Flying the Friendly Skies

I did not come from a traveling family.

Granted, part of it was undoubtedly the sheer numbers - six daughters plus Mom and Dad - so cost and difficulty must have factored in. That and Mom had absolutely no curiosity about unknown places beyond wanting her ashes scattered over County Cork from whence her grandparents came.

For my family, travel meant two weeks in the Outer Banks each summer and honestly, I was grateful for that. One summer stands out because we broke rank and instead of heading south, drove to Portland, Maine and took a ferry across Casco Bay to Peak's Island, where we spent a month eating lobster, wandering the island and dipping our toes in the frigid water, despite it being July.

When I turned 21, I did what any travel-deprived young woman did in those days: marched myself into an American Express Travel office, sat down and asked for help planning my first trip. I'd talked a slightly younger girlfriend into joining me but she left all the decisions to me.

My burgeoning wanderlust was limited somewhat by my budget but I gave the agent a starting point: I wanted to go somewhere not touristy, preferably where the primary language was not English. Her suggestion was Guadeloupe - with a caveat that we should learn some French and that their tourism industry was in its infancy - a place I knew nothing about, which made it a perfect destination.

That my friend's mother was a native born Frenchwoman seemed like a good omen, although as it turned out, I spoke and read far better French than my friend did, even if it was schoolbook French.

Despite never having flown or so much as traveled without my parents, I don't recall any hiccups getting to the Caribbean island or navigating once there. My girlfriend, however, had several complaints starting with the food, much of it new to us. While I happily ate my first conch fritters and some whole fish we'd never heard of, she declined, planning to order a ham and cheese baguette once we got back to the hotel.

For the record, she ate one of those nearly every day we were there. Le sigh. She also experienced major homesickness which made me sorry I'd asked her in the first place. Lesson number one: choose your travel companions carefully.

During the time we were there, we went on day trips in rickety buses to see the island, learned to snorkel, took a sunset cruise in a questionable boat and went to a market where I bought locally-made bowls and a large handled basket, all of which I continue to use today. And while I still have the brown t-shirt I bought to remember the Hotel Meridien (though it's now faded to ghost lettering), an online search reveals that it's long-since been knocked down and turned into a resort.

So I guess tourism did finally arrive full-blown in Guadeloupe.

Tellingly, that vacation to a strange place with new foods and never-before seen sights lit something in me that's only grown with time. First it was other tropical places - Aruba, the Bahamas - and eventually other continents. Though I've only traveled alone a few times - Dallas, New Orleans, California, one of my two weeks in Italy - my solo flight to Dubrovnik last fall to meet up with my main squeeze reminded me of the pleasures of the unknown, even when it's just for the length of a flight.

So here I go again after multiple trips to the nearby AAA Travel for adapters and a phrase book, packing and repacking my dresses and dealing with usual Dulles madness. Only this time, I'm flying past a full moon to my next adventure as a stranger in a strange land, at least for a few days.

After that, you can be sure that lesson number one goes into effect. In travel, as in love and life, choosing the best possible companion is everything.

My 21-year old self had no idea how much she had to look forward to.

RIP Beach Reads

Not for the first time, I was reminded that I bloom at the beach.

Much as I appreciate the compliment, I'm not sure it's a trait worthy of praise. After all, who wouldn't thrive when they can see and hear the ocean day and night, gently unwinding the stresses accumulated since the last beach week in May? What's not to love about getting up and putting on a bathing suit as the official attire for the entire day?

And truly, who wouldn't be all aglow when she gets to shower outdoors every afternoon?

Although my favorite guest teased me daily about the focus on food - we were seldom more than an hour past the last meal when someone wanted to know when (and what) the next one would be - it's kind of nice to have nothing more to think about than what you feel like eating next. That all meals are taken on the screened-in porch with a side of ocean breezes doesn't hurt a girl's mood, either.

So when a guest looks over at you while you chew a Tootsie Roll on the beach half an hour after lunch and casually refers to you as "an eating machine," well, I guess I'll just have to live with that.

The weather all week was ideal for blooming: breezy, sunny (but never hotter than 89) and dropping down in the low '70s at night. Just as good was the ocean temperature which started the week at 70 degrees, took a brief nose-dive to 64, then rebounded with 75, 73, 71 and 72, ensuring that we spent time morning and afternoon bathing in the sea like some Victorian prescription for good health.

Wednesday afternoon, our water fun was interrupted when we saw dozens of people congregating further down the beach. Just in case they'd spotted something we hadn't, we dutifully trooped out of the water and made our way toward the onlookers, noticing thousands of tiny fish lying near death on the shore, some of them still twitching futilely yards from the surf. Not far out in the ocean was a feeding frenzy of epic proportions with larger fish jumping in and out of the water as they repeatedly dove for dinner, putting on a show for the entire beach.

I'm not smart enough to know why all the little fish wound up on shore dying, but surely there was a connection to the all-you-can-eat buffet we were witnessing.

In other tragic news, one thing that's become quite clear about my last five beach sojourns going back to May 2018 is that the days of me finishing 3 or 4 books in a week have ended. In fact, let's have a moment of silence for my love of beach reading, which apparently died a quiet death last year despite my resolve to still tote at least four more books than I have any realistic hope of reading.

The only thing that makes it bearable is that reading time has been replaced with conversation time, so I tell myself that's my consolation.

Maybe part of the reason I'm so happy at the beach is the steady diet of bubbly and seafood. Whether it was a dolphin boat with hushpuppies from John's Drive-in, rare tuna sashimi at Ocean Boulevard, local shrimp from Carawan Seafood savored on the porch or a crabcake rolled in coconut flakes and panko enjoyed at Art's Place while live music played, we definitely did our part to support the local fishing economy.

