The World Looks Different Here

We trekked out to the northern reaches of Long Island yesterday, to a sleepy hamlet called Jamesport. Aunt Bert rented a cottage there for the month of August and needed the vehicular real estate of my Angus to transport a plethora of paper supplies, tablecloths, plastic wrap, good old New York City condiments (there were at least three bottles of Hellman's mayonnaise and brown mustard), paper plates, plastic forks, cleaning supplies, deli foods, pierogi, kielbasa, five kinds of bread stuffs and lawn chairs. The ride out on the LIE Freeway (Long Island Expressway) was crowded and ponderous for the first stretch; at exit 48 the road began to open up. As we sped along. Fang's cell phone rang. It was Aunt Bert. Her 20 year old Lumina that she only drove on Sundays was stalling. Her daughter Barbara was driving it and couldn't get the engine to start and she was somewhere on a service road at exit 43. Aw, Jesus.

I aggressively infiltrated the lanes in order to forge my way onto the next exit. New York drivers are notorious for not allowing you to cut into their lane. They've developed the nonchalant disinterested gaze; they look ahead at the road, refusing to see you, but in their minds they are thinking, "You ain't getting in here, motherfucker." Trust me--I know--I do the same thing every day. After a particularly artful push past a industrial strength Hummer (where I could see the driver clearly mouthing, "Fuck you, asshole!"), I made for the exit, crossed over and headed West. Through cellphone GPS methods (read: Aunt Bert talking us over to their location), we connected. The car was functioning providing she didn't have to brake, so I followed her the next 40 miles on the LIE, going 45-50 mph with the Lumina's hazard lights on the full stretch. I was patient, for the only caveat I had asked of Aunt Bert was a lobster roll at The Lunch Box Restaurant once we got to Riverhead.

Two hours later, I had my wish. It was a little more celery heavy than I usually like and was being sold for the outrageous market price of $17.00, but I could have snarfed down the tablecloth at that point with a little mustard and enjoyed it.

We headed out to the cottage. Coming along a gracious tree lined street with a mix of bungalows and Hamptons style mansionettes we stumbled upon Aunt Bert's charming summer cottage. It had a tidy garden and a large back patio, surrounded by mature and sheltering trees. It was whimsical and nautical and everything you'd expect from a summer refuge.

Once Aunt Bert was settled in, I had to make for the beach. We only had a few hours of daylight left and the siren of the bay was beckoning. The Peconic Bay was in high tide and it gently framed the coastline. An affectionate breeze blew. Seagulls hovered. Errant dingys bobbled as they stood moored to the buoys. Sheer perfection.
I had to put my feet in. It was delicious.
The world did look different out there and I soaked it in for its brief tenure. I knew I would have to get up early the next day and drag ass back to the city so it was critical to grasp a moment of this precious peace. And I did..for one small patch of time, no less than an hour, I sat on the patio of Aunt Bert's little cottage in the middle of nowhere in the still of the evening's twilight and just listened to nothing. I watched the sky change color.
I listened to crickets and to the breeze. I watched the interaction of fireflies and dragonflies. I watched the long arms of the aged trees sway soothingly in their geriatric hula. It was utterly pleasurable; the best medicine on earth.