Random Thought

I am stuck in traffic on the way to the beach. We were heading south, in the morning, as the sun was to left. Already kind of high even though it was still early. But dawn had cracked at 5 am. 2 lanes north and south, both ways clogged up. We were far enough south that the grass had that piedmont close-to-the-beach feel. A little too wide blade, a bit rough, that darker green. Not really any sand in the soil here, but definitely beach type grass. We were getting close. You couldn't smell the salt air yet, but you knew it would be close. Anticipation was high. This was vacation! What would the hotel look like? How would the condo be laid out inside? Would there be a tall counter with stools? What would their plates look like? Would we have a view of the ocean? What table will we play cards at in the evenings? It was all just around the corner. You could almost smell the sea now. Taste the salty waves. Feel the warmth of the sun and smell the sunscreen. It'll be hot, but not too hot. The water will be warm but not too warm. It's all just around the next few turns. Traffic stood still. The cars were late 70s or early 80s. Lots of angles and length. Heavy but not fast. Metal windshield wipers. Lots of reds and browns and whites. Whitewall tires. That warm asphalt smell mixing with gasoline and tires. I was in the back of a white station wagon, with red interior maybe 5 years old. A striped shirt and shorts. I couldn't wear my swim trunks yet - there'd be a ritual involved once it's finally time to change and be ready for the ocean. Or maybe first the outside pool at the condo. Where you could see the ocean over the boardwalk and people walking below. Once the traffic moves, I'll be able to smell the air. To hear the gulls. Open the door and get out because "you're there." Are we there yet? Yes.

 

Check in at the lobby. He does this a hundred times a day, but I'm only here once in the summer. This is my only check-in at the beach. The you get the key. Two. With the number on the brightly colored plastic tag. Do we go up first and see it? Check it all out? Or go back to the car and get a load of bags? But there's so many bags, and the room won't be empty when we bring them in. But we're parked in the way. Other people need to check in. But this is my check in. We can't be in the way, so we get the big rolling thing to carry the bags. You can hang stuff all across the top of the gold arc, but we never had anything to hang. Just stack and stack. Carry a couple of the small ones. Navigate to the elevator. What color will the carpet be? What color are the chairs? What kind of TV do they have? Is there a cabinet full of books and board games? We hog the whole elevator and click the 12. That's pretty high. Not way up top, but above the parking garage and lots of buildings. There's lots of orange and white. White plastic furniture. An orange and white theme. With some yellow in the kitchen. Sunshine colors at the beach. The bathrooms are green and blue. We are ocean view, and we can see the ocean. We're high up to feel the wind and see the waves break, but can't hear them. It's sunny, glaring off the ocean. No wind down there, no whitecaps. Birds arcing listlessly. The carpet is fuzzier than I'd expect for the beach, but it's kinda neet. There is a high counter in the kitchen with white plastic bar stools. This will be home for now. No grass to mow or boring days. Something different every day. Different restaurants. The smörgåsbord, the strange art place on the corner, the noisy bars that overflow onto the boardwalk. The great seafood place that we won't go to. Walking through the hot sand at lunch time to get a pork sandwich, and remember they have sales tax. The post-sun and salt and sand shower. The color develops on your skin in a couple hours. The boardwalk at night. So different. You can still hear the waves, but it's glow sticks and kites. Couples walking in the sand, hand in hand. People are red and brown, but with shirts and dresses on now. But still flip flops. Who would ever even bring sneakers to the beach? The silly T-Shirt shops. The arcade with the same games and same schedule. First to skee-ball, then a little air hockey. Finally we can play quarter video games while they play pinball and laugh.

 

What if a bad storm comes in while you're sleeping? Will the ocean suddenly swell up around the building? Would it collapse? What if it gets really windy when we're this far up? These buildings have been here so many years, I'm sure they'll last tonight. The sun is so low on the horizon. It's such a softer yellow, and so bright reflecting off the water. It's so warm on my skin already, it'll be hot today. Until the one that's different. When you pack up all but one swimsuit and one other regular outfit. For the drive home. The smell disappears quickly, and you're facing the setting sun in the west. We'll be unpacking the car before the blue fades from the sky. Back into my own bed. My sheets, and my clock by the bed. My shower, but no sand to wash off or bathing suits to wring out. The flip flops will stay out. For a few days at least. Until you're outside playing a game and need to run fast. On the softer skinnier grass of home, where underneath it's mud and not sand. Where the roads get just as hot, but there's no salt air moving over you. But it's all worth it. Even if it's over too fast, and you'll miss it later, you have to do it. It's all waiting, just around the next turn.