On my walk one morning after breakfast, I spotted a woman sitting on the beach with a bottle of bubbles and a large bubble wand. Without taking her eyes off the ocean, she'd periodically dip the wand in the jar and hold it up, allowing the breeze to push out scores of bubbles with zero effort on her part.

Meanwhile, kids in her vicinity were having a ball running around the sand with bubbles coming at them from one side and the surf pounding the shore on the other, both reasons to scream with delight.

When it comes to showing my happiness level, I'm past the screaming stage. Unlike the kids in the bubble clouds, it's enough for me to just revel in it all: every open window framing the blues and greens of ocean and sky, the constant sound of the surf crashing down onshore, and, best of all, every wave that slapped me full on, leaving behind a mouthful of salt water.

Why, it's enough to make even an eating machine bloom.

Back to Knowing What Day It Is

Bye, bye beach.

And, just like that, Islamorada is in the rear-view mirror and we're cruising up Card Sound Road en route to the Miami airport, photos on devices and memories firmly in place, all conveying some ridiculously relaxing vacation time spent.

Books read: I finally finished the Playboy Lennon/Yoko interviews, read "Kafka Was All the Rage" and got a quarter into "The Tender Bar," so let's say I managed just over two and not dwell on my lack of reading time.

Favorite restaurant tagline: "Peace, love and hogfish" at Chef Micheal's. But what the chef really wants you to eat is the invasive lionfish because their only predator in the Atlantic is us humans. The restaurant's claim is that they're eradicating lionfish one plate at a time. Pshaw, I eat skate and puffer fish, so I've got no problem eating these invaders, too.

Typical billboard: "TIKI HUTS New or re-thatch." I bet the children of entire families have been put through college on those profits because tiki huts are ubiquitous around here.

Handwritten farmer's market sign, "Cold coconuts sold here!!" Just don't put coconuts in the trash bins because we've learned that's strictly forbidden in these parts.

Swankiest car seen: a red convertible Bentley, driving into a members-only fishing club. Who knew that Venn diagram overlapped?

Points for keeping to a theme: Because Islamorada's claim to fame is being the sport-fishing capital of the world, everyone riffs on it. When you head north to Key Largo, the sign reads, "Catch you later!" For a book on swashbuckling Jewish pirates, there's the local bookstore, Hooked on Books. Hungry? Check out the Reel Burger restaurant.

Most unexpected testament to Key West life: IVs in the Keys, a business that will fill your veins with just the right concoction to make the night before stop hurting.

Tie for most colorful Key West spots: a dessert cafe called Better than Sex and a clothing-optional rooftop bar called Garden of Eden. We hear tell of a brothel, but see no evidence.

Unexpected sighting: two gray squirrels chasing up a palm tree although we only saw them one time, so it could have been a mirage. Iguanas, on the other hand, are as omnipresent as, well, squirrels in Richmond. When you have all the windows open all the time, you just get used to occasionally seeing an iguana on the curtain.

Because the reentry to the real world begins at the airport and I'm hoping to delay that moment as long as possible, we make the requisite dive bar stop, just like we did on the way down, except this time arriving just as a handful of Harley riders do. Only problem is it's 10:15 and they're not open yet except for beers, so we cruise a bit, which is when we spot the rare Bentley.

Along the way, I notice a pattern of signs on the bridges. It's either a "No jumping, No diving" sign or a "No fishing" sign, meaning you never have to go very far to find a bridge you can jump off of or a place to catch your dinner.

Somehow, this sums up Florida for me.

Back at Alabama Jack's, I'm exiting the rental car as an SUV pulls up next to us and the guy immediately initiates a conversation with me. Seems he and his posse are just off a cruise boat but instead of  heading home, they've set their sites on a wild night in Key West. "Sort of a post-vacation vacation," he insists, smiling broadly.

Hey, I get it. Surely that's the smartest way to lessen end-of-vacation blues.

When AJ's finally lets us in, we see the bar is already full of people willing to drink beer until they opened officially. And because Cliches "R" Us at Alabama Jack's, "Don't Stop Believing" is blasting overhead as we slide into a waterfront table lower than the last time, but with a better view of the bar and its colorful patrons: serious cyclists with accents and day-glow hot pink socks, a table of self-important weekend-type Harley riders and a quartet of grizzly locals eating lunch and sipping Coronas.

Hard to tell who's coming and who's going from vacation.

Next to us is an older couple who not only know their server, but have brought their own Koozies - two each, mind you, one of which has no bottom - to encircle their bottles of beer in the sunshine. They also know to save bits of their lunch to feed to the fish under the deck.

The most I can manage from my double crabcake sandwich (not that I'm complaining, but who ever heard of two crabcakes on one sandwich?) is tossing the fish bits from the over-sized bun and not a bite more before we hit the road to catch a plane.

Le sigh. If vacation is having nothing to do and all day to do it, ours was a major success. As for the adjustment to cold weather and the responsibilities of real life upon return, well, that's a work in progress.

For now, tanned legs and Mr. Wright's insistence on having "something to look forward to" will carry me forward. Or I could take Journey's advice and hold on to that feeling.

And I'm trying...with every relaxed bone in my body. Catch you later, warmth and indolence. Man, oh man, are you seductive.

If It Hadn't Been for Books

"Running for home" stitches, that's what I've been doing. But that's about to change.

Whenever my Mom saw really long stitches on a hem, she'd tsk-tsk and say that her mother always called those "running for home" stitches because it was clear that the seamstress was just trying to finish.

