sea creatures

One of the most compelling reasons to succumb to the insane real estate of this state. Food.

milk sky

This is home. Fog down to the knees. I am so happy to be out of the humidity that I briefly engage in some active fog adoration.

Sun on the Green

Am momentarily distracted from working on my article. The sun has hit a green ball we got a while ago. We got it for the children of our visiting friends, but after one post-dinner game of soccer played among all the doorways of our apartment (6 interior), it has languished in neglect. The sun is doing spectacular things to it, and feeling somewhat like a Saint-Exupery creation, I attempt to capture its beauty.

Go West

No small irony: tomorrow I leave Cambridge to return home. And only today I discover a glorious ride. This time I turn inland, heading west rather than for the coast. And I find myself rolling along empty roads, small narrow streets with names like "Shade Street" (and am very pleased that it does not undersell: over 90 degrees and humid, one is sensitive to such promises). I make a mistake at one point and find myself entering a military airstrip. The guards very kindly, and with no small alacrity, point me to the way out. My route is a kludge of a few local rides, and a few times I have to make it up to get from the end of one map to the beginning of another. One road proves to be stubbornly elusive; I ask at three gas stations, wave down a few motorists, but it is the beer-pushing baseball team that gives me the right directions and a few unsolicited huzzahs. People are bemused to see a lone woman cycling, and i can't figure out whether it's because I'm alone or whether it's because I lack all of the paraphernalia that typically identifies "real" cyclists: matching team-logo'd lycra, expensive new bike, mirrored shades and plastic shoes. Or maybe it's just the heat.

this is hull

We biked to Hull today. It took a lot of cajoling on my part to convince my bike partner that we could do the whole trip. Not for the distance--one way is only 15 miles--but because we have to go through a lot of South Boston before reaching the more aesthetic coast. Warnings of dangerous neighborhoods dancing in her head. But I am insistent... and we pack our bikes with swim suits and a map and head through the city. It is not an ugly ride, mostly fascinating to see the varying shades of class so firmly defining each neighborhood we encounter.

At Quincy we head over to the coast and briefly engage in unfriendly chatter with a senior biker--he's mad at us for riding two abreast. We handily pass him, listening to his incensed breathing as he tries to catch up... Jokes on us, however, as my partner gets a flat shortly after, and we wander around a tiny coast-side town in search of a bike shop. (She swears, never before has she embarked on a trip without a spare.) We get to our hosts sometime in the afternoon; people are lounging on a floating dock, about 30 chickens have given themselves to the cause, and a sweet youth runs among the adults, reeling in all of the attention. The water is perfect; I fantasize about convincing my husband to give it all up for a house with a dock on the bay.


In the evening, we walk along the isthmus that appears at low tides to an island. We misjudge the time of the tides, and race against the rising water. The sun comes down behind us, intense reds streaked with shades of fuschia and peach. My east coast childhood tugs at me: memories of the warm Atlantic come flooding back. I dearly love the West Coast, but there are two yearnings it will never satisfy: thunderstorms and warm oceans.

chartreuse

I am biking quite a bit, on my maroon bike. It is wonderful to get out of town, to spend an entire day meandering up and down the coast. I forgot my camera on my last ride, which is probably just as well, since I got roundly caught by a thunderstorm. I caught the wheel of an older gent, going by his silver sideburns. He sped along, pulling me with him, as we tried to out-run the storm. We failed, in our attempt, but it was a good race. Through the trees to my right, I caught a glimpse of purple heather and chartreuse--too quick, really, to take it all in. But the image remains--the dappled light emerging from behind storm clouds, filtering through the trees lining the banks of the river and catching the bright oil-slick green of the moss against the purple heather. Fabulous.