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.
Showing posts with label route 460. Show all posts
Showing posts with label route 460. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Sunday Supper in the Peanut Capital
Allow me to state the obvious. The last day at the beach always comes too soon.
This year especially that was true because, for the first time in over a decade, I stayed one week instead of two and it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.
By the time I woke up this morning, I had only enough time for one activity other than packing the car. My daily walk was scrapped for a dip in the water.
You'd be surprised how many other people were enjoying the surf with me at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but given the water temperature, it was understandable.
Finally dragging myself out of the waves, I dutifully got dressed, although minimally.
The hardest part of post-beach week is adjusting to a bathing suit no longer being the ensemble of the day, all day, every day.
Heading up the road, I did the usual juggling of emotions. It's tough to give up hearing the ocean 24/7 and having endless time to read and indulge myself.
But there's never enough culture down there for me and I miss the energy of Richmond, not to mention a reliable internet signal.
The drive home up the back route is always a pleasant one, especially knowing that others are willing in sit in traffic on 64 looking at endless nothingness while I have the charm of small towns (Zuni) and business signs ("GLOCK PISTOL SALE").
Today I fell prey to the alluring billboards ("Since 1929!") of the venerable Virginia Diner and stopped for lunch with the Sunday mix of vacationers and locals.
Although they're known for their fried chicken, I'd had yard bird yesterday, so I defaulted to local pig and ordered three big homemade biscuits piled high with Virginia ham, with sides of collards and black-eyed peas with stewed tomatoes.
My server tried to interest me in sweet tea, but my Washington, D.C. birth makes that a beverage I can't stomach. I was definitely in the minority, though.
The ham was salty, the greens had plenty of tang and the black-eyed peas tasted like my Richmond grandmother's (although the biscuits were not as good as hers).
Meanwhile, the couple next to me took hands, closed their eyes and said grace before diving into their food. They said they were natives who loved the Sunday buffet at the Diner.
Fearful that I'd fall asleep at the wheel after my late night and a heavy lunch, I'd decided against the buffet despite the temptation of limitless fried chicken.
On Sundays, I guess, that's the benefit of living in Wakefield. A fatty meal and then an afternoon nap.
Oh, wait, I did that all last week at the beach.
And let me tell you, I will miss it.
This year especially that was true because, for the first time in over a decade, I stayed one week instead of two and it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye.
By the time I woke up this morning, I had only enough time for one activity other than packing the car. My daily walk was scrapped for a dip in the water.
You'd be surprised how many other people were enjoying the surf with me at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but given the water temperature, it was understandable.
Finally dragging myself out of the waves, I dutifully got dressed, although minimally.
The hardest part of post-beach week is adjusting to a bathing suit no longer being the ensemble of the day, all day, every day.
Heading up the road, I did the usual juggling of emotions. It's tough to give up hearing the ocean 24/7 and having endless time to read and indulge myself.
But there's never enough culture down there for me and I miss the energy of Richmond, not to mention a reliable internet signal.
The drive home up the back route is always a pleasant one, especially knowing that others are willing in sit in traffic on 64 looking at endless nothingness while I have the charm of small towns (Zuni) and business signs ("GLOCK PISTOL SALE").
Today I fell prey to the alluring billboards ("Since 1929!") of the venerable Virginia Diner and stopped for lunch with the Sunday mix of vacationers and locals.
Although they're known for their fried chicken, I'd had yard bird yesterday, so I defaulted to local pig and ordered three big homemade biscuits piled high with Virginia ham, with sides of collards and black-eyed peas with stewed tomatoes.
My server tried to interest me in sweet tea, but my Washington, D.C. birth makes that a beverage I can't stomach. I was definitely in the minority, though.
The ham was salty, the greens had plenty of tang and the black-eyed peas tasted like my Richmond grandmother's (although the biscuits were not as good as hers).
Meanwhile, the couple next to me took hands, closed their eyes and said grace before diving into their food. They said they were natives who loved the Sunday buffet at the Diner.
Fearful that I'd fall asleep at the wheel after my late night and a heavy lunch, I'd decided against the buffet despite the temptation of limitless fried chicken.
On Sundays, I guess, that's the benefit of living in Wakefield. A fatty meal and then an afternoon nap.
Oh, wait, I did that all last week at the beach.
And let me tell you, I will miss it.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Exodus From the City
Current read: "Notes" by Eleanor Coppola/1979
Best random song heard: "In Between Days" by the Cure/1985
Today was the start of my annual beach vacation, so I've shifted camp three hours south with hopes of finding good food and music here in between reading and sleeping.
I always look forward to the trip down Route 460 because no matter how many years I drive it, I always notice different things.
Like the roadside sign that said, "Phone from car" on a pole over a low-mounted public telephone. Here I thought pay phones were disappearing and yet there's one conveniently placed so the driver need not even get out of his car.
Unless he's driving an SUV and then he'd have to hang out the window to his waist to reach the low-slung receiver. Actually, I'd like to see that.
