Beacon...again!!

The constant devastation was too much for me...to see a tree laying on your house when you leave and come home everyday, and listen to the even sadder stories on the radio about other peoples' suffering, well, it just gets you down. Margaret called last Thursday, threw me a lifeline and said, "Why don't you come up this weekend? Empty house!!" I was on the first train after work.

We didn't do much over the weekend in Beacon, but it was really nice to escape the destruction of the Island for a couple days. On Saturday, we went across the river and had a few pints at Newburgh Brewery, which is housed in a fantastic old box factory. For the rest of the weekend, we browsed antique shops in Beacon and just generally milled about. Oh, and let's not forget the winter window preparation we did on Sunday!! But since my writing style is so mundane, I'll let the pictures talk.

Beacon Art District.

Fishkill Creek.

The other side of the river.

Welcome to Newburgh.

Male beer model!!

Sandy

For the second year in a row, I have returned home to have a big ugly storm barrel its way up the East Coast and reign down destruction on Long Island. Last year, it was hurricane Irene. Despite all the media hype, we were lucky with Irene and managed to escape with little more than a few inches of water on the property and some minor flood damage to the outside room and garage; miraculously, the basement remained dry. Living on the water, this was little more than a miracle.

This year, the monster was Hurricane Sandy. What made this beast such a threat, forecasters warned, was that the hurricane would be joining forces with a Nor'easter. This, coupled with a full moon which creates astronomical high tides, meant that this freak storm was going to savagely rape the east coast with 80 mph winds and astonishing storm surge. On Sunday, with winds intensifying, it was clear that Sandy was going to make good on forecasters' promises of destruction. We spent the afternoon frantically preparing as best as we could, and then hunkered down to ride out the storm.

For lack of a better term, shit got real on Monday night. Preparing dinner, we heard a soft thud on the house. "What was that?!" Mom said, panicked. "Oh my God, the tree's down!!" I grabbed a light and went out into the storm. Sure enough, the 50 ft. pine tree in the driveway had fallen on the garage, and nestled itself between the house and the garage. Miraculously, however, damage was minimal. I don't know how, but the tree broke two small holes in the roof, broke a water pipe, and ripped on of the gutters off---but that was it. "I can't believe how lucky we are that it didn't fall on the house, and that the damage was so little!" I said.

Oh, Hey!!

Pull your socks up Joey, those wellies won't cut it!!

The water really started to come up around 10, and it came fast. At about 11, it was two feet deep outside and beginning to gush into the basement like a waterfall. We tried to get the washer and dryer up, but it was a futile attempt. Before we knew it, the water had filled the basement five feet and was still coming. I started to go around the house trying to get things off the floor, but by midnight I was exhausted and collapsed. If the water comes, it comes.

Gushing in.

ALMOST came into the house!!

I woke up on Tuesday to a yard full of water. By some miracle, the water didn't make it into the house. The basement was completely full, but the house was dry. I made coffee, and stared out the window at the brilliant blue sky breaking through the clouds. Now there's a beautiful sight, I thought, and went to assess the damage.

Beautiful!

Backyard.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

The destruction at Laurel St. pales in comparison to the incredible damage sustained at Davis Park on Fire Island. We took a ride over this morning to inspect the damage, and were awestruck by the decimation Sandy left in its path.

For starters, seven houses completely disappeared into the ocean, and two had sunk into the bay. What others remained were barely standing, their pilings washed out by the merciless onslaught of the ocean waves. The beach was completely littered with debris, and the ocean washed completely over the island to the bay at some points, leaving depositing thousands of tons of sand on people's properties. I think it's best to let the pictures do the talking , though.

The good end of Davis Park.

Phil now has oceanfront property.

End of First Walk. Compare with this from last year.

Second to Fifth Walks, decimated.

House post, snapped like a toothpick.

First Walk, bayside.

I don't envy those homeowners, but I really feel sorry for them. How lucky we at Laurel St. got off!!!

Florida: Land of serial killers and alligators

 "You know what? I'll check the prices. If they're cheap, I'll come down. It'd be good to properly catch up," I said over the phone a few weeks ago.
"Oh, it would be so much fun!!" Deb replied. I was on the phone catching up with Deb, my old Brooklyn roommate from several years ago. She was probably the best roommate I ever had (save Anna; sorry, Deb), and we had a lot of fun living together in Brooklyn. After being back a few weeks in the States, I dropped her a line to catch up. She told me that she had been living in Orlando for the past couple years, and after a long chat with her one day after work I entertained the idea of getting out of town for a weekend and heading down to Florida. Ticket prices were favorable, and the best part was that they departed from Islip, just up the road. The trip was booked, and Thursday afternoon I jetted away from the calico colors of an autumn Long Island, out over sleepy Fire Island and high up above the glistening teal Atlantic.