I've been trying to finish up countless things since before the holidays blazed through, giving up nights out to write and squeezing in interviews any day or time. Finally this afternoon, my hired mouth and I (with the able and willing assistance of Lady G) made our final visit to the restaurant for a review lunch so I could finish writing it up.

It's hard for me to believe but I have only to push "send" and my work to-do list is history. For the time being anyway.

Now comes the fun part: deciding what books and clothes need to be packed for the adventure ahead. I've been making lists and piles intermittently for a week now, but without much of an inclination to edit myself. That's all well and good during the pre-packing phase, but once you're down to the final countdown, decisions have to be made.

I was pretty much committed to the books I'd selected from my pile, all ferreted out at the main library's big book sale a couple months ago. In making my  selections for the trip, I'd tried to keep it to a reasonable number.

I mean, if I have a reason to read it, it should come, right?

After having reread Marilyn French's iconic feminist treatise "The Women's Room" a couple years ago, I'm eager to dive into her 1996 novel, "My Summer with George." Knowing how different I was in 1996 from my 1977 self, I expect we'll have some life discoveries in common.

What sucked me into choosing "Kafka was the Rage: A Greenwich Village Memoir" by Anatole Broyard was the back cover blurb saying it was about life in the late 1940s, a time when "if it hadn't been for books, we would have been completely at the mercy of sex." Lack of birth control aside, you can't tell me that's not a vacation read.

But I'm not completely shallow, so when I need obscure cultural history (as I am inclined to when I have days to read), I'll pick up "A Great Idea at the Time: The Rise, Fall and Curious Afterlife of the Great Books" and learn something. Surely no one's really surprised I'm a fan of publishing sagas.

Once I knock off a novel, a memoir and a history, I just might allow myself to simply wallow in more self-penned tomes, like "The Tender Bar: A Memoir," not because it was a New York Times bestseller but because it piqued my interest when it came out 13 years ago. Then, just in case, I'm bringing along Sting's "Broken Music" from 2003, because, let's be honest, Sting was the thinking woman's crumpet long before Benedict Cumberbatch was a gleam in his Daddy's eye.

Adding to the book's charm is that it's inscribed to Michael from Shirley & Don: "No matter how far away you are, our best thoughts and wishes are for you. Merry Christmas."

I know, I know, it's a lot of books. But how to decide how much is plenty without being unrealistic and toting heavy non-necessities in my suitcase? Mind you, the half-read, worn book with the full Playboy interview with John Lennon and Yoko Ono from 1980 is already in my laptop bag, but that could be polished off on the plane, like a bag of those tiny pretzels they give you.

On top of all that, only this afternoon Lady G had handed me Hilary Mantel's "Wolf Hall" a novelization of the Henry VIII/Thomas Cromwell tug-of-war, but also winner of the 2009 Man Booker Prize. Dare I bring anything else to read?

Choosing clothes requires less agonizing because I take the stance that it's better to bring too much than want for something I left at home. Dresses, shorts and t-shirts get rolled up and squirreled away into any available space. My hat, some wraps, cute shoes and walking shoes. It's tedious, but progress is obvious as piles disappear and the suitcase sits nearly full.

As for why I'm packing in the first place, well, that goes back to an innocuous conversation at a NOLA-themed evening at Metzger's bar last July. Don't talk to me about wanting to get away to some place warm when it's cold in Richmond if you don't want to get my complete and utter support of the idea.

And, no, that wasn't the absinthe frappe talking. Fact is, I have enthusiasm to spare when it comes to brilliant travel ideas. So, lucky me, I'm off.

But never fear, Richmond, because no matter how far away you are, my best thoughts and wishes are for you.

P.S. I'll be sure to send a postcard.

What a Difference a Day Makes

I'd have been fine, but I broke the seal.

Stay with me here.

I've spent my 48 hours at home focused and solo, despite Paris still very much occupying my mind, a fact not helped by comments from readers about their own undying affection for the City of Light.

Not surprisingly, the first song I needed to hear when I got home was Joni Mitchell's "Free Man in Paris" and it's been pretty much on repeat in the car, stirring up thoughts about how different experiencing Paris must have been in 1974 when she wrote the song than my recent adventures.

And as I allow all that to work itself out of my brain and pores, I turned my attention to home and hearth with laundry, vigorous house cleaning (ahem, even baseboards...at least a few of them) and gardening (Lowes times two in one afternoon, oh, my).

My little world returned to an orderly and attractive comfort zone, I could today focus on earning a living: editing, scheduling interviews and studying notes. I made appointments, I registered, I waited in lines.

The way I see it, it was the walk that weakened me.

Three blocks from home and I spot a friend for the first time since he moved to the neighborhood. We spend 15 minutes catching up in front of Saison, a breakfast sandwich cooling in its see-through container as we chat.

Less than a block away, I hear a friendly if accusatory, "Hey, stranger!" from a neighborhood acquaintance when I walk by the open door of his restoration business. I pause to explain my absence and he shares that a good friend of his left yesterday for Paris.

"We traded her for you, I guess," he jokes.

Walking away, it occurs to me that these are the first real conversations I've had since I got back. I've been existing completely in a vacuum, righting my world, processing my trip and decompressing alone.

Very much not my usual style.

But the seeds had been planted and in no time, I'm thinking it's already been entirely too long (hello, two whole days) since I've had the pleasure of company and conversation. I thought I was fine keeping to myself, at least right up until I started running into people I wanted to talk to.

Naturally, I did what any phone-hating person short on friendly contact would do: call up a friend and suggest getting together tonight.

"And do what?" he inquires, half whiny 8-year old and half curious about my purpose. I'm honest, saying all I'm looking for is some chatter after my self-imposed isolation.

Luckily, he bites. Grateful, I arrive with show and tell.

