When I was a young boy, we would travel every spring and every summer to the northern coast of the Mediterranean. After a four hour drive on the desert road, we would pass through the unofficial gates of Alexandria, turn off the rickety air conditioning, and swiftly roll down our windows. After hours packed between my siblings and the dead silence of my parents, we would all look to our left, stick our arms outside the windows and imitate the rolling movement of the sea’s waves in sync. Together, we would breathe in the salty wind before we made our way down the corniche to my grandfather’s house. To us, the sea was a marker of our arrival, an emblem of our hometown, and a symbol of a long-sought peace of mind. Although the Mediterranean acts as a border in Alexandria, it seemed to us as an extension of the city.