The husband and I don't take many vacations. Partly because most of our disposable income goes toward ice cream and stickers. Partly because it's a hassle. Whoever said, "You know what would be relaxing? Packing up all your stuff, driving to another state, and then unpacking it and setting it up again in a tiny room with a bed that may or may not make it impossible for you to move your neck the next morning," clearly did not think things through. Add the beach element and you've got a whole new mess of stress in relaxation's clothing.
"Hang on there, Tote Trove Lady," you may be thinking. "Are you saying that you don't like the beach?" Not exactly. Sure, it's lovely and tranquil and sometimes enchanted. But still, it requires vigilance. You know those pictures of people napping on the surf that are supposed to be restful? When I see them, all I can think is, OMG, wake up, the sun is roasting your flesh like a rotisserie chicken! Look alive and reapply your SPF 80! This is also, by the way, how I feel about those pictures of babies all curled up with dogs. Not that the babies need sunscreen. But that their mamas better scoop them up before they become Lassie's dinner. Never underestimate the power of vigilance. Or vigilantes.
But I digress.
Despite my misgivings, when my parents invited the husband and me to join them and my sister, brother-in-law, and adorable two-year-old nephew (because I'm one of those aunties who thinks he hung the moon) in the Outer Banks for a week, we packed our arsenal of UV protection. The husband had been there once to go fishing and warned me, "It's different, not like our beaches." On our first day there, I knew he was right. The coast was covered with coarse, orange sand, whereas Jersey sand is sugary fine. Also, the air didn't smell like salt, and there wasn't a seagull in sight. Yet even more of a culture shock was that the shops -- because yes, the appeal of any place to me and mine ultimately comes down to the availability of retail outlets -- were few and far between. There were no neon-lit boardwalks or quaint downtown streets like at home, and you had to drive to get anywhere. Still, we were excited. We had the sun and each other. And all the shrimp we could eat.
And I, of course, had my outfits.
Remember when your grandparents would make you look at their vacation slides on a projector? Well, the rest of this is like that minus the popcorn. Unless you want to make it yourself; far be it from me to get between you and your Orville Redenbacher. Or, for that matter, you and your Orville Wright.
Kitty Hawk may be the birthplace of aviation, but New Bern is the birthplace of Allie and Noah. No, I didn't go to New Bern, North Carolina, the setting of The Notebook and many other beloved Nicholas Sparks novels. But I did go to Kill Devil Hills, which just happened to have a street named New Bern.
What's more, on the way to the Hatteras lighthouse, the husband stopped by this structure. If it looks familiar, then that's because it's the house from the movie version of Nights in Rodanthe. If it doesn't look familiar, then that's because it's been cleaned up and moved from its original, super-remote location. Talk about a labor of love. Who says that romance is dead?
Certainly not me and my hat.
Speaking of hats . . . this is the Hatteras lighthouse. The guide made it sound like it would be impossible to climb, and for a millisecond I worried that my exercise-averse self might have a heart attack if I tried. But then I remembered that the guide was just a public servant on a power trip and that he had to make it sound scary as a disclaimer in case of lawsuits. So up I went, and it was fine. A couple of other people freaked out once we got inside, though. I think they were afraid of heights.
The husband suggested that one day we get up to see the sun rise. Now, like Mindy Kaling (as she says in one of her books), I was pretty sure that I could live my entire life without ever seeing such a phenomenon. I worship sleep; on weekends, I don't stir until noon. Still . . . I was curious. And I figured it was the least I could do for the husband after making him take all these pictures. So I set an alarm, then set out for the docks. And I have to admit that the sun bursting through the darkness was nothing short of amazing, all orange and purple and like a Disney cartoon, only better (I was wearing a Little Mermaid tee at the time). And it was all the more awesome because I got to go back to bed once it was over.
A lot of the shops and restaurants in the Outer Banks have horse sculptures out front. This picture was taken outside an art gallery.
When we went inside, the woman behind the counter saw my shirt and exclaimed, "Who doesn't love the Jetsons?" I guess I wasn't responsive enough because she went on to say, "If you come to North Carolina, you have to talk to people." I nodded and said that the husband had shown me a YouTube video about introverting in the South. There was some poor woman trying to read on a park bench, and total strangers kept plunking themselves down next to her to talk about the weather. I'm always that woman, even on my own turf in New Jersey. But I didn't say this to the gallery lady. When she asked where we were from, the husband gave his stock reply: outside Atlantic City. This inspired her to launch into a story about how she once helped her daughter move to New York and how she could never live there. You heard it here first; in the South, New Jerseyans = New Yorkers. Even Southern New Jerseyans. (Somehow, I don't think New Yorkers would agree.) Not that it's news that people in different parts of the country have ideas about each other. Myself included. For all I know, the gallery lady's loquaciousness might have not been a southern thing; she might have been just as chatty had she hailed from Wisconsin. But in the end it didn't matter. Because either way she was nice and, like the rest of us, just doing her best. That said, I ended up buying this framed fabric flamingo:
And admiring (but not buying) this house:
Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . this horse was parked outside a breakfast joint called Stack 'Em High Pancakes. I didn't see it at first, but he's holding down a pile of flapjacks!
And these fish were swimming upstream while we enjoyed breakfast.
It was fins, fins, and more fins during our rainy day at the aquarium. Even if this pic is just plants, plants, and more plants.
This room was like an underwater disco. How cool are these black-lit jellyfish?
Once the rain cleared, it was back into the oven to surf a wave,
sit on a tree,
and zoom in on my zany barrettes. Because, like cheddar, they make everything better!
But wait. There's more. Highlights, that is:
- My nephew 1) singing "People are Strange" (by The Doors, Aunt Tracy!), "Zombie," and his ABCs and 2) saying that my watermelon sandals were "so juicy" and that his new Mrs. Potato Head was "so cute."
- Going to The Bird Store with the husband. He picked out a duck decoy and I got this tile:
- Browsing Belk's department store. At the height of "Sex and the City" mania, they had a Kristin Davis line because she's from North Carolina.
- I said it before, but I'll say it again: the shrimp!
Surprise, surprise, the beach didn't make the cut-off. I spent most of my time there under a canopy, wearing a hat, swaddled in a towel, and dousing myself hourly with Neutrogena dry-touch sun block. I couldn't help but feel like Mary Anne in Baby Sitters Club book #8,
Boy-Crazy Stacey, except I didn't wear zinc oxide on my nose. (Stacey, of course, had no such anxieties and got as tan as a turkey.) The few times I ventured out, my sister quipped, "You're out of your tent, and you don't look happy about it."
Word. We're not the funny bunch for nothing.
Which leads me to the number one best thing about this trip: family togetherness. Because beneath my aloof exterior beats a heart that loves to be with my loved ones. They're my favorite people, my only people, and I couldn't imagine being without them. So thanks to them all for such a good time.
There's no one I'd rather roast with.