When I suggest My Noodle & Bar, he says it's the girlfriend's new favorite place. The July exodus of the city means it's not even a challenge to find a Monument Avenue parking space. I want a tiki booth, he wants the bar with backless stools and we compromise on a banquette for them with a comfy chair for me.

Meanwhile, playing overhead is the soundtrack to much younger days for two dancing fools at the table: "Good Times," "Ring My Bell," "Stayin' Alive" and a couple of worthy Al Green songs for slow dance grinding.

Did they see us coming or what?

Even without music to break a platform shoe by (unfortunately, she said, they were from legendary Grace Street boutique Sunny Day), the meal unfolded appealingly with a special of noodle-covered shrimp flash fried before plates of garlic beef, broccoli with chicken and ginger beef occupied our attention.

Of course I wanted to hear all about their Corolla trip last week (his boogie board stood sentry at the front door of his house) and they were a bit curious about my French outing. When it was my turn in the spotlight, I answered questions, shared stories and teased out their own long-ago Parisian experiences.

Chances are, I blathered like an idiot after my time in solitary confinement.

Since the meal took no time, we kept the social intercourse going at his house with my show and tell collection. A copy of Paul McCartney's set list on this current tour. The new Anderson Gallery retrospective book, chock full of pictures of most of her art professors from the '70s, long before I arrived here.

Now I know that the friendly artist I met in 2000 as an older man was once referred to by his students as the "Italian stallion" for his bed-hopping antics.

And while I'd brought a dozen or so albums from my vinyl collection - carefully chosen to include some I knew she'd flip for and others straight up his alley - the one that had him swooning and most envious (because he didn't own a copy) was Badfinger's "Straight Up."

For him, it had been one of those "everybody-owns-it-so-I didn't-have-to-but-I-still-heard-it a-million-times" records, so tonight was the first time he'd heard it in 40 years. It held up, we agreed.

High art form British power pop circa 1971, mostly produced by Todd Rundgren, with a  few songs produced by George Harrison on uber-hip Apple Records. All that and "Baby Blue," "Day After Day," "It's Over," in other words, classic stuff for Beatles fans still smarting from the band's breakup at the turn of the decade.

All of which, as you might imagine, we discussed in earnest.

My fault, entirely. If I hadn't crossed the street, I wouldn't have seen my friend the new neighbor and I wouldn't have endangered my self-imposed isolation.

Now that I have, there's no going back. No matter what.

French Kissing in the USA

You know what the difference is in walking on the beach and walking down Broad Street?

When there's sand underfoot, no one asks you for a light and when you say you don't have anything, calls to your back, saying, "You know what? That's okay because you look good."

In all likelihood, I looked sweaty since it was far hotter and sunnier today than it had been at the beach for the past four days and I was not adapting easily. Funny, I have no problem transitioning to the beach when I arrive from the city, but not so much in reverse.

The transition to worker bee was only slightly less arduous as I hunkered down to produce 1500 words on chefs, another 700 on a filmmaker and finally prepare questions for tomorrow's two interviews, leaving my chair only to eat and relieve myself.

A far cry from beach life, that's all I can say.

Of course it's all geared to meeting deadlines before leaving on vacation again Thursday, so every bit of it was well worth it.

Heck, tonight's date even revolved around trip preparation, with a stop at DSW for somewhat stylish walking shoes (and a mild anxiety crisis over whether to choose form over function) and another for life essentials, where I ran into a restaurateur who agreed that all the cool kids head out for Monday night Target shopping sprees.

That helps explain why I had no idea this was a thing.

Dinner at My Noodle & Bar was by far the most pleasant part of the day, perched in the middle high booth so we could look down on others (literally and figuratively) while enjoying tempura shrimp and vegetables before I hoovered a plate of broccoli and chicken as if I were starving and hadn't been eating non-stop at the beach for a week.

Despite guide books, legal pads and good intentions, planning amounted to no more than an acknowledgment that the only plan is to fly by the seat of our pants.

Do I have enough black? Why don't I own more scarves and jewelry? Which cute shoes will give me the best mileage? Is a trench coat as essential as I've been told? How much bonne chance can it take to make this chick chic?

I've got no idea and two days minus a road trip and a rewrite to figure it all out. Sans lighter, it'll be enough if I can match today's Broad Street assessment.

Missing the Wild Air

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

And so closes a beach week of magnificent moons, endless conversation and constantly-changing winds and fronts.

And by endless conversation, we're talking about descending into discussions of which excellent words have fallen out of usage due to the dumbing-down of language.

Let's bring back "togs" and "dither," shall we? And don't get me started on the subject of "Hollywood packing," a term new to me but instantly understandable, because we already went down that rabbit hole.

My cleverest guest played the winds superbly, moving from the West bedroom to the East suite once the winds did the same. She learned the hard way that the summer sunrise will penetrate eyelids and burn your retina if you let it, but she never lost the breeze.

A couple of overcast days and lower temperatures kept tan lines in check and me (and my rotating cast of six visitors) on the porch far more than usual. Not ashamed to admit that one afternoon slid seamlessly into evening with little change in seating arrangement or pauses for wardrobe changes.

After an especially lazy day, a guest acknowledged the naked truth, saying, "All I did yesterday was ripen." Perhaps, but her hygiene instincts kicked in before mine and I feel sure I was even riper.

In fact, I'm thinking a compliment about my "beach hair" may have been a reference to the sand and salt in it.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The first rule of beach vacation is that there are no food police and the second rule is that there are no bathing police, either. We are not here to impress each other, except with our sparkling repartee.

