I was almost 3 years old, and even to this day, I remember the cheerful chime of bicycle bells,
one of them belonged to my father, with me sitting in front of him, gazing at the endless pine landscapes that stretched for miles, in a considerable width. When I fell asleep, he would stop the bicycle and stand in the shade of a pine tree so I could nap. My sister, on the other hand, was 7 years old, riding a men’s bicycle too tall for her small frame, and would wait with dad and me, eagerly for me to wake up.
My sleep was but a fleeting illusion, barely lasting five minutes. I would open my eyes and say, stammering: DAD, beach! I meant the beach. We were on our way to the beach, and even though I was a child with “genuine” instincts and senses, I imagined it as something beautiful, where I would play with my sister whom I always followed closely, even though she didn’t really like it.
The beach in question was the beach of Ndërnënas, a hidden beach visited only by locals. During the summer months, they would build straw tents and spend weeks of vacation there. There were no loungers, hotels, restaurants, there was almost nothing except Aristir, who sold milk ice cream, and we, as children, would go crazy begging for an ice cream. But there was a happiness that to this day is hard for me to find.
Today, this beach remains the same, without hotels or restaurants, visited only by the few locals. But it carries with it the scent of childhood.
