Thursday, August 2
The gulls here have a habit of consistently catching clams and dropping them onto bricks and pavement to open them and dine. I remember years ago hearing a “thunk” while I was at my pool, and saw something bouncing off our pond’s rowboat. It turned out to be a small, groggy turtle, and a shadow over us turned out to be a gull upset that I was interfering with lunch. I released the turtle into the pond where he quickly dove, and the gull fortunately missed me with the next thing he dropped from the sky.
Another fabulous beach day, all of 12 of us on the beach, returned to the suite and the porch to read the Times and Wall Street Journal. I’m truly glad I don’t speculate in the market, but simply buy excellent stocks and hang on like a leech. The roller coaster continues, but flirting with 14,000 is fine with me.
Breakfast this morning featured the catbird which lives in the trees that abut the restaurant patio. Everyone knows him, and he bounces from chair to chair, occasionally strolling among all the feet, to dine on crumbs and tables not instantly cleared. Yesterday, he hit a “home run” and grabbed an entire, small scone and absconded. He’s black, sleek, and shiny, like a Toyota Supra I used to drive back in the early 80s. The car was six-speed, but the bird seems to have a few more gears. You’re not supposed to feed him, but I think even the staff “accidentally” drops food when he’s around.
Dinner at the Brant Point Grill in the White Elephant Hotel. We’re on the bay/marina, front row seats, multi-million dollar boats in the harbor. The place is packed. Extraordinary Kobe beef meatball appetizer followed by a New York Strip with onion rings and a Turley 2003 Zinfandel. I’m not a big Zin fan, but Turley Family wines are quite superb, and this one is no exception.
I pass the bar and a blonde in a mini dress smiles. She’s the anchovy woman from last night! There are a dozen top restaurants here and you’ll eventually see everyone in every one. Her hair is perfectly in place….
I raise the car through the cobblestones, lower it again for the roads and we cruise back on dark, lonely asphalt, top down, in 75° temperature. No moon, the stars shine above. Pitch black. This is living.
© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.