One major result of having so much company and conversation was how little beach reading I accomplished this week. Past years have won me summer reading awards for sheer number of titles devoured and this year's consumption was a paltry two books, including the lackluster Pulitzer prize winner I regretted wasting time on.

When it was time to pack up the cottage and head back to the big city, I left with the usual regrets - since arriving home, I'm missing the constant breezes almost as much as the rhythm of the waves - along with the novel thrill of knowing I'm only a few days away from vacation number two.

Lucky me, right?

The drive back was my baptism by road reminder of the real world that awaited me: a sign on Route 168 warning, "Expect heavy congestion at next light," causing me to wonder why displaying that information was necessary at all.

Is unexpected heavy congestion somehow harder to bear? Honestly, who really needs to start obsessing about congestion ahead of time?

But wait, it gets better. All was clear at the next light, so the fear mongering was for naught.

Otherwise, it was a pretty inoffensive drive past gas stations offering $1.99 gas and a vintage car show at Ronnie's Barbecue, with the highlight being a woman riding a horse along the Capital Bike Trail, something I'd never seen among the Spandex-clad bikers, happy families and walkers galore.

It's no hawk soaring over the Atlantic, which we saw repeatedly from our porch perch, but it'll have to do, at least until I sally forth on Vacation Part Deux, stylish and not at all ripe.

Warning: unexpected heavy fashion emphasis on next trip. It's almost time for some Hollywood packing, so excuse me while I dither about which frocks to take.

I'm sorry my beach vacation is over, but I'm glad to be back so I can leave again.

Cue Theme from "The Love Boat"

Like Julie on "The Love Boat" but not so wholesome.

I was in my 20s when I was first dubbed "cruise director" by family and friends, who even presented me with a t-shirt spelling out that moniker in sparkly letters. And, no, I was no more the sparkly letter type then than I am now.

It wasn't because of anything to do with travel over water, mind you, but because I enjoy researching travel plans. I'm that person who will happily devour a couple of travel guides in pursuit of knowledge.

When I went to Memphis and Oxford with a friend earlier this year, she left cruise directing in my hands and later marveled at how much I'd uncovered for us to do.

So it was a no-brainer to use my train ride to Richmond today to gather intel for my upcoming trip. So far, I've found far more I want to see and do than there could possibly be time for, a first world problem if ever there was one. The way I look at it, better to have too long a list than too short.

Amazing what a person can accomplish on Amtrack's Quiet Car (yes, the same Quiet Car Chris Christie was thrown off of for talking on his cell phone). Where to start? Where to stop?

A literary walking tour that includes poetic focaccia (and I have to know)

An oyster company with half price oysters twice a week for happy hour (because I can eat some bivalves)

A garden featuring 150 plants and flowers mentioned in Shakespeare's writings

A western saloon located in an alley and serving lamb pot pie and bone marrow fritters (howdy, pardner)

A Victorian camera obscura projecting outdoor seascapes on a parabolic screen

A restaurant design that won a James Beard award

A sea cave archway that offers end of the world views at low tide (not to self: check tide charts)

A bowling alley that does Soul and Bowl nights (so stoked for this)

A vintage tiki lounge with rattan booths serving Hurricanes with two straws

Communal baths where bathing suits are only required on co-ed Tuesdays (better not to take my suit?)

A dive bar with cheap drinks, pogo-worthy music in the back room and peanuts for eating and throwing

A live music bar in a Victorian hotel, a stalwart of the '70s underground scene and now host to indie label debuts

A park dedicated to a poet laureate with awe-inspiring vistas

A beach shack bistro near a nine-mile ocean beach (this could be an entire day lost)

An art bar with rotating installations and regular Prince/Michael Jackson nights (Purple Thriller, yes!)

And don't get me started on museums, architecture, rooftops gardens and viewing platforms.

Besides, all that just might show up in upcoming  posts, complete with details, conversations and conclusions. Consider this the movie trailer version set to the rhythms of a rocking train.

Just don't call me Julie.

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.

After So Many Years

I know I write this blog with the unavoidable biases of a 20th century refugee now living in the 21st.

Even when I'm reminiscing or sharing an anecdote from my past, it's tinged by how we, as a culture, interpret the world in 2015. In my case, you also have to allow for my gross eccentricities, but even then, often my take on life reeks of the here and now.

My annual trek to the beach can usually be counted as one of my favorite weeks of the year and understandably so. Certain pleasures - the outside shower, the long walks on the beach, the contentment of hearing the ocean night and day- carry over year to year while new experiences surprise and delight.

Coming to the cottage in May instead of July means first crack at the new pack of clothespins in the third kitchen drawer. If that doesn't sound like a treat to you, then clearly you've never known the hausfrau satisfaction of hanging wet garments out to dry on the clothesline in the salty breeze. By Independence Day, rust is showing itself on the clothespins. Not so now.

Our earlier arrival also meant that we practically had the beach to ourselves, with only a few visitors in residence nearby. Shells were abundant, unlike later in the season when they're picked over by early morning scavengers while I sleep in.

Lingering over a crescent-shaped bed of shells one morning, I look up to see a man playing bagpipes on his deck directly in front of me. It's a rare shell-gathering expedition when I'm serenaded by bagpipes for half an hour as I take my time searching for just the right specimens while he plays to the ocean and me.

And there's the reading, the pure, unadulterated self-indulgence of spending hours doing nothing but reading a book. I read on the beach, in the porch swing, in the big rattan chair on the screened porch, on the front sunset porch, on the couch after dark and in bed before I sleep.

After nine days, I've read five books and it's a disparate lot.