Near downtown Ivor (an oxymoron if ever there was one), I saw a sign saying "Scales, Shower, Stuckey's."
I saw no evidence of any of those things in the lot where the sign was, but they must have been there at one time, beckoning to sweaty, hungry truckers.
There was a sign for the Isle of Wight Wedding Chapel, should the urge to marry overcome you on the way to or from the beach (it didn't).
In a nod to 21st century patriotism, I saw a house decorated with four of those giant blow-up figures (dogs and elephants), all with hats of red, white and blue stars and stripes.
They flanked an enormous blow-up flag incapable of blowing in the breeze.
Passing the sign for the Hampton Roads Beagle Club next to a cornfield, I did a silent salute to my dearly departed beagle.
When our caravan finally stopped for lunch, it was at the Coinjock Marina Restaurant on the Intercoastal Waterway.
We opted to eat on the deck where signs noted, "Do NOT feed the dogs. They are on a diet!" The one chihuahua we did see was not only overweight but had such long toenails it appeared she'd never walked on concrete.
Our server overheard us discussing the tripling of the toll on the Chesapeake Expressway and immediately offered a "shortcut" that would only take ten minutes but save us the $6 next time.
Her route involved turning at any number of Wawa's and 7-11s and sounded best left for locals. But it was a nice gesture nonetheless.
We watched boats go by and people take off on jet skis (including one guy who couldn't hook the last fastener on his life jacket because of his belly) slowly, so as not to cause a wake in the current-less water which changes direction with the wind.
Meandering down the road after lunch, we stopped for produce at the smallest stand we could find, scoring watermelon, North Carolina peaches that had just arrived yesterday, Silver Queen corn and, best of all, freshly shelled butterbeans. No beach vacation is complete without them.
Between getting settled in at the cottage, spending time on the beach just as everyone else was leaving and savoring a simple supper on the porch, I didn't even crack my first beach book until well after the over-eager neighbors finished setting off (illegal) fireworks around 10:00.
So I failed at my first day of beach reading. What's the point of being at the beach besides the view and the sound of the ocean, if not to be reading non-stop?
I'll try to do better tomorrow.
Best random song heard: "In Between Days" by the Cure/1985
Today was the start of my annual beach vacation, so I've shifted camp three hours south with hopes of finding good food and music here in between reading and sleeping.
I always look forward to the trip down Route 460 because no matter how many years I drive it, I always notice different things.
Like the roadside sign that said, "Phone from car" on a pole over a low-mounted public telephone. Here I thought pay phones were disappearing and yet there's one conveniently placed so the driver need not even get out of his car.
Unless he's driving an SUV and then he'd have to hang out the window to his waist to reach the low-slung receiver. Actually, I'd like to see that.
Near downtown Ivor (an oxymoron if ever there was one), I saw a sign saying "Scales, Shower, Stuckey's."
I saw no evidence of any of those things in the lot where the sign was, but they must have been there at one time, beckoning to sweaty, hungry truckers.
There was a sign for the Isle of Wight Wedding Chapel, should the urge to marry overcome you on the way to or from the beach (it didn't).
In a nod to 21st century patriotism, I saw a house decorated with four of those giant blow-up figures (dogs and elephants), all with hats of red, white and blue stars and stripes.
They flanked an enormous blow-up flag incapable of blowing in the breeze.
Passing the sign for the Hampton Roads Beagle Club next to a cornfield, I did a silent salute to my dearly departed beagle.
When our caravan finally stopped for lunch, it was at the Coinjock Marina Restaurant on the Intercoastal Waterway.
We opted to eat on the deck where signs noted, "Do NOT feed the dogs. They are on a diet!" The one chihuahua we did see was not only overweight but had such long toenails it appeared she'd never walked on concrete.
Our server overheard us discussing the tripling of the toll on the Chesapeake Expressway and immediately offered a "shortcut" that would only take ten minutes but save us the $6 next time.
Her route involved turning at any number of Wawa's and 7-11s and sounded best left for locals. But it was a nice gesture nonetheless.
We watched boats go by and people take off on jet skis (including one guy who couldn't hook the last fastener on his life jacket because of his belly) slowly, so as not to cause a wake in the current-less water which changes direction with the wind.
Meandering down the road after lunch, we stopped for produce at the smallest stand we could find, scoring watermelon, North Carolina peaches that had just arrived yesterday, Silver Queen corn and, best of all, freshly shelled butterbeans. No beach vacation is complete without them.
Between getting settled in at the cottage, spending time on the beach just as everyone else was leaving and savoring a simple supper on the porch, I didn't even crack my first beach book until well after the over-eager neighbors finished setting off (illegal) fireworks around 10:00.
So I failed at my first day of beach reading. What's the point of being at the beach besides the view and the sound of the ocean, if not to be reading non-stop?
I'll try to do better tomorrow.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Rolling Down Highway 460
I have been ridiculed on more than one occasion for the circuitous routes I take in pursuit of a scenic journey.
Case in point, the route that I take to the Outer Banks is a combination of newer, fast roads and back roads.
