local envy.

It always happens on summer holidays. That intense longing; wishing for almost nothing else.

You wish you were a local.

You pull up in the back of the family car, headphones in ears and pillow against window. You press your nose to the window, your eager breath begins to fog up the glass. You wind down the window and it hits you. That salty breeze; stirring up memories of holidays passed. The cool azure of the Pacific in the distance is inviting, urging you to break free of the prison that the car has become for the past three hours and immerse yourself in its frigid goodness. You’re almost afraid it’s a mirage, blink and it will disappear. But it doesn’t.

The pilgrimage make their way down to the sand, eager to worship the sun and the sea. You find it easy; almost laughable it is that simple to separate the locals from the pretenders. You are a pretender, you should know. There are those carrying no possessions, maybe a towel and a surfboard. They are casual, confident, in no hurry to reach the beach. They are safe in the knowledge that the beach; their beach is not going anywhere. They won’t have to leave the sun and sand in ten days time and return to the leafy suburbs. They are the lucky ones.

They are the locals.

Then there are those who can be compared to desert camels, laden with goods and parcels bound for faraway places. They carry umbrellas, sunscreen bottles, picnic baskets, collapsible chairs and sun shades, boogie boards and buckets and spades. Tripping over their own feet, they’re stressed. Anxious to feel the hot sand underfoot, the cool waves lapping against their ankles. They have a schedule to stick to; their time here has an expiration date. Once their feet sink into the burning sand and they settle themselves on their brightly coloured towels, their bodies’ slump. Muscles loosen; worry lines and frowns disappear, holiday relaxation mode is a go. Fast-forward a few hours, the sun hangs low in the sky and the sand begins to cool signaling the pilgrim’s departure. Many red raw, skin not used to the sun, sandy and sorrowful. Time to leave the beach.

Then there’s you. You’ve been coming here your whole life; you may as well be a local you tell yourself. This place belongs to you as much as it does to any other. As you make your way down to the beach, you’re on autopilot. Your feet know the way, following the familiar path you’ve made your way down so many times before. You appear nonchalant, in no hurry. But inside excitement surges into your chest and consumes you like a tidal wave. You think of nothing else but reaching the white-hot of the beach.

The euphoria of finally reaching the beach is overwhelming.  The tiny grains of sand slip through your outstretched fingers like a sieve, you liken it to the disappearing days you have left here.

Local envy is well and truly planted inside of you, like a seed being pushed into deep soil. But for now who cares, you are content. Pretending to be a local for ten days is satisfying enough.