At the risk of sounding intensely pretentious, I haven't much experience flying on American domestic airlines. Most of my traveling has been around Europe, so flying with Southwest was an unaccustomed experience for me. To put it in the simplest of terms, flying with Southwest is like an extended carnival ride. During the pre-flight flight attendant spiel (which for some reason has always given me an intense feeling of serenity, watching the flight attendants demonstrate how to buckle and unbuckle the seat belts, activate the life vests, and use the oxygen masks, but, this time, made me slightly unsettled), the passengers were directed to look at the safety instructions in the seat pocket in front of us: "Read it, learn Spanish, use it as a fan!" We were also informed that there would be "no whining, no crying, and no smoking" aboard the flight, which I was pleased to hear, but was less entertained that the flight attendants would be coming around to "check our seat belts and make sure that everyone's outfit matches their shoes," and snorted cynically at the irony of this statement, because Americans are already so fashionable.
The flight passed quickly and uneventfully, as I slept through most of it. However, by the time we were on the ground in Orlando, I was ready to get off. Upon landing, the head flight attendant proceeded to "serenade" the passengers in an acapella improv number in her slight Southern drawl about the fantasticness of Southwest and being in Orlando. "Ya'll know what the plural of "ya'll" is? ALL YA'LL!!" Oh, God. I'm no prescriptive linguist, but it nonetheless made me wince in pain. Get me off this plane.

Deb was waiting for me in the pickup queue. I jumped in, gave her quick hug, and we tore away along a wide, sunny, Floridian highway lined by palm trees. I was starving. "You like Mexican?" she asked. Fifteen minutes later we were chowing down on carnitas laced with searing hot sauce. Not bad, but not even in the ballpark of the amazing Mexican I had in Chelsea a few weeks earlier. We spent the rest of the evening drinking "homemade" piña coladas and catching up.

Florida style.

 On Friday, we weren't sure about what to do, so we went to Ivanhoe village, an old art-deco part of Orlando where there were a bunch of antique stores (a common denominator over the past two weekends, I suppose). We browsed the various stores (shame I couldn't bring furniture back with me, amore!!) before seeking out something cool to drink (it was hot).

 

Getcha protein shake bra

Chairs, chairs everywhere!!

That's a linguistic conundrum.

Later that evening, Deb had arranged for us to go on a nighttime kayak tour. Apparently over in Merritt Island, near the Kennedy Space Center, there was an abundance of bioluminescent jellyfish and phytoplankton in the bay, which made for a unique nighttime spectacle. So we drove an hour and a half over to Merritt Island with her friend Jen for this nighttime kayak tour.

Kayak buddies.

Apart from being eaten alive by mosquitoes and no-see-ums, the tour was awesome. Everyone in the tour group was given glow sticks to wear in the kayak, and after sundown we set out with about thirty others, corralled by guides. I hung towards the back, as most of the others on the tour seemed to be amateur kayakers and didn't have a clue what they were doing. To be frank, I was concerned about gators---"Oh, anywhere there's water in Florida there's gators," Deb had said earlier. "I saw one crossing the road just the other day." I hung back and had a chat with one guide, while the others hurried to listen to what the lead guide was saying in the dark cove.
"So like, are there gators here?"
"Oh yeah," he replied in his Florida twang. "Chances are, tonight you'll pass by at least three or four gators without knowing it."
"Oh. Well, I mean, do they attack people?" I asked.
"Nah. Feel the water," No thanks. "The water's too cool for them here. They stay close to shore, where it's warm. They're scared of people anyway. They go runnin' when they hear ya."
"Well that's good," I said.
"Yeah, you don't need to worry about gators," he said. "Matter of fact, I learned to swim right over there where we launched from."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, definitely," he said. "Actually, we used to catch gators here."
"So then how do you catch 'em?" I asked.
"Well, you find one that's small enough and you jump on 'em," he replied. "But if you don't wanna do that, then you get some high-test fishing line and tie a chicken on one end and the other to a tree and leave it for a few hours. When you come back, you'll have either a softshell snapper or a gator on the line."
Wow. OK. I suppose it would be easy to assume the gator-catching bit was a bit of tall-tale telling, but he was so knowledgeable about the wildlife and mangrove channels that it was impossible not to believe him (and the accent helped a bit, too). He was obviously an experienced Floridian guide, born of the mangroves. Nonetheless, the thought of gators lurking in the dark waters below shook me, and I was wont to stick my hand in the water after that conversation.
But it was hard to resist. Inside the cove, the water glowed when I dipped my paddle in. "It's actually a combination of comb jellies and bioluminescent plankton that glow when you irritate the water around them," the guide explained. "You can run your hands in the water and when you feel something that feels like a giant ball of snot, grab it and pick it up. It's a comb jelly." I ran my fingers gently through the water by the side of the kayak; the water swirled a gentle blue glow in their wake---how unearthly, how cool this planet we live on is!!, I thought. Glowing water! Awesome!! I caught a comb jelly and held it in my hand, watching its glow slowly die down as it dehydrated. It all vaguely reminded me of swimming in the ocean in Delaware years ago, how sometimes in the summer lumpy phosphorescent jellies would plague the beaches and at night swimming in the warm water would upset them and make them flicker.
As the tour went on, the glow of the plankton became more intense, an incredible silver-blue sparkle that trailed behind your paddle strokes. "I feel like Harry Potter!" a guide said. "Just put a fist in and open it really quickly." I did, and a sparkling, magical plume shot forth from my hand towards the dark mangrove depths. Fucking cool, I thought. I looked up. Satellites scudded by high above, and to the east high clouds over the mainland flashed orange and yellow from a thunderstorm, reflecting off NASA's space center to the south.

