After a long and tiring weekend full of intense work in a stuffy exhibition hall, it was about time to make use of the perfectly located place I call home. So I went to the seaside, cleared my head, and found some peace. On a gloomy Monday morning, there weren’t many people strolling along the beach. Thus, I was nearly the only one parking my bike in the bike rack, where it’s usually very crowded, noisy, and hectic.

At the beach, only a few of the beach huts were open. The scene was dominated by workers unloading rusty containers, loudly drilling and hammering, accompanied by the sound of seagulls. I stepped over a few fake palms and broken beach furniture, carelessly thrown into a pile. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the salty and humid sea air.