My Beige Summer

Summer is a notoriously challenging season for writing. Is it just me? I have to look outside my window and see gloom, rather than glee, to steady myself enough to put some sensible words on paper. Writing blossoms well in irritation, sadness, and hurt. Summer usually brings happiness and excitement, and those feelings rarely initiate reflection or self-analysis. I prefer to fully indulge in the food, wine, beach, and boating; emboss the feeling, and write about it in September.

This summer was not that kind of summer.

This summer felt unlike any other, didn't it? I'm sure you noticed it too. As I heard people around me categorize their summers—weird, out of the ordinary, passing by too quickly, or just plain bad—I couldn't help but think that this collective sentiment hinted at a shift in our lives, a change for the better.

I felt it, somewhere around May. I had a feeling this year will be different, and should be approached accordingly. Differently.

I thrive on my European summers. It's more than just reuniting with family and friends; every year it reconnects me with a Mediterranean lifestyle I was raised in—a lifestyle I yearn for more and more, as I tally my 23rd year of living in the United States. I like where I come from—a little slice of Split, nestled in Dalmatia, along the Mediterranean, where people are like no other, in looks or demeanor. I like our collective flair for drama and how simultaneously artistic and athletic we are. I like how famously annoyed we are with everyone who fails to grasp our way of life. I like our religious approach to prepping food, our precise timelines for lunch, a dip in the sea, or a post-lunch siesta. I like the cynicism that pervades every aspect of our existence. I take pride in our genetic makeup, the olive skin that never seems to burn, and this unruly hair I've inherited from my mother.