Friday, July 7, 2017
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Parade and Pimm's
It has become something of a tradition to
leave the city for July 4th weekend and head to the shore where our friends
have a house. We make sure they are there first, of course, if only to let us
in.
There are many highlights to this particular jaunt. There is the beach, naturally, and the gorgeous house with its beachy charm, and the ice cream parlour where last year a giant beetle tried to divebomb my cleavage. There is the shopping spree that those among us of a feminine persuasion might say tops the list – having surrendered the children into the care of their fathers and then tuned out all and any thoughts whatsoever of whether said offspring have eaten anything but chocolate, or looked up once from their phones, or indeed inhaled any air that is remotely fresh. (It is surprisingly easy, this zoning out thing, particularly when clothes and coffee and girl talk are involved.) But the best thing of all is probably the 4th of July parade.
The parade is exactly what a Brit coming to America would expect. Everyone dressed in red, white and blue, waving little plastic flags at vintage cars and pipers, urging them on with zealous cries of ‘God bless America’. There are fire trucks blasting their horns, and a local teen band strangling an old rock song, and the local dance troupe bobbing around out of step. The jolly townsfolk who tag along to advertise their insurance services, or urge people to vote for Mr Upstanding and Righteous in the upcoming by-election, wend their way along Main Street, saluting the crowds and throwing candy at the children, occasionally with a little more force than is strictly necessary. I suppose it brightens up proceedings a little to get an unsuspecting granny on the head with a packet of Haribo.
And of course we join in with some vigour, though He Who Knows Best mutters under his breath that they threw us out a hundred years too early, and I give him my very best ‘behave nicely in public please – and keep your voice down’ glare. And so it goes without a hitch until we return to our rocking chairs on the front porch and pitch gently to and fro, taking great care not to spill a single drop of our precious Pimm’s, that most English of drinks. At which point our host’s mother turns to us with a very 4th of July smile and declares: ‘Well, it must have been difficult for you British people today, you having lost and all.’ What can you say to that but ‘Cheers’!
There are many highlights to this particular jaunt. There is the beach, naturally, and the gorgeous house with its beachy charm, and the ice cream parlour where last year a giant beetle tried to divebomb my cleavage. There is the shopping spree that those among us of a feminine persuasion might say tops the list – having surrendered the children into the care of their fathers and then tuned out all and any thoughts whatsoever of whether said offspring have eaten anything but chocolate, or looked up once from their phones, or indeed inhaled any air that is remotely fresh. (It is surprisingly easy, this zoning out thing, particularly when clothes and coffee and girl talk are involved.) But the best thing of all is probably the 4th of July parade.
The parade is exactly what a Brit coming to America would expect. Everyone dressed in red, white and blue, waving little plastic flags at vintage cars and pipers, urging them on with zealous cries of ‘God bless America’. There are fire trucks blasting their horns, and a local teen band strangling an old rock song, and the local dance troupe bobbing around out of step. The jolly townsfolk who tag along to advertise their insurance services, or urge people to vote for Mr Upstanding and Righteous in the upcoming by-election, wend their way along Main Street, saluting the crowds and throwing candy at the children, occasionally with a little more force than is strictly necessary. I suppose it brightens up proceedings a little to get an unsuspecting granny on the head with a packet of Haribo.
And of course we join in with some vigour, though He Who Knows Best mutters under his breath that they threw us out a hundred years too early, and I give him my very best ‘behave nicely in public please – and keep your voice down’ glare. And so it goes without a hitch until we return to our rocking chairs on the front porch and pitch gently to and fro, taking great care not to spill a single drop of our precious Pimm’s, that most English of drinks. At which point our host’s mother turns to us with a very 4th of July smile and declares: ‘Well, it must have been difficult for you British people today, you having lost and all.’ What can you say to that but ‘Cheers’!
Inspiration struck today at ... The super-welcoming pastry shop, Main Street
I went in for coffee and was super excited to discover that this little gem offers pies not just for vegetarians but for gluten-phobes too. Who would have thought it, outside Manhattan?
Pros:
smiley, energetic staff (I had forgotten such a thing existed after nearly five
years in NYC – the exception to this
being the delightful staff at our local CVS store).
Cons:
a two-hour journey from Manhattan is just that little bit too much for such
delights – otherwise we would be here on a daily basis (so that probably makes
it a pro).
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