New England Summa

Summer in New England: a romanticized, nautical backdrop for sweatered beach goers and lobster fanatics. A destination where “summer” is used as a verb, often accompanying “The Cape” or “The Vineyard,” or “The Tucket.” A yearned for region, forever captured by cultural touchstones like “Mystic Pizza,” and “On Golden Pond.” The former I have seen countless times, and the latter I have one vague recollection of Katherine Hepburn falling out of a boat. Both resonate with your mother. It’s this coastal experience to which I, the most unqualified candidate, have fallen trap!

I say unqualified not referring to the general borgouise stature of the folks that populate the rocky coastlines of Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts and beyond, though that tends to apply. I am more so unqualified because the cornerstones of this culture clash with my general existence. Being from a landlocked state, I am not someone who has a developed pallet when it comes to seafood. My primary exposure to fish came via the fish stick and the occasional shrimp cocktail served on holidays like New Year’s Eve, actually that’s it, just New Year’s Eve. So, when it comes time to do the “oyster on the half shell” cheers, at the marina fish shack, I tend to excuse myself or put on a community-theater-level performance of faking it. 

Though I struggle with a squeamishness when it comes to consuming the exotic and, or slimy fish of the sea, I love the ambiance of a coastal, seafood restaurant. You enter the worn wooden establishment, floorboards waning from years of expanding and contracting. Above, boat oars dangle fom the ceiling, along with decorative fishing nets. The air is thick with salt. A teenage hostess, wearing restaurant merchandise, escorts you to your table that has a view of dozens of boats, moored for the evening. It all feels like a scene out of the music video for “Brandy,” by the Looking Glass. Again, ask your mom about that one. It doesn’t even matter that when the server comes around, I order an impossible burger with a side salad. Nobody cares! Except maybe they do, and that’s okay!

The fish shack experience is similar to my adoration for the trip to the local ice cream shop. It’s really just variations on a theme, when you break it down. Small, locally owned ice cream establishments tend to inhabit a colorful, wood-paneled structure on Main Street. A street that is lousy with time-stamped charm. A street where mom and pop are queen and king. The idea of diving into a freshly scooped bowl of mint chocolate chip under a street lamp that flickers on, as the moon rises over the ocean, is exactly what is waiting. The issue at hand is that my adult stomach has zero ability to process cream: ice cream, whipped cream, heavy cream, even skim milk. The ritual of going to an ice cream shop though? To die for. Though, my gut would say otherwise. 

Now one might say, “There is more to coastal New England than eating!” To which I say, “Yes, I know!” I have really painted myself as a creepy tagalog, which can be the case, but not always. What I lack in lactase, I make up for in relatively burn-resistent skin and a sense of adventure. Biking through towns and trails, jumping in oceans, bays, and ponds, invading a local high school tennis court, these are things I do well! Anything that involves boating is an immediate delight. Do I know my way around a sailboat? In a way. Do I think I can sail? I do. If sailing means I provide moral support and yell, “coming about,” with gusto when the time comes. When I am in my cableknit sweater and ratty shorts (New England really is constantly existing in multiple seasons) on the bow of a boat, surrounded by water, I am in a state of euphoria. 

Visiting coastal New England is simply escapism. Cityfolk head this way to escape the squelching heat. It feels like time has stood still, in a way. It’s like that summer montage in “The Notebook,” when they are jumping off rope swings, into random waters, smushing ice cream on each other’s faces, and riding janky ferris wheels. These are things reminiscent of a childhood summer. Not even a summer that one necessarily experienced as a child, but a summer reminiscent of even earlier and seemingly simpler times. As summer nears an end, and the crisp in the air starts to smell more like back to school, it is time to return to the big city. Lucky for me, New York City was kind enough to extend its ferocious heat through September! But eh, that’s okay. About time for leaf-peeping and apple cider donuts, anyway. I just can’t stay away!