Flaky, not as in dandruff or a perfect homemade pie crust, but as in those people you know never to invite for a sit down dinner since no one can predict whether or not they would show up.
LA is known as the Flaky capital of the country, if not the world. I'm wondering how much of this is pure myth or how much of it is, in fact, reality? And sitting 3000 miles away in the heart of New England Pilgrims--those sturdy, dependable types-- well, now seems like the appropriate time to reflect on this stereotype of Angelenos.
Now, I'm not purposefully going out of my way to give credence to this stereotype of LA, thereby letting everyone think that all those who are natives, all 100 people, are to blame for this awful presumption. In fact, the most flaky individuals that I have met during my time there are those who have come from places like Kansas (yes, I've met two people from Kansas). It is as if once the cross the state line, they morph into the myth of an LA person where flighty, flaky, laid-back, and a little dim are accouterments along with the surfboard and convertible . You know the kind that talks about the healing properties of crystals with as much seriousness as if they were discussing world hunger. The few natives I've met are either incredibly proper, the perfect disciple of Emily Post, while the others were more like what you would expect. One native, who was crazy in that LA way, told me with a straight face that she and her husband fasted for 76 days, and that it was a transforming experience. Try to picture me not breaking out in laughter at her seriousness and the sheer lunacy of what she was saying.
The most important lesson I've learned about life in LA is never to expect the requisite RSVP. It is almost a disease here where people rarely, if ever, actually call or respond to invitations of the paper variety, and certainly not the Evites that people now like to use. We found this behavior very trying when we were planning our wedding, which was a sit down dinner, each head accounted for in dollars and cents. I remember having to call a few people directly to ask whether or not they were going to attend--they were, of course, but assumed I knew that. Annoying? Of course. After these few experiences, I decided to put on the invitations: Regrets Only. Even taking away the onus of having to call to say they will attend never made a huge impact since those who weren't coming never made the call to send their regrets.
What, you ask, makes people so inconsiderate? Well, where does one start? There is the excessive narcissism, with a capital N, that defines LA. This city is the capital of, "You have a problem, well, let me tell you about my bigger problem." It is the place where normal social mores have been relaxed to the point of a coma. Nothing is discreet, modesty is not a virtue, and showing and telling take the most explicit forms--the culmination of which is the Valley being home to the porn capital of the world. It is a city of individuals who are all blond, and all that implies by the stereotype of blonds, by choice.
Again, I have to stress that the 'natives' should not be to blame for these characteristics since I have met people from places like Boston or St. Louis who outdo the native Angelenos in vapidness, self-centeredness, materialism, and flakiness.
Martha's Vineyard, despite it being a vacation haven, seems and behaves like the New England of the Puritans. It is modest, discreet, grounded, and a bit Puritanical in its mores. People here have the restraint typical of this region where small talk with a stranger is truly about the weather--if they talk to you at all. In fact, this is the place where a person will engage in small talk of the most impersonal variety after they have seen you a number of times--usually over a few years. It isn't that they are impolite and rude, but just that there is none of that weird kismet between strangers, where they act, behave like best friends, despite barely knowing one another. And once they do speak, there is no intimate disclosure about family dysfunctions, finances--the success or failures-- or anything else that would reveal one's life to a stranger.
Now that I am so far removed from LA, I can reflect on what all of these differences mean to me, but to the way life gets lived. I think it will take me time, perhaps years, to unpack my time in LA. I don't know if I will ever be nostalgic about any of it. Only time will reveal whether I will miss those conversations about fasting, religious practices that are a hybrid of only the best aspects of all religions, raw food as a diet that helps you to be healthy, certain crystals that helps heal ailments, homeopathy as the only medical opinion that matters, where to go for an African drumming circle, invitations to Al Franken's fund raiser, and impassioned conversations about global warming--the cause du jour--with a woman, chugging water out of a plastic bottle, who drove to the lunch in her Range Rover, who doesn't see the irony about any of it.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Car Nostalgia--Hard to Imagine
I hate to admit it, but I've been missing my car. I know, how contradictory is it to miss a car when all I do is vehemently complain about driving? Although it seems implausible, I have been missing the suburban Mom Mobile, which was being driven cross country these last couple of weeks. The pangs for my car didn't start until a few days ago when I got tired of the rental we've been driving since arriving on the Vineyard. Then the fixation on the arrival of my car took hold. It doesn't help that every other car on the island is the same model, so that every turn seemed to bring, yet another, reminder that my car was somewhere between LA and Woods Hole.
