Down By The Sea

Tuesday, 9th April 2013

Map: Tarsboro, North Carolina to Rehoboth Beach, Delware: 342 miles

Leaving the window open all night in our motel room exposed us to just enough humidity to remind us we were in the South.  Thick yet benign while the temperatures hovered in the sixties, it would lay low as the day warmed, becoming a stultifying blue gray glare.

For now, it provided a golden atmosphere as the old fashioned crossroads signage pointed out the way through a few plots of tobacco midst the cotton stubble and swamp cypress.  What wasn't old fashioned was the fact that North Carolina Highways 11/42 avoided what few towns there were at all costs, causing me to occasionally jerk the wheel and fling Patsy down a side road at the last moment.  This is how we discovered Aulander, a nice little town full of interesting old houses and a narrow Main Street barely three blocks long. Folks were out for a walk or just sitting on their porches, waiting to see what the day would bring.  My husband would wave, and they'd wave back.

Near Woodville, North Carolina

Ahoskie is big and bold enough to give a shout out along the highway, so I made a more graceful departure to visit it.  Soon I found myself in a lineup of cars on South Academy Street, stopping for some sort of police check.  I automatically pulled out my wallet, expecting to be turned away because of some sort of police action would be keeping everyone but residents from the area.

"What's the problem?" I asked as I flipped out my license.

"No problem," replied the short policeman,  "Just checking that driver's have their licenses."

He was such a handsome African American that I considered making a problem.  "Oh," I said, taking my wallet he handed back and trying not to stare too much.

"Have a good day now," he said---but I had already distractedly touched the accelerator, and his pleasantness was left in Patsy's wake.  Oh, how terribly rude of me.

$95,000---Winton, North Carolina

In Winton, on the Chowan River and the very top of the Albemarle Sound, you can buy this four bedroom, two bath Southern Victorian for $95,000---which means if this block home was for sale, it would probably command something like $35,000.  The garbage can was the neighbor's...

Now I had to stop this detouring into small towns because we had a lunch date with our great nephew in Newport News.  I had not planned the most direct route from Winton to the Newport News area, and then there would be unexpected construction and the forgotten fact that Virginia has the worst road signage in the United States.  The most sensible thing would have been to take US 13 directly to Suffolk, but I had thought detouring around the Great Dismal Swamp would be scenic.  It's not.  The swamps way back on 11/42 as one crosses the Roanoke River south of Woodville provide plenty of that kind of scenery.

Not on the market---but surely considerably less.  Winton, NC.

"Are you sick of us yet?" my husband asked as we finally arrived at the Mexican restaurant that was our chosen meeting spot.  He was referring to the umpteen times he had called in the last hour.  Our nephew, standing there in his gray Army fatigues, just smiled and gave us hugs---too polite to tell us our lives would be much easier if we just got an iPhone.

Although we had been anticipating this lunch meeting, as we sat down we realized that the last time we had any sort of conversation with him was when he was fifteen---well, okay, maybe twenty.  That he had been a good kid then, already sitting down to talk to the adults---at least for a minute, suggested we wouldn't have too hard of a time making conversation with him at the ripe old age of thirty.  After some small talk about our travels, we settled into relationships and---when reminded of his uncle's counseling profession---a lot about that field, which he's interested in after completing his army career.  Since being a captain is akin to being a life manager, he's already gained a lot of insight into the field of therapy.  Our nephew also has a broad physical/emotional appeal---one that would allow a man to spill his guts without feeling especially ashamed about it, or appeal to the bullshitter who will only arrive at the truth after moving through the maze of machismo.  My husband told him to let him know when he was ready to discuss his education options, and he seemed happy to have someone to bounce ideas off when the time comes.

Unc and great nephew.

We crossed the James River again, this time at its mouth and via yet another underwater tunnel, as it appears Chesapeake Bay is shallow and its bottoms unsuitable for supporting tall bridges.  Along Norfolk's Ocean View Boulevard there was no view except for the thousands of houses vying for the view.  Then it was onto the the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel for the hefty toll of $12, but one gets a free cup of soup with the receipt if they buy lunch at the restaurant out on the bay at the tunnel entrance.  Actually the toll is pretty reasonable, considering that the bridge and tunnel totals out at twenty miles long.

It takes some getting used to, this Atlantic Ocean always hiding behind dunes, or in rare glimpses giving the uneasy impression of being sightly higher than the road you're traveling over.  No matter for us, as we were making time on US 13, and if I wasn't napping I was listening to rather wacky WMBG 740 out of Willamsburg, playing anything from obscure 1950s country western to some light disco.

I was duly aware that Ocean City, Maryland is less than classy---but I wasn't prepared for a place that makes Laughlin, Nevada look classy.  The huge, ugly hotels, the small ugly motels---the shops and restaurants that replicate themselves every few miles to cater to the hordes.  The place is as colorful as the 1970s, as if it was a set for a never ending caftan clad cameo bore-fest called Ocean City.  I was thankful it was off-season, or this ghost metropolis would have been pure hell.

Eventually we arrived at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---our destination for the day.  The time and temperature on their fire department announced it was 90 degrees, but Patsy was more discreet, never saying it was above 88.  It felt like---well, just very unpleasant---not that the old folks seemed to mind one bit.  Our gay little bed and breakfast had yet to place the air conditioner in our window, but the two ceiling fans proved satisfactory.

"When's the last time you've been in Rehoboth?" asked our chipper, middle age host(ess).

"Never," replied my husband.

"Thirty years ago," I said.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---with the kitsch removed.

"Oh," he said, sucking in air between his teeth.  I got the impression that thirty years ago was a worse impression to overcome than never.

Not that it mattered much to me.  I have little memory of it, being but fifteen at the time and dank cold March weather pretty much shrank my recall to a bag of salt water taffy.  Although Rehoboth is certainly nicer than Ocean City, I could tell my husband was disappointed by its lack in quaint appeal.

Even if it was hot, it was still off season and a lot of the restaurants were closed---at least during the week.  We walked the boardwalk, but the breeze was hot off the land and hardly refreshing.  Eventually we found that Fins Fish House on Rehoboth Avenue was still in happy hour mode, so we bellied up to share fish and chips and a tall light one.  The bartender was equal to the beer---at least we liked to think so.

"Another one?" he asked as I put down my empty bottle.

"No, thank you.  This one had the desired effect."

He chuckled and in my condition I actually thought I  had amused him.

Walking back to our room, we passed Double Dippers---an ice cream parlor we thought was closed, but apparently it was only closed during the dinner hour.

"Hello, boyz,"called the chubby middle aged man from behind the counter.  He called the woman sitting at a table in the corner 'ladies'---although it was fairly clear they were lezzies of a certain age.  We had found the gay hot spot of Rehoboth Beach.

My husband had his favorite, Rum Raisin---which is very rarely found on the West Coast, and I had Coconut Almond Chocolate Chip.  I eavesdropped as we sat with our cones, listening to the chubby one talk to an athletic middle aged male couple about having opened a second shop somewhere in Florida for winter income.

"We have a lot of repeat customers already, so we're doing well."

I wondered if he called out hello boyz there, too.