By Vicky Anastassopoulou
By some happy coincidence, I find myself in paradise. On the Baltic Sea – more precisely: in Dierhagen.
The view from the balcony onto the endless blue of the sea is pure restoration! The colors of the sea shift with the mood of the sky: from bright turquoise, covered with a carpet of billions of glittering diamonds, to a deep blue-grey, rippling beneath the rising wind. The sun plays with the sea as the sea plays with the sun – an eternal dance, sometimes playful, sometimes dramatic. The wind is their orchestra: at times gentle, causing only the slightest rocking of the diamonds on the water, then strong enough to raise wave crests – like crashing waves of applause from the heart of nature.
When I look to the left, a green sea of treetops opens up. Tall coniferous and deciduous trees line the horizon, and it seems as though their branches bow ever so slightly. A silent “Welcome to paradise by the Baltic Sea” whispers through their movement.
And just outside the hotel – a long, white sandy beach. Fine as powdered sugar, soft under bare feet, as though I were walking on memory instead of sand. The sun casts golden islands of light across the surface, then withdraws behind a cloud, drawing back the curtain for a new performance. On some days, the clouds are hardly visible – as if someone had ironed the sky smooth – and on others, they drift past in formations like stories being told in silence across the horizon.
I leave the balcony door open. The scent of salt, pine, and vacation mingles with my coffee. Nowhere else asks so little of me. Here, simply being is enough.
I slip off my sandals and follow the narrow path through the dunes. The grasses whisper in the wind, as if they know a secret only revealed to those who listen in silence. The fine sand crunches softly underfoot, cool and smooth. The sun is high, yet a gentle breeze brushes my skin like a quiet comfort. I walk slowly, without destination, letting myself drift.
On the horizon, sky and sea blend into a pale ribbon. The waves roll steadily onto the shore – they come, they go, and yet no two are the same. Sometimes I think the sea is breathing. Its movements have something alive, comforting. A constant coming and going, without haste, without hurry.
I see shells the last storm has washed ashore – broken fragments, spirals, small works of art. I pick one up. It is smooth, polished by time, and lies warm in my hand. I wonder how far it has travelled before arriving here, on this spot of the world that feels like home to me, even though I am just a guest.
A little boy runs past. In his hand, a colorful shovel; his bucket is full of wet sand. His parents follow, laughing, barefoot, carefree. I feel a smile form on my lips. It’s beautiful to witness these simple moments of joy, to be a quiet part of a world that, in its calm simplicity, seems complete.
Farther south along the beach, I meet an elderly woman. She walks hunched, her steps careful but steady. A small white dog trots beside her, glancing back at her now and then. When we pass, she nods to me, a friendly smile on her face. “Every day,” she says quietly, more to herself than to me. “Since my husband passed. I come because the sea listens to me.”
I say nothing. Sometimes silence is the deepest form of understanding. The dog snaps at a seagull that flutters away with broad wings. The woman waves goodbye as if she’s known me forever.
A little further along, a girl sits in the sand. Her hands are full of shells, which she sorts by shape and color. “The ones with spirals are the prettiest,” she says without looking up. I kneel beside her. “Why?” I ask. “Because they spin. And if you listen really closely, you can hear them sing.” Her seriousness touches me. I hold one of the shells to my ear. Perhaps I hear the sea. Perhaps just my heart.
Later in the afternoon, I stop by a small wooden boat. An old fisherman is repairing his net. His skin is weathered like driftwood, his hands work calmly, almost reverently. “The sea gives and takes,” he says. “You must meet it with respect.” I ask him if he has ever felt fear out there. He laughs dryly. “Of course. But fear is good. It reminds you you’re alive.”
We sit for a few minutes side by side, saying little, only what’s necessary. And yet I feel richly gifted. As I leave, he nods at me as though I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
I return slowly. The wind has picked up, waves hit the shore more forcefully now, wearing white caps like little hats. My path leads me along the boardwalk back to the hotel. The balcony door still stands open, just as I left it. Inside, it is pleasantly cool. I pour a glass of water, sit on the bed, and let the day wash through me. The images, the sounds, the encounters.