I can say with some relief that the car arrived, albeit late, in one piece. I drove it over to Vineyard Haven to drop off my son's play date. Yes, I do drive on the Vineyard. But let me stress that the average driving speed on the island is 35 miles per hour. Everyone drives like an old person, so the driving is perfectly suited for my octogenarian style.
The weather today was muggy and hot. The heat here is different than the stinging heat from the sun in LA. Although the humidity can be oppressive, all of us know that a thunderstorm will take that humidity away. It's fascinating what happens to kids when their days are ruled by the changes in weather. When it is a rainy day, my son knows that he will not be going to the beach. And that all activities will take place indoors, most likely at the library and the carousel. I can remember rainy summer days when you were trapped indoors, coming up with things to do. It is these days when the hours seem to stretch in front that your mind, or rather, your imagination is given time to flourish. Unlike our current over-involved parenting, my parents and the parents of all my friends did very little to offer us diversions for those rainy days. Instead, we were told to keep ourselves busy. For me, I usually spent those days reading whatever book I was engrossed in. And when at camp, we would spend the day working on art projects or any other projects that took place inside. The weather-forced interruptions were a pain, but in retrospect I see how invaluable they were to developing all of these other aspects to your growth.
Life in a place where the weather doesn't offer such dramatic changes makes one create these interruptions. While in LA, my son didn't feel the need to savor every moment of a perfect summer day since each day was the same as the day before, and would continue to be for the next four to five months. His days were not ruled by the drift of clouds across the sun. Instead, once the sun came up in the sky, we were certain it would remain there unblemished by a cloud until the sun set at the end of the day. The weather is less a part of the foreground, instead it simply fades away, becoming inconsequential. Some would argue that they don't need the drama of clouds, rain, thunder and wind. But I would argue that a child who learns to deal with the ever-changing fluctuations of weather will learn some invaluable lessons. What they are I'm still sorting out for myself. But there are lessons in there, I'm certain.
I can say with some relief that the car arrived, albeit late, in one piece. I drove it over to Vineyard Haven to drop off my son's play date. Yes, I do drive on the Vineyard. But let me stress that the average driving speed on the island is 35 miles per hour. Everyone drives like an old person, so the driving is perfectly suited for my octogenarian style.
The weather today was muggy and hot. The heat here is different than the stinging heat from the sun in LA. Although the humidity can be oppressive, all of us know that a thunderstorm will take that humidity away. It's fascinating what happens to kids when their days are ruled by the changes in weather. When it is a rainy day, my son knows that he will not be going to the beach. And that all activities will take place indoors, most likely at the library and the carousel. I can remember rainy summer days when you were trapped indoors, coming up with things to do. It is these days when the hours seem to stretch in front that your mind, or rather, your imagination is given time to flourish. Unlike our current over-involved parenting, my parents and the parents of all my friends did very little to offer us diversions for those rainy days. Instead, we were told to keep ourselves busy. For me, I usually spent those days reading whatever book I was engrossed in. And when at camp, we would spend the day working on art projects or any other projects that took place inside. The weather-forced interruptions were a pain, but in retrospect I see how invaluable they were to developing all of these other aspects to your growth.
Life in a place where the weather doesn't offer such dramatic changes makes one create these interruptions. While in LA, my son didn't feel the need to savor every moment of a perfect summer day since each day was the same as the day before, and would continue to be for the next four to five months. His days were not ruled by the drift of clouds across the sun. Instead, once the sun came up in the sky, we were certain it would remain there unblemished by a cloud until the sun set at the end of the day. The weather is less a part of the foreground, instead it simply fades away, becoming inconsequential. Some would argue that they don't need the drama of clouds, rain, thunder and wind. But I would argue that a child who learns to deal with the ever-changing fluctuations of weather will learn some invaluable lessons. What they are I'm still sorting out for myself. But there are lessons in there, I'm certain.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The Inkwell
We go to a beach called the Inkwell, a nickname that came into existence many years ago. It is a stretch of beach between two jetties where every color permutation of African-Americans come to relax. It is where we have been coming for the past five years, this little stretch of beach facing the Nantucket Sound.
