Walking onto the ferry in the rain, I was joined by lady pushing her bicycle, baskets filled with shopping, puddles gathering in the creases of the plastic bags. As we found a sheltered spot beneath the bridge, she looked me up and down.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
I told her I was walking to the border. To look at the point on the beach where the country was once divided. She looked out across the river, into the driving rain, and shook her head.
“There’s nothing there,” she said, pityingly.
I shrugged. She didn’t seem to know how to take this, and the rest of the short voyage passed in silence. Only as we reached the opposite bank and she wheeled her bicycle up the ramp did she turn and speak to me again.
“On the road, there’s a sign. Not much, but there you go. On the beach though… Pffft. Nothing.”
She waited a second, to see if I would follow the insinuation. There’s nothing to see. Turn around and go back. But I just smiled and followed her off the ferry. Now it was her turn to shrug. So be it, her body communicated, as she climbed onto her bicycle and rode gracefully away, weaving between the standing water on the road.