After recently being told I'm an evangelical for the beach, I'm wearing the title as a badge of honor.
What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly my proselytizing would land me right back there, albeit it in a much different configuration, a more southerly location and under a thunder moon.
Windows were rolled down for the drive down which was broken up with a leisurely lunch on the waterfront at the Coinjock Marina. "You'd have to know about this place," my companion observed about the unlikely location. I did.
This time the beach setting was Surf Shack #6 in Nags Head at a cottage peopled by three other couples, an obscene amount of beer and wine and crowned by a crow's nest with impressive views to the horizon and the sound.
Where we were especially clever was in arriving mid-day Sunday when the other couples had checked in Saturday and done all the heavy lifting setting up the house and porches.
Since that job always falls to me on my own beach week, it was a treat to just show up, throw on a bathing suit and be, not just on the beach, but in the ocean less than 15 minutes after arrival.
That and being back at the beach only two weeks after I left it are the kind of summer indulgences an evangelist could get used to.
And while I'd optimistically brought two books, four couples mean it's an ongoing party and not the reading kind.
Headquarters would be established on the beach every morning like magic while we walked (either beyond Jennette's Pier or past the Outer Banks Pier), so we'd come back to find the rest of the group arranged under and around a canopy while all we had to do was add our chairs and beach bags and - voila! - another day at the beach was underway.
One morning, we got back from our walk - the last half an hour listening to rumbling thunder - just as a major storm was rolling in, so we high-tailed it up to the crow's nest for a lightening and thunder show of epic proportions.
One of the guys said there'd been a tornado warning while we were gone and given the odd swirling of some murderous looking clouds, we weren't surprised when torrential downpours followed. We made the best of it with books, naps and a picnic in bed with a view out the open window of the driving rain and the ocean beyond it.
One afternoon, we spotted a plane pulling a message that read, "Amanda May Pabst, will you marry me?" and bantered about whether it was a real proposal or just a brilliant idea put forth by the plane company to entice business.
The romantic in me prefers to believe it was the first.
One evening we decided to lose the crowd and went to dinner alone at Ocean Boulevard for a gorgeously dry and zippy Rose of Sangiovese by Barnard Griffin which we sipped with a summer gazpacho piled with lump crabmeat, creme fraiche and parsley oil.
And that was before diving headfirst into a special of beer-battered monkfish over a jambalaya of summer corn, red peppers and crowder peas that was to die for and polishing off grilled shrimp over cheddar grits and black pepper coleslaw, too.
Afterward, we walked across the Beach Road and took seats in the sand to watch the waning Thunder Moon rise over the ocean, but only after making its way through bands of black clouds as elaborate as burnt velvet, behind which heat lightening put on a show.
As a bonus, fireworks were being set off in the direction of the Avalon Pier, so everywhere we looked, there was a spectacle to behold.
The two of us took lunch one day outside at the Nags Head Fishing Pier's new tiki bar, where we watched surfers, ate local grilled tuna and pondered the angry-looking guy nearby with the small American flag stuck in the sand in front of his beach chair.
Because some of the house's occupants were talented, there was guitar playing on the beach. Because the winds were ideal for it, there was kite flying so high it seemed likely we'd never get it back down. Because there was a screened porch, we had breakfast there. Because there was a crow's nest even higher, we had happy hours and sunset-viewing there.
And because the ocean was a wonderfully warm 75 degrees (and clear as the Caribbean), we stayed in until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Repeatedly.
Unlike the other couples, we were the renegades who slept in with windows open, a fan on and used the outdoor shower at the least provocation.
Because kicking it old school is just part of what I preach. Let's raise a glass of Rose and praise beach life.
Can I get an amen?
Showing posts with label outer banks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label outer banks. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
The Fly Room
When you go to the beach in April, you've got to be adaptable.
The sunshine and heat of the first two days gave way to a very different sort of Tuesday, with strong winds off the ocean and when I say strong, I mean I gave up trying to walk on the beach after about two minutes of trying and I am not a walking quitter. It was just too much, too strong, too chilly.
Or perhaps it was the contrast. Leaving the comfort of bed after going back to bed after breakfast to read for a couple of hours - discovering through Springsteen's book that the time I'd seen the band had been on the "Darkness on the Edge of Town" tour, a fact I hadn't ever known since I wasn't a fan and went solely because my then-boyfriend insisted I needed to experience "The Boss" - and then take a nap (less than four hours after getting up) stands in stark contrast to battling 20 mph winds, feeling cold droplets of swirling surf and having to actually push my body into the wind in pursuit of movement.
Dedicated I am, but thanks, I'll take a pass.
Embracing the cowardly but still cardio-friendly path, we dumped the beach for the Nature Conservancy on the Sound side of the Outer Banks, where we walked three of the trails - two of which ended up at the sound, although with different vistas - under filtered sunlight from the tree canopy above.
It only amounted to a 4.1 mile trek, but included a girl in a bikini suggesting we visit her family's alpaca farm in Moyock, a slithering snake far bigger than I would ever want to see while walking and, as always when walking these Conservancy trails, the near-distant sounds of a shooting range.
Once again, off season languor meant that our servers at We Got Your Crabs had plenty of time to share their life stories with us. The young one was discussing a ridiculously handsome guy ("Is he fixin' to marry to her?"), while admitting she'd never give up her own boyfriend, even for someone so good looking.
But she was happy to drool.
The older one got into a chat with the local on the stool next to me, so by default, me, and they were soon caught up in a conversation identifying her cousins, Daddy, brother-in-law and what sounded like 20 other people it turned out they had in common.
Spare me, the Outer Banks are such a small town.
In the meantime, we downed oysters from nearby Edenton before I began dissecting my first steamed crabs of the season and my seatmate worked on a pound of steamed local shrimp. The wet and bedraggled brown paper on the counter looked like it had been through the war by the time we pushed ourselves away.
On Wednesday, two different people - the server who greeted us at the door and the chef who came out at the end of the evening - claimed to remember my previous visits to the Salt Box Cafe, despite having eaten outside on the screened-in porch both times.
Even if they were lying, it was a brilliant PR move.
Since that wasn't an option this time, we took up residence at the bar to tuck into crispy spicy green beans, an arugula and poached pear salad with goat cheese and nuts, creamy curry soup with garbanzo beans and a ridiculous amount of crabmeat and an entree of tilefish with Brussels sprouts.
You might expect a person wouldn't be able to down a large goblet of chocolate pudding with caramel sauce after so much dinner, but you'd be wrong.
For that matter, you might expect all kinds of revelatory conversations over three days of pure goofing off, but you'd be wrong again. Just a little lightness on the edge of beach.
The sunshine and heat of the first two days gave way to a very different sort of Tuesday, with strong winds off the ocean and when I say strong, I mean I gave up trying to walk on the beach after about two minutes of trying and I am not a walking quitter. It was just too much, too strong, too chilly.
Or perhaps it was the contrast. Leaving the comfort of bed after going back to bed after breakfast to read for a couple of hours - discovering through Springsteen's book that the time I'd seen the band had been on the "Darkness on the Edge of Town" tour, a fact I hadn't ever known since I wasn't a fan and went solely because my then-boyfriend insisted I needed to experience "The Boss" - and then take a nap (less than four hours after getting up) stands in stark contrast to battling 20 mph winds, feeling cold droplets of swirling surf and having to actually push my body into the wind in pursuit of movement.
Dedicated I am, but thanks, I'll take a pass.
Embracing the cowardly but still cardio-friendly path, we dumped the beach for the Nature Conservancy on the Sound side of the Outer Banks, where we walked three of the trails - two of which ended up at the sound, although with different vistas - under filtered sunlight from the tree canopy above.
It only amounted to a 4.1 mile trek, but included a girl in a bikini suggesting we visit her family's alpaca farm in Moyock, a slithering snake far bigger than I would ever want to see while walking and, as always when walking these Conservancy trails, the near-distant sounds of a shooting range.
Once again, off season languor meant that our servers at We Got Your Crabs had plenty of time to share their life stories with us. The young one was discussing a ridiculously handsome guy ("Is he fixin' to marry to her?"), while admitting she'd never give up her own boyfriend, even for someone so good looking.
But she was happy to drool.
The older one got into a chat with the local on the stool next to me, so by default, me, and they were soon caught up in a conversation identifying her cousins, Daddy, brother-in-law and what sounded like 20 other people it turned out they had in common.
Spare me, the Outer Banks are such a small town.
In the meantime, we downed oysters from nearby Edenton before I began dissecting my first steamed crabs of the season and my seatmate worked on a pound of steamed local shrimp. The wet and bedraggled brown paper on the counter looked like it had been through the war by the time we pushed ourselves away.
On Wednesday, two different people - the server who greeted us at the door and the chef who came out at the end of the evening - claimed to remember my previous visits to the Salt Box Cafe, despite having eaten outside on the screened-in porch both times.
Even if they were lying, it was a brilliant PR move.
Since that wasn't an option this time, we took up residence at the bar to tuck into crispy spicy green beans, an arugula and poached pear salad with goat cheese and nuts, creamy curry soup with garbanzo beans and a ridiculous amount of crabmeat and an entree of tilefish with Brussels sprouts.
You might expect a person wouldn't be able to down a large goblet of chocolate pudding with caramel sauce after so much dinner, but you'd be wrong.
For that matter, you might expect all kinds of revelatory conversations over three days of pure goofing off, but you'd be wrong again. Just a little lightness on the edge of beach.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Off Season
Because Bollywood before the beach makes sense when you think about it.
Knowing I had a full Saturday itinerary of getting stuff done - taxes, an interview, cleaning house - I hadn't made plans to go out until 10. When a friend inquired about my availability, I told him he was free to join me for the Gypsy Room's inaugural Bollywood evening.
Although he knew nothing of the style of music and while he said he hadn't danced since he stopped drinking, his main sticking point with my plans was the hour. "Go out at 10?" he asked incredulously. "That's what we used to do when I was young." Ouch.
I pointed out that that statement alone was proof positive he was old, that I'd been to these before and they were always great dancing and a stellar time. Trying to be game, he said yes, probably with all kinds of misgivings, but yes. He at least knew of DJ Carlito's legendary Bollywood dance parties, for years at Cous Cous, then at Balliceaux and now underneath Vagabond. He even knew Carl, which may have emboldened him a little.
Because we arrived semi-on time, the crowd was small (us and a few other duos who were not millennials), but the sounds were perfectly on point ("This music's all about the beat," my friend observed, stating the obvious) and within the hour, the room was nearly full.
Full, but not diverse. The Gypsy Room had become ground zero for well-dressed brown millennials, with a couple of middle-aged Indians observing from the safety of couches. Since Friend and I had seats at the bar, we had terrific sight lines for the mating rituals that were unfolding around the room.
He was curious about how someone signaled interest in someone else, since it was clear that assessing and making moves was part of the ritual that preceded the actual dancing. And DJ Carlito was hitting all their hot buttons, playing the kind of Indian pop songs that not only had the crowd singing along but, in some cases, doing coordinated hand gestures and moves.
They all knew things we didn't because we have no family or cultural ties to the music, just an appreciation for how infectiously danceable it is. As a result, we spent far more time talking (I was told I dress "eccentrically," but I took it as a compliment) than dancing while the well-dressed millennials got down tonight and, who knows, perhaps looked for an alternative to an arranged marriage.
It was funny, early on, Carl had mentioned that he was wondering if he'd pull a big crowd since he hadn't done a Bollywood night in so long, so he wasn't sure people would still dig it. And while it was completely different than the more diverse groups I'd seen at the old events, it looked like people still want to dance to that music, especially in such a dimly lit room on a Saturday night.
Nine hours after getting home, I was packing for a short beach trip with my favorite person on the planet and we were on the road before noon. The sole fly in that ointment was that it was Easter Sunday so many of the usual stopping points were closed due to Christianity being pushed on a country that supposedly separates church and state. And don't get me started on waking up to Google wishing me a Happy Easter. So not appropriate, guys.
Since getting here, life has been reduced to the essentials: a couple of walks (we have a long history of walking together), enjoying the constancy of waves hitting the beach through open balcony doors in two rooms and a diet likely to induce gout by mid-week (or so my Sister #2 would claim, after eating seafood 12 of 14 days at the beach and immediately getting "the gout," which sounds so Henry the VIII it's hilarious).
Frog Island Seafood delivered fish tacos and shrimp salad, Ocean Boulevard meant fried oysters and a special of sheepshead with local purple-tipped asparagus and N.C. shrimp over heirloom grits and tomatoes and from the Blue Moon Café, a crabcake sandwich a Marylander could get behind, thick and loaded with discernible hunks of backfin and little filler.
Best of all, two of the three meals were eaten outdoors at wooden picnic tables with the wind having its way with us.
