Yeah, I'm letting down the side, I know. And it's not like I haven't had a wonderful vacation, tucked just behind the dunes of a roaring Atlantic beach, heaving myself into that roiling surf at least daily and making the rounds of mini golf, the movies, the bakery, the seafood takeout place, and the ice cream shop.
But my vacation anecdotes never seem - well - ennobling. Particularly fun. Elegant. Quaint. Or even observant on my part.
I'm no Lance Mannion. Now there's a guy who could pitch a beach chair in downtown Yonkers and make the experience sound like a grand getaway from the mundane - a rare and picturesque chance to experience humans in their habitat. Oh, he'd find a few wonderful characters all right. I'd see grime, a vicious fight for a parking spot, and the line at the DMV. Cape Cod may be crowded, expensive, over-developed and populated in summer by the over-privileged, but in Mannion's hands the villages out there are transformed into gems that rival those of Mayle's Provence - only better, and with Sawx fans. In truth, I look forward to Lance's annual Cape vacation almost as much as he does. Makes me feel better about the human condition, I guess. And I don't have to fight the traffic.
Nor can I rival Blue Girl's pineapple sundae stories or Fred Wilson's Stockholm travelogue or Ms. Peel's stirring UK sojourn - though I quite agree with her observation that "visiting Oxford is a completely different experience when you have something to do at a college, rather than just looking at it."
So here's my vacation "slice of life" story. Pardon me if it doesn't make you fill up the gas tank, throw the boogie board in the trunk, and head down the Garden State Parkway.
We checked into the tiny rent-a-wreck (selling points: nice screened porch, pets allowed, and only one house from the beach) late in the day and spread out our stuff. Across the street, a similar beach manse welcomed its weekly visitors: a crowd of younger fellas, each driving a jacked up SUV or pickup. They also unpacked: mainly cases of canned beer, stacked beverage mart style on the front lawn. Then they opened the doors to one two-story truck and cranked up the "modern country" music as loud as the various woofers and circuit boards would allow.
Now, this wasn't Brad Paisley's killer Telecaster chicken-pickin' - we're talking John Rich and Toby Keith at 125 decibels.* For a week. In my traffic-enhanced, car-packing empowered imagination. Steam was visible around my receding hairline. My wife counseled a wait-and-see attitude.
"Dad, let's check out the beach!"
Well, okay. So we strolled out the front door and headed toward the sand. Right past five of the young lads blasting Courtesy Of The Red, White And Blue. Well-muscled fellows. Ridiculously so. We're talking supplemental chemistry here, folks. I stared over. Weighing a request to "turn it down a hair, fellas." Ultimately deciding on another strategy. Which is to keep on walking. Pay attention to the kids. Look at the ocean. Enjoy a cool libation. Get some soft shell crabs. Feel the salty sea breeze on my face. And unclench the teeth.
Smart choice - the week was pretty quiet across the street after all. Long about 10 pm, a car full of girlfriends pulled up. The macho factor dipped. The decibel level dropped. My wife was right. A lesson for nation states everywhere. And for scowling beachcombers.
* Note: I am not a musical snob. I swear it. I enjoy country music - saw Willie Nelson two weeks ago. It's the posing I can't stand. And the crappy production. And the racist Confederate flags.