I begin with Gully Wells' 2011 memoir, "The House in France," about an ex-pat family's years in London during the swinging '60s and the house in Provence to which they return as a family for many years. It's a positively glamorous lifestyle I'll never know (neither Robert Kennedy nor Christopher Hitchens ever dropped by my parent's house), making for fascinating reading.

From there, I take on a 1964 book called "Edith Wharton 1862-1937," part biography and part literary analysis. What catches my attention here is the perspective. Author Olivia Coolidge is writing from a crucial point in women's history, only a year after Betty Friedan's seminal treatise, "The Feminine Mystique."

So while Coolidge is trying to explain the mind of a women who'd been nominated for the Nobel prize in Literature 30-some years before, many of her explanations are colored by the '60s, not Edith Wharton's era.

I don't know what I expected from a 1973 biography of Clark Gable, "Long Live the King," but surely not to read the word "groovy" as many times as I did. Written only a dozen years after Gable died, author Lyn Tornabene, had the distinct advantage of being able to talk to people the actor had flirted with, worked alongside and known.

The humor was courtesy of the interviewees' oh-so 1973 dialog, as they attempted to put a hip angle on a man born in 1901 and dead by the start of the tumultuous '60s. Not hip and the 400-page book showed me enough about the man to know that he would have hated being described that way.

And talk about dated! William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," written in 1943, is about a world that no longer exists, a world where mothers accept the sacrifice of a son to war as part of their duty to country and even boys under the age of ten are referred to as 'men.' Everyone is in this together and pulls together for a greater good.

Ancient history, in other words. Perhaps most interestingly, it's the book that was made into the film "Ithaca" and filmed in Richmond last year. I'll be curious to see how the dated concepts are seen through the prism of 2015 when it comes out.

My final read of vacation was a 2009 novel picked up at the Kill Devil Hills library used book sale after I finished all the books I'd brought with me.

I'm not even sure why I selected it. I rarely read current fiction, I'd never heard of the author despite a cover squib saying, "One of the best writers in America~ Washington Post" and the cover photograph of angst-ridden millennnials is just the sort of rot I abhor. And don't get me started on a main character whose iPod has more musical importance to him than his stereo.

"The Song is You" has turned out to be the beach read over which my mind (and possibly heart) are most entwined. The main character, a mid-40s man still deeply attached to music, is trying to figure out how to be happy after some huge personal losses.

References to music thread throughout ("It took some more beer and listening to the Sundays before the illusion of randomness melted away"), catnip to a music lover such as myself. "He swung through his collection with what he felt was random compulsion, one song paused and blinking its consumed time after less than a minute because a chord or a voice or the liner notes reminded him of another song."

I have done that musical tangent game many a time myself.

Which is to say that the book captured me to the point that I began rationing out my reading the last two days, unwilling to go home knowing the ending. No, I meted out the pages, particularly saving the last 30 for once I was home. I want the pleasure of this book, this offbeat romance, the music that defines the anti-hero, to be something I got to savor at home and not just at the beach.

Because life at the beach is illusory, wonderful but unsustainable and now I'm back and things feel different. Because they are.

Maybe the song is me.

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.

Have a Vacation

First rule of summer: never ever turn down an invitation to the beach.

This particular opportunity to spend a night in South Nags Head came courtesy of my #2 and #4 sisters who are down there for a couple of weeks. "It'll be like a mini sister trip," #4 said, referring to our annual gathering of all six of us.

To round out the group, #2 had her 34-year old son there and #4 had her 17-year old daughter. The two of them represent the oldest and youngest of the nieces and nephews in the family.

But talk about an odd quintet! At no point in our lives had this group of five ever spent time together.

The nephew and I bonded over old school beach pleasures. We were the ones who insisted that all the cottage windows be opened (gratified when later Sister #5 walked through the house inhaling the salty air from outside saying, "It smells like a beach house!"), that we spend time socializing on the deck together, that outdoor showers are the way to go (although this one had no wooden floor, just two differently-sized boards to stand on, making showering a bit of a balancing act).

My first order of business was getting in the ocean and the 17-year old joined me. There, we bonded over her recent decision to graduate high school a year early, something I had also done.

We did not bond over her shock at the explicit language on the first few pages of "The Color Purple," one of her summer reading book requirements, and one I have no problem with.

The ocean was rough when I arrived Monday around noon, the rip currents so strong that the ocean patrol had pulled three people out of the water just that morning, all people who'd gotten out too far and couldn't get back in.

One guy was a 17-year old from Nebraska and goodness knows, it may have been his first time at the ocean, but I'll never understand what makes people think they can do whatever they want in something as massive and strong as the ocean.

Of course I went in the water, just not too far out.

Most of the afternoon was spent with my two sisters catching up and talking a blue streak and occasionally one of the other two interjecting.

During a discussion of men, the nephew piped up, saying, "We don't mature," and then went back to his music, never having so much as looked up.

Sister #2 is a hypochondriac, and because we don't see each other that often, I'd forgotten how every little ache or pain is suddenly a Big Deal with her.

She's a smoker and she likes to eat salty food, so when her tongue began bleeding mid-afternoon, she was convinced it was fatal.

When no one would get as worked up as she was about it, she shrugged and said, "Okay, I guess I'll just Google "bloody tongue" and then make dinner."

Google reassured her that the top two causes for bleeding tongue were cigarette smoking and salty foods, but she still saw tongue cancer in her future.

We got a mess of seafood for dinner from a local fish shop and sat down to shrimp and clams with hot cornbread and the bounty of a beach vegetable stand: corn on the cob, sliced tomatoes and sauteed squash and zucchini.

Best line from dinner: "You don't bring up uteruses at the table, Karen. You just don't."

Now I know.

The catch phrase quickly became, "Have a vacation, Mom!" as the niece and nephew kept reminding their mothers that they didn't need looking after at their ages.