It being April and all, servers are longing for the summer season to begin (ka-ching!), but as visitors, we can appreciate the more languid pace and the extra effort staff make for people now that they won't possibly have time to bother with come June and July.
Come to think of it, that's when I'll be back. But for now, it's all about the ice cold ocean being off-limits, leaving hours with nothing to do but read (currently: "Born to Run," by Springsteen), dissect passersby on the uncrowded beach from the balcony (we're so good at that) and goof off with a capital "G."
You see why I had to get the Bollywood out of my system first.
Knowing I had a full Saturday itinerary of getting stuff done - taxes, an interview, cleaning house - I hadn't made plans to go out until 10. When a friend inquired about my availability, I told him he was free to join me for the Gypsy Room's inaugural Bollywood evening.
Although he knew nothing of the style of music and while he said he hadn't danced since he stopped drinking, his main sticking point with my plans was the hour. "Go out at 10?" he asked incredulously. "That's what we used to do when I was young." Ouch.
I pointed out that that statement alone was proof positive he was old, that I'd been to these before and they were always great dancing and a stellar time. Trying to be game, he said yes, probably with all kinds of misgivings, but yes. He at least knew of DJ Carlito's legendary Bollywood dance parties, for years at Cous Cous, then at Balliceaux and now underneath Vagabond. He even knew Carl, which may have emboldened him a little.
Because we arrived semi-on time, the crowd was small (us and a few other duos who were not millennials), but the sounds were perfectly on point ("This music's all about the beat," my friend observed, stating the obvious) and within the hour, the room was nearly full.
Full, but not diverse. The Gypsy Room had become ground zero for well-dressed brown millennials, with a couple of middle-aged Indians observing from the safety of couches. Since Friend and I had seats at the bar, we had terrific sight lines for the mating rituals that were unfolding around the room.
He was curious about how someone signaled interest in someone else, since it was clear that assessing and making moves was part of the ritual that preceded the actual dancing. And DJ Carlito was hitting all their hot buttons, playing the kind of Indian pop songs that not only had the crowd singing along but, in some cases, doing coordinated hand gestures and moves.
They all knew things we didn't because we have no family or cultural ties to the music, just an appreciation for how infectiously danceable it is. As a result, we spent far more time talking (I was told I dress "eccentrically," but I took it as a compliment) than dancing while the well-dressed millennials got down tonight and, who knows, perhaps looked for an alternative to an arranged marriage.
It was funny, early on, Carl had mentioned that he was wondering if he'd pull a big crowd since he hadn't done a Bollywood night in so long, so he wasn't sure people would still dig it. And while it was completely different than the more diverse groups I'd seen at the old events, it looked like people still want to dance to that music, especially in such a dimly lit room on a Saturday night.
Nine hours after getting home, I was packing for a short beach trip with my favorite person on the planet and we were on the road before noon. The sole fly in that ointment was that it was Easter Sunday so many of the usual stopping points were closed due to Christianity being pushed on a country that supposedly separates church and state. And don't get me started on waking up to Google wishing me a Happy Easter. So not appropriate, guys.
Since getting here, life has been reduced to the essentials: a couple of walks (we have a long history of walking together), enjoying the constancy of waves hitting the beach through open balcony doors in two rooms and a diet likely to induce gout by mid-week (or so my Sister #2 would claim, after eating seafood 12 of 14 days at the beach and immediately getting "the gout," which sounds so Henry the VIII it's hilarious).
Frog Island Seafood delivered fish tacos and shrimp salad, Ocean Boulevard meant fried oysters and a special of sheepshead with local purple-tipped asparagus and N.C. shrimp over heirloom grits and tomatoes and from the Blue Moon Café, a crabcake sandwich a Marylander could get behind, thick and loaded with discernible hunks of backfin and little filler.
Best of all, two of the three meals were eaten outdoors at wooden picnic tables with the wind having its way with us.
It being April and all, servers are longing for the summer season to begin (ka-ching!), but as visitors, we can appreciate the more languid pace and the extra effort staff make for people now that they won't possibly have time to bother with come June and July.
Come to think of it, that's when I'll be back. But for now, it's all about the ice cold ocean being off-limits, leaving hours with nothing to do but read (currently: "Born to Run," by Springsteen), dissect passersby on the uncrowded beach from the balcony (we're so good at that) and goof off with a capital "G."
You see why I had to get the Bollywood out of my system first.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
What's the Rumpus?
My Friday night immersion was immediate.
Make no mistake, I could have happily stayed on in my oceanfront room, serenaded by the sound of the waves and listening to stories of growing up on the Outer Banks from the '50s.
How else would I have heard about the "Toot & Tell It," a shabby building just after the right turn off the bridge into Manteo? Let's just say that whatever they were toting to you after you tooted may or may not have been legal.
I'd have loved a few more six-mile beach walks (nearly to the Nags Head Pier from the 15 mile post) with a man who also enjoys an enthusiastic excursion and a few more days of air-drying my bathing suits on the fat wooden dowel over the sliding door to the deck beach bum-style.
It would be greedy to wish for another Chablis-fueled dinner at Steamers, a meal that began with a course requiring an oyster fork, was followed by one necessitating a lobster fork and closed out the evening with a dessert fork.
Goodness knows I'm all about staying up 'till 1 a.m. chatting on the middle deck to candlelight about the connection between "Star Trek" and military service, about how I'll eventually fall into an art installation and not be able to get up and other nonsensical topics.
But eventually life calls, so late in the afternoon, I took one last outdoor shower, packed up and hit the road, determined to make it back for a screening of "Miller's Crossing" at Hardywood, a worthy goal, but one that got temporarily side-tracked when I stopped at Frog Island Seafood for dinner.
So between my late start, my need to feed and my refusal to speed, it turned out that I had not allowed quite enough time to make the Coen Brothers classic without going straight to Hardywood.
This is the point at which you consider that you're dressed more for leaving the beach and a road trip than for going to a screening, but it's too late to do anything but try to root through the used clothing and multiple wet bathing suits in your beach/overnight bag in an attempt to look less like you just stepped off the beach.
The good news is it was dark when I arrived, just as author Tom Dehaven began his scholarly and occasionally rambling introduction to the film and the guy at the front table checked me in, informing me I'd won one of the raffle prizes before even arriving.
My beach casual flew under the radar as I slid into a back seat, eager to take in Dehaven's wealth of film knowledge. Not so everyone. I watched asmillennials some people in the audience began squirming or focusing their attention on their phones, completely uninterested in learning anything about the film before seeing it.
Or after, probably, either.
For me, the intro was fascinating because I'd never seen "Miller's Crossing" and, to tell the truth, 1990 was a good while ago and I didn't have a lot of memories of it, so when he began going over source material, scene-by-scene rip-offs, homage explanations and the like, I felt like I'd hit the nerd jackpot.
Like a good film professor, he talked about what the Coens had "swiped" from whom (the plot from one novel, the characters from another), how the entire film paid tribute to gangster films and admonished us to pay attention to sound design, as if we could have missed it when every drip or door closing sounded like it happened directly next to us.
He explained that curtains blowing in the breeze referenced earlier films and signified sex had taken place. Fittingly, when the curtains onscreen began blowing gently, so did the breeze in the Hardywood parking lot.
Following in the grand tradition of Smell-o-vision, this was Wind-o-vision, twice with train whistles to boot.
Even without his protracted explanation, it would've been tough to miss how deeply indebted to classic Hollywood it was with such telling details as a fight poster with the name "Lars Thorwald" from "Rear Window" on it, no doubt a genuflection at the foot of Hitchcock.
Sitting outdoors watching the 26-year old movie in beach clothes felt a little surreal - but hello, it's also the Coen brothers - given that I'd left the ocean and wound up at the brewery only to find myself a winner in absentia of two books from Chop Suey.
As I was just saying the other night, why shouldn't I be happy all the time? Life is good.
Make no mistake, I could have happily stayed on in my oceanfront room, serenaded by the sound of the waves and listening to stories of growing up on the Outer Banks from the '50s.
How else would I have heard about the "Toot & Tell It," a shabby building just after the right turn off the bridge into Manteo? Let's just say that whatever they were toting to you after you tooted may or may not have been legal.
I'd have loved a few more six-mile beach walks (nearly to the Nags Head Pier from the 15 mile post) with a man who also enjoys an enthusiastic excursion and a few more days of air-drying my bathing suits on the fat wooden dowel over the sliding door to the deck beach bum-style.
It would be greedy to wish for another Chablis-fueled dinner at Steamers, a meal that began with a course requiring an oyster fork, was followed by one necessitating a lobster fork and closed out the evening with a dessert fork.
Goodness knows I'm all about staying up 'till 1 a.m. chatting on the middle deck to candlelight about the connection between "Star Trek" and military service, about how I'll eventually fall into an art installation and not be able to get up and other nonsensical topics.
But eventually life calls, so late in the afternoon, I took one last outdoor shower, packed up and hit the road, determined to make it back for a screening of "Miller's Crossing" at Hardywood, a worthy goal, but one that got temporarily side-tracked when I stopped at Frog Island Seafood for dinner.
So between my late start, my need to feed and my refusal to speed, it turned out that I had not allowed quite enough time to make the Coen Brothers classic without going straight to Hardywood.
This is the point at which you consider that you're dressed more for leaving the beach and a road trip than for going to a screening, but it's too late to do anything but try to root through the used clothing and multiple wet bathing suits in your beach/overnight bag in an attempt to look less like you just stepped off the beach.
The good news is it was dark when I arrived, just as author Tom Dehaven began his scholarly and occasionally rambling introduction to the film and the guy at the front table checked me in, informing me I'd won one of the raffle prizes before even arriving.
My beach casual flew under the radar as I slid into a back seat, eager to take in Dehaven's wealth of film knowledge. Not so everyone. I watched as
Or after, probably, either.
For me, the intro was fascinating because I'd never seen "Miller's Crossing" and, to tell the truth, 1990 was a good while ago and I didn't have a lot of memories of it, so when he began going over source material, scene-by-scene rip-offs, homage explanations and the like, I felt like I'd hit the nerd jackpot.
Like a good film professor, he talked about what the Coens had "swiped" from whom (the plot from one novel, the characters from another), how the entire film paid tribute to gangster films and admonished us to pay attention to sound design, as if we could have missed it when every drip or door closing sounded like it happened directly next to us.
He explained that curtains blowing in the breeze referenced earlier films and signified sex had taken place. Fittingly, when the curtains onscreen began blowing gently, so did the breeze in the Hardywood parking lot.
Following in the grand tradition of Smell-o-vision, this was Wind-o-vision, twice with train whistles to boot.
Even without his protracted explanation, it would've been tough to miss how deeply indebted to classic Hollywood it was with such telling details as a fight poster with the name "Lars Thorwald" from "Rear Window" on it, no doubt a genuflection at the foot of Hitchcock.
Sitting outdoors watching the 26-year old movie in beach clothes felt a little surreal - but hello, it's also the Coen brothers - given that I'd left the ocean and wound up at the brewery only to find myself a winner in absentia of two books from Chop Suey.
As I was just saying the other night, why shouldn't I be happy all the time? Life is good.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
When Days Fly
Dig, if you will, the picture of me having breakfast in front of Wink's, squinting at the ocean through sunglasses as I eat.
The only problem with this picture is that it requires leaving the beach followed by three hours in the car to make it the Continental for lunch.
Despite dire warnings about the UCI bike race, I have zero trouble getting back into town or my neighborhood and parking spaces abound.
Dream, if you can, a restaurant full to the rafters of customers, far too many of them with fussy young children. Our trio is fortunate enough to snag a table on the breezy patio while most of the squawking and food throwing is going on inside.
I should be ashamed to admit how much I enjoy a plate of dirty chips - housemade potato chips covered in jack and cheddar cheese, bacon and chives - and sips of boozy limeade, but I'm not.
For the second time today, I have absolutely no problem getting where I'm going despite seeing signs saying, "Bike Race in Progress" at several intersections.
Decide, if you choose, like a friend and I did, to meet at Toast for a fried dinner - sliders, fries and a seafood bucket - to trade tales of the last fortnight's beach trips (hers and mine), miscommunications (ditto) and soul-searching (always).
Driving over, the streets are noticeably empty, no doubt due to media fear-mongering about coming downtown. A pity, really.
Conceive, if you try, of a thought-provoking two-actor play called "Uncanny Valley," which is the term coined for the human tendency to react negatively to robots that seem human (see: "The Polar Express" movie - disconcerting, right?).
Produced by 5th Wall and performed at the tiny Hatt Theater out in the hinterlands (driving west on Patterson for what seemed like hours, my friend says, "Where are we? Canada?"), the play addresses the question of what it means to be human ("In your mind's eye, how old are you?").
