She spreads a second towel for her beloved. I take off my kaftan to reveal the pink bikini she gave me. It’s a Brazilian bikini, because Europeans don’t know the first thing about designing a bikini. She’s headstrong, but I can’t deny that I feel beautiful. I lay down while she feeds her lover some fruit.
It’s the Sunday before lectures start, a subject we don’t discuss. I take a bite of watermelon. The sweet juice mixes with the crunchy sand. I rinse it away with lukewarm water. I again try to put on sunscreen, but sand sticks to my pale arms and hides between my freckles. I managed to keep the sun off my body all summer, so now my skin looks luminous. I follow the marble-like blood vessels on my thighs. Eventually, my best male friend finds us. He complains that there are thousands of people at Hoek van Holland, but not one in a Speedo. “What are they afraid of?”
The sun is setting and I’m tired. Behind me, a couple breaks free from an overly long embrace. The woman crawls out from under her younger companion and looks around flush-cheeked, dozily and guiltily. There are people dancing on top of the dunes. Between the sun and me, a woman stands staring at the horizon. I see her in profile in front of a low pink parasol, so it looks like she’s wearing a tutu.
On days when the heat is relentless, there aren’t many options to escape South Holland’s urban sprawl. Still, anyone can take the metro and sit among the razor clams and seagulls. Everyone goes to the little beach next to the harbour. All of Rotterdam is here. It’s not Brazil and it never will be: the sea is brown and oil tankers come and go. But I had a lovely day.