After getting pregnant, I became incredibly nostalgic for the summers of my childhood. In fact, I yearned to feel the tiredness from playing in the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean the entire day, only coming out to grab a bite of my lunch after countless threats from my mother. I wanted to emulate that carefree spirit of riding my bike along sandy roads for myself, but more importantly I wanted to recreate those traditions for my unborn child. I convinced my husband we needed a summer place--such an East Coast idea--where our child could roam freely, swim all day long, and we could suspend all of our worries associated with raising a child in an urban city, even if only for a few precious weeks. He agreed despite never having had summers remotely like the ones I was aching to replicate. Instead of picking the New Jersey shore, I suggested Martha's Vineyard because of its long history of African-American on the island. So, we came with very little expectation of what it would be like.
The Inkwell was a revelation for us both. It was remarkable to be sitting among so many African-Americans of every color and shape. Families, some who have been coming for generations, sat alongside those of us first-timers. White families sat among all the African-Americans with not a thought to the fact that they were, for a change, a minority. In town, every restaurant worker was not African-American or Latino, but were in fact mostly college students working to cash in on the summer season. There was an egalitarianism on this island, especially in the town of Oak Bluffs that was surprising, to say the least.
To say we fell in love with the freedom we felt is an understatement. For a change, I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that my husband was one of the only black men in this vacation environment. In fact, his color was of little consequence. When a waitress was brusque in the typical manner of a New Englander, I didn't automatically assume it was because I was Asian or my husband was black. I just assumed she was a life-long New Englander with very little time for niceties. When I sat on the beach and saw a women who looked white, I didn't assume she was white since I've now learned the hues of African-Americans spans the entire color spectrum.
Our son has been coming to the Inkwell since he was just ten months old. Our desire for him to feel that a beach full of black people was unexceptional is now his reality. He is not fazed when the beach is teeming with black families, all luxuriating in the rituals of beach life. It was important for us to make sure his consciousness wasn't colored by the delineations that occur in our daily lives.
We do venture to other beaches, but in a pinch we always pick the Inkwell. It is, for our family, where we associate with the Vineyard. After so many years, we now know many of the families on the beach. We see the same families every year. Our 'hellos' are now actual conversations where we exchange information about our lives in tidbits--where do you come from, what do you do, what are your children's names. We go to barbecues and cocktail parties where we catch up with one another and the year that we've had. We email during the rest of the time since many of us live far apart. The emails start gathering speed around April as summer's imminent arrival comes into focus. And there is a rhythm to who comes when and stays for how long. I'm fortunate enough now to stay the entire summer, so I seem to be the one saying hello and good-bye as families come and leave.
Our kids are growing up with each other. Some may get to an age when they will notice each other as more than so and so's son or daughter. I suspect there will be summers when a few may exchange more than sand toys. And if all is right with the world, some may end up at the same universities together. Or better yet, they will be bring their kids to the island, so we, the parents, now grandparents, can coo and admire this next generation. I feel fortunate to be creating this legacy for our son all started on this strip of beach called the Inkwell.
After getting pregnant, I became incredibly nostalgic for the summers of my childhood. In fact, I yearned to feel the tiredness from playing in the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean the entire day, only coming out to grab a bite of my lunch after countless threats from my mother. I wanted to emulate that carefree spirit of riding my bike along sandy roads for myself, but more importantly I wanted to recreate those traditions for my unborn child. I convinced my husband we needed a summer place--such an East Coast idea--where our child could roam freely, swim all day long, and we could suspend all of our worries associated with raising a child in an urban city, even if only for a few precious weeks. He agreed despite never having had summers remotely like the ones I was aching to replicate. Instead of picking the New Jersey shore, I suggested Martha's Vineyard because of its long history of African-American on the island. So, we came with very little expectation of what it would be like.
