It wasn't until a girl around the age of six came up to me to ask me something in Russian that I realized what the problem was. Of course, I had no idea what the girl was asking, but luckily her mother was there and able to translate. "She's asking why you are reading a book on the beach when you should be out swimming, having fun." I tried to convince the girl, through her mother's translation, that I was indeed having fun, more fun than she could imagine, but the little girl would have none of that explanation. Embarrassed by her daughter's boldness, the mother hurriedly returned them to their beach chairs, but I realized suddenly that I was as out of place as if I were wearing a parka and snow skis on this hot summer's day. And I realized also that I was very much alone, reading a book on the beach.
I remember when I was a teenager, my family and I would go up to a retreat center deep in the Cascade Mountains of Washington for our vacations each summer. Yes, we played volleyball, hiked and fished, sat in the village sauna, and gazed at the brilliant evening sky from our spot in the gigantic outdoor village jacuzzi. But many of the guests could also be found throughout the day sitting on benches and chairs on the dormitory porches reading books. The center even had a village library where many of us would hang out reading, during some of our spare time. It was how we vacationed: relaxation and renewal through activities and leisurely reading. But it wasn't just at the retreat center: through most of my adult life I have spent time on beaches or in mountain lodges where many of my fellow guests were leisure readers too.
After being lectured by the small girl about my strange habits, I got out of my beach chair just to check to see that there surely must be someone else on the shores of Issyk-kul exactly like me. I started at the west end of the beach and continued 400 meters to the far east end to see if there was another reader to be found. I even stealthily snuck up behind those on tablets and phones: certainly one of these relaxed tourists must have a book on their electronic devices. No, only games and videos could I find--and annoyed glances at the pale, freckled man coming too close to their personal spaces. No, not a book in sight among the hundreds of sun-bathers. The best I could do was almost trip over an elderly man lying on a towel, doing a crossword puzzle.
Discouraged, I wondered if I should just surrender my obsolete ways, dodo bird of a person I had become. Maybe I would be better off taking up the pastimes of my fellow beach dwellers: commandeer a jet ski, buy several cups of beer and smoke cigarettes, do belly flops off the pier, or have several children bury me in sand up to my neck. Or better yet, I should engage in the activity the majority of the beach goers under the age of five were doing all day long: I could try crying and screaming at the top of my lungs, in the hope that I too would receive the endless supply of ice cream and the earnest pleas of young mothers in bikinis that these toddlers were getting.
But, if nothing else, I am stubborn, as much as an unconsoled four-year-old, and I returned to my beach chair to read my book, an astonishing novel by Shusaku Endo, entitled Silence. If I am one of the last members of a vanishing tribe, then so be it.
Just before leaving the lake today for the very last time, I walked toward the beach to take one final look at the stunning blue waters of Issyk-kul. Just as I reached the sand, a woman in her 20s walked by. She was reading a book, lost in the text as she strolled quietly toward the residences. I wanted to stop her and ask her what she was reading and if she was having a wonderful time with her book on the beach. But, I knew I would startle her, even frighten her, with the odd questions coming from some pale, white-bearded stranger. So, I said nothing and watched her walk by. But I was filled with joy knowing that my vanishing tribe had at least one more member on that Issyk-kul beach to take my place.
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