August 8: We're going on vacation today, against my better judgment and definitely against my inclination to follow the rules and stay under the radar. We're going to New Jersey, which has travel restrictions against residents of over 30 states, including Maryland. This is crazy because Maryland is outperforming Pennsylvania in almost every COVID metric, but Pennsylvanians are free to cross the Delaware River into New Jersey without quarantining for two weeks, and Marylanders are not. But the travel restriction is actually an advisory: "Voluntary, but compliance is expected." No one seems to know what this extremely equivocal language means, and my research indicated that the state is not enforcing the quarantine requirement, and we paid a lot of money for this beach rental, so we're taking the risk. We're just about to get on the road now. The car is packed with the bikes are securely fastened to the rack. The weather is cloudy and unsettled, much like my mood. We're not sure about today, the weather and I. We'll see how it goes. We'll see what happens.
Leaving the state feels like leaving the country. Every state has its own rules now. I feel like I need to make sure my papers are in order. But that's the least of my worries because my papers are always in order. My mental health is suspect but my documents are impeccable.
We're driving through Baltimore now. This is the furthest I've been from home since March. It all looks the same. The Baltimore Sun printing plant and the Port of Baltimore on my right and the Domino Sugar sign and Fort McHenry on my left. I don't know Baltimore as well as I should considering that it's so close to where I live. I like it, though. I could live here. But I'm just passing through today.
*****
We crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge about an hour ago, and now we're almost there, and it might be a good week after all. No checkpoints and no COVID quarantine warnings. Other than face masks in the Wawa near Elmer, I have seen blessedly few indications that this Saturday in August is different from any other. Less traffic, maybe. It's still cloudy. It might rain, but I don't care. The ocean is good, rain or shine.
Sunday, August 9. In memory of Mary Jervis. She enjoyed life's small moments.
That's the inscription on a memorial park bench on the promenade at 82nd Street in Avalon. No dates or other details--Mary Jervis could have been someone's wife or mother or sister or friend--probably all of the above--but we don't know how she died or when or at what age, or who commissioned the memorial bench. We only know that she was known as a person who enjoyed life's small moments. It's a good way to be remembered.
It's our first full day at the beach, hot and sunny and intensely humid, and that's the way I like it. My niece and nephew are digging in the sand, carefree as only small children can be, even though they are aware of the pandemic. My 4-year-old niece has a beloved stuffed dog named Puppy. This morning, she told me to be careful with Puppy. "He might have da coronavirus."
*****
Monday, August 10. It's day 3 at the beach and I’m writing on my Chromebook, not my phone. Sadly, it took me 15 minutes to remember how to connect this thing to a new Wi-Fi network. I’m turning into a GEICO commercial. Well, no one is getting any younger, and I’m up and running, so I’m holding off senility for now. For now.
We're staying in the same little condo complex where we stayed last year, in a different unit. Someone is building a house next door, so the little sliver of bay view that we had from the 2nd floor deck is gone, unless you stand up and lean out a bit. I find that I don’t mind standing up and leaning out.
It’s 9:30 in the morning. When I woke up, just before 8, a thick fog made everything look milky and indistinctly white. Now the sun is trying to burn the fog away, but the fog is holding on. The sky is uniformly pale blue gray, just a little lighter than the pale blue gray color of most of the houses here.
It’s trash morning. The rumbling garbage trucks and the construction noise are here to remind the tourists that this place doesn’t exist just as a holiday retreat for them. It’s an actual town with roads and infrastructure and a supply chain and a sanitation system. But we’ll be on the beach in a few hours, and we’ll forget all about that.
*****
Tuesday, August 11. There's an Italian restaurant called Borghi's on 82nd Street in Stone Harbor, NJ. It's been there for a long time. We usually stay right around the corner from Borghi's, and I ride my bike past it every morning. Sometimes I stop and look at the menu, thinking that it looks like a nice place, and maybe we'll eat there some night this week. But the week always passes by very quickly. Before I know it, it's Friday night and we're leaving the next morning and we never did get around to eating at Borghi's. Maybe next summer, I'll think to myself as we drive past it on our way out of town.
It occurred to me this morning that there are a lot of things to do in a week, a lot of places to go, a lot of charming little corner restaurants with old-fashioned awnings and Chianti bottle candlesticks and I might not get to all of them, not this week and maybe not ever. Vacation is a good reminder that life is short and you might not have time to do everything you want to do. Or is that just me? That might be just me.
Thursday, August 13. This morning, I rode my bike around the island, fantasy house shopping while still reassuring myself of my superior moral virtue. I don't need an extravagant sprawling Avalon mansion with dormer windows and multiple decks and awnings and pergolas and exquisite little flower beds bordering neat pebble walkways, I think. Just a nice little million dollar beach cottage would be more than enough. My face, I imagine, radiates with smug, slap-me self-satisfaction as I congratulate myself for not being greedy like the rest of these bitches.
But I am greedy, as much as and even more than the rest of these bitches. This morning, my nephew asked me if we can come again next summer and stay for two years. That seems about right. I want more bike rides and more browsing visits to twee little beach boutiques and more swimming and wave jumping and more coffee on the deck and more reading and definitely more pizza. Two years might be enough.
It's foggy on the beach today. The sun still feels warm overhead, though it's barely visible. If not for the beach umbrellas and cabanas and people in colorful swimwear, the whole place, sea and sun and sky, would blend into one canvas of milky pale blue gray framed with pale green dune grass, and lit by the barest glow of pale yellow sun. The lifeguards probably hate days like this. It's hard to see the people in the water. But I love days like this.
It's Thursday. I don't have two more years. I will have to settle for just barely two more days.
*****
Friday, August 14. If Wednesday is the turning point and Thursday is the point of no return, then Friday is the last stand. My son and I went bike riding this morning and island traffic was like Manhattan on Christmas Eve. People buzzed about in a frenzy, determined to cram everything into their last day of vacation. One more morning bike ride, one more walk to the bay, one more coffee and muffin, one more poke around the shops, one more day of nothing in particular, but near the ocean. The whole scene had a desperate, time-running-out quality that was simultaneously funny and sad.
I've been coming here for a long time, and I find something new every time. There's always a new view that I've never seen before, or a section of beach that I haven't visited or some nice flat quiet length of road where I haven't ridden my bike. I bring home new memories with the old ones and they all become part of summer.
*****
We shopped a bit this morning, because what's a vacation without an ill-advised fashion purchase. I limited myself to a souvenir t-shirt and a simple top and one or two other random items. In one little boutique, I saw a t-shirt printed with the words "A little bit classy, a little bit hood." Why not just wear a shirt that says "Hi, my name is Lauren. I have three kids. Ask me about their travel sports and SAT scores." Snotty, I know. But I also know that if you wear a t-shirt proclaiming yourself as a little bit classy and a little bit hood, then you are neither.
*****
Saturday, August 15. Saturday morning, and we're in the car, heading home. We wake up at 7 on the last morning at the beach, which gives us just enough time to pack, clean up trash and recycling, have one last cup of coffee on the deck, take one last ride to the beach and then back to the bay, and vacate by 10. One final drive around the island and the week is over as quickly as it began.
I think we crammed everything we could into this vacation. Ocean swimming every day, bike riding, ice cream eating, people watching, bay sunsets, souvenir shopping, book reading, walking, shell collecting, and just sitting around. The weather and the water were perfect, and the fear and dread lifted for a few days. Other than face masks (for people and Puppy) and hand sanitizer and social distance, I barely thought about the damn 'rona. It was a good week.
We never did get a chance to eat at Borghi's, though. Maybe next year. There's always next year.
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