The time has come. My last 3:44 PM on the Island of Nantucket up until the time I’m able to scratch the lucky $5 and land a cottage for own. The Sun has just hidden behind the crest of the bluff our place is nestled right beside and the breeze has gone still. I can hear some schmuck mowing the lawn. I’m sitting indian-style on the wood deck overlooking the hedges and I’m pretty sure at some point my skin’s gonna infuse with the beach wood.
We went to town today after munching on sconset cookies and fixing a toilet calamite. Luckily the water was warm and I had just washed my hands.
Town is something else. All of the buildings are as you would expect- flawless. Shingles on all sides bleached by sun and sea salt, white picket fences shrouded by flora of all colors and shapes (sizes too, if you could fathom such an anomaly)- cobblestone streets paved over roots of giant trees canopying as the ultimate sun roof. The people walking the streets are decked in Nantucket Red and nautical belts. Women walking around in lime and peach garments are studded with pearls and sequins and preserved starfish. All the bags they’re carrying read off the names of the stores they purchased from; all of the names, so contrived and so simplistic- we’re abe to deduce how much of a shit some people really gave when naming their establishments.
Town: a restaurant
Fork: a restaurant
Cork: a restaurant and wine bar
Belongings: a furniture store
Parchment: a paper store
Bakery: a bakery
Candy Store: a candy store
All in all: Either no shits at all or every single shit they have has been dedicated towards coming up with a name for their establishment.
Granted, all of these stores looked decadent as hell as they redefined cookie-cutter classics. It’s like Hallmark and Precious Moments combined forces to develop some massive pop-up 3-D greeting card that instead of playing off some looped recording of Miley Cyrus continuously plays the same recording of modern jazz with chime and crystal glass accompaniments.
So our first stop was a place called ‘Bakery’.
The place is basted in clam-white walls, black and white checkered tile and glass countertops. The air is stiff with the smell of salty cheesy bread in one corner and nutmeg and vanilla in the other. The coffee bar is hidden in the back so it takes a couple steps into the place for that to kick in too. A closer observation shows that we have in fact entered the ‘Petticoat Row Bakery’, which is led by Tiina Polvere, who serves as the executive pastry chef since her studies at le Cordon Bleu and the Culinary Institute of America in Paris. Turns out, she was the originator of the Sconset cookie I had this morning. In fact, the bakery seems to observe the accomplishments of all of the other pastry chefs, whether the were instructed under Tiina herself or mastered some sort of artisan bread featured at the bakery (Cheesy bread, hippie bread, etc).
However because we were on the move and hoping to make a pit stop to buy some Summer Ale from a local Nantucket Brewery, we settled in really quick with a Chocolate Raspberry Cupcake. For two dollars you’re hit up with a chocolate cup the size of your fist. The cake itself is moist (there’s that word again), and just rich enough that it doesn’t take away from the raspberry frosting: whipped, and tart, and sprinkled with shaving of white chocolate.
And there it is- my first picture.
Well following that- we walked it off and talked about our upcoming production of West Side Story coming to NYU in March of 2013. I’m Technical Director and building the set for some 800+ seat off-broadway theatre. I know.
Following that, I met up for lunch with Bethany’s folks at Met on Main, a new lunch spot that’s come to Nantucket direct from Boston.
The decor’s looking like the cigar room of a sailing vessel- posts are wrapped in rope, walls are filled with fabric panels of navy blue and white patterns reminiscent of sailor knots. Giant 3X4 portraits on the walls depict various sailing ships crashing through white caps. The ceiling is decked with flourishing patterns on tin tile.
The food from the others looks magnificent- Bethany’s Mom had a lobster salad with the tail meat shucked onto a bed of arugula and Bethany had a club sandwich with avocado and quarter-inch slices of grilled turkey.
As for me, I rocked the Boston Burger, medium. It’s stacked with two fried eggs, thick bacon, a nice half pound of beef, swiss, and some sliced onion marinating in a steam-pool of divinity.
Here it is:
You know, I really appreciate it when you tell somebody you want a medium-cooked burger and they give it to you with the yolk still runny. It came with a side of ketchup but I didn’t dare touch it. Sometimes a heart attack on a bun deserves a little bit more respect. The grease was my ketchup. The oil was my condiment.
Ah hell. We worked our way around town for a couple more blocks before boarding the bus back to Siasconset where I sat out on the patio listening to Neon Indian while writing this.
Tonight we’re grabbing some pizza with the manager of the Kansas City Chiefs then heading home for a final slumber on that sandy futon.
Tomorrow I have a one-act of mine going up. It’s about two guys realizing they were never really what they wanted for one another. There’s an old lady in it, but for technical reasons, it’s being played by a man.
Senior Year’s coming up. A lot of big things are going to be happening, the biggest being- I won’t be in school anymore in less than a year. From there- who knows. I planned to go to Iceland when I graduate- hike for a month. But I don’t think I’ll have the money for that, and yeah, that makes me really sad. Ideally, I’d want a little less than a month. Just me hiking to the South and back. I’m not getting into that now though.
I could go to L.A or land a job in New York City if I really wanted to. I could, I know this. I suppose a lot of the reluctance I have towards establishing myself with the connections I’ve made in New York are really based on the assumption that if I locked myself on Manhattan, I wouldn’t ever leave again.
And that terrifies me.
No matter what you end up planning to do, there’s always the promise of travelling. But it’s a promise, you know? it hasn’t happened yet. I dunno. Maybe we call it a ‘promise’ because it’s the one thing we know we can always look back on should we eventually realize that we haven’t left at all. We look back at the moment when we accepted that promise for the first time with every breath we had and took that jump into something we had no clue would be so dense and deep and drowning. And then maybe something happens and we’re able to carry on because we’ve recognized that we took that chance once and should take it again, because eventually, we’re all bound to end up some place like this, right?