By the Sea (of People)

So I decided to spend my Memorial Day at the Rockaways this year. Normally I hate going to beach when I think other people might be there to observe my vampirically pale flesh exposed to sunlight (people tend to watch to see if I'll suddenly turn to ash), but I was listening to the Ramones, and they made it seem so inviting.

I wanted to look like a much-less-sexy Brigitte Bardot, so I donned the swimsuit and beaded linen beach dress my husband bought for me on the isle of Capri. I topped it off with the floppy white straw hat I bought in Bermuda last year. It sounds posh, but it wasn't really. I guess I was a little bit out of touch with what Americans typically wear to the beach, considering I've observed The Real Housewives going there more often then I've been myself. My get-up made me look like one of the less-hot, less-tanned Housewives amidst a sea of cut-off shorts.

The hubs and I usually go out to Rockaway Beach a couple of times every summer, but this is the first summer in a few years that finds me employed full-time, during the day, so I wasn't quite prepared for the scene on Monday. Going to the Rockaways in the middle of the day on a summer weekday is pretty zen-like. Seth usually drives there, but because of holiday traffic, we opted to take the subway. It took only forty-five minutes going, but with all of the transfers, it was a hellish hour-and-a-half back, caked in sand and sweat.

But the sand and sweat weren't the only annoying thing about the day. There seemed to be teenagers screaming everywhere non-stop from the time we boarded the A to the time we got home. I played a lot of angry songs and used a lot of distortion pedals on my guitar back in those days, but I don't remember ever being loud. Annoying in appearance, perhaps, but not in an audible way, unless you count the aforementioned angsty musical performances in my parents' basement.

Do you ever wish the world had a volume knob? Or perhaps just your neighbors? The only thing I miss about the country of my youth is its lack of noise. And also having a pool. But mainly the quiet and ease of sleep. There are cicadas, frogs, and peafowl making noise at night, but no neighborly voices, or their music, or their TV, or their two stupid yappy little dogs. I'm aware that I sound like a crotchety old man, but well, I think that one half of me could be very happy as a hermit at the top of a mountain somewhere. But of course the thing about being a sourpuss is that I could manage to find something to complain about something regardless of my surroundings, so don't presume that any place would ever really bring me contentment.

Anyway, back to the beach. When I am going a long distance, my bladder tends to get what I like to call "nervous" about its ability to hold it in, so I had to pee again fifteen minutes after leaving the house. I know I was only going to Queens, but it gets just as nervous any time I'm going above 14th St. By the time I left the train, I had to urinate very urgently. Lo and behold, there were actually bathrooms in the subway station. But it was a one-holer, so I had to wait behind a few other women. While we were in the bathroom, a pack of three drunk/high teenage girls cut to the front of the line, apologizing by way of a "She pregnant." "Yeah, so are we," quipped a sour lady on line behind me. Yet two of them went into the bathroom, and they were so slight that I seriously doubted any of them were pregnant. They began to chant raucously while they were going about their business, so I decided to bust into the mens' room. (Don't worry, no one was in there.)

We finally got to the beach, and it was packed. We walked for about ten minutes toward where the beach was less crowded. "Oh look," I said. There was a big open space due south of a group of aging hippies. When we walked by, we realized why. It smelled like someone had lit the MotherJoint. Or like my college dorm. We trudged on past blaring boomboxes and groups of kids with projectiles, till we found a spot that was reasonably far away from either. It was alright.

Then the wind really kicked up, and blew sand all over my body constantly. I had gooseflesh, so I reinstated my cover-up dress, but my legs were still cold. A group of louder, younger teenagers joined the group of youth behind us. When I went to put on my suntan lotion, the bottle oozed all over my dress. My hat kept threatening to blow away. "Argh, I hate the beach!" I moaned.

Two hours later, I had to go to the bathroom, so we decided to pack up and go home. The line at the nearest public restroom was phenomenal. "We're going to be in this line for half an hour," said Seth. "It would make more sense to spend ten minutes looking for another place." So we reasoned it out and I left, grumbling. Eventually we found a bar.

Here's where the day turned around. We had escaped into the Rogers Irish Tavern, apparently virtually unchanged since it opened in 1919. The ladies room is actually outside of the place down a hallway because the place originally didn't serve women, and they haven't modernized much. It's a small place with a vintage jukebox and original wood paneled refrigerators behind the bar. I had a beer and let go of my disdain for the day. It had been alright after all.

We headed home, back to the crowded subway platform, where we finished a tub of my not-yet-famous Egyptian potato salad. We observed hipster interpretations of beach attire. All was divine.

I got home and took a gloriously long shower, washing the sand of disappointment from my skin. Never again will I punish myself by going to the beach on a holiday weekend, I resolved. But the thing is, eventually, I probably will.

-B.S.