See You in September

September on the Outer Banks is a whole different animal.

For one thing, on today's walk I saw a group of Mennonite (Amish?) woman on the beach, a first in all my years coming down here. Four of them sat wearing long dresses and bonnets on a beach towel while a brave fifth stood at the surf's edge clad in a sleeveless purple dress that went down to her mid-calf.

A blow-up swim ring encircled the long bathing costume. Her bonnet was nowhere to be found. She looked terrified.

I don't think that ring was going to do much considering that all along the beach were yellow flags warning, "Dangerous Surf," but I admired her pluck.

Pru and I set up camp on the beach after I returned from my walk, intending to spend the day, only to discover that the younger inhabitants of the house had no such intention. Despite over five hours on the beach, not one of them ventured down at any point to join us, opting instead for the air-conditioning and TV of the house.

As has been pointed out before, youth (and beach houses) are wasted on the young.

It was a gorgeous day again, blue skies and swirling clouds, sailboats on the horizon and just enough breeze to keep things interesting.

We resisted leaving the beach for as long as possible but since we also wanted a night out, eventually we had to. One thing about September at the beach is that you just don't have the hours of evening daylight you do in July.

When we got to Ocean Boulevard for dinner, we were greeted by a sign on the door alerting the world that Elizabeth and Jake were having their rehearsal dinner downstairs at the restaurant. That meant walk-in patrons could come back after 9 or sit upstairs.

"I wouldn't mind having an intimate dinner at a table with you," Pru said with what sounded like sincerity.

We were there so we settled for upstairs, intending to move downstairs as soon as the bar re-opened. The hostess led us to a small room upstairs with four tables and three couples occupying them.

It was close quarters but the problem was that there was no music and we were mere feet from three other couples, each trying to have their own conversation. I told Pru that music-less restaurants were denying the customers ambiance.

"Are you talking about there being no music?" the guy at the table by the window asked, unable not to overhear our conversation. When I checked to see if they'd mentioned it to their server, they admitted they hadn't. "Well Karen will," Pru told them.

"Thanks, Karen," the stranger said.

"They turned off the music because the bridal party was doing toasts and talking," said the guy at the table behind us, who had also done nothing about the situation.

When our server returned with our Shaya  Verdejo, I stage-whispered to him, asking if he could turn the music back on. He stage-whispered just as loudly that he'd do his best before admitting that he hadn't even noticed.

Every single time I've ever told a server that the music had stopped (or was endlessly repeating or skipping) they've said that they hadn't even noticed. And while he made sure it did come back on, it was so low a volume that the most we heard was some occasional percussion.

On my way to the loo, I walked by a couple at a table, hearing him tell her, "I'm not saying I got you figured out, I'm just saying I want to try."

Luckily, it would soon be 9 and we could escape the awkward room.

In the meantime, we ate well, sharing a bistro salad with candied ham; North Carolina ham wrapped around housemade Mozzarella with balsamic and melon; mussels in white wine and pesto; and N.C. shrimp with corn and red peppers and a field pea cake, all small plates with at least one too many ingredients.

I appreciate a complexity of flavors but sometimes less is more.

Once we'd eaten, we took our wine glasses and headed downstairs in search of some life to the party and were immediately greeted by John from Annapolis (first concert: Pink Floyd, 1976) who asked what had taken us so long. He had place settings set on either side of him at the bar and indicated that they were for us.

In fact, they were for his cousin and her friend, both year-round residents of the Outer Banks, who soon arrived and the party began. Despite our stranger status, we were soon talking over each other, asking nosy questions and gleaning each other's pasts.

John was a Porsche fanatic and while trying to pique our interest with Porsche stories, got the attention of the guy nearest me who just happened to be a Porsche owner himself. "I thought I recognized you from a Porsche meet," he said to John.

Margaret was a cruise fanatic - top three cruises, she said, had been Iceland, Alaska and Norway - and Sydney was a hoot, telling us her first concert was Gary Wright and then pulling up a Gary Wright video on her phone. She also informed us that Joe Walsh had married Barbara Bach's sister, so Christie Brinkley and John Mellencamp was nothing.

We couldn't have asked for better strangers.

The bridal party was finally breaking up and the bride came over to the bar to collect the vases of flowers that had been set around it. She was a difficult-looking blond in a cut-out dress who looked very high maintenance.

As she walked by, Margaret said in her direction, "Don't do anything you don't want to do for the rest of your life. That's my marriage advice." We gave Elizabeth and Jake three years tops.

It turned out that both the women's families had roots on the Outer Banks, as did Pru's family and they all got off on trying to outdo each other, OBX-style. To establish her fam's longevity, Pru mentioned a family member performing in "The Lost Colony" with Andy Griffin.

Pshaw.

"My grandmother went to the opening performance of "The Lost Colony" in 1937 that Roosevelt attended," Margaret tossed off. "She was a teenager and caught a ride in a laundry wagon with her friends to see it with FDR."

Outer Banks point and match, Margaret.

John insisted on plying us with wine, everyone kept talking while music played overhead and all of a sudden, we were the last five people in the joint.

After getting over the shock that I have no cell phone, Sydney insisted on getting Pru's contact info so they could invite us out tomorrow. John came over to show us his 15-year old flip phone to brag about his lack of technology despite having three post-graduate degrees. Margaret wants us to come have drinks on her deck.

Locals make time for tourists in September. I'm not saying I understand it, but I'm also not going to try, either.