I'll Take Manhattan

Beach, not borough

Can you call it a heatwave when it never recedes? Perhaps “heatstay,” “heatmountain,” or “hell” are more apt. The weather is completely out of our control except for the ways it isn’t, but our brains are too melted to think clearly enough to fix the problem anyway. So how to survive? Air conditioning, lemonade, shade—temporary solutions to a permanent situation. On Sunday, as the temperature began slowly climbing toward triple digits our particular temporary solution was fleeing to Manhattan….

…beach, not borough. By the ocean, the marine layer reliably keeps the air at least ten degrees cooler, which is enough most of the time. Our trip west began as all do in this fair town: gliding along gorgeous interstates and interchanges until the sky became mistier and the scenery became boat-ier. In less than an hour, we were there—a small drop in the ocean of humanity seeking the ocean as a break from humanity, only to find the ocean of humanity convening at the actual ocean.

We found parking (not easy) just outside of town and as we trudged to the center we saw hints of what Manhattan (beach, not borough) once was—bungalows and ranch houses dotting hills that roll down to a wide, sandy shore. The remaining humble, tumble-down cottages of yore seem out of place amidst multi-million dollar rebuilds. Small lots wrung for everything they’re worth—combined, built up, built out.

We reached the main drag which was packed with people (something everyone always loves at a vacation destination!). Here teens roam free in bikinis and board shorts, holding hands and hauling surfboards. The sight terrifies me retroactively as I remember my pale pubescent past. People of all ages spilled out of boozy brunches at sports bars or shopping sprees at boutiques selling dresses with lots of fringe. There was a lot to take in, but my eye landed on a woman wearing a trucker hat that read “Resting Beach Face.” More questions than answers: was it purchased today? If not, when? How often does she wear it? Where does she wear it? But she was already past me before I had a chance to examine her beach face for answers—headed, ironically, away from the beach.

We head towards it, first passing a turn-of-the-last-century clapboard, its small yard dotted with wind chimes and statuary then a Venetian-inspired palazzo, big on grandeur and low on charm.

We stroll the boardwalk to the pier, where we take in the beach hordes. We contemplate a swim but the logistics of getting to the water seem daunting. We head to the car.

On our way back, at the edge of town, I clock a 9/11 memorial constructed from actual World Trade Center beams. I know this because a plaque tells me so. It faces the trolley line that transported the masses to Manhattan (beach, not borough) at the turn of the last century. All that remains of that trolley is a well-manicured bike path depositing its voyagers at the feet of twisted Manhattan (borough, not beach) steel.

I think how nice it must have been when it was just small cottages here and then I think about how much nicer it must have been when there were no cottages here. Nicer and cooler, too.