After a week in the mountains, we are at the sea. This morning, we woke up in Casa Colombo. In Mirissa, near the southern tip of the island of Sri Lanka. A small hotel of 6 or so rooms, a few dozen feet from the Indian Ocean. We cannot bathe in the sea in front of Casa Colombo. The sand drop-off is too steep. The current too strong. The waves too crashing. That is okay because fifteen minutes down the shore, past a field where long legged white egrets sit atop curly-horned black water-buffalo, and past a temple where an orange-robed mahogany-skinned teen-aged novice monk plays with a dog on the sand — oh, dogs, there are lots of them, everywhere, lazy bones, asleep on the beach, barely raise an eyelid when we pass — is a rock sheltered cove with the best warm, idyllic, gentle water. That is where our day began.
We arrived to Mirissa in time for my birthday. What a way to celebrate with the warm water of the Indian Ocean lapping at your toes and a glass of fresh pineapple juice in your hand and your husband and dear friend beside you.
After our morning dip, we rode a tuk tuk down the road to a beach, where there was a string of on-the-sand shanty pubs, where a chaise and umbrella were included with your drink. The sand was marshmallow soft to walk on. The water was warm and luminous. We were in those chaises. Under a tree. We drank fresh lime juice with soda and a pineapple lassi blended to order, both were tart and sweet. The surrounding scenery was ideal and idyllic. The usual green foliage sprouted from the usual red earth, but this time with sun glinting on the sea, and a sky of deep blue. At last, on this strip of beach, we are not conspicuous — not the lightest skinned in the crowd. There were German and French couples. Their small children ran naked at the water's edge.
Wes and Sepali have gone for a walk. I am alone. This is the life. Exiled on the shore of paradise. Warm celadon water. The sandy beach is narrow. The tide comes closer with each lick. Soon, it'll be under my chair.
Sepali and Wes return from a beach walk. I am informed I will be eating rice and milk for my birthday. Poor Marlow. (I play along). We pack up and leave the chaise and umbrella. How sad, milk and rice for birthday lunch.
We arrive at Zephyr, a restaurant, (a few paces from the chaises), on the sand. Once seated, a bottle of Venetian wine arrives followed by a dramatic platter: a whole grilled mullet (fish). Then a second platter. Two spiny lobsters, split and grilled with sharp foot long tentacles. It is a dreamy setting. The surprise is nice. On their walk, they stopped in the restaurant, inspected all the fish, ordered lunch, them came to sweep me off my feet. It was a sedate Sri Lanka bacchanal. We ate with our fingers. We laughed and smiled. It was joyous. A warm breeze wafted over us. Everything was good. Several days, in that fashion, melted into one.
Later, in the afternoon, I went for a body scrub with a blend of cinnamon, cardamom, clove. Dredged in spices, I closed my eyes and drifted off.
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