And, more specifically, what does it mean to be human and so filthy rich that you can keep yourself alive indefinitely by having your life experiences and memories uploaded into a robot who looks like you at whatever age you choose for it to (34 in this case).
Alexander Sapp is brilliant as the robot being coached on human behavior by the maternalistic scientist played by the reliably-strong Jacqueline Jones ("We're a skittish species. That's how we've lasted so long.").
With the addition of each component - another arm, torso, legs, he becomes more human-like - but it's his early, robotic like voice and distinct learning curve that provide many of the early laughs while endearing him to the audience. This is Julian A.
A real relationship develops between the two and after much coaching from the patient Jones, he receives the download from the dying man (Julian B). The result is the new creature, Julian C, an amalgam of human and a robot.
Playwright Thomas Gibbons took the stage afterwards with director Morrie Piersol and the two actors to talk with the audience about the provocative nature of the play's subject matter, inspired by a National Geographic article he'd read at his dentist's office.
I don't know that an article on artificial intelligence would've grabbed me the same way, but the resulting play certainly did. Are we merely our consciousness? Can it be replicated for another body?
The play raises some hard questions, all the more significant for how close apparently we are to this sort of thing becoming, well, a thing. Only for the 1%, mind you, but that's even scarier since all the "immortals" will be the super-rich.
It may be time to start worrying about the Donald doing something like this.
Or, better yet, it's definitely time to go see "Uncanny Valley" because this is the very best kind of theater: beautifully acted, subtly directed and forcing us to look at some hard issues of personal ethics and technology.
As Gibbons pointed out in the talkback, algorithms already shape our daily lives. Should they be used to shape the minds and personalities of robots to achieve immortality?
Call me the skittish type, but you can probably guess how the woman without a cell phone or TV is going to weigh in on this.
Real life in progress. It's enough for me.
The only problem with this picture is that it requires leaving the beach followed by three hours in the car to make it the Continental for lunch.
Despite dire warnings about the UCI bike race, I have zero trouble getting back into town or my neighborhood and parking spaces abound.
Dream, if you can, a restaurant full to the rafters of customers, far too many of them with fussy young children. Our trio is fortunate enough to snag a table on the breezy patio while most of the squawking and food throwing is going on inside.
I should be ashamed to admit how much I enjoy a plate of dirty chips - housemade potato chips covered in jack and cheddar cheese, bacon and chives - and sips of boozy limeade, but I'm not.
For the second time today, I have absolutely no problem getting where I'm going despite seeing signs saying, "Bike Race in Progress" at several intersections.
Decide, if you choose, like a friend and I did, to meet at Toast for a fried dinner - sliders, fries and a seafood bucket - to trade tales of the last fortnight's beach trips (hers and mine), miscommunications (ditto) and soul-searching (always).
Driving over, the streets are noticeably empty, no doubt due to media fear-mongering about coming downtown. A pity, really.
Conceive, if you try, of a thought-provoking two-actor play called "Uncanny Valley," which is the term coined for the human tendency to react negatively to robots that seem human (see: "The Polar Express" movie - disconcerting, right?).
Produced by 5th Wall and performed at the tiny Hatt Theater out in the hinterlands (driving west on Patterson for what seemed like hours, my friend says, "Where are we? Canada?"), the play addresses the question of what it means to be human ("In your mind's eye, how old are you?").
And, more specifically, what does it mean to be human and so filthy rich that you can keep yourself alive indefinitely by having your life experiences and memories uploaded into a robot who looks like you at whatever age you choose for it to (34 in this case).
Alexander Sapp is brilliant as the robot being coached on human behavior by the maternalistic scientist played by the reliably-strong Jacqueline Jones ("We're a skittish species. That's how we've lasted so long.").
With the addition of each component - another arm, torso, legs, he becomes more human-like - but it's his early, robotic like voice and distinct learning curve that provide many of the early laughs while endearing him to the audience. This is Julian A.
A real relationship develops between the two and after much coaching from the patient Jones, he receives the download from the dying man (Julian B). The result is the new creature, Julian C, an amalgam of human and a robot.
Playwright Thomas Gibbons took the stage afterwards with director Morrie Piersol and the two actors to talk with the audience about the provocative nature of the play's subject matter, inspired by a National Geographic article he'd read at his dentist's office.
I don't know that an article on artificial intelligence would've grabbed me the same way, but the resulting play certainly did. Are we merely our consciousness? Can it be replicated for another body?
The play raises some hard questions, all the more significant for how close apparently we are to this sort of thing becoming, well, a thing. Only for the 1%, mind you, but that's even scarier since all the "immortals" will be the super-rich.
It may be time to start worrying about the Donald doing something like this.
Or, better yet, it's definitely time to go see "Uncanny Valley" because this is the very best kind of theater: beautifully acted, subtly directed and forcing us to look at some hard issues of personal ethics and technology.
As Gibbons pointed out in the talkback, algorithms already shape our daily lives. Should they be used to shape the minds and personalities of robots to achieve immortality?
Call me the skittish type, but you can probably guess how the woman without a cell phone or TV is going to weigh in on this.
Real life in progress. It's enough for me.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Skin Tight
A smart woman makes the most of what is likely her last beach day of the year.
It didn't hurt that the weather was picture postcard perfect and the ocean bathwater warm. The younger woman contingent who had provided so much entertainment value and opportunity for mentorship the past three days gradually drifted back to their rightful homes, leaving Pru and I to go at it a deux.
The last day means doing all the vacation things you can.
You read. With Ralph Abernathy's autobiography finished yesterday on the beach, I moved on to Hilary Mantels' Man Booker Prize-winning "Bring Up the Bodies," an historical fiction about Henry VIII and Jane Seymour and an unlikely thing for me to read (it was a gift and came highly recommended).
You nap on the beach. We'd been in bed by 2-ish the past couple nights (which could be considered reasonable compared to the up and comers who stayed up till 5 a.m. every night) sleeping in till 10, but there is nothing quite like sleeping on a beach towel mere feet from where the surf is rolling in.
It's also a great way to tan some last bits before the pallor of winter sets in.
You happy hour on the beach. The couple who are staying in the house next door do the same but they do it in plastic chairs up by the gazebo while we begin ours much nearer the water. A flash of brilliance results in us moving the party into the ocean with our acrylic wineglasses. Which leads to...
You spend as much time as possible in the ocean. Pru isn't much one for water. Despite having been here a week, she's yet to enter the pool or hot tub. Fine, fine, neither of those interest me, either. But the ocean? The source of all sensory pleasures at the beach? Yes, my dear, we go in that.
And somehow, I managed to convince her that once in the water, there was no good reason to come out except for occasional forays to refill wine glasses. Wine is drunk mixed with salt water and occasional sand and no one cares.
Before long, we'd been smacked with waves from every side. The water was warm and the tide receding, so we kept inching farther out. We talk about visiting Bermuda and summer salons with rotating guests.
We compare mountain and ocean vacations and Pru makes the pithiest analogy. "Would you rather taste like a salty oyster or the flippin' Appalachian Trail?" The imagery is vivid.
Our fingers go prune-y. Pru's sunglasses get knocked off by a wave, never to be seen again.
Better at the end of vacation rather than the beginning.
You take all the vacation photos you've been meaning to all week. If you're Pru, you take pictures of your friend sleeping and sitting on the beach with wine. If you're me, you take them of your friend in the ocean because no one who knows her will believe it if you tell them.
But because you're a good friend, you do not take a picture when, heading out for fresh wine, she falls on her ass, ending up covered in sand. The memory of her cracking up and gritty will have to suffice.
You enjoy one last evening on the deck facing the ocean. "I think we need some Ohio Players," Pru says, as if it's obvious, making it happen on her little boombox. "Love Rollercoaster" competes with the sound of the surf as we dance around the deck.
By the time we get to "Fire" - and that's "fi-yuh," no "r" involved in pronunciation, it's probably better that we're the only ones around. No telling what questions the younger generation might have had if they'd witnessed this dance party.
You go to sleep with the balcony door open, the sound and smell of the ocean along with your partner in beach crime the best possible sleeping companions on your final beach night of 2015.
Pru and I, we'd really rather taste like salty oysters.
It didn't hurt that the weather was picture postcard perfect and the ocean bathwater warm. The younger woman contingent who had provided so much entertainment value and opportunity for mentorship the past three days gradually drifted back to their rightful homes, leaving Pru and I to go at it a deux.
The last day means doing all the vacation things you can.
You read. With Ralph Abernathy's autobiography finished yesterday on the beach, I moved on to Hilary Mantels' Man Booker Prize-winning "Bring Up the Bodies," an historical fiction about Henry VIII and Jane Seymour and an unlikely thing for me to read (it was a gift and came highly recommended).
You nap on the beach. We'd been in bed by 2-ish the past couple nights (which could be considered reasonable compared to the up and comers who stayed up till 5 a.m. every night) sleeping in till 10, but there is nothing quite like sleeping on a beach towel mere feet from where the surf is rolling in.
It's also a great way to tan some last bits before the pallor of winter sets in.
You happy hour on the beach. The couple who are staying in the house next door do the same but they do it in plastic chairs up by the gazebo while we begin ours much nearer the water. A flash of brilliance results in us moving the party into the ocean with our acrylic wineglasses. Which leads to...
You spend as much time as possible in the ocean. Pru isn't much one for water. Despite having been here a week, she's yet to enter the pool or hot tub. Fine, fine, neither of those interest me, either. But the ocean? The source of all sensory pleasures at the beach? Yes, my dear, we go in that.
And somehow, I managed to convince her that once in the water, there was no good reason to come out except for occasional forays to refill wine glasses. Wine is drunk mixed with salt water and occasional sand and no one cares.
Before long, we'd been smacked with waves from every side. The water was warm and the tide receding, so we kept inching farther out. We talk about visiting Bermuda and summer salons with rotating guests.
We compare mountain and ocean vacations and Pru makes the pithiest analogy. "Would you rather taste like a salty oyster or the flippin' Appalachian Trail?" The imagery is vivid.
Our fingers go prune-y. Pru's sunglasses get knocked off by a wave, never to be seen again.
Better at the end of vacation rather than the beginning.
You take all the vacation photos you've been meaning to all week. If you're Pru, you take pictures of your friend sleeping and sitting on the beach with wine. If you're me, you take them of your friend in the ocean because no one who knows her will believe it if you tell them.
But because you're a good friend, you do not take a picture when, heading out for fresh wine, she falls on her ass, ending up covered in sand. The memory of her cracking up and gritty will have to suffice.
You enjoy one last evening on the deck facing the ocean. "I think we need some Ohio Players," Pru says, as if it's obvious, making it happen on her little boombox. "Love Rollercoaster" competes with the sound of the surf as we dance around the deck.
By the time we get to "Fire" - and that's "fi-yuh," no "r" involved in pronunciation, it's probably better that we're the only ones around. No telling what questions the younger generation might have had if they'd witnessed this dance party.
You go to sleep with the balcony door open, the sound and smell of the ocean along with your partner in beach crime the best possible sleeping companions on your final beach night of 2015.
Pru and I, we'd really rather taste like salty oysters.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Let Me Outshine the Moon
Age is all the rage right now.
That ridiculous Microsoft #HowOldRobot thing that's everywhere at the moment claims to be able to judge your age from a photograph. Apparently it needs some work because a 35-year old friend was told she looked 63 (she looks 30 in real life).
And what does it tell me when I give it my Facebook profile picture? That I'm a 29-year old female. It is to laugh.
I'm not saying that there aren't parts of me that act more like a 29-year old than my real age. Going out every night, attending so many music shows, hell, even my lack of fiscal conservatism could be considered more stereotypical of a younger person.
But my face? Sorry, that's a face that's seen a lot more than 29 years of life. It's experienced far more things than any 29-year old has had time to. And I don't have a problem with that.
However, it does point to some serious issues with #HowOldRobot. Work on it, geek squad, and get back with me.
Sunday morning, an observer might have guessed that I was more like 10 years old when I woke after only seven hours of sleep instead of my usual nine. The reason was pure excitement. I was leaving for the beach today and my annual week at the little oceanfront cottage that's been my destination since the '90s.
Itinerary: walk on the beach, read on the beach, eat, drink, sleep. Listen to the ocean 24/7.
Up early, I spent the morning doing the last of the packing and loading the car, eager to be on the lesser roads I take to the Outer Banks. The three-hour trip down is the kick-off to vacation, but since I was traveling solo, it's also an excuse to stop wherever I want, eat at roadside haunts that grab my attention and generally indulge myself.