The Inkwell was a revelation for us both. It was remarkable to be sitting among so many African-Americans of every color and shape. Families, some who have been coming for generations, sat alongside those of us first-timers. White families sat among all the African-Americans with not a thought to the fact that they were, for a change, a minority. In town, every restaurant worker was not African-American or Latino, but were in fact mostly college students working to cash in on the summer season. There was an egalitarianism on this island, especially in the town of Oak Bluffs that was surprising, to say the least.
To say we fell in love with the freedom we felt is an understatement. For a change, I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that my husband was one of the only black men in this vacation environment. In fact, his color was of little consequence. When a waitress was brusque in the typical manner of a New Englander, I didn't automatically assume it was because I was Asian or my husband was black. I just assumed she was a life-long New Englander with very little time for niceties. When I sat on the beach and saw a women who looked white, I didn't assume she was white since I've now learned the hues of African-Americans spans the entire color spectrum.
Our son has been coming to the Inkwell since he was just ten months old. Our desire for him to feel that a beach full of black people was unexceptional is now his reality. He is not fazed when the beach is teeming with black families, all luxuriating in the rituals of beach life. It was important for us to make sure his consciousness wasn't colored by the delineations that occur in our daily lives.
We do venture to other beaches, but in a pinch we always pick the Inkwell. It is, for our family, where we associate with the Vineyard. After so many years, we now know many of the families on the beach. We see the same families every year. Our 'hellos' are now actual conversations where we exchange information about our lives in tidbits--where do you come from, what do you do, what are your children's names. We go to barbecues and cocktail parties where we catch up with one another and the year that we've had. We email during the rest of the time since many of us live far apart. The emails start gathering speed around April as summer's imminent arrival comes into focus. And there is a rhythm to who comes when and stays for how long. I'm fortunate enough now to stay the entire summer, so I seem to be the one saying hello and good-bye as families come and leave.
Our kids are growing up with each other. Some may get to an age when they will notice each other as more than so and so's son or daughter. I suspect there will be summers when a few may exchange more than sand toys. And if all is right with the world, some may end up at the same universities together. Or better yet, they will be bring their kids to the island, so we, the parents, now grandparents, can coo and admire this next generation. I feel fortunate to be creating this legacy for our son all started on this strip of beach called the Inkwell.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Island Cocktails--Happy 10th Anniversary
My husband and I celebrated our tenth year together as husband and wife yesterday. It's hard to imagine we've been married for so long, and been together even longer. Marriage is nothing like they advertise in those ridiculous romance novels. Come to think about it, they don't actually write about marriages, do they? No, they write about the passion and romance before the wedding takes place. I suppose it would be challenging for a writer to make the story of marriage, particularly long ones, sound romantic and passionate. I've decided that marriage is not for the faint hearted. One must be hearty and full of piss and vinegar (full of cliches today) to a) get married, and b) to stay married.
And like most marriages, those that are really honest, ours is always challenging and interesting. We are, like everyone else, trying to figure out how to make this tenuous union secure from the ruptures caused by the mere fact that we are individuals. We have, at this point, received our Masters Degree in the major of Compromise. It seems compromising is all marriage is really about. When you are in the throes of romance, and just relieved to have found someone who is cute, fun, smart, and has a job, you overlook the early dance of compromise. Oh, you know those inane conversations about where you should go for dinner, with both of you pretending to not really care where you want to go, when in truth you really want to eat pizza. Or in my case, sushi. Well, once the sheen has worn off, and your initial relief has turned into a sense of entitlement that-- of course you have snagged the good guy-- the compromise dance is no longer so polite. Instead of dancing a waltz, it is more like a tug of war with both of you pulling on your end for victory. Oh let me stop. My weariness after so many years is starting to come through in this blog.
Our marriage, despite the constant negotiations, feels healthier, more honest than it has in years. We are both passionate in the fight to keep our marriage. But we also understand that we can't predict what the future will bring. If we are lucky then we may be celebrating our 20th in ten years. Goodness! And to the same man, even.
