by the sea, by the beautiful sea

Here we are at the North Carolina coast, with the ocean literally on our doorstep. We’ve gotten to watch the sunrise every day since we got here, a glorious consolation prize for the jet lag that still has both boys waking up well before God herself does. Yesterday G sat on my lap as the pinky blaze crept up over the horizon, backlighting the clouds à la Cecil B. DeMille. His mouth dropped open (letting loose a few chunks of Raisin Bran) and he gasped, “Someone painted the sky.”

It’s lovely to be home, lovely that G’s grandmother was sitting next to him to hear him say something so rare and wonderful instead of only reading or hearing about it much later, when some of the magic had worn off in the retelling. It’s also lovely that two weeks from now we won’t be boarding another international flight. On our flight over, I only had to lock myself in the bathroom once with the baby, crying (me, not the baby – the comma is important), but it’s still not an experience I’m eager to repeat. And yet I can’t believe that means we’ve really left Paris for good.

On our long walks down the beach – some of which G is joining us in this year, matching our slower pace with a stride that advertises the two inches his legs have grown past the bottom of all his pants – I pause every time someone waves at us or stops to say hello (which is exactly every time we pass another human on the beach). I’ve been away a long time, I think. Do I know you? I wave back uncertainly, and smile.

And then I remember we are here, in the southern United States, not Paris, where a greeting is a sign of intimacy born only of many years of cautious interaction, a place we were just approaching as we left. I had forgotten what it’s like.

The weather here is as warm as the greetings, and it’s helping to thaw me out, keeping me relaxed even as I avoid facing up to all these sea changes in our lives. I’m normally the first one to get excited about a big change, but the sadness of leaving Paris plus the disorientation of packing up all our belongings and the children has me off my paces, a bit.

Beach houses in North Carolina all seem to be decorated out of the same central warehouse, stocked with pastel and sunset-hued furniture and an endless supply of decorator prints and beach-themed tchotchkes (plastic dolphins, surfboard-shaped doormats). This year’s house has a number of painted wooden signs, made to look slightly weatherbeaten, each with a different exhortation in a different font – “Relax! It Doesn’t Get Better Than This!” “Run your toes through the sand!” They have the effect of making me slightly anxious. Suppose I don’t toe the line?

And tonight, a hurricane is rolling in, a storm small enough not to require evacuation but large enough to bring in some pretty spectacular weather. We’ve laid aside flashlights, diapers, and bottled water, and all up and down the beach there’s a sense of waiting, like a slightly held breath. I’m looking forward, a little, to the storm, and the rain, and the calm after.