My gaze lands on a framed photo on the bedside table. I’m in it, laughing, wet hair, a towel around my shoulders. Another summer. Another life. Sometimes, I think, we don’t travel to places – but to versions of ourselves we had almost forgotten.
I remember a trip with my parents. I was maybe ten. My father held my hand when I was too afraid to jump into the waves. He said, “The sea will carry you. You just have to trust it.” I still hear his voice when I face big decisions. Perhaps paradise is also a place where our inner voices speak louder – because the noise of everyday life is silent.
In the evening, the sky softens like velvet. The sun sinks slowly, coloring the water in copper and gold. I step outside once more, sit at the edge of the boardwalk. The “Baltic giraffes” – sailboats with their slender masts – glide along the horizon, like proud creatures on their way to another world. Behind them, the floating cities appear: illuminated ships, like distant islands, quiet and mysterious. The wind is barely noticeable now. Only the soft murmur of the sea remains. I close my eyes. A peace spreads through me that I haven’t felt in a long time. No thought in a rush. No question demanding an answer. Everything is simply allowed to be.
Later, when it’s completely dark, I lie in bed. Through the window I see stars. One thought accompanies me into sleep: perhaps paradise is not a place. Perhaps it’s a state – that rare moment when everything is just right: the wind, the light, the sea. And the heart whispers softly: Yes. The next morning, I wake early. The light is gentle, like a promise. The Baltic Sea lies still beyond the window, as if holding its breath for a moment. I throw on a cardigan and step outside barefoot. The air is clear and carries the scent of seaweed and damp wood.
The beach is almost empty. Just one woman practicing Tai Chi in wide circles, and a jogger running in rhythm with the waves. I walk slowly, watching the gulls glide over the water with outstretched wings, seemingly weightless. Their cries slice through the silence like memories.
I find a spot between two dunes, sit down, and let my gaze wander. The sky is a watercolor of pink, blue, and gold. I breathe deeply. Air has never felt so pure. I think of all the days I longed for this feeling – the feeling that all is well. Just so.
A dragonfly lands on my knee. Its wings shimmer in the light, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. I sit perfectly still. Maybe it senses my calm. Maybe it shares its own.
I remain there for a long while. I feel something soften within me. Not out of weakness – but out of peace. When I finally walk back, I know: I will not leave this place the same way I came.
Back at the hotel, I begin to pack. Departure day is near. I fold my clothes carefully, layer by layer into the suitcase, as if trying to pack the memories of my stay. The fabric smells of sea and sun. A smile crosses my face when I find a few grains of sand in a pocket. They are tiny, almost invisible – yet they hold the entire feeling of these days.
I wonder how long it will last. This feeling of vastness, of depth, of quiet joy. At home it will be loud again, fast, demanding. But maybe, I think, I’ve taken a spark with me. A small flame I can tend to. I will place shells on my windowsill. Perhaps I’ll write down the names of the people I met. And if one day I forget how it felt – I’ll return.
Because that’s the wonder of this place: it waits. Patiently. Without demand. The Baltic will continue to change its colors, the wind will tell stories, the sand will carry footprints and erase them again. And I will know: paradise was never far. It was always here – quite real.
The next morning, I leave the hotel. The sky is clear, the light fresh and cool. I pause briefly, take one last look at the sea. The Baltic lies there quietly, not trying to impress. It needs no dramatic farewell. Its beauty is silent, unassuming – and that’s what makes it so deep. I place my hand on the wooden railing of the balcony, feel the sun on my skin. It’s just a brief moment, but it feels eternal. Perhaps one day I’ll remember it in a crowded tram. Or on a grey Monday morning. And I’ll smile. Because I’ll know: paradise exists.
It’s not a place of palm trees and cocktails. Not an endless summer with postcard views. It is a state. A whisper. A moment of stillness between two breaths.
It is where we are wholly with ourselves – without fear, without hurry.
I walk down the stairs, suitcase in hand. The taxi waits in front of the hotel. The driver nods kindly; I get in. The road winds through forests, past fields and thatched houses. I look out the window. Inside me, all is still.
Dierhagen slowly fades behind me, but the feeling remains. I carry it with me, like a light scarf. Invisible perhaps, but warming.
And so I drive away – knowing:
I have seen paradise.
And I will find it again.
Within me.