I passed the Nina and the Pinta down off of Dock Street in my pursuit of Route 5 and ultimately 460, where I pulled into Adams Country Store with the Editors' "Open You Arms (and Welcome)" blasting my arrival.
Inside, a man with one eye on the race greets me from his stool behind the bin of hog jowls that that sit as sentry at the door as I head to the back case for an RC Cola. Behind the counter up front is a woman who eyes me warily until I announce without being asked that I want a ham sandwich with mustard.
Holding that cold bottle of RC as I cruise down 460 taking long pulls off of it, I am soon in the midst of a major caffeine buzz, hardly surprising since I don't drink coffee and rarely soda. It's kind of ideal right now, though, this buzz: cruising down the road on the way to the ocean under a bright blue sky and afternoon sun make me feel like I'm embarking on an adventure.
The geography captures my eye the whole way down because I'm looking at a very different landscape than I did all those years I came in July. The green of the trees is much lighter and more tender-looking, fresher. I pass a couple of old duffers tooling along, one in a restored Model T and the other in a '66 Mustang. They feel like they're on an adventure, too.
I wind up riding next to a Land Rover where the girl in the passenger seat is methodically wiping (probably last year's sand) out the inside of the same model boom box as I have, notable mainly because it's so groovy looking, curved and aerodynamic. Hers is white and mine is bright blue (a Valentine's Day present last decade) but there's no mistaking the groovy factor. We are sisters.
After passing Frog Island Seafood year after year, this time I stopped for lunch, chatting with a table of ROMEOS as my crabcake sandwich (made with Frog Island crab, they say) and onion rings are prepared.
The couple in front of me to order have a look and the server asked if they're riding today. "Yep," the Mr. says while the Mrs. tells her how perfect the weather is for it. It's the kind of day that could make any activity better.
At the cottage, there was good news and bad news. For the last couple of years, there have been window A/C units, eliminating a breeze from one window in every bedroom. I rail against it every year in the guest journal. Who takes a house right on the ocean and then closes the window so you can't hear it?
But on the "watch out for Mother Nature" front, the beaches north and south are severely eroded, much, much narrower than I've ever seen them after a lifetime of summers here. Scary narrow in some places. During high tide, the water was lapping the house's stilts.
A look down later while lathering up in the outdoor shower off the big, screened porch revealed how much closer the sand under the house is than it was last year. Dredging can't start too soon, if you ask me.
After an hour setting the little cottage to rights, or at least ordering it the way that gives me the most pleasure, I am joined by my favorite beach partner, who'd also stopped at Adams. Beds made, we set out for a walk.
The peace and quiet of being here in early May is extraordinary. Most houses, especially the biggest ones, aren't occupied. People walking down the beach are an occasional diversion, not the endless parade they are in July. The water is too cold for any but the school-age children who on their only beach vacation this year.
Of all the unlikely coincidences, it's restaurant week down here, something I go out of my way to avoid in Richmond, but here it's just a reminder of how off-season it is right now.
At our favorite dive bar, we run into the same plumber as last year, except this year he provides the insider's tour and we got to experience the blue room.
The two closest places, Run Down Café (which is anything but, although it was in the mid-'90s) and Ocean Boulevard (starting strong with a appetizer of lamb shoulder with sorghum-glazed spring vegetables) both check out as intact and open. A new place in the old piano bar produced a tomato pie with pimento cheese that was stellar and I'm no pimento cheese worshipper.
Walking the beach is far more exercise than in the past because the sand has so little time when the ocean isn't lapping at it to dry out. I began a memoir, "The House in France" that's already delivering a peek into an ex-pat world I've never known. One afternoon nap so far and it was a doozy.
The first night here was a full moon, the moon making distinct shadows on the floor of the screened porch, a brilliant white light that lit up the ocean, too.
Real life intrudes when my partner in crime has to return to the city shortly after Tuesday dawns pink and perfect. My next visitors don't come for days.
It'll be interesting to see what I do with so much time alone here.
That ridiculous Microsoft #HowOldRobot thing that's everywhere at the moment claims to be able to judge your age from a photograph. Apparently it needs some work because a 35-year old friend was told she looked 63 (she looks 30 in real life).
And what does it tell me when I give it my Facebook profile picture? That I'm a 29-year old female. It is to laugh.
I'm not saying that there aren't parts of me that act more like a 29-year old than my real age. Going out every night, attending so many music shows, hell, even my lack of fiscal conservatism could be considered more stereotypical of a younger person.
But my face? Sorry, that's a face that's seen a lot more than 29 years of life. It's experienced far more things than any 29-year old has had time to. And I don't have a problem with that.
However, it does point to some serious issues with #HowOldRobot. Work on it, geek squad, and get back with me.
Sunday morning, an observer might have guessed that I was more like 10 years old when I woke after only seven hours of sleep instead of my usual nine. The reason was pure excitement. I was leaving for the beach today and my annual week at the little oceanfront cottage that's been my destination since the '90s.
Itinerary: walk on the beach, read on the beach, eat, drink, sleep. Listen to the ocean 24/7.
Up early, I spent the morning doing the last of the packing and loading the car, eager to be on the lesser roads I take to the Outer Banks. The three-hour trip down is the kick-off to vacation, but since I was traveling solo, it's also an excuse to stop wherever I want, eat at roadside haunts that grab my attention and generally indulge myself.
I passed the Nina and the Pinta down off of Dock Street in my pursuit of Route 5 and ultimately 460, where I pulled into Adams Country Store with the Editors' "Open You Arms (and Welcome)" blasting my arrival.
Inside, a man with one eye on the race greets me from his stool behind the bin of hog jowls that that sit as sentry at the door as I head to the back case for an RC Cola. Behind the counter up front is a woman who eyes me warily until I announce without being asked that I want a ham sandwich with mustard.
Holding that cold bottle of RC as I cruise down 460 taking long pulls off of it, I am soon in the midst of a major caffeine buzz, hardly surprising since I don't drink coffee and rarely soda. It's kind of ideal right now, though, this buzz: cruising down the road on the way to the ocean under a bright blue sky and afternoon sun make me feel like I'm embarking on an adventure.
The geography captures my eye the whole way down because I'm looking at a very different landscape than I did all those years I came in July. The green of the trees is much lighter and more tender-looking, fresher. I pass a couple of old duffers tooling along, one in a restored Model T and the other in a '66 Mustang. They feel like they're on an adventure, too.
I wind up riding next to a Land Rover where the girl in the passenger seat is methodically wiping (probably last year's sand) out the inside of the same model boom box as I have, notable mainly because it's so groovy looking, curved and aerodynamic. Hers is white and mine is bright blue (a Valentine's Day present last decade) but there's no mistaking the groovy factor. We are sisters.
After passing Frog Island Seafood year after year, this time I stopped for lunch, chatting with a table of ROMEOS as my crabcake sandwich (made with Frog Island crab, they say) and onion rings are prepared.
The couple in front of me to order have a look and the server asked if they're riding today. "Yep," the Mr. says while the Mrs. tells her how perfect the weather is for it. It's the kind of day that could make any activity better.
At the cottage, there was good news and bad news. For the last couple of years, there have been window A/C units, eliminating a breeze from one window in every bedroom. I rail against it every year in the guest journal. Who takes a house right on the ocean and then closes the window so you can't hear it?
But on the "watch out for Mother Nature" front, the beaches north and south are severely eroded, much, much narrower than I've ever seen them after a lifetime of summers here. Scary narrow in some places. During high tide, the water was lapping the house's stilts.
A look down later while lathering up in the outdoor shower off the big, screened porch revealed how much closer the sand under the house is than it was last year. Dredging can't start too soon, if you ask me.
After an hour setting the little cottage to rights, or at least ordering it the way that gives me the most pleasure, I am joined by my favorite beach partner, who'd also stopped at Adams. Beds made, we set out for a walk.
The peace and quiet of being here in early May is extraordinary. Most houses, especially the biggest ones, aren't occupied. People walking down the beach are an occasional diversion, not the endless parade they are in July. The water is too cold for any but the school-age children who on their only beach vacation this year.
Of all the unlikely coincidences, it's restaurant week down here, something I go out of my way to avoid in Richmond, but here it's just a reminder of how off-season it is right now.
At our favorite dive bar, we run into the same plumber as last year, except this year he provides the insider's tour and we got to experience the blue room.
The two closest places, Run Down Café (which is anything but, although it was in the mid-'90s) and Ocean Boulevard (starting strong with a appetizer of lamb shoulder with sorghum-glazed spring vegetables) both check out as intact and open. A new place in the old piano bar produced a tomato pie with pimento cheese that was stellar and I'm no pimento cheese worshipper.
Walking the beach is far more exercise than in the past because the sand has so little time when the ocean isn't lapping at it to dry out. I began a memoir, "The House in France" that's already delivering a peek into an ex-pat world I've never known. One afternoon nap so far and it was a doozy.
The first night here was a full moon, the moon making distinct shadows on the floor of the screened porch, a brilliant white light that lit up the ocean, too.
Real life intrudes when my partner in crime has to return to the city shortly after Tuesday dawns pink and perfect. My next visitors don't come for days.
It'll be interesting to see what I do with so much time alone here.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Bring It, Art!!
When you're talking about a week at the beach, do you focus on what you did or didn't do?
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Say What You Need to Say
All good things must come to an end.
So after breakfast, I did what will (sadly) probably be my last beach walk of 2013, stretching it out for as long as I could.
And by that, I mean I walked all the way to the Kitty Hawk limit and beyond, savoring the clear skies and 75-degree air.
Once back, Pru and I made one last trek to the beach, stretching out our beach towels for one last hour of people-watching, leg tanning and girl talk.
After packing up the car, I headed up the beach road listening to my favorite local radio station, the Dj's voice totally familiar from so many summers down here.
With all the windows down and salty air blowing across me, the moment crystallized when John Mayer came on.
I say that because I first heard him on this very station back in 2002. This was a newer song, but the effect was the same.
Have no fear for givin' in
Have no fear for givin' over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than to never say what you need to say again
It was a fitting way to head up the road.
But I only got as far as mile post 2.5 when the car insisted on turning in to Art's Place for lunch.
This little bar and grill has been around for 30 years and I've been staying within a half a mile of it every summer for at least as long, so it was a visit long overdue.
It's a place that advertises right on its menu that they're open 6 a.m. "till you let us go home" and that "Locals welcome, tourists tolerated...sometimes."
With my long time Kitty Hawk attendance record, I was ready to fight for my right to stay.
I took the last seat at the small bar, next to two guys deep in conversation about their guitars and the bands they'd played in.
When a server saw my purse in my lap, she pointed to the hook under the bar, but in front of one of the guys.
Saying I didn't want to crowd him, she insisted I use it, saying, "Maybe he'll talk to you then."
I ordered Art's signature burger and eavesdropped as they segued into how much they'd liked Split Enz.
Without so much as looking up, the server behind the bar ran her hand through her cropped hair and said nonchalantly, "I got the Flock of Seagulls hair swoop."
She did indeed.
While eating my burger, I listened to Rolling Stones and Hendrix and admired the old black and white photos of the beach after numerous catastrophic-looking storms.
Once my plate was empty, she asked if I wanted anything else.
By then I'd spotted the Patron behind the bar, and while not my favorite tequila, it'll do in a pinch.
Ordering one got the result she'd expected from hanging my purse.
All of a sudden, the guy next to me wanted to chat. We talked so long that his friend joined in.
They chided me for waiting so long to try Art's and for not barging into their conversation earlier.
By the time my tequila was gone, they sounded really sorry that I hadn't wandered in nearer the start of my visit down.
Ah, well. There's always next time.
It was time for me to get home to do some work.
Coming up 158, I passed a tractor pull with a line of cars half a mile long waiting to get in.
I breezed past the Currituck Wildlife Fest with a big, bird-adorned sign for a "calling contest."
I have to assume this means grown men imitate fowl, but I'm really not certain.
Time to get back to my real life.
Do it with a heart wide open
A wide heart
Always.
So after breakfast, I did what will (sadly) probably be my last beach walk of 2013, stretching it out for as long as I could.
And by that, I mean I walked all the way to the Kitty Hawk limit and beyond, savoring the clear skies and 75-degree air.
Once back, Pru and I made one last trek to the beach, stretching out our beach towels for one last hour of people-watching, leg tanning and girl talk.
After packing up the car, I headed up the beach road listening to my favorite local radio station, the Dj's voice totally familiar from so many summers down here.
With all the windows down and salty air blowing across me, the moment crystallized when John Mayer came on.
I say that because I first heard him on this very station back in 2002. This was a newer song, but the effect was the same.
Have no fear for givin' in
Have no fear for givin' over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than to never say what you need to say again
It was a fitting way to head up the road.
But I only got as far as mile post 2.5 when the car insisted on turning in to Art's Place for lunch.