I was having no problem having a mini-vacation, even deciding to stay an extra day and night when it was offered.

Because I usually stay about sixteen miles north of South Nags Head, the area was new to me. We were next to the Outer Banks Pier, which I hadn't even known existed, and the beach was extremely wide there with giant tidal pools and a huge sand bar.

The variable weather made for a day of clouds Tuesday, not a problem for me and the nephew, but the others mourned the absent sun.

Frankly, as long as it's not raining hard or thunder storming, I've got no problem being on the beach on a cloudy day. Every time a sprinkle came up, we just moved under the umbrellas and waited it out.

The ocean was 75 degrees either way, so what do I care if it's not a postcard-worthy sky?

During happy hour, the nephew interrupted out girl talk by saying, "I need a dude!" referring to the absence of his people. Have we been that bad, Sister #4 asked. "It has been pretty catty," he said with typical male understatement.

Wednesday dawned hot and sunny, making everyone happy except me because I had only a few hours before hitting the road.

Make no mistake, we had a big breakfast, then I took a walk with Sister #2 (and eventually #4 joined us) before we all took our chairs out on the sandbar for some morning chatter in the ocean.

While the nephew was lamenting how calm the ocean was, it was ideal for our purposes, a fitting ending to my mini-sistertrip.

Sweaty, sandy and sticky, I threw my beach supplies in the car and headed north, letting the beach radio station provide the final soundtrack to my getaway.

Driving  up 158, it was Tears for Fears "Everybody Wants to Rule the World."

Help me make the most 
of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever

Apropos. Further up, the Beatles' "A Day in the Life" came on just as I passed signs warning me, "Inmates Working."

Let's just say I like a day in my life better than a day in theirs.

Then it was Johnnyswim, the husband/wife duo (she's Donna Summers' daughter) I saw a few months back doing "Don't Keep Heaven Busy."

Skies changing, tides raising, ain't good enough
World spinning, all heaven is watching us
Don't keep heaven busy without me
When time comes, I move on, don't turn and weep
I'll catch up soon enough, wait and see

It was a terrific going home soundtrack.

For the first time on 168, I saw a sign saying, "Welcome to the Hampton Roads Wine Region." Who knew they had one?

Then there was a Tractor Supply store, with a sign announcing, "Chicken swap this Sunday!" I'll admit I had no idea people swapped chickens. I was learning a lot on my drive today.

The e-mail waiting for me from Sister #4 when I got home made me smile. "Kare, you were such a fun houseguest!"

I can't think of a better vacation compliment.

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.

Worlds Collide

It was a Monday night for celebrating.

Holmes had met his deadline and Paul was reopening Amour, having just returned from two weeks in France.

Ergo, we planned to meet up at Amour for dinner and wine to blow off some steam.

It is, after all, Carytown restaurant week.

Arriving at the bar, I was surprised to find Pru already in residence.

What are you doing here, I asked of her. What are you doing here, she asked of me.

You just never know who's going to turn up on a Monday night.

I got a glass of Mas de la Rouviere Bandol Rose, a nod to owner Paul, who'd just come back from Provence.

When Holmes and his lovely girlfriend arrived, we rearranged ourselves at his request so I could sit next to him.

He came out of the gate strong, telling me a story he'd heard with me in it and following that with, "I want to to know who this Pru is you mention in your blog."

Holmes, meet Pru. Pru, Holmes. Well, that was easy.

He took issue with her credo that wine at lunch is civilized, taking her to task for suggesting drinking during the workday.

She defended her thesis adamantly. I stayed out of it.

Speaking of drinking, it didn't take much more than a sip out of my glass to convince my dinner dates to follow my lead with the Bandol, its hints of raspberry and citrusy finish sealing the deal.

Once everyone had ordered wonderful things like coq au vin and shrimp with scallops off the restaurant week menu, we got down to admiring vacation pictures.

There were so many to see, each a testament to the pleasures of visiting Paris and Provence with a native.

Delectable food porn from Parisian bistros, incredibly colorful market shots of fruits and vegetables, the Eiffel Tower at night.

One thing was clear: the French are as artful with food presentation at markets as an artist arranging a still life.

No mere pile of fresh fish for them; instead they were laid out in a sunburst pattern, almost as if they were jumping into the sea in a series of arcs.

The shots of Provence- Cyprus trees, outdoor meals spread on colorful blue and yellow tablecloths, distant mountains- and Monaco- casinos, bright blue waters, boats that looked as expensive as houses- were breathtaking.

In one of those oddly coincidental moments, a woman at a nearby table spotted a picture of a five-masted boat and told us it was named the Maltese Falcon.

Like the movie I just saw for the first time? Yup.

Someone told Paul he should have blogged about his trip instead of just documenting it photographically and he responded saying next year he'd take someone along to write it all down for him.

Ooh, ooh, pick me! Pick me!

I could have gotten lost in eating my mixed mushroom medley in puffed pastry while watching scenes of France go by, but Holmes was in far too raucous a mood for that.

I was accused of being a hedonist.

He chided me for not watching TV, for holding out to see movies in theaters rather than at home, even my looks, saying that my bangs needed a trim.

About the kindest he got was telling me that he'd really liked all my recent posts about dating, finding them fascinating and wanting more information about the men I've been seeing.

I filled in details where I chose to, but he preferred to jump to conclusions rather than accept vague answers.

Over shared desserts of dark chocolate creme brulee and today's special, a mouth-watering combination of fall apples and brioche with chantilly cream and vanilla bean ice cream, we got off on a tangent about old theaters.

Like the Biograph on Grace Street, leading to the revelation that not one of us besides Pru had ever seen "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

As Pru is wont to say, horrors!

