beetrock

Three weeks ago Lydia and I took a road trip to the tiny islands off the coast of Maryland and Virginia with the intriguing names of Chincoteague and Assateague. Apparently infamous for their wild pony population, the islands not only played up to our immigration-induced love for untamed animals, but also presented an opportunity to escape the City of the Yellow Devil. Improper Gorky scholars, Lydia and I were far from anti-capitalism when we got into the freshly vacuumed, Budget-leased Ford Taurus. Heading west on Bay Parkway we were prepared for whatever fate had in store for us. One Cinnabon-smelling bathroom and a hundred miles of New Jersey Turnpike later, fate landed us in Baltimore, Maryland, outside of my first-ever place of full-time employment.

Oh One World Café! To this day, I long for those orders of tofu scramblers, organic carrot juice and spirulina-spiked smoothies. And I so miss the times when my co-workers were grungy, coke-snorting vegetarians, college-educated cooks, and patuli-pot-smelling artists! Life aboard SS One World – filled with drunken sweeping, vegetable chopping, coffee and tea making, all gone! My heart swollen with adoration, and my urinary tract urging disposal of one liter of diet Dr Pepper, I approached this monument of memory, Lydia calmly at my side. New generation of angst-filled vegetarian artists greeted us as we descended into the dining area and landed on a pillow-clad corner seat.

The menu, the bathroom décor, the staff, the questionable art on the walls - all bore no signs of change. One World, like the Mir space station in the 80s, was there for the long and steady haul. Or so we thought, as we ordered my fake Philly cheesesteak, Lydia’s tempeh Rueben and a Greek salad to split. The food tasted as great as I remembered. We chased the immense portions with coffee and a giant slice of carrot cake. Our victorious war with the mountainous sweet was highlighted by an appearance of a specter from the past. In my time, the edgeless boulder of calm in the midst of calamitous youths flocking to the restaurant - Todd-the-bartender – stopped by our table, greeted me and got re-introduced to Lydia. With observable professional friendly strain Todd reported the invisible changes at One World– the rule of the previous, witch-like (in my opinion not Todd’s) owner over, the restaurant is now being sold to a charismatic cook, Sue. After a friendly inquiry into our travel plans, Todd nodded goodbyes; we paid and with difficulty relocated back into the Taurus.

Baltimore disappearing in the Ford’s tinted back window, we headed south on 95 and after 3 hours of traffic jams arrived at the door of my parents’ humble abode. The family nest met us with an irresistible smell of something fried and a hectic dinner preparation.

The next morning we started on our journey eastward in search of real adventures. To get some highway conquering fuel, we stopped at Java Joes. Located just around the corner from the Centreville Trader Joe’s, the place made me value the area’s crunchy-progressive development and wonder at the numerous Joes pestering Virginia’s Lee Highway. But the coffee at Java was good, the bathroom clean, and the annoying counter girl with braced teeth and over-zealous attitude excusable. Props to Lydia for noticing this fresh bean haven - I would have taken it for a confederate-era barn. On we went, and over 4 hours of beltways, scenic interstates and rural routes later we arrived at the beautiful Sinepuxent Bay and the rollercoaster-like bridge marking the entrance to the Assateauge State Park.

As we hopped over the bridge and onto the island, rust-colored signs warned us against petting the wildlife – ponies especially. The Taurus, crawling at the required 30 miles per hour at the head of an impressive procession of SUV’s, vans and mobile homes finally came to a stop in a bayside camp site A-8. Following Lydia’s stellar directions (my patience in such things usually fails faster than anyone can say “user’s guide”) we put up our green and happy-looking tent and headed to the beach.

The next two days were a blissful mix of laying on the beach and conversing about pressing life matters over gallons of wine and undercooked meals. Our cooking adventures were slightly blotched by our failure to purchase lighter fluid that would set the coals ablaze. We borrowed a log starter – a paste-like log with consistency and looks of a fresh turd – from our neighboring campers and managed to toast some bread and grill up the soy burger patties. We also took a trip to the Chincoteague Island – a smaller island adjacent to Assateague it houses a touristy-like town with numerous ice cream parlors, an expensive wine store, and a shop with, apparently, the best éclairs in the area.

The last day of our stay in island heaven we got a wake-up call from a wild pony who decided to nibble on our tent at four in the morning. Later, despite Lydia’s precautions, I got burned by the well-hidden but perpetual sunlight. We left Assateague with a sigh of grief and headed back to the real world. Aside from our investigation of a Maryland McDonalds and our ice-cream/Naval Academy family day viewing stop in Annapolis we got back to my parents’ house with no major adventures.

A day of family time for me and of protesting the Israelis and visiting with old friends for Agent L and we were on our way back north. I guess Baltimore is deeply missed by Lydia and me both, that is why we stopped there again to eat and get coffee at the Paper Moon. The café is a long time Baltimore favorite – open 24 hours and serving a healthy take on diner food, Paper Moon is a visitor’s delight. With broken Barbies and collections of mannequins and toys hanging around everywhere, the experience of visiting the place is one of weird fun. At Christmas time the owners hang a tree upside down in the restaurant’s main room. Long live Paper Moon! We had sweet potato fries, garden salad, and a black eye quesadilla. Yum!

Stuffed, we continued on to New York. Spoiled by our smooth ride outside of DC, we ran into troubles by the city’s fabulous entry-way. Of course, getting into Holland Tunnel was preceeded by an hour-long wait on a Sunday night. Then I promptly missed the proper exit on the BQE and we ended up one-waying all around Sunset Park. Thank god for legendary Brooklynite JJ whose instructions lead us back to Bay Parkway. While returning from Coney Island, I was lucky enough to witness the sunset over the city in all its glory. It would be nice to have a pony or two around, but I guess NYC is not the worst place to live in after all…