My skin is burning, yet chills run down my spine. I slowly walk around and peek inside the windows, but the shades are drawn. I take pictures from every angle. The Canadian and European tourists from the recently built hotel behind the house are staring at me. While the sun goddesses relax on the sand and worship the golden orb, other tourists seek refuge under rows of straw umbrellas and slowly sip frozen cocktails.
Some tourists seek relief from the sweltering heat in the crystal clear water.
Those with a more adventurous spirit are sailing or jet skiing. They are all clueless. I wish they would disappear. I want to be alone. I collapse on the sand, the same sand where my father played as a baby, the same sand where militiamen camped to surveil my grandfather in 1961.