Moments like this

Somewhere south of the port city of Olbia, in the island of Sardenia, we sought the beach. We had some time. If I had to guess, it was just north of Tanaunela. We had yet to really stick our feet into the Mediterranean. Technically, this was the Tyrrhenean Sea. Oddly, Italy little touches the Mediterranean itself, being mostly surrounded by the Tyrrhenean, Adriatic, and Ionian seas. Still, the waters wash the same, and we were looking for a little break. We parked in the lot for a somewhat busy beach, and headed down a nearby rocky shore.

The cumulus clouds the size of the island, if not the world were floating in the afternoon light. The water was blue, but full of shadows. And there was a man singing. His skin was tan, his head balding and somewhat grey. He was neither thin nor fat, but had the muscular body of old aged men under loose skin. This was readily apparent because, as European men will, he was wearing a speedo. Tied around the fabric of his left hip, and weighing the speedo down uncomfortably, was a yellow plastic grocery bag. He went along, shin deep in the water, pocket knife in his right hand, scanning the barnacle covered rocks, prying away mussels, adding them to the bag, singing, in that same strong but worn voice that you could see in the skin and muscle.

He came from up the coast, passed us, down towards the swimmers and gone. Along the way, a man with a long rod and a long line fished.

Where I go, I see many great things. Ruins and Museums, Mountains and Rivers. And they teach me my geography and history better than any book ever has. And there is value in that. But it is moments like this when you find the unexpected, common thing in far places that makes the weary standing, walking, driving, flying of travel well, well worth it.