Our marriage, despite the constant negotiations, feels healthier, more honest than it has in years. We are both passionate in the fight to keep our marriage. But we also understand that we can't predict what the future will bring. If we are lucky then we may be celebrating our 20th in ten years. Goodness! And to the same man, even.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4th among the Pilgrims
We spent an idyllic 4th. Our son had his first tennis lesson, offered for free to all island kids, at a stunning Tennis facility for youth only. It was shocking to learn that adults couldn't play there at all. We then sat at the beach, our candy-stripe colored umbrella blowing in the breeze. The weather was perfect, sunny, but not stifling hot. We came home to change and go to the annual 4th of July parade in Edgartown. This parade celebrating what this holiday is about--our independence--is also kitschy and quaint in the ways a small town parade should be. Our son, who has been coming since he was a baby, is really enjoying it now. It's fascinating to see the world through his eyes as he takes in these 'old' rituals, which in his short term memory are really new. The evening was capped off with a meal of hamburgers grilled on our deck and corn on the cob. It was as this holiday should be celebrated.
Life here settles down and slows down to a rhythm that helps you to notice the way an osprey swoops, swirls, and hovers over the water. You can't help but notice the splash of color in the sky as kites skid and collide across a cloudy sky. Conversations are carried to you by the sea breeze as you sit in a beach chair reading your newest book. Children gather and dig in the sand, figuring out whether this time over a shared hole will result in summer of friendship. Sandwiches packed in the morning are savored, the foil peeled back to reveal a bit of bread stuffed with the pink and white of cold cuts.
And you notice how the sea is really layers of blue and green. Even as the clouds come in, the beach now desolate except for the diehards, takes on a haunted look of gray. There's so little to be angry about when the world in front of you is breathtaking in its simplicity.
And so ended the day, each of us tired from the sun, taking in what this day means to our nation and to us, individually.
Life here settles down and slows down to a rhythm that helps you to notice the way an osprey swoops, swirls, and hovers over the water. You can't help but notice the splash of color in the sky as kites skid and collide across a cloudy sky. Conversations are carried to you by the sea breeze as you sit in a beach chair reading your newest book. Children gather and dig in the sand, figuring out whether this time over a shared hole will result in summer of friendship. Sandwiches packed in the morning are savored, the foil peeled back to reveal a bit of bread stuffed with the pink and white of cold cuts.
And you notice how the sea is really layers of blue and green. Even as the clouds come in, the beach now desolate except for the diehards, takes on a haunted look of gray. There's so little to be angry about when the world in front of you is breathtaking in its simplicity.
And so ended the day, each of us tired from the sun, taking in what this day means to our nation and to us, individually.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Strawberry Fields: Land of Volvos
Martha's Vineyard, although a smallish island, has a number of farms. When I was pregnant with our son, I went strawberry picking at a farm that operates as a co-op. My husband, who declined to join me, took pictures of me quite contentedly bending and picking berries. And since the farm's sign said strawberries could still be picked, I dragged him again, who declined to join me, to pick strawberries. Why I find these agrarian practices so charming is beyond me since my maternal family in Korea were not farmers. No, they had "peasants"--my mother's word--who worked the hundreds of acres our family owned in, what is now called, Seoul.
As I crouched among the bushes, picking the delicate berries ripened by sun and time, I couldn't help but acknowledge how strenuous this was for some berries. And then I thought about those migrant workers, working among the strawberries farms by Solvang, whose entire livelihood is determined by how many berries they bring in at the end of the day, all of their efforts consumed by others who are blissfully ignorant to the labor behind the delicate sweet fruits.
In LA, the car you drive says as much about you as if you were wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with your favorite band. You know, if you were wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, and you were over the age of 50, we could assume many things about who you had been. Anyway, this idea of a car as a character definition is something LA does rather brilliantly. Each person, those who have the option to choose the car they will be seen driving, takes stock of what each car says about them, consciously or unconsciously.