A nearby two-top chimed in for this conversation, the woman saying she always went dressed as Columbia.

Pru's costume of choice, it seems, was Magenta.

I am completely out of the loop on this one.

Someone brought up the former Regal Cinemas Regency Square and everyone had a story to tell about the theaters.

My favorite came from a server who worked a summer there.

Apparently Joe Morrissey used to come in on busy weekend nights, always with some youthful arm candy, and slip him a $20 bill to be let in the theater early to claim a good seat.

"I was making five bucks an hour, so sure, I took the money and let him in," he shrugged, grinning. Duh.

Imagine if a man took me out and slipped the usher a bill so we could be the first in.

Now that could lead to a good dating story to post.

Actually, the most romantic moment of the evening came when Holmes' beloved told him to kiss her.

Grabbing her head, he swiveled her neck around and planted a kiss on her that had the rest of us watching slack-jawed.

Twice.

If that ever happens to me, Holmes, you can be sure my post won't leave out a single detail.

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.

Ghost Clouds

Beach log, day three

Water temperature low sixties
Current book: Manic Pop Thrill by Rachel Felder
Best random song heard: The Posies' "Dream All Day"

Ghosts of the past: On my walk this morning, I passed a woman who could have been my Washington grandmother's doppelganger. Half an hour later walking back, I saw a guy who could have passed for a former boyfriend, George. Coincidence?

Doing it local style: Went to old school favorite John's for lunch (with a nod to GB), waiting at a shady picnic table for 20 minutes for flounder sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (the best kind of sweet and salty lunch) which we then took back to the house and enjoyed on the back porch overlooking the ocean.

Science lesson: The wind, which managed to come from multiple directions all afternoon, challenging the beach umbrellas, and the cloud variety: cirrus, cumulus, stratus and nimbus, all in the sky at one time. While we'd been at John's, 3 miles away, it had sprinkled on us. Driving home from John's, parts of the road were all but flooded with rain. Back at the cottage, bone dry. Microclimates abound this year.

Cruising Manteo: Taking advantage of a lovely late afternoon, we drove over to Roanoke Island, first to stroll and then to take a sunset cruise on a schooner. Waling down Queen Elizabeth Street, a familiar figure approaches, squealing, "Karennnnn!" It's the lovely Matt, host of the Ghost Light Afterparty and currently playing Sir Andrew Agucheek in "Twelfth Night." We marvel at the randomness of seeing each other as he and his group seek booze on land while mine set out for theirs at sea (okay, sound).

Onward and upward: Bidding him so long, we peruse an open air craft mart where one of us buys leather sandals hand made and even hand tanned in Haiti. On the way to board the Downeast Rover, I note a sign saying that the Acoustaholics are playing at 8 at Poor Richard's. Alas, we will be out on the high seas then.

Bird's eye view: Our little group takes seats on the bow of the schooner while the other ten passengers take bench seats in the middle. From our perch, we can see hang gliders diving off the dunes, enormous bird nests atop channel markers (and filled with gaping mouthed young). a half rainbow piercing a cloud and dolphins frolicking just in front of us.

Ahoy, mate: We chat up the first mate who, it turns out, grew up in Goochland, went to Steward School and used to live in the Fan. It is the smallest of worlds on the Outer Banks.

And the loveliest of sunsets from the water.

Driving home, one of us asks, "What day is it?"

Does it matter?

And I Feel Fine

Beach log, day two

Water temperature: low sixties (up from positively frigid yesterday)
Current book: "Between Parentheses" by Roberto Bolano
Best random song: acoustic version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It"

Yesterday was travel day, arrival day and the official start of the annual beach vacation.

Color me happy.

Coolish, with a leaden sky and the traditional stop at the Weeping Radish Brewery for their stellar, fat hotdogs with grilled onions for a late lunch made for an especially pleasant trip down.

Afterwards, I cruised past the Gale Force Guns & Ammo Shop. where vacationers can pick up any last minute firearm needs before hitting the banks.

I was expecting changes on the beach after the big storm last fall that decimated Kitty Hawk and, sure enough, there were.

My beloved outside shower moved from beach level to porch level and tons of sand has clearly been brought in although the entire beach is definitely much lower than it used to be.

Otherwise, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Thankfully.

Nineteen years coming to the same house and the greatest pleasure is in how little things change.

Today began with an early morning pelting rain, which necessitated me closing the window over my bed, but not, perish the thought, getting up for another two hours.

Breakfast included Weeping Radish's superb bacon. followed by a long walk on the beach under roiling clouds.

Dolphins put in an appearance just before a late lunch, cavorting right in front of the house.

It was also the first "inane technology" moment as the woman on the gazebo next door proceeded to call someone on her phone and shriek about the dolphins rather than just enjoying the moment.

Don't get me started.

When a light rain forced us off the beach late in the day, we took shelter on the screened porch, drinking tequila and playing Scrabble until the sweet tea lover among us beat the pants off of us.

Damn Southerners.

After multiple attempts, we finally tuned in my favorite cheesy, local radio station, the one who plays the exact same songs every year with the addition of a very few new offerings.

I couldn't stand it year round, but for vacation, it's another welcome reminder that some things never change.

And, just maybe, they have the potential to get even better.

All or Nothing at All

It's always bittersweet.

The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.

As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.

The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.

Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.

It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.

But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.

(heave post-vacation sigh)

Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.

On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.

Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.

The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.

Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.

I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.

I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.

The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.

After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.

Okay, maybe someone but not most people.

While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.

The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).

It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.

Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."

With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?

Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.

So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.

Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.

I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.

Even with garlic breath.

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.

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.