This little bar and grill has been around for 30 years and I've been staying within a half a mile of it every summer for at least as long, so it was a visit long overdue.
It's a place that advertises right on its menu that they're open 6 a.m. "till you let us go home" and that "Locals welcome, tourists tolerated...sometimes."
With my long time Kitty Hawk attendance record, I was ready to fight for my right to stay.
I took the last seat at the small bar, next to two guys deep in conversation about their guitars and the bands they'd played in.
When a server saw my purse in my lap, she pointed to the hook under the bar, but in front of one of the guys.
Saying I didn't want to crowd him, she insisted I use it, saying, "Maybe he'll talk to you then."
I ordered Art's signature burger and eavesdropped as they segued into how much they'd liked Split Enz.
Without so much as looking up, the server behind the bar ran her hand through her cropped hair and said nonchalantly, "I got the Flock of Seagulls hair swoop."
She did indeed.
While eating my burger, I listened to Rolling Stones and Hendrix and admired the old black and white photos of the beach after numerous catastrophic-looking storms.
Once my plate was empty, she asked if I wanted anything else.
By then I'd spotted the Patron behind the bar, and while not my favorite tequila, it'll do in a pinch.
Ordering one got the result she'd expected from hanging my purse.
All of a sudden, the guy next to me wanted to chat. We talked so long that his friend joined in.
They chided me for waiting so long to try Art's and for not barging into their conversation earlier.
By the time my tequila was gone, they sounded really sorry that I hadn't wandered in nearer the start of my visit down.
Ah, well. There's always next time.
It was time for me to get home to do some work.
Coming up 158, I passed a tractor pull with a line of cars half a mile long waiting to get in.
I breezed past the Currituck Wildlife Fest with a big, bird-adorned sign for a "calling contest."
I have to assume this means grown men imitate fowl, but I'm really not certain.
Time to get back to my real life.
Do it with a heart wide open
A wide heart
Always.
Friday, September 6, 2013
What Will Be, We'll See
To stay or not to stay, that was the question.
I almost had a date tonight, which would have ended my sojourn at the beach this afternoon.
But that didn't pan out (que sera, sera), meaning I could stay over an extra night and sleep to the sound of the surf again.
Life is full of trade-offs. Luckily.
When Pru and I woke up this morning, it was to an ocean that had gone from docile and inviting to chaotic and intimidating.
The good news was, the water temperature was still a thing of beauty, so when I left for my walk (and she caffeinated), it was just along the water's edge to enjoy the foam blowing off the roiling surf.
I didn't get a mile down the beach before the beach patrol sped by, inserting red "NO Swimming" flags all along the shoreline.
That's one way to ensure that I finally finished my beach read rather than spending another day pruning in the water.
So I'd been mistaken. Apparently we had pissed off the reading gods Wednesday by not so much as cracking a book.
Despite the unavailability of the main attraction, the weather was magnificent, moving from a morning sky filled with clouds doing their best to block the sun to an afternoon one of almost solid blue with a few wisps merely for decoration.
The gusty breezes that kept the waves out of reach for us mere mortals brought a series of para-surfers, hanging on with all their might to brightly colored, comma-shaped sails and whizzing down the shoreline at an unbelievable speed while hurtling through the rough water attached to their boards.
All I could think was that if it were me, I'd make sure someone was picking me up at the other end because i sure wouldn't want to traipse back up the beach to where I started after that wild ride.
But then I don't really have an adventurous bone in my body, at least not that extreme kind of adventure, so I won't be needing to make those arrangements any time soon.
My concern, as always, was food.
We did a lovely beach picnic for lunch, spreading out Olli salame, two kinds of cheese, heirloom grape tomatoes, watermelon (a beach requirement), a baguette, plus the house-specialty dip (of which I'd heard so much but never actually had it cross my lips) and chips on a towel and grazed happily, until napping on the beach seemed like a better idea.
What better place or time to give myself over to such indulgences?
To sleep to the ocean's lullaby, perchance to dream of dates to come.
I almost had a date tonight, which would have ended my sojourn at the beach this afternoon.
But that didn't pan out (que sera, sera), meaning I could stay over an extra night and sleep to the sound of the surf again.
Life is full of trade-offs. Luckily.
When Pru and I woke up this morning, it was to an ocean that had gone from docile and inviting to chaotic and intimidating.
The good news was, the water temperature was still a thing of beauty, so when I left for my walk (and she caffeinated), it was just along the water's edge to enjoy the foam blowing off the roiling surf.
I didn't get a mile down the beach before the beach patrol sped by, inserting red "NO Swimming" flags all along the shoreline.
That's one way to ensure that I finally finished my beach read rather than spending another day pruning in the water.
So I'd been mistaken. Apparently we had pissed off the reading gods Wednesday by not so much as cracking a book.
Despite the unavailability of the main attraction, the weather was magnificent, moving from a morning sky filled with clouds doing their best to block the sun to an afternoon one of almost solid blue with a few wisps merely for decoration.
The gusty breezes that kept the waves out of reach for us mere mortals brought a series of para-surfers, hanging on with all their might to brightly colored, comma-shaped sails and whizzing down the shoreline at an unbelievable speed while hurtling through the rough water attached to their boards.
All I could think was that if it were me, I'd make sure someone was picking me up at the other end because i sure wouldn't want to traipse back up the beach to where I started after that wild ride.
But then I don't really have an adventurous bone in my body, at least not that extreme kind of adventure, so I won't be needing to make those arrangements any time soon.
My concern, as always, was food.
We did a lovely beach picnic for lunch, spreading out Olli salame, two kinds of cheese, heirloom grape tomatoes, watermelon (a beach requirement), a baguette, plus the house-specialty dip (of which I'd heard so much but never actually had it cross my lips) and chips on a towel and grazed happily, until napping on the beach seemed like a better idea.
What better place or time to give myself over to such indulgences?
To sleep to the ocean's lullaby, perchance to dream of dates to come.
Out Playing In It
It's at the beach that you separate the men from the boys.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Breakfast eaten, I was ready to go walking on the beach but my companion had other ideas.
They involved a slow wake-up period, extended coffee drinking and who knows what else.
I don't but that's because I went ahead and walked on a morning too inviting not to experience as soon as possible.
There were loads of fishermen out, so I eventually asked one of them what he was after.
"Trout mostly," he said. "But I'd take drum or flounder. Problem is, the water's too nice and they're all further out playing."
I was as happy as the fish with the water temperature and told him so.
"I expect you'll be out playing in it, too, then," he said, all handlebar mustache and aviator sunglasses.
Further on, past the Avalon pier, I saw a kid skim-boarding and put on my truancy hat to inquire why he wasn't in school.
"I'm home-schooled," he said, grinning. "I've got a lot to catch up on, but we always come down this week cause it's cheaper and less crowded."
Clearly he'd already mastered economics.
Between the clear, blue skies and bathwater-warm ocean, it was a perfect day of beach-reading and ocean-going.
There's a giant sandbar in front of our condo, making for an ideal place to cool off, float over waves and observe the endless stream of aviation overhead.
I can't recall the last time I spent so much of a day in the ocean or a day I enjoyed spending so much time water-logged and prune-fingered.
Other than taking a a break from the breakers mid-afternoon to cook some steaks for lunch, it was pretty much a beach day start to finish.
We watched some idiot spend twenty minutes shredding bread for sea gulls and sandpipers, causing a rabid flock to assemble in front of us and look hungrily at the small children in the vicinity.
Too bad the beach patrol doesn't keep an eye out for beach idiocy.
There was some beach napping, a gin and tonic I tasted but did not share and more water time before heading up to get cleaned up for an evening out.
Our destination was Ocean Boulevard a few miles north and a safe bet for good wine and food.
We took the last two bar stools at the end and ordered a bottle of Villa Wolf Pinot Gris, a favorite at home and away.
I ordered sauteed shrimp succotash, a deep bowl of butter beans, roasted fresh corn, squash, tomatoes and N.C. shrimp in a light cream sauce, tasting like a bowl of summer.
If only succotash had tasted this good when I was a kid forced to eat the pathetic canned version.
My companion got shrimp, too (steak for lunch pretty much having killed any desire for blood), a dish of sauteed shrimp with a crab and cream cheese fritatta, and a tomato salad with dill and cucumbers in a citrus vinaigrette.
A woman next to us gave up looking at her menu to ask what we'd ordered and take recommendations from us on what she should eat.
What did we know, a couple of pruned out beach bums with no more accomplishments than new tan lines to show for this sunny Thursday?
We finished out the meal with dark chocolate gateau complemented by Graham's "Six Grapes" porto, a stellar pairing of the dense and slightly nutty wine with the deep chocolate.
Despite the hour, my companion finished with coffee and espresso, not all that different from how her day had begun.
Well, except for how fat and happy we were now feeling.
Another beach day well done.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Breakfast eaten, I was ready to go walking on the beach but my companion had other ideas.
They involved a slow wake-up period, extended coffee drinking and who knows what else.
I don't but that's because I went ahead and walked on a morning too inviting not to experience as soon as possible.
There were loads of fishermen out, so I eventually asked one of them what he was after.
"Trout mostly," he said. "But I'd take drum or flounder. Problem is, the water's too nice and they're all further out playing."
I was as happy as the fish with the water temperature and told him so.
"I expect you'll be out playing in it, too, then," he said, all handlebar mustache and aviator sunglasses.
Further on, past the Avalon pier, I saw a kid skim-boarding and put on my truancy hat to inquire why he wasn't in school.
"I'm home-schooled," he said, grinning. "I've got a lot to catch up on, but we always come down this week cause it's cheaper and less crowded."
Clearly he'd already mastered economics.
Between the clear, blue skies and bathwater-warm ocean, it was a perfect day of beach-reading and ocean-going.
There's a giant sandbar in front of our condo, making for an ideal place to cool off, float over waves and observe the endless stream of aviation overhead.
I can't recall the last time I spent so much of a day in the ocean or a day I enjoyed spending so much time water-logged and prune-fingered.
Other than taking a a break from the breakers mid-afternoon to cook some steaks for lunch, it was pretty much a beach day start to finish.
We watched some idiot spend twenty minutes shredding bread for sea gulls and sandpipers, causing a rabid flock to assemble in front of us and look hungrily at the small children in the vicinity.
Too bad the beach patrol doesn't keep an eye out for beach idiocy.
There was some beach napping, a gin and tonic I tasted but did not share and more water time before heading up to get cleaned up for an evening out.
Our destination was Ocean Boulevard a few miles north and a safe bet for good wine and food.
We took the last two bar stools at the end and ordered a bottle of Villa Wolf Pinot Gris, a favorite at home and away.
I ordered sauteed shrimp succotash, a deep bowl of butter beans, roasted fresh corn, squash, tomatoes and N.C. shrimp in a light cream sauce, tasting like a bowl of summer.
If only succotash had tasted this good when I was a kid forced to eat the pathetic canned version.
My companion got shrimp, too (steak for lunch pretty much having killed any desire for blood), a dish of sauteed shrimp with a crab and cream cheese fritatta, and a tomato salad with dill and cucumbers in a citrus vinaigrette.
A woman next to us gave up looking at her menu to ask what we'd ordered and take recommendations from us on what she should eat.
What did we know, a couple of pruned out beach bums with no more accomplishments than new tan lines to show for this sunny Thursday?
We finished out the meal with dark chocolate gateau complemented by Graham's "Six Grapes" porto, a stellar pairing of the dense and slightly nutty wine with the deep chocolate.
Despite the hour, my companion finished with coffee and espresso, not all that different from how her day had begun.
Well, except for how fat and happy we were now feeling.
Another beach day well done.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Little Talks, Surf Version
Just when the summer was winding down, I got extraordinarily lucky.
I got an invitation to go to the beach and who's going to turn down a chance to fall asleep to the sound of the surf?
So I gathered up the essentials - bathing suits, steaks and a hat - and hit the back roads for a drive to the coast.
On 460 east, I got behind a truck touting, "Fresh milk! Free samples. Oberweis Dairy. Milk delivered!" surprised to learn that milk delivery was still happening.
Further down, I passed a church with a sign saying, "Rethink church with us!" while knowing perfectly well that I'm not rethinking church with anyone.
What I was thinking about was getting to the Outer Banks and enjoying a few days of post-season bliss overlooking the ocean.
It's never a straight shot, though, so I stopped at Weeping Radish Brewery to pick up their I.P.A. for my favorite hop-head and at Wink's for vintage postcards.
There's something to be said for sending postcards that look nothing like what they depict due to their age ('60s, I'm guessing).
Once I arrived at my home for the next few days, complete with seahorse-adorned lampshades, I did a quick unpacking before hitting the beach.
