2009-07-10

Ogunquit, Pt. 2

Monday, July 6, 2009
Even on vacation, I can't sleep past 7am. 8 is the latest I'll go, and that's really pushing it. I discovered this when I stopped drinking seven years ago. Once all the hooch was out of my system, my natural clock revealed itself to be that of a Palm Springs retiree. I am nodding off in my reading chair by 10pm, and up at the asscrack of dawn.

I get up, make use of the wee coffee maker, and watch the sun rise over Route 1 from the little deck outside our room.

Astute, regular readers (and family members) will recognize Mousie -- my travel companion and confidante since 1973 -- resting here between my coffee and the latest issue of Harper's.

Astute, regular readers (and family members) will also remember my recent anemia diagnosis, which, in tandem with my borderline hypoglycemia, makes traveling with me...challenging. I not only need to eat every few hours, I now have to eat fairly specific things. The problem with me is that I frequently FORGET to eat, or I eat entirely the wrong things. During normal business hours I carry fruit and/or some kind of meal replacement bar in my bag at all times. But I'm on vacation, and my normal business routine goes right out the window.

It was our intention this morning to have breakfast at the Wild Blueberry Cafe. By the time we hit Ogunquit Village, however, I have broken into a clammy sweat and flip the "fuckit switch."

"Fuckit. Let's just go in here," I say.

"Here" is a diner called Bessie's, which looks to be a mainstay of the village. My first warning should have been the fact that at nine in the morning -- peak o' the breakfast bidness -- Bessie's was empty save for us, and the chipper waitstaff. I collapsed into a booth, and rather than order something fairly fuck-proof, like cereal, I went all fancy-like and ordered EGGS BENEDICT.

I was brought a plate covered in what appeared to be no less than a QUART of Hollandaise sauce. Digging through, I encountered a sad, limp English muffin and a piece of lunchmeat folded into quarters and slipped between the limp English muffin and the poached egg.

Horrifying. It was so awful I didn't even take a picture of it.

I'm sure the locals are fiercely protective of Bessie's. I'm sure some of the regular tourists are as well. To be fair, later in the week we noticed that it seems to do a boomin' lunch business. Perhaps they should stick to sandwiches, and avoid anything requiring Hollandaise, Bernaise, or even mayonnaise.

Now, it's off to the beach!

Anyone who knows me or has laid eyes on me in person might struggle to make the connection between me and "the beach." As it happens, I enjoy the beach. I like the ocean, I like sand, I like little shells and rocks and briny critters. What I DON'T like is just SITTING THERE.

And, God, it's always such a chore for me to set foot on a beach and pretend that I don't notice people gawking at me. So I met the challenge head-on, bounding onto the sand and shrieking: "GOTH ON THE BEACH! GOTH ON THE BEACH!"

People chuckled and resumed their sunbathing and reading of shitty bestsellers. Except one woman, who held court with her folding chair, her leathery pelt and her cigarettes. Oh, she just glared and GLARED at me like I was an affront to everything she believed in, which I WAS, let's face it. I wear copious amounts of sunblock, I wear a hat, I don't smoke, and I look like an Edward Gorey cartoon in all my batty glory let loose upon your sacred tanning time. But you know what? I'm almost 39 years old and have barely any wrinkles or age spots, so you can just kiss my lily white ass.

Pucker up, sweetheart.

lisamcc at 7:24 p.m.

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