For me, 64 is almost as soul-sucking a road as I-95, so I spend only a couple of miles on the former and none on the latter.
Part of the reason for my route is the scenery, of which Route 460-East has an abundance, like the Melody Inn Motel and further along, a hand-painted sign with a big arrow, spelling out REST-ARAUNT.
And then there's the small-town eating options.
A friend was driving down following me caravan-style and I'd warned him in advance that if he wanted to follow, I'd be stopping at Adams Country Store for lunch for a sandwich.
That was my fair warning that if he was one of those press-on type travelers, he'd be better off not trying to follow me, but he was game.
Walking into Adams, the owner (Son) asked how I was doing.
Hot, I told him, but a sandwich was going to make me feel so much better.
"Mayo or mustard?" he asked, moving behind the case of pig.
No other questions were necessary, because you're going to get a country ham sandwich on white bread, so condiments are the only variable.
As he was wrapping it up, I grabbed a bottle of RC Cola from the case.
Gotta have my sweet to balance all that salt.
Talking to the owner, Son (an older man), and his Daddy (a much older man) was a delightful prelude to lunch.
I asked how long they'd owned the store (1961) and Son pointed to where the floor changed from one wood pattern to another.
"Used to be a dance hall next door. Daddy took down that wall and made it one big space and they used to have a dance here every Saturday night. We sold beer. Boys from Waverly and Wakefield would have fights out back about different girls."
I looked over at the beautiful hardwood floor that so many locals had shaken a leg on.
"So I could dance over there on that dance floor?" I asked the two men sitting amongst wooden crates of pork jowls.
"What kind of band do you want?" Daddy asked me enthusiastically. "Swing, bebop?"
I feel fairly certain that he was willing to find the music to have a girl dance on that floor today.
It was pretty sweet.
My friend and I took our sandwiches and drinks outside to eat on a stone table and benches under a huge, old tree.
The cornfield was just beyond the out buildings, which were full of ancient-looking farm tools and signs.
That RC Cola went down like a long-forgotten childhood memory, which is exactly what it was.
And that salty ham with nothing but mustard and white bread around it was probably just what the Waverly and Wakefield boys would have eaten back in the day, to keep up their energy for dancing and fighting.
I'm so not a fighter and you'd be hard-pressed to find a man who could truthfully say I've danced with him, but for anyone having a tough time understanding why I drive back roads, the answer is simple.
Country ham sandwiches and RC Cola in the shade of a big old tree...because that's the way to start vacation.
Case in point, the route that I take to the Outer Banks is a combination of newer, fast roads and back roads.
For me, 64 is almost as soul-sucking a road as I-95, so I spend only a couple of miles on the former and none on the latter.
Part of the reason for my route is the scenery, of which Route 460-East has an abundance, like the Melody Inn Motel and further along, a hand-painted sign with a big arrow, spelling out REST-ARAUNT.
And then there's the small-town eating options.
A friend was driving down following me caravan-style and I'd warned him in advance that if he wanted to follow, I'd be stopping at Adams Country Store for lunch for a sandwich.
That was my fair warning that if he was one of those press-on type travelers, he'd be better off not trying to follow me, but he was game.
Walking into Adams, the owner (Son) asked how I was doing.
Hot, I told him, but a sandwich was going to make me feel so much better.
"Mayo or mustard?" he asked, moving behind the case of pig.
No other questions were necessary, because you're going to get a country ham sandwich on white bread, so condiments are the only variable.
As he was wrapping it up, I grabbed a bottle of RC Cola from the case.
Gotta have my sweet to balance all that salt.
Talking to the owner, Son (an older man), and his Daddy (a much older man) was a delightful prelude to lunch.
I asked how long they'd owned the store (1961) and Son pointed to where the floor changed from one wood pattern to another.
"Used to be a dance hall next door. Daddy took down that wall and made it one big space and they used to have a dance here every Saturday night. We sold beer. Boys from Waverly and Wakefield would have fights out back about different girls."
I looked over at the beautiful hardwood floor that so many locals had shaken a leg on.
"So I could dance over there on that dance floor?" I asked the two men sitting amongst wooden crates of pork jowls.
"What kind of band do you want?" Daddy asked me enthusiastically. "Swing, bebop?"
I feel fairly certain that he was willing to find the music to have a girl dance on that floor today.
It was pretty sweet.
My friend and I took our sandwiches and drinks outside to eat on a stone table and benches under a huge, old tree.
The cornfield was just beyond the out buildings, which were full of ancient-looking farm tools and signs.
That RC Cola went down like a long-forgotten childhood memory, which is exactly what it was.
And that salty ham with nothing but mustard and white bread around it was probably just what the Waverly and Wakefield boys would have eaten back in the day, to keep up their energy for dancing and fighting.
I'm so not a fighter and you'd be hard-pressed to find a man who could truthfully say I've danced with him, but for anyone having a tough time understanding why I drive back roads, the answer is simple.
Country ham sandwiches and RC Cola in the shade of a big old tree...because that's the way to start vacation.
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