"That's the most undressed I've ever seen you," my host told me, hopefully admiring my Adrienne Vitadini suit, the most unlikely beach attire I've worn in fifteen years.
Although it's only been eight weeks since I was here last, it's worlds apart from my last sojourn down.
Gone are the crowds, replaced by childless and older couples for the most part.
I was happy to find that the ocean water had warmed up significantly since July, but then it was an unusually cold ocean we endured earlier this summer.
The two of us took beach chairs, an umbrella and our drinks to the beach, setting up camp mid-afternoon and having far too much to talk about to ever crack open our books.
I figured the reading gods would cut us a break since it was the first day of our holiday.
It was the laziest of afternoons - some beach-walking, a little shell-collecting, mostly watching the tide come in - and we stayed outside until well past the start of happy hour.
Back on the screened porch, we broke open a bottle of Sancerre and she set the Pandora station to Of Monsters and Men.
We had a good laugh about the woman, Olive ("You can remember my name if you like martinis"), on the beach who'd said, "I'm looking for a man with his own plane and all I've found is a man with a parachute."
There are so many possible ways to take that, most notably that it's wise to keep your eye on what matters most to you.
Olive, you're my hero.
I got an invitation to go to the beach and who's going to turn down a chance to fall asleep to the sound of the surf?
So I gathered up the essentials - bathing suits, steaks and a hat - and hit the back roads for a drive to the coast.
On 460 east, I got behind a truck touting, "Fresh milk! Free samples. Oberweis Dairy. Milk delivered!" surprised to learn that milk delivery was still happening.
Further down, I passed a church with a sign saying, "Rethink church with us!" while knowing perfectly well that I'm not rethinking church with anyone.
What I was thinking about was getting to the Outer Banks and enjoying a few days of post-season bliss overlooking the ocean.
It's never a straight shot, though, so I stopped at Weeping Radish Brewery to pick up their I.P.A. for my favorite hop-head and at Wink's for vintage postcards.
There's something to be said for sending postcards that look nothing like what they depict due to their age ('60s, I'm guessing).
Once I arrived at my home for the next few days, complete with seahorse-adorned lampshades, I did a quick unpacking before hitting the beach.
"That's the most undressed I've ever seen you," my host told me, hopefully admiring my Adrienne Vitadini suit, the most unlikely beach attire I've worn in fifteen years.
Although it's only been eight weeks since I was here last, it's worlds apart from my last sojourn down.
Gone are the crowds, replaced by childless and older couples for the most part.
I was happy to find that the ocean water had warmed up significantly since July, but then it was an unusually cold ocean we endured earlier this summer.
The two of us took beach chairs, an umbrella and our drinks to the beach, setting up camp mid-afternoon and having far too much to talk about to ever crack open our books.
I figured the reading gods would cut us a break since it was the first day of our holiday.
It was the laziest of afternoons - some beach-walking, a little shell-collecting, mostly watching the tide come in - and we stayed outside until well past the start of happy hour.
Back on the screened porch, we broke open a bottle of Sancerre and she set the Pandora station to Of Monsters and Men.
We had a good laugh about the woman, Olive ("You can remember my name if you like martinis"), on the beach who'd said, "I'm looking for a man with his own plane and all I've found is a man with a parachute."
There are so many possible ways to take that, most notably that it's wise to keep your eye on what matters most to you.
Olive, you're my hero.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Crossing State Lines
Beach log wrap-up.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.
Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."
Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.
It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.
The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.
We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.
The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.
It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.
Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.
When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.
Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.
My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.
Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.
"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.
Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.
Nothing says relax like fried carbs.
With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.
"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.
We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.
In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.
Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.
There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.
Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.
The mortification on his mother's face was classic.
Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"
It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.
Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.
I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.
Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.
Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.
I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.
It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.
On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.
Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.
There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.
Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?
When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.
After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.
The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.
Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.
Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."
Well, I guess she'd made her point.
The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.
One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.
The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.
It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.
After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.
Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.
Locals are supposed to know these things.
Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.
Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.
It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.
We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.
In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.
My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."
Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?
When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.
We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.
"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.
At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.
Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.
We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.
From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.
Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.
John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."
And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.
We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.
Okay, we did after his first set.
Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.
At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.
On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.
Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.
While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.
Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.
No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.
"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed, but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.
"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.
Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.
The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"
Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"
Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?
It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.
You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.
Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Summer Breeze
A pictures's worth a thousand words.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Under a Blood Red Moon
A heat wave isn't much of a heat wave when you're staying on the oceanfront.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Future R.I.P. One Hell of a Woman
I'm going to brag and say I know how to enjoy a birthday.
This one began with a drive to the Outer Banks on a day when a hurricane was hanging about.
An hour and a half into the trip and listening to a mix tape (literally) from 1992 called "!Stood Up!" the weather gods descended on us.
A few droplets became driving rain, which segued into sleet and then pounded us with hail.
I hate to nitpick, but not only is it not hurricane season yet, but since when do we have hail in May?
We went from dry to terrifying in about two minutes, necessitating pulling over to eat bananas while enjoying Rockpile and Ned's Atomic Dustbin until the worst of it passed.
Once at the beach, a walk seemed in order, if for no other reason than to admire the magnificent cloudscapes we'd just recently escaped.
Yet again we were reminded of Alberto's presence when our beach stroll ended with rain, first light and then sufficiently driving to leave me with a soaked skirt and a head of wet hair.
A bottle of Prosecco ensured that we returned to birthday mode after being drenched.
Dinner was eaten on the balcony overlooking the ocean and involved eating with fingers while lightening shot across the horizon.
Not a bad view for my pre-birthday dinner, if I do say so myself.
After starting a second bottle, this one South African, we decided to take advantage of the rain having moved on and walked across the street for ice cream just before they closed.
Mine was a scoop of mint chocolate chip over a scoop of dark chocolate orange, which, when eaten on a blanket on the beach at night, seemed like the best idea I'd had in eons.
Crashing surf? Check. Changeable sky? Yep. No one around to disturb the dessert course? Perfect.
Shoes left on the beach until the next morning? Sure, but so what?
Sleeping with the door wide open to the sound of the waves, I woke up to being a year older with a smile on my face.
My birthday breakfast had been decided in advance; I wanted pancakes and bacon on the pier.
A short two mile beach walk put us at a corner table of the pier restaurant where our waitress Holly said, "Well, if it's your birthday, you need to have a Mimosa."
I ate myself stuffed, making the walk back down the beach a necessity as well as a real pleasure.
Alberto gave us no further trouble, although it was quite breezy for our afternoon under the new beach umbrella.
Cherry pits were spit out, watermelon sections dripped down chins and ripe pineapple was so sweet it felt like a guilty pleasure.
Standing in the surf watching as people walked up and down the beach, I spotted my favorite beachcomber.
He was a much older man with thinning, white hair and a cane, dressed impeccably in a button-down shirt, khakis and water shoes.
Despite the cane and his obvious slow pace, he was methodically walking just exactly along the water line, never quite getting wet, but never more than inches from the foam of the latest wave.
It was a thing of beauty watching him trace the water's edge.
I only hope that when I'm that old that I still want to walk along the edge of the ocean with a look of satisfaction on my face.
The drive home provided none of the weather drama of the earlier trip, but the music was just as good, if mostly a tad more current than Mighty Lemon Drops.
One of the more colorful sights was a home as tribute to the dead.
On an old salmon house, someone had painted in crooked letters, "R.I.P." and a man's name, birth and death dates.
Next to it, in slanted words was, "One hell of a guy."
For the record, I have no problem with someone wanting to memorialize me on my house once I kick the bucket.
Once back in RVA, without even washing the rain and saltwater out of my hair, my birthday dinner went down at Amour.
Starting at the bar with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose and tarte flambe, we soon followed with escargots ("dirt food" as my dinner companion noted) and Reisling d'Alsace Heimberger.
Even only two wines in, the snail tongs were used to great hilarity.
Despite some sparkling conversation at the bar, part accented and part throaty, we decided to move to a front table for a view of Carytown's street theater (mostly people with trough-sized Sweet Frog dishes) and the rest of the meal.
A charcuterie and cheese plate (Boucherondin goat and Comte) brought two wines, a Chateauneuf du Pape White Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique and Mount Ventoux Red.
A lump crabcake followed and at long last, dessert.
Six little dishes of sorbet - grapefruit, strawberry, kiwi, orange, espresso, and cocoa with candied orange peel- were an exercise in flavor bursts as each one exploded with fruit or caffeine.
Naturally only bubbles could do housemade sorbet justice, so we had Cremant d'Alsace Brut de Brut and saved the heavy lifting for last.
Chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee was paired with Muscat de Beaume de Venise Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique to put us firmly over the edge.
Did I need more chocolate after six tastes of sorbet? I did not.
Did I enjoy every bite anyway? You know it.
With not even a corner of room left in my belly, it was time to step away from the table.
Conveniently, the stars had aligned for the Blood Brothers (plus Greg Darden) to be playing the hits tonight.
So down to Ipanema we went, where clearly the birthday gods had given them a heads up.
The handsome bartender Gabe offered me dessert (sadly, not doable at that point) and two of my favorite music lovers had a bottle of wine waiting for me.
Bottle and glasses in hand, we commandeered the bench and sat back to hear what 60s and 70s vinyl the guys were going to play for this Gemini.
My birthday was getting more amazing by the minute.
Want to know what I mean? How about this set: "Steppin' Stone," "With a Girl Like You,"Summer in the City," and "Little Bit of Soul" for sheer mid-sixties pop perfection?
Various friends showed up, lots of stellar music was played and I felt like the day had been a birthday treat in every way.
Yea, I've still got sand in my hair. And, definitely, my body is still in sugar shock. I'm quite sure I haven't had enough sleep this week.
Is this any way to celebrate with a girl like me?
Hail, yes.
This one began with a drive to the Outer Banks on a day when a hurricane was hanging about.
An hour and a half into the trip and listening to a mix tape (literally) from 1992 called "!Stood Up!" the weather gods descended on us.
A few droplets became driving rain, which segued into sleet and then pounded us with hail.
I hate to nitpick, but not only is it not hurricane season yet, but since when do we have hail in May?
We went from dry to terrifying in about two minutes, necessitating pulling over to eat bananas while enjoying Rockpile and Ned's Atomic Dustbin until the worst of it passed.
Once at the beach, a walk seemed in order, if for no other reason than to admire the magnificent cloudscapes we'd just recently escaped.
Yet again we were reminded of Alberto's presence when our beach stroll ended with rain, first light and then sufficiently driving to leave me with a soaked skirt and a head of wet hair.
A bottle of Prosecco ensured that we returned to birthday mode after being drenched.
Dinner was eaten on the balcony overlooking the ocean and involved eating with fingers while lightening shot across the horizon.
Not a bad view for my pre-birthday dinner, if I do say so myself.
After starting a second bottle, this one South African, we decided to take advantage of the rain having moved on and walked across the street for ice cream just before they closed.
Mine was a scoop of mint chocolate chip over a scoop of dark chocolate orange, which, when eaten on a blanket on the beach at night, seemed like the best idea I'd had in eons.
Crashing surf? Check. Changeable sky? Yep. No one around to disturb the dessert course? Perfect.
Shoes left on the beach until the next morning? Sure, but so what?
Sleeping with the door wide open to the sound of the waves, I woke up to being a year older with a smile on my face.
My birthday breakfast had been decided in advance; I wanted pancakes and bacon on the pier.
A short two mile beach walk put us at a corner table of the pier restaurant where our waitress Holly said, "Well, if it's your birthday, you need to have a Mimosa."
I ate myself stuffed, making the walk back down the beach a necessity as well as a real pleasure.
Alberto gave us no further trouble, although it was quite breezy for our afternoon under the new beach umbrella.
Cherry pits were spit out, watermelon sections dripped down chins and ripe pineapple was so sweet it felt like a guilty pleasure.
Standing in the surf watching as people walked up and down the beach, I spotted my favorite beachcomber.
He was a much older man with thinning, white hair and a cane, dressed impeccably in a button-down shirt, khakis and water shoes.
Despite the cane and his obvious slow pace, he was methodically walking just exactly along the water line, never quite getting wet, but never more than inches from the foam of the latest wave.
It was a thing of beauty watching him trace the water's edge.
I only hope that when I'm that old that I still want to walk along the edge of the ocean with a look of satisfaction on my face.
The drive home provided none of the weather drama of the earlier trip, but the music was just as good, if mostly a tad more current than Mighty Lemon Drops.
One of the more colorful sights was a home as tribute to the dead.
On an old salmon house, someone had painted in crooked letters, "R.I.P." and a man's name, birth and death dates.
Next to it, in slanted words was, "One hell of a guy."
