Ocean Shores – a small, oceanside town full of kitschy tourist souvenirs, tacky palm tree and sunset wallpaper, and overindulgent signage. A town where – no word of a lie – you can walk in through the wide open jaws of a shark head and enter a store to buy said souvenirs. A town with long streets, running parallel to the ocean, a town with stretches of sand as far as the eye can see, with inns perforating the beach in a display of accommodation. Come, visit Ocean Shores, walk along the beach and soak in the sky. Absorb the ocean before you. And let the sunset take you away.
My friend Gisela and I drove around Washington State together for a week. With the GPS set to our hotel in Ocean Shores, she ignored the voice. Recalculating. Recalculating. Gisela’s internal GPS was set elsewhere: the beach. Mouth clamped firmly shut, she navigated the streets intuitively. Pavement turned to sand, and it seemed for a moment she would drive all the way out, past the compacted sand, onto the soft fluffy stuff, then onto the wet stuff and into the ocean. But she parked. We got out.
And the sun set.
There are a lot of things I love about Scandinavians. I love how they know how to go mushroom hunting, how they have a penchant for scouting out the coziest places and making anything they do feel cozy, and I love that they have such a need for the outdoors. Without my Swedish friend Gisela, I might not have found myself on the beach that night, taking in the colours of the sky or watching the hordes of little birdies running in and out of the tide, splashing, playing, hunting.
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