As a Prepster, I grew up in the land of Volvos, most of them beaten up and character-ridden. It seemed every mom I knew, including my own, drove a Volvo station wagon or similarly reliable, safe, unflashy car. The catch word in that is to be as understated as possible since we are Preps. Our Docksiders only got better as they became beaten, worn in. I remember my parents buying me a Louis Vuitton backpack for my Freshman year of college. I had this brilliant idea of putting the bag out on the driveway to drive my car over it, so it wouldn't look so brand spanking new. You can imagine how well that went over with my parents. I still have the bag, and it is now perfectly worn.
I have never had a strong affiliation with cars, per se. But while in LA, I did have to recognize how the car you drove said so much about you, wittingly or unwittingly. I drove cross country in my new Acura, a college graduation gift from my parents, who had wanted to replace my Volkswagen Jetta, the car I had driven in high school. I could have picked any car, but for some reason, probably because I was suffering from an acute broken heart, I half-heartedly chose the Acura.
I drove this car around LA, never washing it ever, with very little thought to cars. For me, it got me to point A to point B. It was during those five years that the surge of the SUV took hold of LA in a profound way. There was something optimistic about the time--Clinton took office--and gas, this depreciating resource--seemed to be plentiful. So, when my parents wanted to trade in my Acura for something else, I said I wanted a Land Rover. Yes, I was living in LA, not out in the bushes of Africa, where this car is really supposed to be driven. And despite the quirkiness of this monster car, I drove around with all the other competing SUVS, pouring gas into a tank that seemed to never be satiated. When it came time to replace this car, my husband now had a say in what I drove and suggested the BMW SUV since I was now used to being so far up in a car. And so, I drove that car, hating it as I've never hated a car. I don't know why this particular car incensed me so much. Gas prices were now climbing. But in truth, what I hated about it was what BMW stood for in LA. It was too flashy, too pretentious, too slick. I knew I hated my car when a woman, who was emblematic of all I found disdainful about LA, said she loved her car--which was just like mine.
When it came time to turn the BMW in, I finally expressed my opinion of what car I would like to drive--yes, I loathe driving, but since it was a necessary evil in LA... The Volvo station wagon was what I chose. Yes, I came full circle, you could say. I picked the very Mom Mobile of my childhood when it was time to pick my car as a Mom.
Now that we are on the Vineyard, I see that my Volvo, due to arrive this week from LA, is just another among a sea of Volvos on this island. Funny, isn't it since this place resonates with me in ways I have a hard time articulating?
As I crouched among the bushes, picking the delicate berries ripened by sun and time, I couldn't help but acknowledge how strenuous this was for some berries. And then I thought about those migrant workers, working among the strawberries farms by Solvang, whose entire livelihood is determined by how many berries they bring in at the end of the day, all of their efforts consumed by others who are blissfully ignorant to the labor behind the delicate sweet fruits.
In LA, the car you drive says as much about you as if you were wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with your favorite band. You know, if you were wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt, and you were over the age of 50, we could assume many things about who you had been. Anyway, this idea of a car as a character definition is something LA does rather brilliantly. Each person, those who have the option to choose the car they will be seen driving, takes stock of what each car says about them, consciously or unconsciously.
As a Prepster, I grew up in the land of Volvos, most of them beaten up and character-ridden. It seemed every mom I knew, including my own, drove a Volvo station wagon or similarly reliable, safe, unflashy car. The catch word in that is to be as understated as possible since we are Preps. Our Docksiders only got better as they became beaten, worn in. I remember my parents buying me a Louis Vuitton backpack for my Freshman year of college. I had this brilliant idea of putting the bag out on the driveway to drive my car over it, so it wouldn't look so brand spanking new. You can imagine how well that went over with my parents. I still have the bag, and it is now perfectly worn.
I have never had a strong affiliation with cars, per se. But while in LA, I did have to recognize how the car you drove said so much about you, wittingly or unwittingly. I drove cross country in my new Acura, a college graduation gift from my parents, who had wanted to replace my Volkswagen Jetta, the car I had driven in high school. I could have picked any car, but for some reason, probably because I was suffering from an acute broken heart, I half-heartedly chose the Acura.