For the record, I have no problem with someone wanting to memorialize me on my house once I kick the bucket.
Once back in RVA, without even washing the rain and saltwater out of my hair, my birthday dinner went down at Amour.
Starting at the bar with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose and tarte flambe, we soon followed with escargots ("dirt food" as my dinner companion noted) and Reisling d'Alsace Heimberger.
Even only two wines in, the snail tongs were used to great hilarity.
Despite some sparkling conversation at the bar, part accented and part throaty, we decided to move to a front table for a view of Carytown's street theater (mostly people with trough-sized Sweet Frog dishes) and the rest of the meal.
A charcuterie and cheese plate (Boucherondin goat and Comte) brought two wines, a Chateauneuf du Pape White Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique and Mount Ventoux Red.
A lump crabcake followed and at long last, dessert.
Six little dishes of sorbet - grapefruit, strawberry, kiwi, orange, espresso, and cocoa with candied orange peel- were an exercise in flavor bursts as each one exploded with fruit or caffeine.
Naturally only bubbles could do housemade sorbet justice, so we had Cremant d'Alsace Brut de Brut and saved the heavy lifting for last.
Chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee was paired with Muscat de Beaume de Venise Domaine de la Bastide St. Dominique to put us firmly over the edge.
Did I need more chocolate after six tastes of sorbet? I did not.
Did I enjoy every bite anyway? You know it.
With not even a corner of room left in my belly, it was time to step away from the table.
Conveniently, the stars had aligned for the Blood Brothers (plus Greg Darden) to be playing the hits tonight.
So down to Ipanema we went, where clearly the birthday gods had given them a heads up.
The handsome bartender Gabe offered me dessert (sadly, not doable at that point) and two of my favorite music lovers had a bottle of wine waiting for me.
Bottle and glasses in hand, we commandeered the bench and sat back to hear what 60s and 70s vinyl the guys were going to play for this Gemini.
My birthday was getting more amazing by the minute.
Want to know what I mean? How about this set: "Steppin' Stone," "With a Girl Like You,"Summer in the City," and "Little Bit of Soul" for sheer mid-sixties pop perfection?
Various friends showed up, lots of stellar music was played and I felt like the day had been a birthday treat in every way.
Yea, I've still got sand in my hair. And, definitely, my body is still in sugar shock. I'm quite sure I haven't had enough sleep this week.
Is this any way to celebrate with a girl like me?
Hail, yes.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Alone Again, Naturally
Current read: "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick" by David Thomson/1992
Best song randomly heard: "Don't Believe in Love" by Dido/2008
We had visitors all afternoon but they were friends of my guest.
I was welcoming, then I napped on the beach, we ate a fried chicken and fruit lunch and then I read. Meanwhile, they played catch-up, got burnt in the sun and drank beer.
For a day that began as cold, very foggy (the piers were invisible) and sunless, the afternoon boasted blue skies, bright sun and temperate water. It was a lovely last day.
When the visitors pulled out, my friend wasn't far behind. She's more disciplined person than I could be. You'll not find me giving up a last night in an oceanfront room; falling asleep to the sound of the ocean is a non-negotiable indulgence of mine.
After that departure, I got properly cleaned up and headed up the beach to the Ocean Boulevard patio. I had never sat oceanside and listened to the live music, so tonight was the night to correct that.
With a chair and table and a view of AR, the singer, I was able to enjoy the last hour and a half of daylight and my last night beachside instead of inside.
Thirst-quenching came in the form of Loredona Viognier with a beautifully floral nose and nice fruit. Maye it was because it was the last night, but that glass disappeared like water.
Helping my mood were the dulcet tones of the singer playing his heart out to a) a 40th birthday party for a noisy bunch of six women and b) a girl's night out for a group of seven. They never once clapped until I began doing so. Very telling.
Dinner was surf and turf: Price Edward Island mussels steeped in sake and pickled ginger with julienned veggies, followed by Sicilian veal meatballs with parsley linguine, mushrooms, capers, roasted red peppers and natural jus, making for an interesting contrast of flavors.
To accompany my meal and in a nod to my recent read. I selected the 2008 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, velvety and with the dark fruit I expected.
Knowing that it was the first vintage after the winemaker's death gave it a special significance now that I know all the sordid history behind the winery and the family..
As I was eating dinner and enjoying the singer's voice and ocean breezes, a guy approached me and asked me to join his group of locals, but I politely declined.
My server came over and offered me some bug spray and while I hadn't been the least bit bothered by mosquitoes, I sprayed my legs generously, figuring she knew more than I did.
Ten minutes later, the singer said he was being eaten alive by bugs. Good move on my server's part for saving me from that.
The singer's repertoire was varied, encompassing John Mayer, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead and finally finishing with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love." He had me all along.
I talked with a couple from Maryland who were in town to celebrate his birthday and had been out beach house-shopping all day. We talked about the drive down and beauty of the Varina-Enon bridge.
They were amazed that I was at the beach by myself.
Once they moved inside to eat, the locals adamantly insisted I join their group of transplants, which included a Georgian who drew out her vowels like honey dripping (Jim became "Gee-im"), a former Wyndam-dweller of all things, a Norfolker by birth and a woman from the hills of North Carolina.
They, too, were fascinated by me being out by myself on vacation and wanted to adopt me for all future outings. I didn't have the heart to tell them that this was my final foray of the week.
Eventually A.R. joined us after his last set and, small world that it is, discovered that we'd been to a lot of the same shows, especially at the Norva (Band of Horses, Interpol, Imogene Heap). You just never know what you'll have in common with a stranger.
But, unlike him, my father was never a session musician for Lou Reed (a conversation starter if ever there was one).
Which means I have to find other ways to make my mark in social situations.
Lately it seems like just being out by myself is making me appealing to people. Sure, it's probably just a sympathy or curiosity thing, but sometimes that's enough.
As we prepared to leave after hours of chatter, I thanked the last two of the group about insisting I join them.
"Well, you are a hottie," Jim ("Gee-im") said before he and his wife hugged me good night.
So much for the sympathy theory.
And I'm okay with that tonight.
Best song randomly heard: "Don't Believe in Love" by Dido/2008
We had visitors all afternoon but they were friends of my guest.
I was welcoming, then I napped on the beach, we ate a fried chicken and fruit lunch and then I read. Meanwhile, they played catch-up, got burnt in the sun and drank beer.
For a day that began as cold, very foggy (the piers were invisible) and sunless, the afternoon boasted blue skies, bright sun and temperate water. It was a lovely last day.
When the visitors pulled out, my friend wasn't far behind. She's more disciplined person than I could be. You'll not find me giving up a last night in an oceanfront room; falling asleep to the sound of the ocean is a non-negotiable indulgence of mine.
After that departure, I got properly cleaned up and headed up the beach to the Ocean Boulevard patio. I had never sat oceanside and listened to the live music, so tonight was the night to correct that.
With a chair and table and a view of AR, the singer, I was able to enjoy the last hour and a half of daylight and my last night beachside instead of inside.
Thirst-quenching came in the form of Loredona Viognier with a beautifully floral nose and nice fruit. Maye it was because it was the last night, but that glass disappeared like water.
Helping my mood were the dulcet tones of the singer playing his heart out to a) a 40th birthday party for a noisy bunch of six women and b) a girl's night out for a group of seven. They never once clapped until I began doing so. Very telling.
Dinner was surf and turf: Price Edward Island mussels steeped in sake and pickled ginger with julienned veggies, followed by Sicilian veal meatballs with parsley linguine, mushrooms, capers, roasted red peppers and natural jus, making for an interesting contrast of flavors.
To accompany my meal and in a nod to my recent read. I selected the 2008 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, velvety and with the dark fruit I expected.
Knowing that it was the first vintage after the winemaker's death gave it a special significance now that I know all the sordid history behind the winery and the family..
As I was eating dinner and enjoying the singer's voice and ocean breezes, a guy approached me and asked me to join his group of locals, but I politely declined.
My server came over and offered me some bug spray and while I hadn't been the least bit bothered by mosquitoes, I sprayed my legs generously, figuring she knew more than I did.
Ten minutes later, the singer said he was being eaten alive by bugs. Good move on my server's part for saving me from that.
The singer's repertoire was varied, encompassing John Mayer, Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead and finally finishing with Bon Iver's "Skinny Love." He had me all along.
I talked with a couple from Maryland who were in town to celebrate his birthday and had been out beach house-shopping all day. We talked about the drive down and beauty of the Varina-Enon bridge.
They were amazed that I was at the beach by myself.
Once they moved inside to eat, the locals adamantly insisted I join their group of transplants, which included a Georgian who drew out her vowels like honey dripping (Jim became "Gee-im"), a former Wyndam-dweller of all things, a Norfolker by birth and a woman from the hills of North Carolina.
They, too, were fascinated by me being out by myself on vacation and wanted to adopt me for all future outings. I didn't have the heart to tell them that this was my final foray of the week.
Eventually A.R. joined us after his last set and, small world that it is, discovered that we'd been to a lot of the same shows, especially at the Norva (Band of Horses, Interpol, Imogene Heap). You just never know what you'll have in common with a stranger.
But, unlike him, my father was never a session musician for Lou Reed (a conversation starter if ever there was one).
Which means I have to find other ways to make my mark in social situations.
Lately it seems like just being out by myself is making me appealing to people. Sure, it's probably just a sympathy or curiosity thing, but sometimes that's enough.
As we prepared to leave after hours of chatter, I thanked the last two of the group about insisting I join them.
"Well, you are a hottie," Jim ("Gee-im") said before he and his wife hugged me good night.
So much for the sympathy theory.
And I'm okay with that tonight.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
In Training to Fry Fish
My visitors can't wait to immerse themselves in the beach life once they arrive.
Today's friend pulled up, brought in her bag, beach towels and home-grown produce and said, "Okay let's go to John's!"
For those not stepped in years of Outer Banks vacations, John's is a low-slung concrete dive with fish sandwiches, burgers and about forty different types of milkshakes. For old-schoolers, they even have malteds.
So we joined the throngs waiting to place their orders in the hot sun of the asphalt parking lot. The few scattered wooden picnic tables held others already waiting for their orders.
You have to see the mass of humanity at John's to appreciate how it appeals to everyone: young, old, rich, poor, white-bread and ethnic.
Happily, we got our order in fairly quickly, but were warned first that the wait for food was a solid half hour. As my friend told the cashier,"I just spent three hours driving here, so what's another thirty minutes?"
A sign in the window clarified the reason why: "Sorry for the wait. We are training today."
We found a bench in the shade and proceeded to watch the theater of the parking lot, noting that even when we were sixteen, we never had the bodies that some of these girls have. Must be all the hormones they've ingested since birth. Or superior DNA.
When our name was finally called, we grabbed our bag and shakes and hightailed it back to the cottage.
Eating John's beach grub may be a vacation tradition, but eating it in the midday heat of a parking lot with idling cars all around is most definitely not.
Besides, while we'd been gone, a beautiful breeze had materialized from the south, so lunch on the back porch overlooking the ocean was a far more enjoyable way to go.
I'd gotten the rockfish and she the dolphin, both on long crusty rolls slathered with tartar sauce under tomato and lettuce. My rockfish was perfectly fried and generously portioned.
We'd agreed to share a box of onion rings, made all the more satisfying for the coating of grease on the bottom with bits of breading scattered around.
Our giant milkshakes, always the most popular items on John's menu, were as thick and chocolatey as ever. That's never changed.
Afterwards, we sat down to read for a while before acknowledging to each other that it was nap time. A John's lunch pretty much thickens the blood to the thickness of paste.
Half an hour later, revived and only a bit groggy, we took to the beach for a walk, only to be stopped by a member of the beach patrol saying that a thunderstorm was coming so the beach had to be cleared.
Walking back, my friend started laughing. "I love that I've only been here a few hours and we've already eaten at John's, napped, read and walked on the beach!"
That's the thing; jumping into this lifestyle is a snap.
It's switching back to reality when you leave that poses the challenge.
Today's friend pulled up, brought in her bag, beach towels and home-grown produce and said, "Okay let's go to John's!"
For those not stepped in years of Outer Banks vacations, John's is a low-slung concrete dive with fish sandwiches, burgers and about forty different types of milkshakes. For old-schoolers, they even have malteds.
So we joined the throngs waiting to place their orders in the hot sun of the asphalt parking lot. The few scattered wooden picnic tables held others already waiting for their orders.
You have to see the mass of humanity at John's to appreciate how it appeals to everyone: young, old, rich, poor, white-bread and ethnic.
Happily, we got our order in fairly quickly, but were warned first that the wait for food was a solid half hour. As my friend told the cashier,"I just spent three hours driving here, so what's another thirty minutes?"
