Greetings from Rhode Island

Greetings from Rhode Island
where men with moustaches manage to get dates, a place called Van’s Spa purveys
“mile long hot dogs” not massages, and the exercise craze of walking with Heavy
Hands never died in the 80′s.

We’ve been here since Sunday
night, kicking off two-and-a-half weeks on this here coast. And if you’re
reading this and planning to rip off our house while we’re gone, the old lady
across the street assured me she’d be keeping an eye on the place. I’m not sure
but she might have some mean judo moves up her sleeve, so don’t try anything
funny.

Little Rhody comprises the
first leg of our multi-part vaycay. After this there’s Cape Cod, Harrisburg,
PA, and the metro DC area. Wish us luck.

Alas, despite a small
inconvenience with dehydration that resulted in my visiting the town medical
center on Monday (I’ve long contended the intake of water is overrated), we’re
having a lovely time. Past summertime visits home have reminded me of the
famous mercurial weather that New England serves up, but thus far–knock
wood–we’ve already gotten in two beach days. No better tonic for the soul, I
say. Plus, Kate’s honing some serious sand castle skills.

What else? The humidity is
just above what you’d think would be bearable–though it adds some nice volume
to your hair. There’s a slightly annoying light layer of sand on the floors, my
breath is offensively garlicky from a lunchtime spinach pie (despite a couple
aggressive brushing sessions), and the Del’s Lemonade cart is stationed along
the bike path at Colt State park doing a brisk business.

And let’s not forget the knuckleheads
who ride their motorcycles through town wearing muscle shirts, shorts, and no
helmets. Like many of the state’s charming idiosyncrasies, there isn’t a law
requiring that you wear a helmet on your motorcycle. Despite my theory that–especially
in such a petite state where this population is correspondingly small–this would result in the Darwinian extinction of this
group, somehow at least some of them have managed to hang on.

But, like the local custom
of drinking coffee milk, calling drinking fountains “bubblers,” and being the exclusive
breeding ground for the large clam-like quahog, things here are just not like
they are other places.  

It’s good to be home.