I drove this car around LA, never washing it ever, with very little thought to cars. For me, it got me to point A to point B. It was during those five years that the surge of the SUV took hold of LA in a profound way. There was something optimistic about the time--Clinton took office--and gas, this depreciating resource--seemed to be plentiful. So, when my parents wanted to trade in my Acura for something else, I said I wanted a Land Rover. Yes, I was living in LA, not out in the bushes of Africa, where this car is really supposed to be driven. And despite the quirkiness of this monster car, I drove around with all the other competing SUVS, pouring gas into a tank that seemed to never be satiated. When it came time to replace this car, my husband now had a say in what I drove and suggested the BMW SUV since I was now used to being so far up in a car. And so, I drove that car, hating it as I've never hated a car. I don't know why this particular car incensed me so much. Gas prices were now climbing. But in truth, what I hated about it was what BMW stood for in LA. It was too flashy, too pretentious, too slick. I knew I hated my car when a woman, who was emblematic of all I found disdainful about LA, said she loved her car--which was just like mine.
When it came time to turn the BMW in, I finally expressed my opinion of what car I would like to drive--yes, I loathe driving, but since it was a necessary evil in LA... The Volvo station wagon was what I chose. Yes, I came full circle, you could say. I picked the very Mom Mobile of my childhood when it was time to pick my car as a Mom.
Now that we are on the Vineyard, I see that my Volvo, due to arrive this week from LA, is just another among a sea of Volvos on this island. Funny, isn't it since this place resonates with me in ways I have a hard time articulating?
Monday, July 2, 2007
Oak Bluffs, MVY
We arrived on to Martha's Vineyard after spending a night at our friend's house in Jamaica Plain. My friend, one of my closest from Graduate School, has just signed a deal to publish his first young adult novel with Bloomsbury Press. We spent two years having dinner together once a week, sometimes commiserating about our work load or our work. Now, we have three boys in total, all of them as familiar with one another as young boys can be when they are five, four, and three years of age. It is quite wondrous to see our boys getting along so well, even if they only see one another once a year.
This yearly ritual of coming to Martha's Vineyard feels like the perfect transition for our family since we are now truly East Coast people, again. Our son, who was quite despondent about saying good-bye to his Tia, said as we drove through this one section where the road seems to slice two bodies of water, "This is great!" He had been coming here since he was in utero, so this island is as much home as anywhere else. He went to camp and fell right in with his buddy, Huck. He is now at the Ink Well with his babysitter, Amy. It is as it has been for so many summers.
This island had served as such a refuge for me when the idea of living on the East Coast was the mirage that seemed to taunt me. There was so much about it that was achingly familiar, so much so that at times I felt as if I were reliving my own childhood summers at Cape May. Although I lived in LA for over ten years, I've never been impressed with the beaches there. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there were so few beaches that were clean and accessible for those that hadn't built McMansions on those public beaches. There was also a difference in beach culture from what I remembered from my childhood. And then there was the driving to the beach that could become an obstacle in it of itself. Whatever the reasons, I could probably count on both hands the times I felt the compulsion to head to the beach while living in LA.
Martha's Vineyard, for our family, has become this yearly ritual of summer. We frequent the same restaurants that serve the most delicious fried clam strips. We trek to the fish store where we order our lobster dinner, which we eat sitting on Lobster cages as the sun sets over a scenery out of one of those insipid paintings you find in hotel rooms. We sit at the same beach that faces the Nantucket Sound where kids rule the sand and parents sit in chairs with a book in their hand. Kids ride their bikes and play outdoors in the games that are synonymous with those long summer days. There is no fast food chain to be found, each store owned by a person not attached to a large corporation. It is like stepping back in time when the highlight of a kids' day is licking a large ice cream cone outside a shop where they make their own ice cream. It is the childhood that I remember.
