
The other dog, who ironically seems to be much more productive and efficient with his feed, is the side of me that could live in a shack on the beach for the rest of his life just because it's nice out, the waves are good, the sun is warm, and life is simple. This is the side that plays the guitar, that is fun-loving, spontaneous, and much more relaxed and laid-back (some of you might think of that term as the last one in the world that describes me, and in the context of the past 5 years, I can understand why).
And yet, even when I'm at the beach, I still feel like there's something more I could be doing. What did I do to deserve to be at the beach? Couldn't I be doing something more productive?
The answer I keep coming back to is "no." R&R is an essential part of my productivity. Without it, I'd never be able to work like I do (or at least should;-).
I guess when it comes down to it, then, I could work long weeks, provided I had an occasional out. Just two days away from the big city made a world of difference. I'm already planning my next beach trip.
Now I'd be interested to hear what you think. Should I feel guilty when I'm at the beach? How do you feel when you take some time for yourself? Is it egocentric? Am I wrong, knowing myself, to want to live near a beach? Do you sometimes feel an a struggle between your two halves?
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