Anti tourist-loss device.

After this after-hours excursion, we were hungry, so we found a Waffle House off of I-95 and had a near-midnight breakfast. Delectable---I hadn't had Waffle House for ages.
Since Jen drove, we had to go back to her house to get Deb's car and drive another half hour back to her apartment. At 1 am, just 200 yards from her apartment complex, I heard a pop and hiss, and the right side of the car sank: a blowout. We pulled off and I taught Deb how to change a tire. "See how lucky we are this happened so close to home?" I said. "If we had gone to Titusville with this car and you driving and this happened, we'd surely be a stain on the side of the road right now."

La casa de waffle.

Couldn't have had a blowout in a better place.

On Saturday, we woke up early and went to have the tires fixed and the oil changed at Sears. Afterwards, we went in search of a flea market I had found on the internet and wanted to check out. When we arrived, it was late, and most of the vendors were packing up, but it was clear to see that the market was a complete shithole. Dusty, depressing, and largely empty in the midday heat, being in the market felt like being in a third world country. "I feel like I'm in Ghana, except the markets in Ghana had better shit," Deb said. I agreed. I have never been to Africa, but that market was how I imagined it to be there: dusty, hot, and lethargic. Having nothing worthwhile except baby bananas---which are called "manzanas" in Puerto Rico, Deb says---we escaped.

The auto shop waiting game; definitely don't miss having a car.

Later that night, we went with Deb's roommate to a jazz festival in College Park, a neighborhood in Orlando. At the door, the ticket people requested $5 for an entrance bracelet. "Half of the money goes to these organizations," the woman said, brandishing a laminated list.
"Let me see that," I said. Most of the recipients appeared to be local schools and hospitals. However, at the top of the list "International Faith Organization" prominently stood. Seeing this left a sour burn in my mouth. I handed the woman two dollars.
"Two dollars?" she sneered.
"Yeah. Two dollars." I looked her in the eye. She leered evilly at me, took the money, and grudgingly handed me a bracelet.
Having been to a festival the previous weekend in upstate New York, this festival was by far much cooler. An entire downtown street was closed off, and there were three different stages featuring different bands. All along the street, groups of people had set up tables with white tablecloths, spread with cheeses and fruits and wines illuminated by chandeliers hanging from the trees above amongst the Spanish moss. It had a lot of character, and a great atmosphere. Now here's a festival, I thought---it felt like an outdoor dinner party. The music flowed, and I tried my best to mingle with some of Deb's Floridian acquaintances.

Jazz festival.

Laying in the intersection.

Jazz Age style.

The next day, the weather was nice---cool by Floridian standards, and clear. "I don't know what we can do here in Orlando," Deb said. "Let's go to the beach." So we headed off to Cocoa Beach.
I was surprised by the lack of people on the beach. I mean, there were people, but I expected more on such a lovely day in October. The sky was clear, it wasn't too hot, and there was a gentle onshore breeze. When the sun began to burn, we went for a swim. The water was perfect---cool, clear, and refreshing. We swam for nearly an hour and I thought, "This is probably the last time this year I'll get to swim in the ocean. What a shame!!" That was my only regret this year, that I hadn't been able to swim in the ocean as much as I like. After swimming and lazing around on the beach for a few hours, we drove back to Orlando. I cooked Deb dinner as a thank-you gift for having me, and we stayed up chatting and mindlessly watching TV shows.

My flight was at noon the next day, so we had to be out by 11. Opening the door, there was a large green marble on the doormat.
"Looks like you have an admirer," I said.
"Did you put that there?" Deb asked.
"No. But it's a token for you. It's how he designates his next victims. The serial killer, I mean. This is Florida, Deb."
"You watch too much Dexter," Deb said. She was probably right.

In the past, I've always ragged on Florida, but I had a great weekend there this past weekend. It is definitely too hot of a place to live in, but because there is so much stuff to do there and so much great nature, it really is ideal for a vacation, even without going Disney. I had a great time, and not so much because it was Florida, but because it gave me an opportunity to see more of this country of mine that I have seen so little of.