There are so few places that have resonated with me the way this island has. It's funny since I never get island fever like I do when I'm in Hawaii. Yes, we can get off via Ferry since we're not so far from the Cape, so perhaps that explains my lack of claustrophobia. Whatever it is, I drive along familiar roads, some of them congested during the mid day hour, sanguine about the fact that we are driving 5 miles an hour. Hard to imagine, right? There you have it. It is hard to be irate and angry when you look to your right and you see an expanse of aqua colored water, sail boats rocking up and down. How can you be angry about a place that has not one stop light, even if you wonder why that crazy five way intersection doesn't have a light?
This place is quirky in the ways of any small New England towns. Yet, there is a humility and earthiness that I find so refreshing. It is as if, despite all the wealth of the summer residents, this island has never forgotten it is is just a whaling town.
I am finally getting ready to sit down for a long haul with my newest novel, which will be set in LA. The prospect of this project has me excited, my mind gestating during the day as I engage in the things I am supposed to be doing. The first line, which I had thought of recently, pulls at me very strongly. I am much relieved to be feeling this way, and also daunted by the process of writing another book.
The backwards pull of my memories and life in LA is fading, the tug not so insistent. My email box is emptier, people putting me on the list of those they had known. My gaze is cast ahead, to what is ahead.
This yearly ritual of coming to Martha's Vineyard feels like the perfect transition for our family since we are now truly East Coast people, again. Our son, who was quite despondent about saying good-bye to his Tia, said as we drove through this one section where the road seems to slice two bodies of water, "This is great!" He had been coming here since he was in utero, so this island is as much home as anywhere else. He went to camp and fell right in with his buddy, Huck. He is now at the Ink Well with his babysitter, Amy. It is as it has been for so many summers.
This island had served as such a refuge for me when the idea of living on the East Coast was the mirage that seemed to taunt me. There was so much about it that was achingly familiar, so much so that at times I felt as if I were reliving my own childhood summers at Cape May. Although I lived in LA for over ten years, I've never been impressed with the beaches there. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that there were so few beaches that were clean and accessible for those that hadn't built McMansions on those public beaches. There was also a difference in beach culture from what I remembered from my childhood. And then there was the driving to the beach that could become an obstacle in it of itself. Whatever the reasons, I could probably count on both hands the times I felt the compulsion to head to the beach while living in LA.
Martha's Vineyard, for our family, has become this yearly ritual of summer. We frequent the same restaurants that serve the most delicious fried clam strips. We trek to the fish store where we order our lobster dinner, which we eat sitting on Lobster cages as the sun sets over a scenery out of one of those insipid paintings you find in hotel rooms. We sit at the same beach that faces the Nantucket Sound where kids rule the sand and parents sit in chairs with a book in their hand. Kids ride their bikes and play outdoors in the games that are synonymous with those long summer days. There is no fast food chain to be found, each store owned by a person not attached to a large corporation. It is like stepping back in time when the highlight of a kids' day is licking a large ice cream cone outside a shop where they make their own ice cream. It is the childhood that I remember.
There are so few places that have resonated with me the way this island has. It's funny since I never get island fever like I do when I'm in Hawaii. Yes, we can get off via Ferry since we're not so far from the Cape, so perhaps that explains my lack of claustrophobia. Whatever it is, I drive along familiar roads, some of them congested during the mid day hour, sanguine about the fact that we are driving 5 miles an hour. Hard to imagine, right? There you have it. It is hard to be irate and angry when you look to your right and you see an expanse of aqua colored water, sail boats rocking up and down. How can you be angry about a place that has not one stop light, even if you wonder why that crazy five way intersection doesn't have a light?
This place is quirky in the ways of any small New England towns. Yet, there is a humility and earthiness that I find so refreshing. It is as if, despite all the wealth of the summer residents, this island has never forgotten it is is just a whaling town.
I am finally getting ready to sit down for a long haul with my newest novel, which will be set in LA. The prospect of this project has me excited, my mind gestating during the day as I engage in the things I am supposed to be doing. The first line, which I had thought of recently, pulls at me very strongly. I am much relieved to be feeling this way, and also daunted by the process of writing another book.
The backwards pull of my memories and life in LA is fading, the tug not so insistent. My email box is emptier, people putting me on the list of those they had known. My gaze is cast ahead, to what is ahead.
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