Pilgrim in the Rain: A Journey of Storms, Sand, and Sacred Birkenstocks
What started as a simple walk on the beach became a cinematic struggle for survival—until the English tourists reminded me of that I was not there yet.
The last few days at the beach have been unpredictable—calm and clear one moment, then swallowed by a sudden downpour. It’s given me time to watch the storm from a safe, elevated vantage point, to reflect on what I came here for.
Today, I decided: this trip is about cleansing. Shedding what I no longer need. A reset.
Of course, practicality still matters. In this strange, post-modern wasteland of sand and rain, I discovered that Boston Birkenstocks—when positioned just right—form an almost impenetrable vault. A crude, makeshift sanctuary. Inside, nestled with great care, was my iPhone, the last tether to the world before the storm. I swaddled the capsule in my black V-neck T-shirt, my own sacred wrapping cloth, and slung it across my back like a wandering monk protecting an ancient text.
With my relic secured, I stepped into the downpour.
Where are we really going?
Always Home!
The walk was two miles, straight into the wind and rain. At first, I fought it—shielding my makeshift capsule, bracing against the elements. But resistance was futile. I had to surrender. Once I did, everything became easier. The storm was no longer my adversary but my guide.
Down the beach, a local man was boogie boarding in the mush—no real waves, nothing particularly exciting, just pure joy. No audience, no expectations, only motion. I gave him a half khap wave and bow, a nod of respect to a fellow traveler who had seemingly reached enlightenment without the need for symbolic struggle. Then I kept walking.
By the time I reached the resort, I had already imagined how it would look—how the guests and staff would see me emerging from the storm, drenched but noble, a traveler who had lived it. They’d nod in admiration, whisper to each other:
"That one? He’s been out in the elements. A survivor."
Instead, an older English couple at their laptop side-eyed me like a wet dog about to shake dry in their general direction.
So much for cinematic glory.
And there it was—the real work still waiting. Even after my journey, even after protecting my sacred relic against all odds, I was still playing for an audience. Still narrating my own legend.
The sky was clearing. No more storms to wash it all away for me. The next cleansing would have to come from the inside.
Silly rabbit.
He who travels far will often see things
Far removed from what he believed was Truth.
When he talks about it in the fields at home,
He is often accused of lying,
For the obdurate people will not believe
What they do not see and distinctly feel .
Inexperience, I believe,
Will give little credence to my song.
Excerpt from The Journey East by Herman Hesse
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