Mediterranean, L’Herault, southern France. Photo by Kelly S. Kurt
We stood at the wall watching November’s sea push gray swells full of froth and sediment onto the boulders below. We stared and listened, recording the crash’s echo for posterity. The Mediterranean, for us, now meant southern France, Spain’s Costa Brava, Corsica’s tortured blues. A time before was too distant even to remember; a time after too painful to ponder. Out at the end of the pier stood a flat shack. We entered for oysters and found them—chunks of black rocks steeping in sea water, set off by bags of sunny lemons. Bought two kilos for nothing, or next to it, and savored the bargain as if it were on the half-shell.