A sign in the window clarified the reason why: "Sorry for the wait. We are training today."
We found a bench in the shade and proceeded to watch the theater of the parking lot, noting that even when we were sixteen, we never had the bodies that some of these girls have. Must be all the hormones they've ingested since birth. Or superior DNA.
When our name was finally called, we grabbed our bag and shakes and hightailed it back to the cottage.
Eating John's beach grub may be a vacation tradition, but eating it in the midday heat of a parking lot with idling cars all around is most definitely not.
Besides, while we'd been gone, a beautiful breeze had materialized from the south, so lunch on the back porch overlooking the ocean was a far more enjoyable way to go.
I'd gotten the rockfish and she the dolphin, both on long crusty rolls slathered with tartar sauce under tomato and lettuce. My rockfish was perfectly fried and generously portioned.
We'd agreed to share a box of onion rings, made all the more satisfying for the coating of grease on the bottom with bits of breading scattered around.
Our giant milkshakes, always the most popular items on John's menu, were as thick and chocolatey as ever. That's never changed.
Afterwards, we sat down to read for a while before acknowledging to each other that it was nap time. A John's lunch pretty much thickens the blood to the thickness of paste.
Half an hour later, revived and only a bit groggy, we took to the beach for a walk, only to be stopped by a member of the beach patrol saying that a thunderstorm was coming so the beach had to be cleared.
Walking back, my friend started laughing. "I love that I've only been here a few hours and we've already eaten at John's, napped, read and walked on the beach!"
That's the thing; jumping into this lifestyle is a snap.
It's switching back to reality when you leave that poses the challenge.
Postcard From the Edge
Current read: "The House of Mondavi" by Julia Flynn Siler/2007
Best song randomly heard: "Love Your Way" by Psychedelic Furs/1982
My guests have left and what am I to do with myself?
Well, being the responsible sort on occasion, I first sat down and wrote out an assignment.
And then suddenly remembering that I am on vacation, I did an about face and did what I could to make myself attractive enough to go out and face the world. At the beach, it doesn't take much.
The rain had just begun, along with an occasional flash of lightening and approaching thunder.
So I could stay in the cottage alone to watch Mother Nature's display or risk going out in the serious weather and see what happened.
Guess which way I went.
A little over half a mile away, the crowd at Ocean Boulevard welcomed me in. Many people were just finishing up dinner when I arrived, but a stool was found for me and I immediately had company.
After ordering some Martin Codax Albarino (hay and honeysuckle, yum), I found a bar stool and was pulled into conversation with a group from Cleveland. Yes, as in Ohio, but I maintained an open mind.
The two guys who started talking to me turned out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped for. One was a gym teacher and the other designed and built sports fields.
Sports fields, I asked? Yes, like baseball, football and even volleyball courts were what he designed. He'd even written three books on the subject of turf grass management for university classes.
As I learned, there's even a degree available in that subject. No more Future Farmers of America, these guys have degrees in sports turf management. We're talking at places like Ole Miss and VA Tech.
And while I can be impressed with an unusual career choice, I was bowled over to learn that my new friend was also a member of Left End, a hard rock band that once opened for the Eagles.
He told me of '70s gigs where they played for 20,000 people. He told me of being part of the local bands featured at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
As these Ohioans drank beer, I moved on to Hullabaloo Old Vine Zinfandel, rich, peppery and almost 15%. Go ahead, judge me.
I met a guy from Dallas who tried to convince me that I liked Dallas, but after multiple visits, I know better.
We did discuss how frggin' flat it is and I had to offer props to the Nasher. Beyond that, he might as well have been speaking Swahili for all I believed him. But he tried hard.
The beginnings of a storm had morphed into a full-on weather event with a major lightening hit in the back parking lot (the Left End guitarist and I witnessed a direct hit that resembled a fire ball and caused the bar's register to cease working). No one was going anywhere.
As the mood became more festive (the hail! the rain! the wind!), people who had ceased drinking took it up once more. Me, I just moved on to more of the same.
I somehow became designated the resident expert on where to eat, drink and sightsee on the Outer Banks, so I provided opinions on whatever was asked of me. The Ohioans began to act like I was some sort of oracle.
Eventually, the rain slackened and it seemed possible to head home.
About that time a Delaware resident sat down next to me and began posing all kinds of questions. I must look far more knowledgeable than I actually am.
We chatted for a while before I decided that I needed to get home, not because I had guests (I don't) but because I'd had enough of strangers and was curious to see if I'd heard from any friends or loved ones.
And because all good beach nights end up with wine on the back porch staring at (and listening to) the ocean.
Sometimes I have good company and sometimes, like tonight, I wish for it. I must need a new guest.
Takers?
Best song randomly heard: "Love Your Way" by Psychedelic Furs/1982
My guests have left and what am I to do with myself?
Well, being the responsible sort on occasion, I first sat down and wrote out an assignment.
And then suddenly remembering that I am on vacation, I did an about face and did what I could to make myself attractive enough to go out and face the world. At the beach, it doesn't take much.
The rain had just begun, along with an occasional flash of lightening and approaching thunder.
So I could stay in the cottage alone to watch Mother Nature's display or risk going out in the serious weather and see what happened.
Guess which way I went.
A little over half a mile away, the crowd at Ocean Boulevard welcomed me in. Many people were just finishing up dinner when I arrived, but a stool was found for me and I immediately had company.
After ordering some Martin Codax Albarino (hay and honeysuckle, yum), I found a bar stool and was pulled into conversation with a group from Cleveland. Yes, as in Ohio, but I maintained an open mind.
The two guys who started talking to me turned out to be far more interesting than I could have hoped for. One was a gym teacher and the other designed and built sports fields.
Sports fields, I asked? Yes, like baseball, football and even volleyball courts were what he designed. He'd even written three books on the subject of turf grass management for university classes.
As I learned, there's even a degree available in that subject. No more Future Farmers of America, these guys have degrees in sports turf management. We're talking at places like Ole Miss and VA Tech.
And while I can be impressed with an unusual career choice, I was bowled over to learn that my new friend was also a member of Left End, a hard rock band that once opened for the Eagles.
He told me of '70s gigs where they played for 20,000 people. He told me of being part of the local bands featured at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
As these Ohioans drank beer, I moved on to Hullabaloo Old Vine Zinfandel, rich, peppery and almost 15%. Go ahead, judge me.
I met a guy from Dallas who tried to convince me that I liked Dallas, but after multiple visits, I know better.
We did discuss how frggin' flat it is and I had to offer props to the Nasher. Beyond that, he might as well have been speaking Swahili for all I believed him. But he tried hard.
The beginnings of a storm had morphed into a full-on weather event with a major lightening hit in the back parking lot (the Left End guitarist and I witnessed a direct hit that resembled a fire ball and caused the bar's register to cease working). No one was going anywhere.
As the mood became more festive (the hail! the rain! the wind!), people who had ceased drinking took it up once more. Me, I just moved on to more of the same.
I somehow became designated the resident expert on where to eat, drink and sightsee on the Outer Banks, so I provided opinions on whatever was asked of me. The Ohioans began to act like I was some sort of oracle.
Eventually, the rain slackened and it seemed possible to head home.
About that time a Delaware resident sat down next to me and began posing all kinds of questions. I must look far more knowledgeable than I actually am.
We chatted for a while before I decided that I needed to get home, not because I had guests (I don't) but because I'd had enough of strangers and was curious to see if I'd heard from any friends or loved ones.
And because all good beach nights end up with wine on the back porch staring at (and listening to) the ocean.
Sometimes I have good company and sometimes, like tonight, I wish for it. I must need a new guest.
Takers?
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
A Mortician's Warning
There's something to be said for beer and brats after breakfast.
For the guests' last day here, we decided to start with a tour of the brewery and butchery at the Weeping Radish.
Bavarian-born owner Ollie led us on an hour plus tour of the enormous building, impressing everyone with his passion for local sourcing, artisan food and drink and the endless headaches of running a business that is actually multiple enterprises (brewing, farming, butchery, retail, restaurant).
His dry wit and extensive knowledge added much to our enjoyment of the tour.
Their emphasis on side-streaming (using all parts of every process or animal) means there is absolutely no waste to anything they do.
The runoff water from beer-making is used to water vegetable gardens. Steam from the brewery is piped into the smoker for heat in the cured meat production.
By the time we got to the room where all the sausages hung, we were pretty hungry from the aroma of meat that hung in the air.
Moving over to the brewpub, we began with flights of beer. True, I'm no beer drinker, but I was intrigued enough by Ollie's emphasis on local and preservative-free to give a flight a chance.
The Radler mixed their OBX Kolsch with homemade German-style lemonade for a German version of a British shandy. Not bad, if a tad sweet.
I most wanted to try the IPA 25 because they are the first North Carolina brewery to use North Carolina hops. But because hop-growing is traditionally a West Coast endeavor, these hops grown near Asheville are young.
And here's where I actually learned something. Young hops lean more toward floral where older hops are more bitter. I'm a young hop type, I discovered.
This IPA 25 had the most beautiful nose and the taste was without that characteristic bitterness which has kept me from finding a beer I can drink. This one I could.
The others in the flight made the beer drinkers happy, but weren't for me, although I'm crazy about their housemade root beer.
And the house-made sausages I knew I loved. I had the beer brat on a pretzel roll which amounted to a doubly good sandwich. Spread with their house hot grainy mustard and sauerkraut, it was easily the best $7 lunch ever.
Worth mentioning was the sauerkraut, fermented in-house in French oak barrels used for twenty years for winemaking. This was sauerkraut that could win over even diehard sauerkraut haters with its tantalizing sourness.
One guest had the andouille garlic sausage I had so enjoyed last year and the other a BLT using their own bacon (so impressive that she bought a pound to take home).
Savoring our nitrate-free, preservative-free, locally grown meats and beer, we were reminded of the last story Ollie had told us on the tour.
Talking to a mortician in Manteo recently, the guy, a third generation mortician, had told Ollie that back in his father and grandfather's days, "They used to have to bury bodies in less than two days in the South. These days we can wait much longer because the bodies are so full of preservatives."
I aspire to be as perishable as my beer brat and IPA were at lunch today...not that I intend to be buried.
Or dead any time soon.
For the guests' last day here, we decided to start with a tour of the brewery and butchery at the Weeping Radish.
Bavarian-born owner Ollie led us on an hour plus tour of the enormous building, impressing everyone with his passion for local sourcing, artisan food and drink and the endless headaches of running a business that is actually multiple enterprises (brewing, farming, butchery, retail, restaurant).
His dry wit and extensive knowledge added much to our enjoyment of the tour.
Their emphasis on side-streaming (using all parts of every process or animal) means there is absolutely no waste to anything they do.
The runoff water from beer-making is used to water vegetable gardens. Steam from the brewery is piped into the smoker for heat in the cured meat production.
By the time we got to the room where all the sausages hung, we were pretty hungry from the aroma of meat that hung in the air.
Moving over to the brewpub, we began with flights of beer. True, I'm no beer drinker, but I was intrigued enough by Ollie's emphasis on local and preservative-free to give a flight a chance.
The Radler mixed their OBX Kolsch with homemade German-style lemonade for a German version of a British shandy. Not bad, if a tad sweet.
I most wanted to try the IPA 25 because they are the first North Carolina brewery to use North Carolina hops. But because hop-growing is traditionally a West Coast endeavor, these hops grown near Asheville are young.
And here's where I actually learned something. Young hops lean more toward floral where older hops are more bitter. I'm a young hop type, I discovered.
This IPA 25 had the most beautiful nose and the taste was without that characteristic bitterness which has kept me from finding a beer I can drink. This one I could.
The others in the flight made the beer drinkers happy, but weren't for me, although I'm crazy about their housemade root beer.
And the house-made sausages I knew I loved. I had the beer brat on a pretzel roll which amounted to a doubly good sandwich. Spread with their house hot grainy mustard and sauerkraut, it was easily the best $7 lunch ever.
Worth mentioning was the sauerkraut, fermented in-house in French oak barrels used for twenty years for winemaking. This was sauerkraut that could win over even diehard sauerkraut haters with its tantalizing sourness.
One guest had the andouille garlic sausage I had so enjoyed last year and the other a BLT using their own bacon (so impressive that she bought a pound to take home).
Savoring our nitrate-free, preservative-free, locally grown meats and beer, we were reminded of the last story Ollie had told us on the tour.
Talking to a mortician in Manteo recently, the guy, a third generation mortician, had told Ollie that back in his father and grandfather's days, "They used to have to bury bodies in less than two days in the South. These days we can wait much longer because the bodies are so full of preservatives."
I aspire to be as perishable as my beer brat and IPA were at lunch today...not that I intend to be buried.
Or dead any time soon.
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